Author: Harmon Cooper
Date: 2022-10-23 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Fiction
Description: An infamous relic hunter. A legendary dragon. The journey of a lifetime. Twillo lies bleeding out in a volcanic desert. Towering over him is a snarling red wolf, death only seconds away. Right as his vision is going black, a mysterious voice offers Twillo a chance at survival. Do you agree to bind souls? It is the voice of a dragon, one that hasn't been seen for hundreds of years. By agreeing to soulbind with the dragon, Twillo will tie himself to the dragon's destiny, one of future conflict. He will need to cultivate the highly illegal magic power known as dragonessence, and seek instruction

The World According to Dragons

(Book One)

(The Sagaland Chronicles)

By Harmon Cooper

Copyright © 2022 by Harmon Cooper

Copyright © 2022 Boycott Books

Edited by Celestian Rince

Proofed by Andi Marlowe

Art by Daniel Kamarudin

Font by Shawn King

Map design by Chaims Cartography

Print Design by Josh Mason

Audiobook produced by Tantor Media and narrated by Wayne Mitchell

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Map of the Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland

(click to enlarge)

Map of the Kingdom of Icenor

(Click to enlarge)

Table of Contents

Map of the Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland

Map of the Kingdom of Icenor

Table of Contents

Prologue: The Relic Hunter

.Chapter One.

.Chapter Two.

.Chapter Three.

.Chapter Four.

.Chapter Five.

.Chapter Six.

.Chapter Seven.

.Chapter Eight.

.Chapter Nine.

.Chapter Ten.

.Chapter Eleven.

.Chapter Twelve.

.Chapter Thirteen.

.Chapter Fourteen.

.Chapter Fifteen.

.Chapter Sixteen.

.Chapter Seventeen.

.Chapter Eighteen.

.Chapter Nineteen.

.Chapter Twenty.

.Chapter Twenty-One.

.Chapter Twenty-Two.

.Chapter Twenty-Three.

.Chapter Twenty-Four.

.Chapter Twenty-Five.

.Chapter Twenty-Six.

.Chapter Twenty-Seven.

.Chapter Twenty-Eight.

.Chapter Twenty-Nine.

.Chapter Thirty.

.Chapter Thirty-One.

.Chapter Thirty-Two.

.Chapter Thirty-Three.

.Chapter Thirty-Four.

.Chapter Thirty-Five.

.Chapter Thirty-Six.

.Chapter Thirty-Seven.

.Chapter Thirty-Eight.

.Chapter Thirty-Nine.

.Chapter Forty.

.Chapter Forty-One.

.Chapter Forty-Two.

.Chapter Forty-Three.

.Chapter Forty-Four.

.Chapter Forty-Five.

.Chapter Forty-Six.

.Chapter Forty-Seven.

Epilogue: The Return

Author’s Note

Prologue: The Relic Hunter

A trail of blood stretched across the silver-black sands of Icenor’s volcanic desert. It led into a cave with a jagged opening that resembled the mouth of a prehistoric monster, one that had been home to terrifying creatures since the Age of Dragons.

Not far from the opening of the cave, amidst a pile of sharp bones and the lithic scatter, a mighty spade-shaped batholith rose over the landscape. It cast a shadow onto the relic hunter, whose white hair was tied behind his head, his elven features obscured by a woolen scarf.

The relic hunter didn’t need to check his mapstone to know that he had arrived at his destination, that the wolvencree and potential treasure was near. He was at the point now that he could almost sense a relic, especially one guarded by a monster.

Was it the dragonessence that powered the object that drew him in? The sixth sense of an adventurer gone mad?

If what he had experienced in the past was any indication, it was likely a combination of both.

The bards of the Four Kingdoms had penned numerous songs about the fate of reckless relic hunters. The triumphs, the obsessions, the falls from grace, the inevitable deaths.

Then, there were those who had gone missing, whose mapstones turned out to be false positives, those who had been robbed, beaten, conned, arrested, or held for ransom.

Yet worse fates awaited relic hunters brave enough to attempt to steal something from the cave of a dangerous, man-eating yokai like the wolvencree. Not only that, the information he had been provided could turn out to be false.

All of this could be for nothing.

The relic hunter’s journey, his hope of discovering something legendary, his life, gone by the time Mother Dusk stretched her blanket of stars over the Sagaland. He could be venturing into the cave of a wolvencree, one surrounded by fresh kills, only to turn up empty-handed.

It was an incredible gamble.

The thick woolen scarf wrapped around the relic hunter’s face did little to prevent a sudden breeze from pegging him with grains of sand. It picked up so fast that he thought for a moment that it would blow him away.

He buckled down, waiting for the wind to cease yet again.

Over the course of his journey, the relic hunter had encountered several of these impromptu windstorms, ones that could last for several minutes then simply fall away, as if someone had swept them aside. It was like Vitharr himself was conjuring them, the hooded God of Fate gloomily preparing another dark poem about a hunter lost in the sands of Icenor, his flesh stripped from his body by terrible monsters.

Yet the relic hunter had persevered, and now he was here in the shade, summoning the courage to continue as the hypercarnivore stirred within the cave, the red beast known as a wolvencree near.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

He could always turn back.

The relic hunter could simply continue northwest until he reached the trade route that connected with Vendir, seat of Vraizard the Blade, Ravenna of Icenor. Yet up until this point, ever since his world had changed because of events in his youth that he’d had no control over, the relic hunter had trusted his gut.

And his gut was telling him to venture into the cave and see what treasure he could uncover.

There were nobler ways to die in the Four Kingdoms, and then there was what he was doing, the relic hunter putting his life on the line for something that might have already been stolen, a relic that may not even exist. It was as brazen as it was foolish, a type of bold beyond insanity.

His was a life of risk and payoffs, of sheer luck, yet it was better than the alternative. At least he was still alive, and if he was able to pull this off, his world would change in ways he could hardly imagine.

Hesitation.

Jaw-grinding, sweat-inducing, clenched-fist hesitation was natural in a scenario like this.

The cave was rumored to hold the Quill of Katzimo, a cursed relic that would provide the relic hunter with an incredible power. There would be notoriety in holding such an object, and it would go nicely in his collection of magical objects.

It was worth the risk.

Of all the creatures that called the northern volcanic deserts of Icenor home, from the pale-skinned rake and their horrifying maws to the myling, cursed creatures no larger than halflings yet with the strength of grown men, wolvencree were the most feared.

Standing in the shadow of the batholith, his dark eyes tracing along the contours of the cave, the relic hunter was keenly aware of the risk of entering its lair.

He would wait.

Even if it took until midnight, he would wait until he was certain that the wolvencree was sleeping. This would also give him time to monitor the area. He didn’t think any rake would come this close to the cave, not with the dead bodies of their companions strewn about, but these mindless yokai were entirely unpredictable.

“Livia, be with me,” he whispered at some point, a prayer to the Goddess of Luck.

It was rumored that Livia hadn’t answered a prayer in well over five hundred years, but the relic hunter didn’t buy this. After all, how would one know if their request for luck was answered or not? He chose to believe, to believe that the Goddess was watching him now, floating somewhere nearby, her famously long robes draped all the way to the ground.

If not her, then who? It was comforting to know that someone was out there.

“Vitharr, your blessings,” said the relic hunter, a prayer to the God of Fate, who just so happened to be Livia’s father. Fate and luck. He would need an incredibly benevolent amount of both if he was going to survive this, especially after he heard the wolvencree move in the cave, the great beast crunching bone in its teeth…

Time passed. The shadows of the batholith changed, growing as they stretched in the opposite direction. Was it a warning? Was the rock formation, or perhaps Livia herself, trying to indicate something to the relic hunter?

The wolvencree’s snores came suddenly like a rolling desert thunderstorm. They were loud and booming; the kind of sound only came from a creature that could double as the pet of a giant.

This was it.

This was the moment the relic hunter had been waiting for.

Normally, there was a strategy in retrieving a relic. There were puzzles and various challenges that the relic hunter had grown used to tackling.

With the wolvencree, the strategy simple—sneak in, find the Quill of Katzimo, and sneak out. It was an insane idea, yet he was to the point that he was being compelled to enter the cave, guided by a divine force.

He had to get the relic.

“Livia, be with me,” the relic hunter said one last time.

He removed his boots and moved forward, his traveling gear behind him now, the volcanic sand hot beneath his feet. The terrifying sound of the wolvencree’s snores increased in volume as he approached the mouth of the cave.

The relic hunter stepped over bones and bloody limbs, the stench of the dead coming to him in waves.

His arms tingled as he spotted a portion of the wolvencree’s body, just the creature’s tail at the moment, long and red, hairless and covered in scars. The tail rose from the ground and touched back down, kicking up the silver-black volcanic dust.

Pausing, the relic hunter took just about the deepest breath he could.

It still felt shallow, his heart mere seconds away from tearing out of his chest, growing legs, and bolting south toward Padrian Sands.

A deep breath.

He took another step and came dangerously close to crunching a stray rib. The relic hunter managed to step around it, and was just about to advance further into the cave when he heard some commotion behind him.

As slowly as ever, he turned to find a single rake.

The naked, humanoid yokai was hunched forward, its jaw starting to dislocate as it spotted him. For a brief moment, the demonic yokai seemed confused, but then its skull-like face morphed into an expression of rage, its jagged, double set of teeth on display as it released an ear-piercing bark.

The wolvencree was that fast.

Within moments, the red-skinned beast exploded toward the sound, tossing the relic hunter backward into the cave wall.

Lights out.

The relic hunter awoke some time later.

At first, he thought it had all been a terrible nightmare, that he hadn’t been struck by the muscled body of the wolvencree.

None of this was real, not the smell of death in the air, nor the darkness that seemed to swell around him in curls of ink. It was in trying to sit up that he realized just how real everything was.

Something was wrong. The pale moonlight that extended into the cave revealed that his body had been shredded, his lower half missing. What was left of the relic hunter lay in a pool of his own blood and entrails.

He gasped, and as he did, he caught sight of the wristlet that he wore, one handed down to him by his late father.

The blue jewel began to glow, and as the wolvencree stirred again, a wisp of sparkling energy spun around the bracelet.

Quickly, came a voice emitting from somewhere at the back of the relic hunter’s head. If we bind souls, I can save you. If not, you will die here in this cave. Do you agree to bind souls?

“Bind… souls?” he whispered, overcome with delirium, with terror as he watched something shift in the shadows. He heard the sound of the wolvencree licking its lips, the beast circling back around to finish him off. “Who…?”

The voice at the back of his head grew in focus and volume. Left-Handed One, do you hear me? Do you agree to bind souls? Do you agree to unlock my power?

The relic hunter finally caught a glimpse of the wolvencree’s horrifying face.

“I agree,” he said, as what was left of the blood in his body drained in an instant.

And with those words, a blazing silver energy poured into the relic hunter.

In that brief moment, the relic hunter saw the enormous body of a white dragon, he saw dragon riders, he saw a past come alive again, and he understood what it was he was supposed to do, his role in the rebirth of the Age of Dragons.

Suddenly, as a silver power twisted around him, the relic hunter knew everything.

And just about as soon as the realization struck, at the very moment he was aware of his destiny and ready to seize it, everything went black again.

.Chapter One.

The Artifance and the Neck Tattoo: The Events that Preceded the Cave in Desert

Rare artifact collectors traveled from across the Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland for the annual Artifance held in E’Kanth, City of Dragons. Collectors and researchers greatly outnumbered the relic hunters, who brought their most alluring items and legendary wares, many coming as far as the scattered ruins of the Tribute Islands and the frigid northern fjords of Icenor down to E’Kanth, the ancient metropole of the Sagaland.

The Artifance championed these thieving treasure hunters over the span of a single week, a time when no questions were asked, where anything not bolted down in an abandoned sanctuary or kept in the deepest of troll lairs was put on the market.

It was a time of celebration, a way of shedding a bit of light on a mysterious past that revolved around mana that only the Emperor’s Magi knew how to wield.

The irony that the Sagaland’s famous yearly festival was tied to the quasi-legal theft of mana-powered artifacts was overlooked by many, but not by the relic hunter. He had learned in his youth that the truth was easier to digest in smaller doses, and even easier to swallow after a pint or two.

It was by sheer circumstance that the relic hunter’s yearly attendance had become something of a cause for celebration, many collectors spending strings of electrum for information as to where the mysterious elven man planned to set up his shop.

There had even been a small surge of copycats at last year’s festival, a handful even wearing white wigs as they pushed carts down E’Kanth’s cobbled streets late at night, doing their best to convince collectors that they were indeed the enigmatic Icenordian who always had the strangest relics. Yet no one else was like him, and those who encountered the relic hunter and his roving stand of oddities were in for a treat.

The relic hunter’s cart was no larger than the length of your average dairy cow. It was made of vikan wood which grew in the northwestern parts of Icenor, the wood sleek and black. The bottom trim of his cart featured detailed kitsune carvings, the trickster yokai a popular motif of Icenordian arts.

When polished, the wood produced an uneven grain that shifted in a diagonal pattern, a subtle touch, but something definitely noticeable in the light. With panels that spread from the sides, as well as a covering, his cart was quick to set up, and it fit in narrow alleys with relative ease.

There was true Icenordian style in how he set up his cart once he found a place in the city that spoke to him.

As a balancing act and to honor Father Dawn and Mother Dusk, the relic hunter set two large cones of Southfallian incense on either side of his cart, which produced a subtle scent in the air that was sweeter than Hoersung sage, yet equally pungent.

He routinely had charms dedicated to Livia, Goddess of Luck, hanging from his cart, as well as her father, Vitharr, God of Fate, which was another balancing act. He also had a few bottles of unique firewaters that he had picked up in his travels, which he served his customers in crystal glasses from the Tribute Islands.

There was flair in both his style and approach, the relic hunter generally in a midnight blue top stitched with gold accents set beneath a cloak made of a textured wool that featured a hood, which allowed him to partially obscure his facial features. Due to his elven nature, his eyes glowed yellow beneath this hood, which only added to the allure of his appearance.

If he removed his hood, a customer would be greeted by a narrow face with pointed ears, both of which had numerous piercings. If it was unseasonably warm and he had his sleeves rolled back, a customer would see tattoos starting at his wrists and working their way back, each of the tattoos with a story of relic conquest behind it.

The elven man had become a renowned relic hunter in a short number of years through a combination of dedication, audacious adventuring, and sheer luck. He had built his quasi-legal business from the ground up, and had numerous brushes with death in his quest to seek out the rarest of relics across the Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland.

His goods, items ranging from the hooked claw of an extinct dragon to an enchanted locket that whispered made-up secrets to its wearer, continued to delight collectors. It was at the yearly Artifance in E’Kanth that the relic hunter was truly in his element, the one time of the year that his lifelong obsession with finding the Sagaland’s most interesting relics was championed.

In just a few short hours, the relic hunter would place his hood over his head.

He would retrieve his cart from the basement of an old Icenordian stave church in the District Rune, and prepare for a long night of selling relics on the misty bridges that crossed the canals around Otonashi Square.

But first, he had to handle something he’d been meaning to do for well over a year now.

The elven man had been assured by a Padrian monk named Olaf that the ancient script he would soon have tattooed onto his neck meant relic hunter, which was certainly what he had become in his obsessive search for artifacts lost to time.

The vertical script came from an ancient Sagic language used during the Age of Dragons, a writing style that died with the dragons themselves, whose presence and power lived on through dragonessence.

Most of his relics were possible because of dragonessence.

Dragonessence was the common term used for mana and magical properties in the Sagaland, a power that the general public was forbidden from using. Like most people, the relic hunter himself also didn’t have a good understanding of the power. As long as the relics worked and subsequently held value, he was fine being in the dark.

“Red Sagic script, eh?” The tattooist shook his head as he examined the parchment before him. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like that. Certainly not on an Icer like yourself. Maybe a half-elf from the Tribbies. Goes with the island tone.” He laughed at his own hidebound joke. Once the relic hunter didn’t respond, the man cleared his throat and tried for something else: “What did you say it meant, the script?”

The elven man, who now rested on his side ready for the tattoo, glanced up at the tattooist and smiled. “Relic hunter.”

“Heh. I should have known. You’re here for the Artifance, aren’t you, Icer?” The tattooist had forearms covered in brandings designating his time in the Emperor’s Noblis Guard. He seemed rough around the edges, but from what the relic hunter had heard from a trusted source, his ink skills were second to none. “Well? Are you? The Artifance starts tomorrow, you know.”

“For me it starts tonight.”

“Is that so? Earlier and earlier each year, it seems. I guess it makes sense considering it’s spring. That’s how you know spring has sprung here in E’Kanth, I reckon, the Artifance and the joyous masses of thieves and magnates that it brings to the city.”

“It is quite the time to be alive.”

The tattooist placed the saucer of crimson ink on a tray. He opened up a leather wallet of needles, retrieved one of the longer pieces, and stuck its tip in a hammered iron bowl filled with boiling hot liquid. “You a relic collector or relic hunter? Those are very different things, regardless of what your new tattoo may say.”

The elven man thought about this longer than he should have. “Both, I suppose. I don’t see much of a difference between the two aside from the initial risk. I trade when I must. It paves the way for the next adventure.”

“Figures. So you’re a glorified thief playing with a power that has been banned for hundreds of years.” The tattooist snorted at his own statement. His dark eyes traced across the dull gold wristlet that the relic hunter wore, a piece that was unpolished and featured a less-than-remarkable blue gemstone that had long since lost its luster. “Is that where you got that bracelet of yours? Some tomb? Some yokai hovel?”

“Something like that.”

“My brother was a relic hunter, you know, and later a fixer, once he had been in the game long enough, which sort of makes him a collector. No guff from me for being a relic hunter. It’s a good living.”

“And where is your brother now?”

“He’s dead, like you will be if you keep relic hunting.”

“Did your brother happen to leave any journals behind, any notes?”

The tattooist stopped what he was doing and glowered at the relic hunter. “You’ve got some nerve, Icer.”

The elven man maintained his smile. “I don’t have as much nerve as I do coin. If your late brother, may Vitharr guide his soul, left any notes behind, I’d gladly pay you to take a look at them when we are done here.”

The tattooist’s face softened as he realized there was now money involved. He turned his attention back to the needle. “You know what? Sure. There’s something useful I saw in there, some information that looked important. I’m guessing you’d be a better judge of that than me.” The man neared the relic hunter’s neck with the needle. “But you won’t be able to get it tonight. I’ve got clients. How does tomorrow morning work for you? We can meet at a tavern near where I live.”

“Make it late morning and you have yourself a deal.”

“Good. Now, hold still. This is going to hurt. What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t.”

The tattooist pressed the hot needle into the relic hunter’s neck. “Not bad,” he said, recognizing an easy client once the elven man remained absolutely still. “So you want me just to call you Relic Hunter?”

He waited until the man removed the needle to speak. “That will do, yes.”

“I think I’ll just call you Icer, easier that way. Keep still like that, Icer, and we’ll be done sooner than you think.” The tattooist dipped the needle in the saucer of red ink again. “You don’t have somewhere to be, do you?”

“I do,” the relic hunter said, his excitement hard to hide. He had waited an entire year to open up his stand at the E’Kanth’s Artifance, where he always had the best luck. It was also where, in a few short hours, the path of his life would shift in a direction he could have never fathomed. All because of who he once was, divine interference, and later, the shabby bracelet on his wrist.

This was a night that would kickstart a year of rippling change, one that would go on to affect the entirety of the Sagaland, but the relic hunter, who now went by the name Twillo, didn’t know it yet.

.Chapter Two.

Embla Vraizard, Crown Ravenna of Icenor

The Artifance was traditionally held in Otonashi Square, the same location where the Great Reunification had started well over a hundred years ago. Anchored by towering statues chiseled from Southfallian marble, and set in a space that once hosted several legions of Noblis Guards as Victrin Otonashi united the Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland, the Artifance had become a uniting symbol of the continent.

No matter who a person was before they reached the Artifance, they all had equal footing for that single week, where magnates and noblemen and women known as saracents ate at the same tables as thieves and the Emperor’s Noblis Guard.

The Artifance was a celebration of continental unity, and in a place like the Sagaland, where the ravennas of the Four Kingdoms were all secretly vying for Otonashi’s throne, a show of solidarity was a visceral reminder of how far the Sagaland had come over the last one hundred years.

Twillo had never set up in the square like the others, and he certainly didn’t set up any time before midnight.

The relic hunter preferred the labyrinth of alleys and bridges that connected the canals of District Rune, ones generally obscured by even mists that hung over the waters during this time of year. District Rune had a certain ambiance, one that the elven man felt better sold his product.

As he had during previous Artifances, he sought to have different offerings each night. Tonight would have a theme—Items of Mystery and Where to Find Them—which would include a few pieces created by arcane artificers well over five hundred years ago. These artificers, known for their unique usage of mana to power certain automatons, no longer existed, yet he had heard rumors that there was still a colony of them somewhere in the Tribute Islands in the southeast.

The mapstones he planned to sell still held important information. They revealed locations of these mana-powered treasures hidden across the Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland, yet there was always a catch that came with acquiring one of these stones.

Some of the relics they mapped out had already been claimed, which was why purchasing one came with some risks. Imagine learning of a magical scepter that would grant one the ability to safely hover for several minutes, only to venture all the way to the fjords of Icenor, to the necropolis known as the City of the Dead, to discover that it had already been looted. Or worse, that it never existed in the first place.

Not all the items that Twillo planned to sell that night were enchanted in some way by dragonessence.

Some were simply rare pieces, mostly jewelry, but also objects such as a lantern made from the bleached hide of an Icenordic kitsune known as Corobashi, who was said to have once commissioned giants to drain Lake Metulus of all of its water because of a disagreement he’d had with a woman in the lakeside village of Storgata; that, or the webbed feet of a yokai known as a gangi kozo, who once lived along some of Middling’s northwestern riverbanks.

Oddities, rarities, questionable mapstones, and other rare and unusual objects that fit with the relic hunter’s theme for that night were in store for those able to locate his cart. And since this was the first night of the Artifance, Twillo would make it easy for collectors to find him.

The first collector seemingly stepped out of a mist that had been brewing ever since the relic hunter had finished getting his neck tattoo. Even if the weather was starting to shift toward something much warmer, rare furs lined the lapel of the man’s overcoat. The man was clearly a magnate judging from the showy way he dressed.

“I found you,” the man said with glee.

Twillo didn’t respond yet with words. Instead, he nodded slowly at the collector, turned to his cart, and poured up a glass of firewater.

The collector, whose eyes could barely stop tracing over the items on display, took a sip of the drink. “What is this?” he asked after a long, calming sigh. “Is it elven? Where does it come from?”

“Padrian Sands. It’s called arnyak. The Padrian monks make it during the long winters using beetroot, a secret mix of herbal botanicals, and Vaymund pepperstone. They heat the mixture using underground hot springs and then distill it over a dozen times with volcanic rock. I suppose you could say it is elven, as am I.”

“I’m aware, Icer,” the collector said as he took another sip of the firewater. “It’s spicy.”

“It is.” The relic hunter finally stepped aside, allowing the collector to get a better look at his wares.

The man continued to sip his drink as he examined Twillo’s items. “Just mapstones and assorted goods, then?”

“It’s the first night.”

“And I’m supposed to find you in all this mist tomorrow night?” The collector laughed. “You know, with a proper shop or even a booth at the Artifance, you’d sell a lot more.”

This statement confirmed in Twillo’s mind that he was a magnate, which was a term used for a wealthy merchant or person who wasn’t of noble blood. The power of magnates had swelled in the last decade, to the point that they’d even started hiring their own guards as they behaved more and more like saracents, or those of noble blood. He expected the budding class to become a nuisance in the future. Still, Twillo played nice. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“What am I supposed to do with a mapstone?”

“Find a relic,” he told the collector in his politest tone, “or hire someone to find one. You could hire me.”

“Purchase a mapstone from you and hire you? It’s always something with relic hunters, isn’t it? Even worse with Icenordian elves. Icers, all of you.”

Rather than respond, Twillo checked one of the incense cones and used it to light another. He’d developed a thick skin over the years in his line of work. A Middlinger magnate with more coin than sense would do little to faze him.

“Where’s your specs?” the collector asked after examining the mapstones further.

“Which stone would you like specs for?”

“Which do you recommend?”

Twillo picked up a polished red stone that had a yellow vein twisting through it and handed it to the collector. “This one.”

He knew the specs for all of his mapstones, yet he still made a show of retrieving a leatherbound book from a cabinet on the side of his stand. This was mostly to draw out their interaction. Others passing by would either see the pair, or they’d hear them talking, which would naturally bring more interest to his stand.

Twillo located the information he had written down about the red mapstone:

Red mapstone, yellow markings

Romulus of Seondzus

Relic: Replicating brick

Relic’s Location: Nam Madol

Twillo had traded Romulus of Seondzus for the mapstone, trade being a stretch for what had happened that night in the southern Middling city. Romulus, a quarter-giant known for both his love and his temper, had gone into a rage when he was robbed by a group of bandits. The relic hunter had been the first to show up after the robbery, and had arrived at a solution in which he traded a comb made of the skeleton of an ohatsu, a serpent yokai, for several mapstones.

It was a bad trade considering the value of the ohatsu comb and the risk in taking on a mapstone, but Romulus was an old family friend, and it cheered the quarter-giant up in the end.

“Have you ever heard of a replicating brick?” Twillo asked the collector.

The man licked his lips. “Replicating brick? I can’t say that I have. Where is it located?”

“Tribute Islands, Nam Madol.”

“Aren’t those the ruins outside of Maroth?”

“They are.” Twillo sensed movement ahead, which indicated more customers had found him. He sped up the explanation that followed. “A replicating brick does just what it says. Place it on the ground at night, and by the morning, you will have two bricks. Continue until you have enough bricks, and then wrap the replicating brick in animal hide to prevent it from replicating. Some of the older buildings in E’Kanth were built this way. It is a magnificent piece.”

What he had failed to mention was that the brick in question was quite large, easily the weight of a horse, and hard to transport, especially from a place as remote as the southeastern Tribute Islands. The brick was useful, without question, but the collector would have a hard time retrieving it unless he happened to have some shipping connections in Eastlon, not to mention a couple half-giants.

A pair of new customers approached the booth, and as they did, the collector’s eyes bulged. “I’ll take it.”

“Don’t you want to know the price first?” the relic hunter asked.

“Name your price, Icer,” the man said hurriedly, confidence in his voice.

“Seven silvers.”

The collector scoffed. “Seven?” he asked, his words escaping through a gap in his teeth. “You’re joking.”

As casually as ever, the relic hunter poured the two customers that had just approached some of the arnyak firewater from Padrian Sands. One of the customers, yet another magnate by the way he dressed, looked at the mapstone that the first collector was holding. “That red mapstone. What does it do?” he asked.

The first collector begrudgingly shoved his hand into an inner pocket of his overcoat. “You have yourself a deal, Icer. I’ll take it.”

“Great. I’ll get it wrapped up for you.” The smile on the relic hunter’s face flattened as he noticed a trio of elven orcs step out of the mist.

Each of the men were at least two heads taller than him, with olive skin and chiseled features, their hair long and braided in a way that made it look like they’d grown a pair of ram’s horns. Their insignias, which they wore pinned to their cloaks, indicated that they were Honor Guards who worked directly for Vraizard the Blade, the Ravenna of Icenor.

Before Twillo could say anything else, and even before he could ponder why Vraizard the Blade or his entourage would be in E’Kanth, an elven woman appeared behind the three men, a hood over her head.

She pressed the hood back, revealing a head of white hair with streaks of blonde in it.

Twillo dropped the seven silver coins that the magnate had just handed him.

Of all the people in the Four Kingdoms, from the northernmost fjords of Icenor to the remote tip of Southfall, this elven woman presented just about the greatest threat that Twillo had encountered in ages. Embla Vraizard was the Crown Ravenna, second in line to the northern throne, a northern princess.

They had grown up together in Sparrow’s Rise. Not only did she know his real name, she knew what his father had done to force him into the life of a relic hunter.

.Chapter Three.

A Name from Long Ago

Twillo crouched to retrieve the coins he had dropped, which would give him time to conjure an idea before he faced Embla, the Crown Ravenna of Icenor. As he pocketed the silver coin, and as Princess Embla’s guards shoved the two other customers aside, the relic hunter rolled up his sleeves.

His tattoos became apparent, ones that he had received all over the Sagaland. From the seven lucky tails of a kitsune on his right arm that wrapped around jeweled skulls, to the dragon he’d had inked long ago on the inside of his left wrist, all of his tattoos told a story. A saracent wasn’t strictly forbidden from getting a tattoo, but it would be uncouth, certainly not something that someone of noble blood would do.

Another thought came to Twillo as time seemed to slow for just a moment.

He certainly had ways to deal with aggressors.

He had a small vial containing the ground shell of a yandori snail, which produced intense nightmare visions if inhaled. He also had an item known as the Amulet of a Forlorn Harvest Monk around his neck, which forced people to forget him. The only problem with this item was that a person had to stare at it deeply for a set amount of time, which was something possible only in certain circumstances. Then there was his ring, one of his most valuable relics.

But using that would be risky…

“Stop,” Princess Embla said, her voice firm, that of someone who was used to people obeying her every command. “Don’t I know you?”

Twillo, whose face was obscured by his hood, made a point to display his tattooed arms as he stood.

“I don’t believe so, Your Highness.”

“Remove your hood,” Princess Embla said as she casually picked up a mapstone.

Twillo hesitated; one of the guards stepped forward with a grunt, ready to enforce the Crown Ravenna’s demand.

“Did you not hear me?” she asked. “Why do you hide your face?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he said, still using the accent.

“Yet I am the one that has already removed my hood.”

“I am but a humble collector of rarities—”

The guard pressed closer to him. “Your hood,” he said.

Yet again, Twillo considered his options.

He was currently on a bridge, water and the misty slums of the District Rune below. He could always jump to the water below and disappear into the slums. There was still his ring, which would be an option, albeit a messy one.

Twillo had no desire to harm the second in line to the northern throne, which would only bring more unwanted attention. He only wanted to escape. He only wanted to be free from his past.

Even so, Twillo did what he had been told to do, another effort to buy more time so he could figure a way out of this. “By Livia,” he whispered as he removed his hood.

Princess Embla gasped, her eyes widening as she uttered a name that he hadn’t heard in ages. “Jhaeros?”

“Twillo,” he told her. “My name is Twillo.”

“Twillo? What? No. Twillo? No. You’re Jhaeros Shotaro Vos. What is the meaning of this?” Princess Embla gawked at his tattoos and earrings; his beard stubble, which no self-respecting elf had; and the cart of oddities behind him. “Is this what has become of you? You’ve become a relic hunter?”

“My name is Twillo, Your Highness. I do not know a Jhaeros—”

“It is you!” Princess Embla came forward quickly and raised her hand, as if she were going to place it on his cheek. She never did. “You think I would forget? Have you really fallen this hard? Of course, of course you have.”

Princess Embla picked up one of the mapstones and examined it. “I always wondered what happened to you.”

“I assure you, Your Highness, I know nothing of a man named Jhaeros.”

“You lie. Sparrow's Rise. I was there, you know. It was where I spent the summer. I still do. We know each other. Admit that. We grew up together.”

“I’ve never met you before in my life, much to my dismay,” Twillo assured her as he tried to back away, prevented by his cart.

“Is there a problem, Your Highness?” asked the same aggressive guard who had already spoken.

Twillo had traveled through the Sagaland long enough to know that people everywhere were different. Stereotyping not only hindered his discoveries, the grudges it created were bad for his soul. Even so, the elven orcs that made up Vraizard the Blade’s Honor Guard were hard not to classify as malignant and often violent thugs.

Princess Embla spoke again: “All is fine, Rowian. I will let you know if I need your assistance.” She returned her focus to Twillo. “What is this name that you are calling yourself now?”

He told her yet again.

“Twillo, Twillo… twovne… illum… it means light of winter morning, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That is correct, Your Highness.”

“Where did you get this name, Jhaeros? Is that a nickname? I can’t say I’ve heard that name before.”

“My mother gave it to me.”

Embla returned the mapstone that she had been examining. “You never were a good liar, Jhaeros. From what I recall, you never had a mother.”

Twillo cleared his throat. “Is there something that you’re looking for, Your Highness? You know, I may have an item that royalty such as yourself would find useful. Have you heard of the Tongue of Ravenna Megren? It has quite the rich history, you know. Here, I’ll show you.”

Twillo reached his hand into an inner pocket. He wrapped his fingers around the vial that contained the ground shell of a yandori snail. As casually as ever, he popped the cork out and prepared for what was to come.

Twillo had worked for a very long time now to separate himself from his tainted family name. Proof of Twillo’s death was still desired by a few of the more traditional saracents of Icenor, who believed in the old tribal traditions of a son facing punishment for the crimes of his father. Princess Embla’s own father would certainly be of that camp.

The only thing that bothered Twillo about what he intended to do was the fact that he would abandon his cart. Still, there were other things back at the stave church that were of equal value, and it wasn’t like he didn’t have access to other mapstones, like he couldn’t have someone fetch the cart for him later on. There was also the new lead from the tattooist, which he intended to collect the following morning.

No, this was the only way that he could come up with at the moment.

“You will enjoy this,” Twillo said as he removed his hand from his pocket, prepared to blow the ground yandori dust at the elven orcs.

Rowian acted seemingly on instinct. He slammed into Twillo. The dust hit the air in a matter of seconds, instantly inhaled by Princess Embla, who began screaming uncontrollably.

The hallucinatory dust also made its way through Twillo’s nostrils. Without looking, he threw himself over the railing of the bridge.

He hit the cold water and immediately came up for air, gasping, demonic maws of vicious yokai coming for him all at once. Their ogrish hallucinatory faces swirled around Twillo as he tried to get his bearings. The frigid water was nothing compared to the terrifying demons with red skin and sharp horns, all of which seemed to be inches away from ripping into Twillo’s face.

He had to remember that none of this was real.

He knew that his mind was playing tricks on him, yet knowledge of hallucinations and the power of hallucinations rarely made peace. Twillo managed to crawl out of the water and onto the stone beneath the bridge, the start of the slums just beyond. His skin writhed to the point that it felt like all his tattoos had come alive, his pupils on fire, mouth dry, heart in his throat.

Now crouched, sopping wet, reeking of questionable water, Twillo clenched his eyes shut, prepared to wait out the hallucination. He willed the terrible visions away, and when that didn’t work, he merely sat with them, allowing the demonic creatures to attack him relentlessly until they started to finally fade away.

At about the moment he felt that he had recovered enough to move on, a pair of footsteps reached his ears, followed by the voice of the elven orc named Rowian: “You will pay dearly for what you have done, Jhaeros.”

.Chapter Four.

Flight and Fight

Twillo didn’t have a weapon on him. Even if he had one, attacking the Honor Guard of Icenor’s Crown Ravenna would be a capital offense, one that would stack poorly with Twillo’s earlier escape attempt and the issues stemming from his checkered past. There was only one option, and as he took off toward the misty slums that grew like fungi beneath the bridges of E’Kanth, Twillo kept his eyes peeled for a very particular kind of distraction.

“You won’t get away!” The elven orc shouldered into a beggar that was just stirring from his tent. Rowian kicked the poor man down and continued after Twillo, who had just hopped over an overturned trough. As Twillo’s vision cleared, his mind seemed to do the same. The relic hunter was keenly aware of where he was now and the route he would need to take to get back to District Rune, where he’d be able to disappear fully.

He reached an alleyway that connected one slum from the next and squeezed through, Twillo aware that Rowian would follow. He began knocking over anything he came into contact with, providing more obstacles for his pursuer.

Twillo was shouted at by a few drunken E’Kanthians, which only brought more attention to his plight. Soon, the relic hunter raced down a water runoff ditch heading southeast. During the fall and winter, E’Kanthians turned the water runoff ditch, which was crucial in the summer, into a dump that had to be cleared out yearly.

It was here that Twillo planned to lose Rowian.

Still running, his heart thrumming in his chest, Twillo zipped around a tight corner only to collide with a woman carrying food scraps in a burlap sack. Their collision caused the half-rotted food to spill out. Crouching, Twillo tried to help the woman place the items back in her gunny sack until it was time to move.

“I’ve got to go,” Twillo told the woman once he spotted Rowian, who was furious to the point that he’d drawn his sword. Twillo jammed his hand in his pocket and returned with a silver coin. “For your troubles,” he told the woman as he placed the coin in her palm.

He took off yet again, Rowian soon on his heels as Twillo slipped around another corner, navigated a packed alley, slid beneath a dripping wagon overpass, skirted around the rotting carcass of a pack animal, and bolted under a bridge decorated with Otonashi banners.

Twillo reached the runoff ditch, his breaths short and sharp as he found the path that E’Kanthians had made through the items they dumped. While it was a place where things were discarded, it was also a place where things were found and reused. He knew an exit was near.

As he had before, he knocked a few items over to stop Rowian. Twillo didn’t want to have to do what he’d planned next, not if he could avoid it. Doing so would only deepen a case against him, especially as it was clearly illegal usage of a relic.

But there was no other choice.

“Livia be with me; Vitharr, your blessings,” Twillo said once Rowian drew too close. And with those words, a prayer to both the Goddess of Luck and her father, the God of Fate, Twillo tapped the ring on his left pinky ten times.

The discarded items around Twillo came alive.

A loom lurched toward the two, a desk missing one of its legs kicked like a horse, a shattered lamp flopped alive, and a rolled-up rug slithered forward as everything bloomed to life in a seven-foot radius around Twillo.

The rug landed in front of Rowian, who was in the midst of shouting a curse once a stray rope looped around his leg. He batted his sword at the rug, which worked in Twillo’s favor as more of the temporarily sentient trash swelled toward the elven orc.

The power of Twillo’s Enkiro Ring of Animation would only last for a minute, and he wouldn’t be able to use it again for twenty-four hours based on tests he had performed in the past. But it would be enough time to escape, providing the perfect cover for Twillo to lose the elven orc.

At least he assumed this was the case.

A stray broom handle swung in his direction. Twillo avoided its attack and slipped around the broom handle just as a red stool clamped down onto his leg. He didn’t know why the Enkiro Ring of Animation made everything it brought to life violent and aggressive, yet he was prepared for things to get hairy, especially with the sheer amount of rubble in the vicinity. Rather than beat the stool back, Twillo used it to strengthen his next movement. He kicked through a coat rack inching toward him, and was temporarily blinded when a wicker basket flew into his face.

Twillo managed to throw it off and continue his crazed exit, Rowian yelling behind him.

Able to finally press clear of his ring’s influence, which only worked in the radius around him at the exact moment it was activated, Twillo came to a pair of wardrobes with their doors hanging on shoddy hinges. Twillo used the side of one of these wardrobes to pry off the stool that had wrapped around his leg. He kicked it away and moved on, the relic hunter now ducking as he spiraled up the runoff ditch. Once Twillo reached the crest, he stepped into the darkness, and crouched immediately, his focus returning to the activity below.

Rowian still fought the animated objects below, the elven orc swinging his sword with fury, only to be thrown off balance when they all stopped moving at the same time.

It was a comical ending to a disaster averted, yet Twillo didn’t laugh. Instead, he waited until it was clear that Rowian wasn’t going to find him. Twillo would reach the Church of Illum in District Rune and reassess what needed to happen next.

One thing was for sure—his chance to sell items at this year’s Artifance was ruined. But there were still other options, namely the lead Twillo had received from the tattoo artist.

It was always something in the life of a relic hunter.

.Chapter Five.

Vradon and Olaf

The Icenordian stave church in District Rune was certainly a relic in its own right.

Built over seven hundred years ago, the Church of Illum was still in relatively good shape. The three-story post and lintel structure had grayed over time, the church unique in its clever design that used slotted together pieces of Vikan wood rather than nails. Sharp dormers and carved dragons gave the roof a unique look, the building noted for its triangular stained glass at the top which featured a scene of Vitharr and Livia sharing a bowl of fruit. It was an image Twillo was intimately familiar with considering he usually stayed in this top floor room, the morning light coming through the stained glass as jarring as it was breathtaking.

As he had numerous times before, Twillo came to a side entrance and let himself in. Quiet as ever, hoping not to wake the pair of monks who ran the church, Twillo navigated the darkened nave to a set of wooden stairs. He stepped over the steps that creaked the loudest, and finally came to a narrow hallway.

He felt a presence behind him. Twillo turned to Vradon.

“Vekh vekhran. You’re getting better at sneaking in.” The elven monk sniffed the air. “Why do you smell of fear and sewage?”

“What can I say? I decided to take a swim.”

“A swim, is it? And why do I sense that there is more to this story?” the monk asked, his eyes shining a bit in the dark. Icenordian elves had no problem seeing at night. Twillo could clearly see Vradon’s portly outline, the monk’s long white hair braided and wrapped around his neck like a scarf designating his time in service to Vitharr and Livia. He was the visual opposite of his partner, Olaf, who was tall and thin, skin over a skeleton, as they said up north.

“I need someone to retrieve my cart,” Twillo said. “It’s on a bridge near the square. I’m sure it will be looted by morning, but they won’t take the cart. I hope.”

“You left it on a bridge?”

“Surely you have someone that can do it. What about the man and his son who take care of the grounds? They are friendly.”

“Karm and his boy?” Vradon threaded his fingers together in front of his body. “They are here to help us prepare for summer; Olaf would be upset if I sent them after your relics.”

“My relics will be gone by morning. I simply want my cart. It means something to me.”

“I suppose they’ll need to be discreet about it, then.”

“There’s a good friend, I knew you’d come around! The cart itself is worth more to me than the mapstones and antiques I brought tonight. Well, there is a set of crystal from the Tribute Islands,” Twillo said, referring to the cups he had planned to hand out firewater to customers in, “but if they’ve been stolen, that is something I can live with.”

“Are you in danger?”

The smile remained on Twillo’s face. “When am I not in danger?”

“Really, though. Should we be concerned? Olaf and I have ways to get you out of E’Kanth if need be. You know that. Neither of us want to see any harm come to you. You’ve been through enough, Jhaeros—”

“Twillo. And I’m not done with the city just yet. I still have someone I need to visit in the morning.”

“So that is it then, for this year’s Artifance?” asked Vradon.

“It is, sadly. There’s always next year. There are always the smaller artifances at the various royal courts.”

“Ah, yes, the Emperor’s Vorn.”

Twillo nodded. “In the morning, before I set out to meet someone, I’ll take stock of the relics I have in my quarters outside. I’ll give you something that Olaf can sell; that should be plenty for now.”

“That’s not necessary…”

“I insist. It is, after all, part of our agreement. For now, I think I’ll wash my clothing so it can dry overnight.”

Vradon looked at him skeptically. “You should wash yourself too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. My clothes should be dry by morning. It gets pretty drafty up there.”

Vradon tilted his chin to the rafters above. Stave churches were built with the idea that the eight pillars that held them up would go all the way to the ceiling, providing a large open space in the nave. At some point, in the past, long before Twillo and Vradon’s time, someone had refurbished the inside of the Church of Illum, turning the opening at the top into an attic space. They did so in a shoddy way, which was why Twillo’s room was illuminated by a portion of the stained glass. Vradon puffed his cheeks out and exhaled audibly. “I’ve been meaning to have that looked at, but because of the design, and the lack of Icenordian craftsmen in E’Kanth, it won’t be easy to have it fixed.”

“It’s fine.” Twillo turned to his door. “Lakk enz, old friend.”

“Yes, lakk enz. I’ll see what I can do about your cart, and please.”

“Yes?”

“Please bathe, Twillo.”

“I thought you were going to tell me to be careful.”

Vradon laughed lightly. “Yes, that goes without saying.”

After a quick outside bath, it took Twillo longer to fall asleep than he would have liked. Seeing Princess Embla had come as quite a surprise, triggering memories of a past he had hoped to forget of his youth in Sparrow’s Rise.

Lying on the simple mat on the floor and staring up at the church rafters and the light coming through the stained glass did little to calm the relic hunter’s nerves. He needed to get out of E’Kanth, but before he did, Twillo needed his cart, and equally important, he needed a direction.

Icenordian elves were very structured in their lives, which could come off as somewhat cold when meeting one in person. This discipline, one that came from ancient long winters and the need to organize and band together to survive them, trickled into their bureaucracy. They had, after all, led the Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland for nearly three hundred years before the Middlingers took it yet again through the sound leadership of Victrin Otonashi.

While many of his peers looked to those days with nostalgia, Twillo felt otherwise.

The reason that Victrin the Victorious, a Middlinger, had succeeded in becoming the Moon Dragon Emperor was because of his fluidity and his willingness to adapt. Not only that, he took what the Icenordian elves had done before him and restructured the Four Kingdoms into something more flexible.

Twillo sought to replicate this calculated spontaneity, one built upon past experiences. He had learned through his travels just how important of a trait this could be. This was also the reason he arranged his relic stand the way that he did, Twillo aware that he was using both mystery and style to set himself apart from the other hunters.

It was as good for business as it was his own mental health.

Yet with the excitement that had taken place that night, it was no surprise that Twillo slept much later than he would have liked the following day. It had been a dead sleep too, the kind that the relic hunter preferred.

He was finally awoken by a knock at the door.

“I’m up,” he said as he shifted to the side, the light coming in from the stained glass partially blocked by his hanging clothes.

The door opened and Olaf peeked his head in. Vradon’s life partner was a thin man, a full head taller than any elf that Twillo had ever met. His white hair was arranged the same as his counterpart, braided and wrapped around his neck, yet thicker. “I’ll have you know that I went to the liberty of preparing breakfast, or should we call it lunch, to coincide with your beauty sleep,” he said in the biting manner of speech that Twillo had come to recognize from Olaf. “Your cart is here, by the way, in its usual place. Karm and his boy saw to it.”

“That’s good news.”

“Vradon tells me you’re planning to go out.”

“Actually, I’m late.” Twillo placed a small table in front of him, no larger than a stool. Olaf set the tray onto the table; the scent of a special tea they brewed in Bravelon reached Twillo a few seconds later. It was a mixture of a type of citrus plant that grew in a certain part of the western volcanic desert and mint. Arranged around the tea, on separate plates, were small cubes made of dough that were dusted with powdered sugar.

“I had a feeling you would be up late, and I also had a feeling you would need a disguise.”

“A disguise? Yes, a disguise. I can’t go out there looking like this.” Twillo took a bite of one of the cubes, an elven dish known as a zimmolon. “Not bad. You make this yourself?”

Olaf nodded. “I did. Not many in E’Kanth can make zimmolons like they do back home. As for your disguise, I have something, an idea.”

“Go on…”

“I’ll just bring it to you. Wait here.”

The tall, thin monk returned a few minutes later with a bird monger’s outfit, the fabric on the underside of the sleeves frayed and beaded to look like feathers. The colors of the outfit shifted from a vibrant neon green across the back and shoulders to a deep red over the chest. There was a hat that accompanied it, one also made of silk and which tied under the wearer’s chin.

It was a bit unconventional, but Twillo had seen plenty of bird mongers in E’Kanth, the profession dating back to before the time of Icenordian rule. For all he knew, people had been bird mongering since before the Age of Dragons.

Olaf spoke: “You know as well as I that there are more guards in the city than normal considering the Artifance is taking place. If you were planning to slip out, and Vradon indicated that you were, the early to late afternoon would be the best time to do so. Otherwise, you may as well stay here another night.”

“Right,” Twillo said as he examined the costume.

The two tasks generally assigned to these mongers were the removal of birds and prevention of birds from roosting in certain areas, like the roofs of the Moon Dragon Emperor’s palace, or certain public works such as the Dragon Rider Statue Garden in the Hellspont and Trollmont districts of central E’Kanth. Twillo always enjoyed walking through the statue garden, which had been well maintained by the Otonashis. And he would likely do so today on his way to meet the tattooist, who had told him to meet him at a pub on the outer roads of Trollmont.

“You know how to make bird sounds, don’t you?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Twillo asked the monk.

“They do it in a peculiar way. It’s like this.” Olaf made a cooing sound, yet ended it with a twilled R.

Twillo attempted it. “Cooorrrr.”

Olaf laughed. “Again.”

Twillo did it again.

“Just keep practicing,” Olaf said on the tail end of another laugh.

“Before you go. I promised Vradon I’d get you something to sell, for your troubles.”

“Later,” the monk told him. “When you return. You will return, right? Or will you just head out? If your meeting runs too late, it would be best to leave in the morning, in my opinion.”

“I think I’ll just leave when I leave.”

Olaf paused at the door and turned back to Twillo. “One more thing. Vradon is leaving tomorrow for Padrian Sands, to the Monk’s College. Do you think you’ll be heading in that direction?”

“The day is still too early to tell.”

“I figured as much. But anyway, if you do end up in Icenor, he’ll be there for a week or so.”

“Good to know.”

“Please check on him if you make it up there.”

Twillo smirked. “He’ll be fine in Padrian Sands. It’s not like a wolvencree is going to attack the Monk’s College.”

“I know, I know. But paranoia knows no logic. May Livia guide her robes over your journey.”

Once the tall monk was gone, Twillo practiced the avian sound as he draped bird monger robes over his shoulders. The costume was for a much heavier person, and he had the notion to stuff something—linens, perhaps—under the front to make it appear more believable.

In the end, Twillo kept the disguise how it was, figuring that it would be more believable if he was a bit poor and couldn’t afford a fitted uniform. This would put him in line with other bird mongers, who were one of the lower classes of E’Kanth by this point, proud, and with a history, but generally poor.

Once he was outside, Twillo headed to the visitor quarters at the far corner of the grounds. Twillo walked around it until he came to the back wall, where he placed his hand over a square piece of wood with indentions around it. Upon pressing the switch, a panel opened up and presented an iron handle, which Twillo was able to pull to the side to reveal a large space filled to the brim with items he’d collected over the years.

Sitting in the middle of the space was his cart in need of polishing. As predicted, his items had been looted, yet the cart itself was intact.

“Thank you, Livia.” Twillo located a locket that was worth at least a platinum coin or two. He’d been saving it for a rainy day, and while the sky was clear, having his cart returned was something worth rewarding. Besides, Twillo wouldn’t be able to make his normal donation to the Church of Illum this year due to his run-in with the Crown Ravenna.

The locket would have to do.

He grabbed his travel bags, which he always kept packed for reasons like this, placed the fabric bird mask over his face, and left his storehouse. Twillo returned to the church, and when he couldn’t find Olaf, Twillo hung the locket from the door of the rectory.

It was time to disappear for a spell.

.Chapter Six.

Interlude I: Luck be a Lady

Livia hadn’t meddled in human and yokai affairs for some time, regardless of the numerous prayers and requests she had received. These prayers still fueled the Goddess of Luck and kept her up at night.

There were times, during especially trying events, that a prayer reached Livia and nearly plucked her heartstrings. Yet it was still something that she had sworn she wouldn’t get involved with anymore.

Not after what happened at the end of the Age of Dragons.

It was better for people to believe that Livia, that luck itself, was on their side than to know their prayers and wishes had fallen on deaf ears for over half a millennium. The Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland was only a small corner of the wider world, yet it was a crucial one, a playground for the Gods.

Southfall, Middling, the Tribute Islands, and Icenor—all had carried a lush history over the years, one defined by location and circumstance. Each of the kingdoms had the deities they typically venerated, which was something that had only strengthened in the last several hundred years.

Middlingers generally favored Father Dawn and Mother Dusk, the oldest gods. During times of conflict, the Twin Gods of War, Yodane and Nadakunai, became increasingly relevant in the breadbasket of the Four Kingdoms. Yet most educated Middlingers were wary to call upon the services of the Twin Gods, who had done the unthinkable in producing a child, Akune, God of Famine, just about the worst god next to Jecha.

Southfallians, and their various schools of warrior monks, worshiped Sphaerus, the God of Wisdom, the overseer of the Book of Deeds. The southern kingdom and its harsh arid climate also produced quite a few followers for Leenaka, Goddess of Fertility, Livia’s mother.

Then there was the newest kingdom to the southeast, the Tribute Islands, where dwarves, half-elves, and yokai worshiped Vitharr, God of Fate. A leftover from the prison colonies that the Icenordians had created when they ruled the Sagaland, the Tribbies, as the residents were known, were also fond of Endrus, God of Spirits, who happened to be Livia’s wild, yet sometimes useful, cousin.

This left the northern kingdom of Icenor, a vast stretch of forests, volcanic deserts, and fjords. It hosted numerous stave churches dedicated to both Livia and her father, Vitharr, God of Fate, as well as statues, some of which were architectural wonders. Fate and luck went hand in hand, even if Livia wanted nothing to do with her father’s grim style of wielding destiny.

This left one god in the pantheon of the Sagaland that was feared over all. Jecha, God of Carnage, the brother of Father Dawn, had lived up to his name to the point that Father Dawn had finally gotten involved and banished his own brother.

Humans and yokai weren’t generally aware of Jecha’s involvement during the Age of Dragons, but they had experienced its aftermath first-hand, and it had gone on to affect their shared histories and create a host of terrifying stories and intense superstitions across the Four Kingdoms.

The God of Carnage was so infamous that even speaking Jecha’s name was considered forbidden in certain parts of the Four Kingdoms. After all, it was Jecha and the warring dragon riders he had empowered known as the Senja that had brought an end to the Age of Dragons.

Icenordian elves had done the rest in their fear that the culprit had been dragonessence itself, the cosmic energy that fueled the world and all the magical things in it. The creation of relics and other magic-powered objects was soon forbidden.

To quell an uprising from the Southfallian water harvesters and warrior monks, the Icenordians created the Magi, an order of cultivators that worked directly for the crown, this group cherry-picked through a power ranking system still used to this day.

In Livia’s head, it was as clear as if it had happened just a day ago.

The Goddess of Luck saw the final dragon, its power dispelled, the white dragon spiraling toward the ground, the war lost on all sides.

The scene played out again and again in her mind’s eye, relentlessly.

The last dragon had stopped breathing in the mortal realm in the human year 603, over five hundred years ago. By 625, the Icenordians had successfully used the sudden vacuum in power to take the Four Kingdoms under the harsh rule of Yanzon the Undisputable. Their rule had lasted until Victrin Otonashi had taken the kingdom in Year 980, a time known as the Great Reunification.

Even through all that, all the trying times since, the Goddess of Luck hadn’t gotten involved in the affairs of humans or the yokai.

But now, she had a chance to make a difference.

Jecha’s influence had begun to spread yet again.

Livia had noticed subtle changes fifty years ago and she had scrambled to act. Now, her actions were about to play out.

Something had changed in the Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland, and only Livia was paying enough attention to its influence to do something about it. Unbeknownst to many, someone had made contact with the Realm of the Forgotten, with the Senja. Humans making contact with banished dragons in a realm only accessible through immense power was cause for immediate concern.

It had never happened before, and it was precisely why Livia sat on top of the Church of Illum in E’Kanth’s District Rune, one leg crossed over the other as she watched an elven man dressed as a bird monger slip out into the streets. The man made a strange cooing sound, a practice run of sorts, which brought a smile to her face.

Twillo was the disgraced son of Saracent Shotaro Vos Undlin, who had lost his hold over Sparrow's Rise because of actions Livia had put into motion.

If Livia was right, if all this was for the greater good in the end, a father’s unknown sacrifice would become a son’s fighting chance. If she was wrong, dark forces would soon take the Four Kingdoms to a place they hadn’t been for centuries, unleashing everything from the rebirth of the Senja to famine and war.

It was an incredible gamble, one that would take more than luck to accomplish.

Livia stood once the relic hunter left the courtyard, her robes extending well past the soles of her feet, the fabric triple the length of her body. As she floated down to the courtyard of the Church of Illum, these silken threads grazed against a tiled arrangement that signaled the location of a powerful vortex, one that only a few people knew about.

Hovering there for a moment, Livia took one more look in the direction of the relic hunter.

With a subtle nod she prepared to travel to the Realm of the Forgotten, where the dragons had been banished, and where, if she was lucky, she would be able to find an old friend by the name of Adventus.

The powerful white dragon, the last to leave the mortal realm, would be interested to hear her proposal.

She only hoped that he would agree.

.Chapter Seven.

Yokai and Currency of the Four Kingdoms

Twillo preferred traveling with little to no money.

Most of his wealth was kept in relics he had stored at a few select spots across the Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland; the less coins he had on him the better. There had been attempts by Victrin Otonashi to switch to a paper currency during his reign over a hundred years ago, but this had never taken hold, and it left the Four Kingdoms dependent on coins and occasional promissory notes.

Coins were heavy, and they were easy to steal, which was one reason Twillo preferred using relics to hold wealth. Electrum was the worst to travel with. An alloy of gold and silver with trace amounts of copper in it, electrum had holes in the center of each coin that allowed someone to string them together, usually with leather.

A string of electrum, as it was known, was a common form of payment. It consisted of five hundred electrum that had been looped together through the hole in their centers. A string weighed nearly four pounds in this form, and it was noisy. At this point it was easier just to use a silver coin.

Five hundred electrum was the equivalent of one silver coin, fifty silver coins the equivalent of one gold coin. Five gold coins, if one was lucky enough to even have that on their person, equaled one platinum coin.

Platinum coins were the most desired currency, the one that people had viciously defended and stashed away, and the type that was kept in the banks of the kingdom and the emperor’s coffers. These were mostly collected by the ravennas, or petty kings, and paid as tribute.

A platinum coin could buy many things, and it was precisely what the tattooist had demanded for a rumored relic, one his dead brother had failed to find.

“The only problem is you don’t have the actual information,” Twillo told the man. He took a sip from his pint and smiled at the tattooist. He wasn’t a day drinker, but he wanted to at least play the part, just in case someone noticed him. “You know of an elven orc in Padrian Sands who has the mapstone, and you have the name and location of her tavern. That’s all.”

The two were at a tavern known as the Dragon’s Whisker, just as they had agreed upon, the pair seated at a booth in the back drenched in shadows. The tattooist had been puzzled by Twillo’s bird monger outfit at first. But as the pints came, and the two got down to business, he paid little attention to the fact that Twillo had pushed the fabric beak of the mask to his forehead, giving the appearance of a stocking cap.

“This lady that my brother knew, she’s good people. A fixer, a good fixer, like you call them. An Icer and an orc, whatever you call that,” the tattooist told Twillo. He tapped his finger on a folded piece of parchment. “Her information is written right here. She knows where to get the Quill of Katzimo, honest.”

“I’m not questioning your honesty, what I’m questioning is what you are selling me. I’d be paying for a name. A platinum coin for a name?”

“You would never find the cave in the volcanic desert on your own, not unless you have some sort of treasure tracking relic. I doubt those exist.”

“Anything is possible through relics,” Twillo told the tattooist, and he meant it. “But luckily for you, I have actually heard of the Quill of Katzimo.”

The man’s eyes bulged. “Wait… you have?”

“Most certainly. And I’ve also been to Katzimo. It’s a land formation unlike anything you would see here in Middling. Southfall, perhaps, but nothing like it here.”

“Katzimo. I remember. I’ve been there as well. I was a guard for the Emperor’s Vorn,” said the tattooist, using the correct term for Emperor Otonashi’s roving royal courts. Only someone who was part of the Noblis Guard or had some other bureaucratic role would refer to the court this way. Most people just called the Emperor’s Vorn a royal court.

Twillo often followed these courts as they brought traditions from E’Kanth to cities of the Sagaland as a way of promoting unity. One of those traditions was a smaller version of the Artifance, where Twillo was usually able to get a premium for relics that otherwise wouldn’t be worth as much.

“So then you know of the place.” Twillo took another small sip from his pint and returned his gaze to the tattooist. “You want a platinum coin for information about the Quill of Katzimo from an elven orc in Padrian Sands, which your late brother—may Mother Dusk light his way and Father Dawn welcome his glory—claims is in a cave somewhere in the northern desert.”

“You catch on quick, Icer. The fixer my brother used to know has the mapstone. You need the mapstone to find the cave. One part leads to another. That’s how this works. Just think of it like this—my wings are tied here, and you know that, but if this information holds true, I know that it is worth more than anything you’ve ever come across.”

Twillo merely smiled at the man as another pint came. The tattooist truly had no idea the types of relics Twillo had encountered.

“Sure, the cave could be empty,” the tattooist said after Twillo was quiet for a spell. “But you don’t know that.”

“You’re right.” For a brief pause, Twillo considered using the Tongue of Ravenna Megren. He had done this effectively before. All he usually needed to do was show the shriveled-up item to someone. They would normally balk at first, until curiosity took over once he lied and told them that it would bring good fortune. Naturally, they would want to examine it. After they touched it, this person would be under his loose control for five minutes. There were limitations, but for bargaining, the tongue was unlike any relic he had come across.

The tattooist chugged another pint and wiped his mouth with his arm. “Well? What say you, Icer?”

“Is this your day off?”

“What? No?”

“So you’re normally a few pints in before you give someone a tattoo?”

The tattooist grinned, his teeth edged in yellow. “I was yesterday. But that doesn’t matter now. Your tattoo looks great, and it’ll heal just fine. Now, what say you? Do we have a deal? A platinum coin for the Quill of Katzimo?”

Twillo waited nearly a minute before he finally pushed away from the table. “I’ll think about it.”

This was another strategy that had worked in the past and felt less manipulative. He felt bad for the tattooist. While the man was a decent artist, evident in the healing tattoo on Twillo’s neck, he knew little about the relic business. Even so, he had lost his brother to the trade. Without any siblings himself, Twillo could only imagine what this must have felt like.

But this didn’t mean the information was worth a platinum coin.

After all, the man could have just written down anything. If he had the mapstone itself, that would be one thing, but information about a fixer who might have a mapstone was worthless.

“Wait—!”

Twillo paused at the door of the tavern and turned back to the tattooist.

In the end, Twillo still paid twenty silver coins, way more than the information was worth considering he’d likely have to later pay the fixer for the mapstone to the cave. But at least he had a lead in the form of an address in Padrian Sands and the name of an elven orc.

It would have to do for now.

If Twillo was nearly broke after his meeting with that tattooist, he was now completely broke after paying for the carriage to Padrian Sands. He only had a few electrum in the pocket of the vest he wore beneath his bird monger clothing.

“Worth it,” Twillo said as he approached the more private carriages at the front of the caravans, the ones that were covered.

Because of the dangers that lay between E’Kanth and Padrian Sands, especially some of the rake that lived north of River Sava, it was best to take caravans between the two cities. Faster too.

These caravans usually consisted of a number of carriages. The ones used by magnates and well-to-do folks were at the front, the carriages used by everyone else at the back, most of which were packed and often uncovered. Twillo had traveled both ways. He’d also walked the distance between E’Kanth and Padrian Sands, which had a tragic beauty to it in the way that the fertile farmland of Middling morphed into the darkened hardtop of the volcanic desert that stretched north to Vendir, capital of the Kingdom of Icenor. Since the journey would take a day, and since Twillo hadn’t gotten great rest the previous night, he had opted to ride private class with the money he’d saved in bargaining with the tattooist.

It would be worth the expenditure.

Once Twillo was in his carriage, he closed his eyes and got comfortable, the relic hunter nearly asleep when the caravan started up. Sitting in front of him now was a handsome man in the silk robes of a magnate that he hadn’t heard enter the confined space. The magnate had his arm on a leather suitcase that had been decorated with embroidery and stitched with thick gold thread. He had elven features and platinum blonde hair, yet there was something off about him in the way his eyes were shaped, something that resembled a fox.

As the carriage lurched forward, Twillo continued to casually examine the elven man as he thought of a way to confirm his suspicions. “Do you happen to know the best place to get bris wheat for a Hoersung bun?” he asked, which was a trick question because all bris wheat came from an area north of the western Icenordian city of Hoersung. A true Icenordian would know this, or he’d know a place in Padrian Sands to get the special dinner roll with its bitter flavor.

“Hoersung bun?”

“Yes, it’s been ages.”

“I’m sorry,” the man finally told him. “I’m not familiar with whatever that is.”

Twillo ran his tongue over his teeth. “You don’t happen to be a kitsune, do you? Perhaps a bakeneko?”

A kitsune was a kind of yokai fox present across the four kingdoms. They could live much longer than humans and elves, and while they generally kept their various fox forms, they could also morph. Like the kitsune, the bakeneko, a feline type of yokai, could also change its forms. Both the yokai Twillo mentioned were relatively rare to encounter, and both represented a type of yokai that often tinkered with human affairs.

The man refocused on Twillo, his pupils enlarging. “I’m certainly not a bakeneko,” he finally said, an edge to his voice now.

“Then a kitsune?”

“There are other yokai who can change the way they look, you know.”

“I am aware,” said Twillo, “but they often aren’t dressed as magnates, which tells me you are familiar enough with human affairs to know how to dabble in them for a profit.”

“Was it my eyes that gave it away?”

“Not exactly. The form you have chosen is not uncommon, and you play the part well. It was my question that gave it away. Anyone in Icenor would know where Hoersung bun comes from.”

“From Hoersung. Western city. I’ve never been there. The answer was Hoersung, wasn’t it? A trick question.” The man shook his head. “Look at you, outfoxing a fox.”

“Hoersung is where bris wheat grows.”

With this statement the tension eased a bit. The carriage shifted and both Twillo and the kitsune looked out of a murky slot in the wood.

The kitsune man’s nostrils flared open. “Rake. I can smell them.”

Twillo had seen several dead rake killed by Vraizard the Blade’s Honor Guard in the past. They had been paraded through Sparrow’s Rise in his youth, arranged on stakes that had been positioned on carts made of vikan wood. The pale creatures, which resembled humans and were said to come from a yokai known as gaki, had two sets of jagged teeth. The way they stood, hunched over, their arms hanging forward, their legs double-jointed like those of a bird, made them even more terrifying. “Rake are here?” he finally asked.

The kitsune man brought his nose to one of the openings and took in a deep whiff. “They were here. I think we’re fine.”

It was another few minutes before Twillo spoke again: “You know that it is technically against Icenordian law for a kitsune to be disguised as a magnate or a saracent.”

“How else am I supposed to get around? If I parade around as a fox, that’ll draw even more attention. I was just going for someone of means. Last time I was in this region, this was how they dressed.” The kitsune-man motioned to what he was wearing, which consisted of a mustard cloak with embroidery criss-crossing his sleeves. Beneath the cloak were beige robes and a high-waisted belt with a dragon buckle made of silver and gold. It was certainly a spring style, a dead giveaway that the man wasn’t actually an Icenordian elf. His clothing was too flamboyant; it looked more like something a person in the Ravenna’s inner court would wear, and a person in the court wouldn’t travel in this kind of caravan.

“Tone it down next time.”

The kitsune raised an eyebrow at the relic hunter. “Says a scruffy bird monger riding first class?”

A smirk traced across Twillo’s face. “I suppose you’re right. Who am I to point out fashion flaws? Do let me know if the rake get near.”

“Ah, yes, the rake. Nasty creatures.”

“They are.”

“But not as terrible as the wolvencree. Have you ever seen one of those yokai?”

“Not alive.” The wolvencree were a type of muscled red wolf about the size of the carriage he was currently riding in. He’d only seen a skeleton of the creature, one that had toured all over Icenor. It was certainly a hideous creature.

The kitsune-man continued: “I worry more about wolvencree than I do rake. Rake are stupid, easy to trick and kill. Male wolvencree, if provoked, could take out this entire caravan. Do you have a weapon?”

“Not on me. I have a couple of things in Padrian Sands, stored away.”

“And you are familiar with using a sword?”

“I am.”

“Are you a relic hunter?”

“What gave it away?” Twillo asked.

“I could smell it.”

“Do relic hunters have a smell?”

“Desperation and adventure have a particular scent. I wouldn’t be able to explain it to you.”

Twillo was silent for a beat. He wanted to sniff himself but realized he’d look foolish doing so. “Where are you coming from, aside from E’Kanth?” Twillo asked, mostly to continue the conversation.

“Originally? Tribute Islands. It’s nice down there, you know.”

“Ah, the Islands.”

Of the four kingdoms, the Tribute Islands was the place that had the most human and yokai interaction. This fact only reminded Twillo that it was his people, Icenordian elves, who had prevented yokai from having any influence on the crown.

This had almost changed with Victrin Otonashi, but he’d been persuaded by his Noblissimus to limit their influence in the end. Much of this argument, one that still continued to this day, was based around fear. Since yokai could live longer than both humans and elves, and since different kinds of yokai had different sorts of power, most people were immediately suspicious of them. Twillo, not so much. Like humans, there were good and bad yokai, and he found most of them to be fascinating.

“Have you been to the Islands?” the kitsune-man asked once Twillo didn’t respond.

“Yes, but it has been a while. There are incredible relics down there, but I’ve never been one for traveling by boat. It’s also costly.”

“Yet you ride in first class.”

Twillo shrugged. “I got lucky. There was a bit of money left from the funds I used to purchase some information. I figured this would be a good way to spend the coin. I didn’t sleep so well last night.”

“And you’d like to sleep now?”

“Now that you mention it, yes, I would. I have things to handle in Padrian Sands, and would prefer to land softly rather than with a pounding headache and a bit of mania from staying awake for too long.”

The kitsune-man relaxed even further into his plush seat. “In that case, I will let you rest, relic hunter. And I will be sure to let you know if I smell rake nearby. Hopefully, this will be an uneventful trip. They usually are.”

.Chapter Eight.

The Fixer

At least there had been no rake. While it had been a bumpy ride to Padrian Sands, Twillo was happy to peek outside and see the giant statue of Livia, the hundred-foot-tall structure signaling that they had reached Icenordian City. As he yawned, Twillo admired the limestone statue of the Goddess of Luck, her flowing robes stretching toward the road.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked the kitsune-man who sat across from Twillo. “The only way your kind was able to do that was through the aid of dragons. Many Icenordians were dragon riders, you know.”

“I know. And I’m sure we’ll get there again one day.”

“How so?” the kitsune-man asked as he focused again on Twillo.

“I honestly have no idea. It just felt like the right thing to say.”

Both laughed. Twillo glanced once more at the statue’s long robes, the ripples of which extended almost like a wave toward the main road.

For a moment, a very brief moment that was clearly a figment of his imagination, Twillo thought he saw a woman seated on one of the statue’s folds, her own robes draping to the ground.

He squinted.

The figment of his imagination was no longer there.

“Hmmm? See something?” asked the kitsune-man.

“I don’t know.”

“Ever heard of the Fata Morgana?”

Twillo nodded. The Fata Morgana was something he had experienced a couple of times through his journeys in the north. It was disorienting to say the least, and the only real way to ignore it if it happened was to keep one’s head down, find a place to rest, or rely solely on a mapstone.

“Do you know what the words mean?”

“Actually, I don’t,” Twillo told the kitsune-man.

“Fata Morgana means fate destroyed in the Sagic language. Careful with that if you venture out alone into the desert, careful of the Fata Morgana, which can destroy your fate.”

“What makes you think I’ll do something stupid like venture into the desert?”

The kitsune-man grinned, his teeth slightly sharp. “You are a relic hunter, are you not?”

“On my better days, yes.”

“And that is why you’ve come to Padrian Sands, is it not?”

Twillo didn’t say anything. They both knew the answer to this question.

Mapstones were created by arcane artificers half a millennium ago to reveal the locations of their most prized creations. Not only did they generally have a physical map carved into the stone, they also grew warm and vibrated the closer you were to their object. The objects were a godsend when searching for certain relics.

There had been many nights when Twillo had thought deeply about mapstones and the people who had made them, all with the hopes of preserving a piece of the past. It was the ultimate way to undermine the Icenordian purges after the Age of Dragons; had these brave men, women, elves, dwarves, and others not created these mapstones, many of the better relics would have been lost to time.

The volcanic desert beyond Padrian Sands was one of the more dangerous environments in all the Four Kingdoms. Not only that, the Fata Morgana, as the kitsune man had warned about, had taken innumerous lives. For ages, people had lost their minds through the landscape’s trickery, and subsequently, their lives. It was something to be wary of.

Was it dragonessence that created the Fata Morgana? Twillo couldn’t be sure, but he knew how to deal with it when the time came.

After securing his cloak over his shoulders, Twillo stepped out of the carriage and onto a ringed road on the eastern side of Padrian Sands.

“Until we meet again,” he told the kitsune-man with a subtle wave.

“You never did give me your name.”

“You never gave me yours,” Twillo responded.

“I am Katashi. If you find yourself in Vendir in the coming weeks, look me up. Perhaps shave before you do, you know, to better blend in. I’ll be there at the pink mansion in the merchant’s quarters. You can’t miss it. Perhaps I’ll even try one of these Hoersung buns. I hear they are all the rave.”

“They are delightful. You can call me Twillo.”

Katashi’s ears pricked. “Twillo? That name means—”

“Light of winter morning.” Twillo nodded at the man. “May Livia guide her robes over your journey.”

Soon, Twillo was taking one of the stairways that led down into the valley that was Padrian Sands, the relic hunter still in his bird monger outfit sans the hat. Approaching the city from the south, one would only see the towering statue, the Goddess of Luck standing boldly over an otherwise empty landscape, the hint of a gray sea in the distance.

It was only after entering one of the feeder stairways to the valley beyond that a visitor was presented with the true glory of Padrian Sands, all of the buildings carved out of rock and connected by winding stone passageways, set before a gloomy sea.

Fountains and public works, administrative buildings for two universities of Padrian Sands, a district of pubs and pleasure houses, a fish monger’s market, and other shipping-related industries cluttered the rocky beaches beyond, which spread out like a hand fan before the grand city. Had Twillo not spent plenty of time in Padrian Sands, he would have likely assumed that the address he was looking for was in the pub and pleasure house district, especially as the place mentioned by the tattooist’s brother was a tavern.

But Twillo knew better.

He had a tattoo on his arm in honor of the time he’d spent in Padrian Sands and what he had helped uncover. While he hadn’t attended the university—Twillo lost this privilege early on—he had spent plenty of time in the tower library of the Monk’s College, another hidden jewel for those who discovered it.

Twillo headed away from the busier areas of the city, navigating ancient alleyways cast beneath balconies carved from stone and connected by laundry lines, all running adjacent to a pulley system to carry items to the top. The citizens and students of Padrian Sands passed by him, oblivious to the relic hunter who was once a saracent. Most of them had the trademark white hair of Icenordian elves, but a few had used lye to lighten their hair, which many assumed was a sign that their blood wasn’t pure.

Twillo didn’t buy into this.

Unlike many of the people he’d grown up around, he wasn’t passionate about the purity of elven blood, and he especially didn’t like how constricting and downright dangerous quests for purity could be on society as a whole. Having traveled extensively, Twillo had a different view of the Four Kingdoms than most, one that he generally kept to himself unless pressed with either conversation or ale.

Upon taking a shortcut through a courtyard that had large potted plants and a quaint seating area, Twillo reached a narrow alley defined by walls covered in dead vines. It was here that he found the wooden sign with the word Storgata carved into it.

A wooden panel on the door slid open after he knocked, and Twillo was greeted by a pair of feminine eyes. “We’re not open for another four hours.”

“Anneli Vrignava?”

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Maybe.” Twillo offered the elven orc his most pleasant smile. “I’m here about the Quill of Katzimo,” he said, after a quick check to make sure that no one else was around.

“You’re a bird monger.”

He grinned. “Part-time.”

The panel slid shut; Twillo heard the sound of the door unlocking. It creaked open and he let himself in. Rather than greet him properly, the woman motioned for him to follow her to the bar, one with a display of jeroboam wine bottles along the back wall. “Lock the door again,” Anneli told him.

Twillo did as instructed, and soon he was seated at a bar top made of what appeared to be ironwood. This particular wood, which hailed from Southfall, was the strongest in all the four kingdoms. Southfallian warrior monks used the wood to make bludgeoning weapons, which was one way they had secured such an important spot in Emperor Otonashi’s Noblis Guard.

“Nice to finally meet you,” Twillo told the woman, just to make conversation. “I’ve heard good things.”

Anneli paid little attention to his flattery. She had bold dark hair, her shoulders broad, her muscles evident even with the blanket-like cloak she currently wore. She had dimples, and like Twillo, she had several ear piercings. She was tall, and there was beauty in her otherwise rough appearance, an allure that she seemed to want to cover up. “I’d offer you something to drink, but we’re not open,” Anneli reminded him.

“In that case, a mapstone for the Quill of Katzimo will do. I’ll be on my way after that.”

She balked at this suggestion. “A mapstone?”

“I’ve come a long way to meet you.”

“Where did you come from?”

“E’Kanth.”

The woman laughed. “The City of Dragons. You consider that a long journey?”

“Would it help if I told you that I was almost killed by a band of roaming rake only to be saved by a handsome kitsune disguised as a magnate?”

“I like long stories.”

Twillo tilted his head at her. “Can I make another confession?”

“By all means.”

“I’m lying about the rake, but I did encounter a kitsune.”

“And there goes your heroic story.” She leaned in a little closer. “Why is any of this relevant to me again?”

“I just thought it would be best to start our relationship with honesty.”

“Relationship?”

“You’re a fixer, are you not?”

“Do Livia and Vitharr still feud to this day?”

Twillo shook his head. “I don’t know if I’d call their relationship a feud. Heh. Maybe if we build more statues in their honor, they’ll actually give a damn about the lives of mortals.”

“Yet you still believe, do you not?”

“Of course I do. What other kind of faith is there besides blind faith? About that mapstone…”

“Yes, about the mapstone that you don’t know if I have or not. What makes you think the Quill of Katzimo even exists?”

“Because you let me in,” Twillo told her. By now, he was used to the dance that a relic hunter usually played with a fixer like Anneli. They came in different forms across the Four Kingdoms, but there was always an exchange. “I’d like the mapstone.”

“I’m sure you would.”

“Would it help if I composed a yoika for you?”

“How do you know that I don’t already have one?” asked Anneli, referring to an identifying element of Icenordian culture. Yoika were rhythmic poems composed for specific people. Usually, only the upper class had them. While their composition remained a mystery to the layperson, they weren’t very difficult to compose. “Well? How do you know?”

“One assumes.”

“One does many things by assuming,” she replied.

“One would assume that there would be a viable exchange for the mapstone, if it indeed exists.”

“One doesn’t even know your name.”

“Twillo.”

“That’s not a very common name for an Icenordian elf.”

“I’m not a very common Icenordian elf.”

“Your full name?”

“Twillo.”

“Your father’s name?”

“Twillo.”

“Your mother’s name?”

“Also Twillo.”

Anneli grinned. “You have your secrets.”

“We all do.”

“And you have your enemies.”

“We all do. What about you, Your Ladyship? Anyone that would do well as the recipient of a curse?”

“Your Ladyship?” Anneli placed one hand over the other, the elven orc yet again casting her dark eyes over Twillo as she took him in. “You assume that you will be able to get the Quill of Katzimo?”

“If I don’t, I’ll die trying and we’ll see each other in the Realm of the Fortunate.”

“Is that a promise?”

“If you’ll have me, sure.”

Anneli ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek. “I can’t tell if I find you charming, or a spinning die looking to see where it lands.”

“If I’m able to get the Quill of Katzimo, I will return here and allow you to be the first to test it out. How’s that for an exchange?”

“You’ll have to do more than that.”

“Like?”

“I get a cut if you ever sell it. If I so request, and I’m able to find you, I will be able to use the quill again.”

Twillo rubbed his hands together. “I’m fine with that.”

“Are you easy to find?”

“Not normally, no.”

“I’ll need collateral.”

“I can provide that.” Twillo reached into his bag and returned with the Tongue of Ravenna Megren, which he kept secure in a small box made of ironwood. He hated to part with it, but he needed the other rare items he currently carried with him.

Anneli raised an eyebrow at the relic hunter. “You are offering me a tongue as collateral?”

“Not just any tongue, Your Ladyship—the Tongue of Ravenna Megren.”

“I’ve actually heard of this one.”

“Take a look.”

After Anneli examined the tongue without touching it, she snapped the box shut and stood. “Deal. Wait here while I get the mapstone.”

“That easy, huh?”

“You strike a hard bargain.”

Twillo ran his finger along the grimy countertop. “I’m just glad you didn’t ask me to help clean.”

.Chapter Nine.

The Mapstone and the Goddess

Mapstones were curious items that made a relic hunter’s job much easier.

Usually round on one side and flat and carved on the other, a mapstone fit perfectly in someone’s hand and provided clues to uncovering relics that were squirreled away by their creators and sometimes their former owners. The flat side of the stone had an actual map, one that had a soft glow to it when held long enough. Hence its name.

It usually had a starting point or a landmark, which was used for someone to orient themselves. Once they arrived at this point, it would vibrate, indicating that the mapstone had been activated. As they got closer to the item, the mapstone would grow warmer and it would vibrate more frequently.

The biggest problem with mapstones was the fact that their maps might be leading someone to a relic that was already taken. The map on the back was literally etched in stone, the stones tied to a place rather than the relic itself. Seasoned relic hunters had encountered these issues before; it was very much a rite of passage to get a mapstone that led to an empty treasure chest.

As he set out, Twillo traveling along the long and winding road that led north to Vendir, he was keenly aware of this fact. The mapstone could be a false positive.

He was now prepared for a number of other things after visiting the place where he stashed items in Padrian Sands and changing clothes. Set in the basement of the Torlof Stave Church, his storage space was quite small, nothing like the room he had back in E’Kanth. It wasn’t designed to be. It was merely a place for him to grab a few things and go.

To help with the sudden winds, the relic hunter wore a woolen scarf that he could tighten around his neck and mouth if he encountered a sandstorm. He also had a pair of bone goggles that would help if it became too sunny. This wasn’t as common in the southern parts of Icenor, but it was a possibility. He had considered taking one of the smaller, donkey-sized camels common for desert travel in Icenor, but they were loud and made for easy targets. Not only that, acquiring one would have cost money or he would have had to trade a relic for it.

Better to go on foot.

In his leather bag was the skin of a myordukai, a type of yokai goat with a hide of incredible properties. Thin as a piece of the parchment paper that Icenordian youth used to write naughty yoika poems, the myordukai skin could be used as a blanket in any weather, from the extreme heat of Southfall to the frigid cold of northern Icenor. It was a remarkable material, one that always made a person comfortable no matter the conditions outside. Folded into a square, the skin was one of his prized possessions.

Because the relic hunter didn’t know how long he’d be in the desert, he had also brought a firequip, which was a type of volcanic stone wand that could start a fire through friction. To go with this, he had a small leather pouch of Lunar tree shavings, which were highly flammable. He also carried an item known as the Nalig Dowsing Glove with him, which was a relic that was able to detect water. It was only recently that he discovered it could also detect hidden passages. To match this piece, he had the Gloves of Maruth, which could stick to most surfaces and made climbing to hard-to-reach places easier.

Other items stashed away in the relic hunter’s pack included rope, dried meats and fruits, a deflated water skin, and a small journal just in case he needed to jot something down. To round out his travel gear, Twillo had a vial containing the scent of a muskox, which would help keep certain yokai away. He also had a few pieces of what were known as Gourdian shards with him, which hailed from Southfall. When mixed with a drop of basanic fire—which he always kept on his person—the Gourdian shards created a small, very smoky explosion.

The final and possibly most important item he had obtained from his storage space was a relic known as Kestrel’s Letter Opener. This was affixed to a small sheath on his belt, the letter opener one of the stranger items in his current possession. He also had a family sword at his storage space in Padrian Sands, but it needed to be refurbished; the letter opener was much sharper once it had taken its magical form.

As always, the relic hunter also wore his Enkiro Ring of Animation.

To the passing Icenordians and a smattering of Middlingers who were likely in Padrian Sands to trade, there would be nothing remarkable about the elven man with arms covered in tattoos, the lower half of his face now obscured by a scarf as he turned away from the road, in the direction of the desert.

It was only after he started away from the main road that a few of them would take notice.

Those in the know would assume he was a relic hunter; others would think that he was a visiting hermit, one who had come to Padrian Sands for monastic purposes and was returning to his desert hermitage. None would pay much attention.

Any onlookers certainly wouldn’t see Livia, the Goddess of Luck, hovering in the air as the relic hunter walked past her, her flowing robes extending all the way to the ground and dipping beneath the grains of sand. And none of them, even those with sound premonition and creative imaginations, could have imagined what the relic hunter was about to do, nor the effects it would have across the Four Kingdoms.

Their world was on the cusp of change, and if Livia was wrong, all of this would backfire.

Even as a Goddess of Luck, she could only do so much to set things in motion. It was up to the relic hunter from there, not to mention Adventus, the white dragon set to meet him shortly. The relic hunter would need to grow his power alongside the dragon and he would need to be ready for challenges that would test him in ways he had never been tested before.

Adventus, Twillo, the rebirth of dragons, the resurgence of the cultivated energy source known as dragonessence—all was set to happen now, regardless of what Livia did next. Even with her control over the unique power, luck remained luck. She only hoped that she had chosen the right one to lead the charge, that she had shifted things in the right way.

The relic hunter was unconventional. He was scrappy and clever, often mysterious, but so was she. Not only that, if Livia had done everything right, if the pieces she herself had put into motion fifty years ago with his father were about to line up, he would never know the difference. He would never meet Livia, and if he did, he would instantly forget the encounter.

Gods rarely mingled with humans and yokai, even the more promiscuous ones. It was not only forbidden, it was incredibly risky. If this went poorly, Livia would face banishment. Even if it worked out, luck truly on her side, she would still face repercussions for interfering in this way with worldly affairs. Father Dawn and Mother Dusk would punish her. They might even strip her of her powers when what she had done came to light.

Livia had been inactive for five hundred years, yet she’d heard every prayer, and she was now ready to act.

She only hoped she wasn’t too late, and that the conditions were right this time.

The fate of it all rested in the heart of a man walking further away from the main road, clueless as to what he was about to get himself into.

.Chapter Ten.

The Jaws of Fate

The sounds of the volcanic desert were something Twillo should have been used to considering he’d grown up in Icenor. Primordial howls and banshee shrieks in the distance, somewhere beyond a line of wind-sculpted stones and otherworldly buttes, interrupted the northern kingdom’s barren solitude, only to vanish into a passing wind.

There were moments when it was so quiet that Twillo could hear his own thoughts, these stretches of silence a brief respite from the terror that existed all around him. Wolvencree, rake, gaki, myling—the desert was home to all of these terrible yokai and more. This was why Twillo had rubbed the muskox oil on his arms and pant legs, the scent so powerful that he had found himself choking on it several times.

All he had to do was make it through the night unscathed. In the morning, he would reach the cave. What happened next would be legendary if he pulled it off.

Twillo had first heard of the Quill of Katzimo at the Artifance five years ago, through a lecture in one of the great conference halls around Otonashi Square. As much as the Artifance was a time for relic hunters to sell their wares, swap stories, and share discoveries, it also had a learning component. Researchers and dragonessence enthusiasts were never allowed to break down the actual practices once used by these arcane masters to imbue objects with magical properties, but they were allowed to discuss them freely and speculate.

In Victrin Otonashi’s eyes, this was a shared history across the Four Kingdoms, a way for him to strengthen his control. Since he’d unified the kingdoms a century ago, these lectures had only grown in scope. This was another reason Twillo was disappointed that he had been forced to leave the annual event early—these yearly meet-ups were the best place for leads.

From Twillo’s understanding, dragonessence was neither good nor bad.

It was merely the energy of their world, the mana, and if taught to utilize it correctly, a person could do a number of things. Many of the objects he’d come across in the past, ones like the Laughing Pendant, which made someone who wore it funnier, had a benevolent aspect to them. Items like the Quill of Katzimo, which he would soon attempt to take into his possession, did not. They had been created for malicious purposes, which only made them more valuable.

What would Twillo do with the Quill? Aside from paying his debt to Anneli, the elven orc fixer back in Padrian Sands, he would likely hold on to it for a while. Even if he had hinted at using it, Twillo wasn’t the type to dabble with these arcane objects. Not their negative aspects, anyway. It simply wasn’t the kind of man he had become.

Icenordians got a bad rap across the Four Kingdoms. They’d done terrible things starting with the reign of Yanzon the Undisputable in the seventh century, some five hundred years ago. Even if Victrin had later conquered the entirety of the Sagaland and sought to unify the kingdoms through the usage of petty kings, or Ravenna, as they were called in the Sagic language. Twillo still felt the weight of his people wherever he traveled. Being called an ‘Icer’ in a derogatory way was par for the course.

There were times that he wished he didn’t have his ears, and he’d even gone as far as dying his hair black in the early years of his relic hunting. Yet his angular face and the way his eyes glowed at night were always a dead giveaway of who he truly was.

So maybe that was why he wanted the Quill of Katzimo, to prevent others from having it, or perhaps for the notoriety that would come once word spread that he had been the one to uncover the relic. Perhaps he would use it against the saracent who had destroyed his life and killed his father, even if Shotaro Vos likely had it coming considering it had been an order from Ravenna Vraizard himself.

But before he could even figure out what he’d do with it, Twillo first needed to find the relic.

There were always traps and other complications. Considering what he’d already experienced in hunting these kinds of items, he knew that none of this would be easy. He wouldn’t simply find the cave and locate the relic in a treasure box as if he were retrieving something from his pantry. If the past was any indication of what was set to happen, there would likely be a puzzle, either solved or half-solved, and there was the chance that he’d have to fend for his life against a yokai.

“By Livia,” he whispered as he stared out at the desert.

Twillo got comfortable, the myordukai skin now up to his shoulder as he watched the phantom blue flames of the basanic fire he had laid out. It would protect him, oddly enough, most desert yokai keen to avoid the illusory blue flames.

The basanic fire originated from the powdered lungs of an extinct yokai known as a basan, commonly referred to as a fire chicken. An oily powder, the basanic fire was kept in a thick glass sphere protected by a leather encasing. Spreading the powder created a raging fire, but it didn’t produce any heat, which was how the fire chicken would have defended itself if it were still in existence. It was a beautiful thing to fall asleep to, a heatless blue fire, the flames dancing and twisting toward the blanket of stars that Mother Dusk had placed across the night’s sky.

As dangerous as it was, the desert was a reliquary. And if Twillo was careful, he’d find the legendary Quill of Katzimo in the morning and be done with it, on to the next adventure.

He could figure out the details later.

Morning in the volcanic desert was hazy and cold. There was no vegetation in the area aside from a particular species of cactus flower that preferred the acidic soil, one with purple petals that was used to make Bravelon tea.

Twillo picked a few of these flowers and returned to the fire he already had going. He used an iron cup to heat up some water, added the flower petals, and made a quick tea. After he finished it, Twillo had some dried meat as he gazed out at the desert.

He knew not to believe what he saw.

It was as if the landscape had folded like a sheet of paper and formed into a great cliff, one with craggy edges, waterfalls flowing down it funneled by vertical slot canyons.

This was the Fata Morgana that the kitsune-man named Katashi had warned Twillo about. The southern desert of Southfall had its heat, its wandering cultivators, and mirages. The northern deserts of Icenor, which had been formed by volcanoes erupting thousands of years ago in the Storm King Mountains, had its bitter cold, its monsters, and the always fantastical Fata Morgana.

Twillo observed the sweeping, near vertical illusion as he finished his tea. He knew the word for the visual deception was from the old Sagic dialect, Fata meaning fate and Morgana meaning destroyer. Fate destroyer was what the ancients had deemed the phenomenon, one that had made colonizing certain parts of the northern kingdom difficult at that time.

But they had tools and best practices now.

Once Twillo was done with his tea, his bags packed and his scarf wrapped tightly around his face, he gazed down at his feet. Holding the mapstone in his hand, which he occasionally referred to, Twillo began shuffling his feet away from the Fata Morgana. He even closed his eyes at one point, orienting himself to the warm stone and its occasional vibration. Moving west in this shuffling pattern, Twillo walked for a good hour, his focus remaining on his feet. He came across the ravaged body of a rake.

The mapstone began to vibrate, stronger now.

After examining the rake’s shattered rib cage and the bite marks on its bones, Twillo finally looked up. He noticed a cave in the distance, one next to a batholith that cast a spade-shaped shadow onto the sun. The Fata Morgana was gone, replaced by something that spelled trouble.

A trail of blood stretched across the silver-black sands of the volcanic desert.

The relic was near, but it wasn’t the only thing in the area. He had come across the lair of a wolvencree.

Twillo had hesitated before.

Once, in solving a numeric puzzle outside of Padrian Sands, he had hesitated to the point that the platform he was perched on began to move. It was this movement that had spurred him forward, Twillo leaping for his life and barely making it to safety. He’d hesitated on a quest near the Southfallian border as well, in the epic journey he’d undertaken to get the Enkiro Ring of Animation, which had forced him to set a trap for the giant named Baumundas.

Recently, he had hesitated in his reaction when it came to his encounter with Princess Embla, the Crown Ravenna of Icenor. He was cautious, as were all relic hunters who had survived long enough to have a decade’s worth of Artifances under their belts. Not only that, because of what had happened to Twillo at an early age, because of what he had seen when escaping his family’s manor, he was keenly aware of the thin line between life and death, so much in fact that he had a line tattooed around his dominant left wrist to symbolize this.

Yet something had stirred within him.

His hesitation faded into the background as some divine force encouraged him to head into the large opening of the cave, to go against his instincts.

Twillo couldn’t recall a time when he’d felt so emboldened. He was confident that if he just paid attention to his surroundings and waited, he’d be able to sneak past the wolvencree that was clearly inside and retrieve the cursed relic.

Normally, a thought like this would cause him to pause and wonder why he’d thought it in the first place. Sneak past a wolvencree? Was he insane? How does one sneak past a red-skinned wolf the size of a small ship that’s fast as lightning and able to tear anything it encounters to shreds? Twillo had seen the severed head of one of these wolvencree before. It was the stuff of nightmares, its maw large enough to rip an elf into pieces in a single bite.

The notion to sneak inside seemed absolutely flawed, yet it kept coming back to Twillo as he waited for the monster to fall asleep. He could sense that the beast was on the verge of rest, which was strange considering Twillo couldn’t actually see the wolvencree. He could certainly hear its snarling, but he’d yet to see the creature.

Twillo remained in the shadow of an enormous batholith, the stone with etchings on it, signs of ancient times, lithic scatter at his feet. What felt like several hours passed, Twillo rarely moving, his eyes and ears constantly alert as he waited out the inevitable.

It came time to enter the cave.

Twillo lightly set his things on the ground and removed his boots.

There would be no fighting the wolvencree. The beast was too fast and too strong for Twillo to kill it. Even so, keeping his hand on the only real weapon he’d brought gave him some comfort.

It was a strange relic, Kestrel’s Letter Opener, but it had helped him several times before. This wouldn’t be one of those times. Even if Twillo was brazen enough to draw the wolvencree out, its skin was thick to the point that the letter opener, which had the capability of morphing into a powerful rapier, would do little to stop its advances.

No, his only chance for survival at that point would be to flee.

Gathering all the courage he could muster, Twillo moved forward, creeping toward the mouth of the cave with his head down. He was so hyper-aware of his steps and his surroundings, the grains of sand beneath his bare feet, that he didn’t notice something appear behind him.

By the time he heard the sound, it was too late.

Twillo turned to find a single rake, the humanoid yokai hunched forward, its muscles rippled across its sinewy chest, its dark eyes filled with something that resembled confusion as it tilted its neck back and let out a bloodcurdling screech.

The wolvencree was on the move by the time the rake stopped.

The enormous wolf plowed past Twillo in pursuit of the sound. Twillo smashed into the inner wall of the cave tailbone first, the back of his head following. A flash of black peppered with shocks of white were all he could remember until he gasped awake, his skull pounding from the sudden impact.

His first gasp was replaced by a scream that lodged itself in his throat, unable to escape.

The wolvencree was directly in front of Twillo now.

The beast threw its neck back, swallowed the leg it had been crunching on, and grunted as it neared the relic hunter.

His second gasp, the one that brought enough oxygen to Twillo’s lungs to cause him to move, was likely what saved his life as the wolvencree tried to take one large bite out of the Icenordian elf.

Miraculously back on his feet, Twillo bolted toward the exit of the cave, only to trip over the half-chewed carcass of a different rake.

He fell, now face-to-face with a partially mawed skeleton, the jaw of which cracked open just as Twillo locked eyes with it. He pressed himself up, and as he did, Twillo felt a crushing force unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.

His third gasp, the one that coincided with what would later be his brush with destiny, was the one that truly turned the lights out.

In reaching his hands down, Twillo felt the sticky wetness of blood, something squishy, followed by such an intense blackness that part of him would assume it was a dream.

But it was very real.

Twillo’s lower half had been torn to shreds by the wolvencree, who had decided to leave the rest of the relic hunter’s body for later.

Twillo had been left to bleed out and die.

Or so he thought.

At some point in his delirium, Twillo’s gaze shifted to the shabby bracelet that he wore, the one with the lackluster blue jewel. As if a galaxy had exploded within, a spiraling trail of silver light tore out of the jewel, the light so bright that he was momentarily blinded.

An older male voice came to him, one with an edge to it like that of a seasoned warrior. It resonated all around Twillo.

Quickly. If we bind souls, I can save you. If not, you will die here in this cave. Do you agree to bind souls?

“Bind… souls?” Twillo asked the voice that was at the back of his head, vibrant yet thin, as if it was coming to him from another realm.

His eyes darted to the approaching wolvencree, who had just come back to finish him off. The sound of the red beast licking its lips reached Twillo’s pointed ears. It emitted a growl, a low grumbling, the noise of an absolute monster.

The voice came to Twillo yet again.

Left-Handed One, do you hear me? Do you agree to bind souls? Do you agree to unlock my power? Focus!

The wolvencree’s hideous red face came into view, scars crossing its snout, teeth so sharp that they seemed to tear out of its own gums, eyes of a demon.

“I agree,” Twillo whispered in desperation.

The supernovic surge of silvery power that followed flashed so brightly that it knocked Twillo out again.

From light to blackness, Twillo blinked awake to find an enormous white body twisting past him, one that barely fit inside the cave. The dragon collided with the hideous creature, the beast crying out in shock.

The sound of crackling fire met Twillo’s ears, followed by the sickening noise of bones crunching as the dragon he had unleashed killed the wolvencree. It released the semi-charred body.

The white dragon turned its head to Twillo, and everything blurred.

“You are gravely injured…” came the dragon’s voice, loud and clear now.

“What are you—?”

“What do you think I am?”

“A dragon,” Twillo whispered. “Impossible.”

“Yes, Left-Handed One. You may call me Adventus.”

Twillo felt everything around him tremble.

A rim of energy sparked along the outline of the dragon’s body. “Not good. I won’t be able to maintain this form, not in your current state. My form will soon fade, but I will be here with you, in your head. Do not be alarmed if you don’t see me.”

“My… legs…”

“They have returned.”

Twillo glanced down to find his body completely restored, his lower half naked. “H-how…?”

The image of his lower half torn to shreds, entrails trailing out, came to him. Twillo was certain it had been real. He recalled the blood, the feel. He could even see some of the blood on the bottom portion of the top, his overcoat, and the vest that he wore.

“It is happening,” Adventus told him as the dragon’s enormous form started to waver, to trickle away.

“What is?”

“My physical body will soon be gone. For now, we need to get to safety. I will explain as much as I can, Left-Handed One, as much as I’ve been allowed to know. ”

.Chapter Eleven.

Revelations

Twillo knew that walking through the desert half-naked overnight would draw attention. Aside from other wolvencree, there were certainly rake about, not to mention myling and lesser gaki. Worse things too, likely, the kinds of creatures that lurked in the dark in every world that had ever existed.

Higher ground.

If Twillo could just get to higher ground, he’d be able to reassess his situation, set up some defenses, and hopefully come to grips with what had just happened. He had his basanic fire. That would help keep most things away, not to mention his muskox scent that most creatures despised. Twillo didn’t like the smell either, but if it kept creatures and critters away, it was worth it.

“You still need pants.”

“But I have boots now,” he said to the voice in his head, the one that had told him it belonged to a white dragon known as Adventus.

Twillo was aware of what he had just seen. The wolvencree was certainly dead in the cave back there. Yet still he couldn’t believe his eyes. He was less in denial than he was in shock, the kind of shock that stopped him from advancing once he remembered something.

“Why are you stopping?” Adventus asked.

“The Quill of Katzimo. It’s still in the cave.”

“The what?”

“The Quill. It’s a relic; it’s why I was there in the first place. I have to go back in the morning for it.”

“May I ask why?”

“Why?” Twillo looked around as if Adventus was right there with him. Upon glancing down at the bracelet on his wrist, he noticed it had a slight glow to it. He touched the gemstone. It was warm.

“Yes, why?”

Twillo moved on. “It’s what I do. And don’t worry, I still have questions for you.”

“I have questions for you as well.”

“You are the one that came to me, if I recall.”

“That is true, but it—”

Twillo sensed movement ahead. There were large rock formations in this area scattered with sand dunes. From what he could tell, something was slithering down one of the dunes. That, or it was moving in a way that made it resemble a set of animated drapes.

He turned in the opposite direction and picked up his pace.

“You can’t help me if I run into any trouble, can you?”

“Not currently, no. I believe I have already expended all my power, all our power. You will need more dragonessence to summon me. But it is possible, and I believe it will happen soon.”

“And you’re really a dragon?” he asked Adventus.

“I was when I was in your realm long ago, and I was in the Realm of the Forgotten. At the moment, it appears as if I am between realms, a pocket realm of sorts.”

“So if you were here I could simply ride you to Padrian Sands, right?”

“Most dragons are able to take three different forms, but yes, one of those forms would be able to take you there.”

“And with dragonessence, you can take these forms here, in this world?”

Twillo came to the start of a ridgeline that cut through the landscape. Looking left, he saw that it naturally withered away until it was even with the ground he currently was standing on. It would work as higher ground for now. He could position himself on a cliff nearby, behind a curved line of heatless basanic fire to keep the creatures back if they came. Perhaps he’d get lucky and find a cave.

Yet again Twillo heard movement, and in looking to the left he caught something rapidly approaching. Had it not been for the moonlight, and the way it reflected off the strange sand of the Icenordian desert, he might not have seen the rake at all.

Twillo removed his letter opener from its small sheath. The relic activated immediately upon being squeezed with both hands, the letter opener morphing into a long thin sword, not unlike a fencing weapon.

“That is your sword?”

“For now, yes!” Twillo told Adventus as he charged at the rake.

The rake veered back, displaying both of its sets of teeth as it prepared to retaliate. It came forward with its claws drawn.

Snitt!

Twillo managed to drive his blade through its body, the sword training of his youth paying off. He kept the rake at a distance as the yokai gnashed its teeth and tried to get him with its claws. Soon, the yokai lost steam, the rake choking on its own blood for a moment before ultimately expiring.

Twillo dropped it to the ground and looked for something to clean his blade on.

“You still are without pants.”

Twillo flicked the sword toward the sand. As he did so it morphed back into the size of a letter opener, the blade still stained with blood.

“I must say, that is quite the curious object you have there.”

“I’m a relic hunter,” he told the voice in his head. “All my objects are curious.”

“You’re a curious character.”

“What I just said applies to that as well.” Twillo ended up wiping the letter opener on his bag.

Once it was back in its sheath, he circled around the ridgeline just as he had planned. After coming to higher ground, Twillo was finally able to take a breather and look around in the process. There was no cave, but there were a handful of large boulders that would provide some cover.

He went about setting up the basanic fire, which glowed blue. Yokai, while often menacing, were not stupid. The fire was a warning, even if people unfamiliar with this region would assume that it was a beacon.

Once the fire was set, Twillo began applying the muskox oil to his arms, his nose twitching as the scent filled the air around him. Upon finishing, he wrapped his myordukai skin around his legs and sat facing the heatless blue fire.

“The skin will work for now,” Twillo assured Adventus. “I can fashion a skirt out of it to use in Padrian Sands. It’s a college town, you know.”

“I’m aware of Padrian Sands. What about the Quill? You will attempt to get it pantless?”

“We’re going back for that in the morning, and yes, yes I will.”

“And you think it is worth the risk?”

“I don’t know what I think anymore, not right now, anyway,” Twillo said with an exhausted sigh. “I don’t know what’s going on, what or who in Vitharr’s name you actually are, nor do I know how I was torn to shreds less than an hour ago yet I now have legs and… a dragon in my head. I may be delirious.”

There was a long pause before Adventus spoke again: “I can tell you what I know, Left-Handed One, but I’m afraid some of it may bring more questions than answers.”

“After what has happened tonight, I’m fine with that.” Twillo glanced at the glowing bracelet. “By Livia, who would have thought that this was even possible?”

“Yes, Livia. You are aware of the Goddess of Luck.”

“Who isn’t? Sorry, you’re a dead dragon, you might not know—”

“I’m very much alive.”

“Right. You might not know about Icenordians now, but most are quite fond of Livia and Vitharr and have been for ages. My family…” Twillo gulped.

“Yes?”

“My family were patrons of some of the largest stave churches across the Four Kingdoms. So yes, I’m aware of Livia. She’s very much a part of my life, even if the only luck she brings me is having my body ripped into two pieces only to survive by soul-binding with a dragon I can no longer see.” Twillo started to laugh bitterly at his own strange luck. “What a tale!”

“You find this funny?”

“It would take all the firewater in Sparrow’s Rise for me to believe a story like this. I’m guessing the next part would go something along the lines of, ‘it was divine intervention, Livia herself decided to keep the poor useless relic hunter alive for just a little longer,’ or something to that effect.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong.”

“What?” Twillo felt the blood drain from him. It was the tone of the dragon’s voice that did it to him, his mind already skipping ahead by the time Adventus replied.

“I was sent by someone. The only being able to do something like this would hail from the Realm of the Formless.”

“You were sent by a God?”

“That is correct.”

“Do you know who sent you?”

“I do not, unfortunately. I am merely speculating because that is the only way that any of this would be possible. It would take a stroke of immense power, the right person, and the right object to make what happened back in that cave possible.”

“Yet you are here. It happened.”

“It did.”

“So what next?” Twillo asked after a long pause in which he contemplated what it meant for the Gods to actually be paying attention to him. If what Adventus said was correct, and he had no reason to doubt the dragon, then Twillo had been hand-selected by the divine.

All of this was hard to process, but this part made the least amount of sense. Why would they choose him? What did he have to offer, especially after the twists and turns his life had taken?

Twillo had long since reached a point of equilibrium, a place where he was happy with the direction of his life, even if he’d lived through quite a bit of trauma. But he was no hero. He was no savior-type. If anything, he lived a life in the shadows, one of adventure, to be sure, but also one of anonymity.

“I will tell you everything I know now, but it isn’t much, and most of it revolves around a direction forward. Because that is what we must do next, move forward.”

“Right,” Twillo said, “but after we get the Quill of Katzimo. It won’t be hard for us to get now that the wolvencree is dead. Listen to me. I act as if I’m an itako from Southfall.” Yet again, Twillo laughed at himself. “Sorry. I’ve been through a lot tonight.”

“You have, and I will be here in the morning. We can start our training then.”

“Training?” Twillo asked.

“You didn’t think this was going to be that easy, did you? I suppose we won’t be able to fully train until you have some dragonessence to work with, but I can explain more after you’ve rested.”

“I don’t even know what we would be training,” he told the dragon honestly.

“Dragonessence. You had enough stored in the cave to unleash my powers into this realm. Imagine if you cultivated it; imagine if you knew what it was in the first place, and how to recognize and wield the power. I will teach you what I know.”

Twillo ran his tongue over his teeth. “Using dragonessence is technically illegal. Only the Emperor’s Magi and select water harvesters in Southfall are able to do it.”

“Is there anything legal about what you do for a hobby?”

“I guess you have me there.”

“Rest for now, Left-Handed One. Things will be clearer soon.”

“But not clear enough that I will know why someone sent you.”

“Not exactly, you will know why, but we won’t know who,” Adventus told him. “Sleep well. And tomorrow, perhaps you’ll find both this quill you are interested in, and some pants.”

“By Livia.”

Adventus laughed, his booming voice startling the relic hunter yet again. “By Livia, is right.”

.Chapter Twelve.

Dreams of Dragons

The fact that Twillo’s encounter with Adventus took place in Icenor’s southern desert, with no witnesses, and in a cave for that matter, all helped obscure Livia’s meddling in human affairs. But the desert was vast, and there were dark elements about. The Goddess of Luck knew that Jecha, God of Carnage, would know what had happened soon enough. Not only that, her father, Vitharr, would know, as would his parents, Father Dawn and Mother Dusk.

When it came to the Gods that called the Realm of the Formless home, everything was a family affair. But this wouldn’t stop them from punishing Livia once the night’s proceedings became clear. It would take some time, mostly because exposing her would also expose the fact that Jecha had done the same thing in trying to reignite the Age of Dragons. But it was inevitable.

The clashes that would follow would be epic.

Livia would likely be banished.

Twillo would be forced to fight for his life regardless of how well he adapted and understood dragonessence and Adventus, the poor white dragon, would be cast into the middle of it all. Not only that, parts of the dragon’s memories had been stripped mostly for Livia’s safety. This would complicate their task of growing stronger. Further knowledge would come, knowledge that would help Twillo improve, but milestones would have to be reached before that happened.

Yet the spinning die was spun, and now it was merely a matter of how it landed. The rebirth of the Age of Dragons would happen regardless.

Thinking of this spinning die caused one to materialize in Livia’s hand.

Cast in a hexagon, the object was pierced through the middle by a piece of wood like a top. Spinning die were popular game items in the Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland. Usage was relatively straightforward. Spin like a top, see where it falls. Luck at its very core, even for a Goddess, and not unlike fate, which was an argument she’d maintained with her father Vitharr for millennia.

Floating the die into the air, Livia gave it a spin as she had done thousands of times before.

As she watched it rotate she thought about luck, and how much it would take for Twillo to actually accomplish what had been set out for him. Once he reached the first ziggurat, Jecha’s forces would take notice, putting Twillo into direct conflict with trained fighters, former Magi and Noblis Guard. They might even learn of his existence before then, when he reached his first vortex.

It was going to take an incredible amount of luck for the Icenordian relic hunter sleeping a few feet behind her to triumph. The odds were certainly stacked against him.

It had taken Livia fifty years to put these pieces in order, which was nothing for a goddess like her.

All she could do now was watch and wait.

Dreams of dragons. Twillo burst through a gray cloud to meet a spray of water droplets in his face as Adventus took him even higher into the night’s sky, energy vibrant all around them as the dragon sent his wings behind him, Twillo’s wristlet glowing with power. They passed before the moon, leaving a trail of stars in their wake, the scene serene until a swath of bitter darkness overwhelmed the pair.

Suddenly, they were being pursued, careening toward the ground.

Twillo was thrown off yet managed to land on his feet. He spun, his sword held high as he swung it at the incoming dragon, its talons exposed, the beast circling back around for another attempt when a flash of white came in from the left.

Adventus morphed into a different form, his snake-like body wrapping around the enemy dragon, the dragon rider thrown from his mount. Twillo charged toward the man, only to be blown back by a swell of dragonessence.

He struck a stone wall, lights out, lights on again as his opponent neared him. The man wore a hood and a reptilian mask beneath, two sharp horns protruding from the top of the fabric, the eyes of a demon glowing within.

He had Twillo pinned.

With a gasp, the kind of gasp that Twillo had experienced before when he’d fallen asleep in an awkward position, Twillo came awake.

It was morning now, and he was on a cliff beyond the barrier of basanic fire, back in the real world. His immediate reaction was to stand. Yet in standing he lost the myordukai skin covering his lower half, leaving him naked.

“Good morning.”

The appearance of the white dragon’s voice had Twillo immediately examining the bracelet on his wrist, the family heirloom given to him by his father on the last night he would ever see the troubled man. It seemed tighter now; in trying to get his finger under it he found that he couldn’t remove the piece.

“We are soulbound, Left-Handed One. If you remove the wristlet, you’ll die. And you won’t be the only one. I will cease to exist as well, in any of the realms. It’s on tight for a reason.”

“I can’t remove it?”

“It will become the source of your power and a gauge for how much dragonessence you have stored. A clever device, really.”

“A relic then.”

“Certainly. And you can’t actually remove it; if someone cut off your wrist, that would do the trick. Or your head. What I’m saying here, Left-Handed One, is don’t let that happen for both our sakes.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Twillo attempted to make a skirt out of the myordukai skin. It worked surprisingly well, mostly because of the skin’s unique bonding properties. It looked more like the clothing that many of the dwarves and half elves wore in the Tribute Islands, which would draw attention once Twillo reached civilization again, even if he was headed toward a college town. “How did you know I was left-handed?” he asked once he was finished.

“It was one of the first things I noticed about you. When you cast your dragonessence out last night, you did so with your left hand. People generally cast with their dominant hand.”

“What do you mean when you say I cast my hand out?” he asked Adventus as he opened his bag and went for some of the dried root vegetables.

“You summoned me, which is how I killed the wolvencree. You did so with your left hand.”

“You called me that before I summoned you.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Adventus was quiet for a moment. “In that case, I wonder how I knew that detail about you.”

“How much do you know about me?” Twillo asked as he ate a dried rutabaga that was dusted with pepper.

“I don’t know much about you at all, only a few key details. I know you’re a relic hunter. I know you call yourself Twillo, but this isn’t your real name.”

“It is now.”

“I know you are left-handed; I know that you’re an Icenordian and that whoever sent me here did so knowing, or at least assuming, that we would soulbind well together. I also know, or at least I assume, that I agreed to this before having parts of my memory taken away from me.”

As he went for another snack, Twillo noticed a soft glow emitting from his leather satchel, as if someone had released the Butterflies of Light relic that he had at a storage room he had in the Southfall. Opening the bag, Twillo found Kestrel’s Letter Opener among other things, the item with a silvery glow bright enough that it cut through the morning light.

“The dragonessence is strong with that object,” said Adventus.

Twillo turned the letter opener over in his hand. He couldn’t normally see mana. Now, as he examined the letter opener, and then took a more discerning look at his environment, he noticed that everything had a slight glow to it. He dropped the relic and took a step back. It felt overwhelming to see things with such biting clarity.

“What’s happening?” Twillo asked.

“Because of the trauma you experienced in the cave, and my appearance, you have unlocked the ability to understand and wield dragonessence.”

“Wield?”

“Tell me what you already know about dragonessence, and I’ll tell you what you soon will know.”

Twillo’s life flashed before his eyes, the relics he’d uncovered, the strange events he’d been privy to. Dragonessence was behind a lot of them, but it wasn’t behind the event that had turned him from the son of a saracent into a relic hunter. At least to his knowledge.

“Well?” Adventus asked.

“Dragonessence is mana; it’s the same thing that fuels these relics, all of which were created by arcane artificers. The study of dragonessence is forbidden aside from Magi and select water harvesters in Southfall, where it is necessary. It became taboo after all the dragons perished. The Icenordian who took over the Sagaland at that time, Yanzon the Undisputable, banned its practices even further, rooting out any of the arcane artificers and sending any of them that remained to the Tribute Islands. The relics that contained these magical elements were hidden, many with guides to them called mapstones.”

“You are giving me a history lesson, not telling me what you know of dragonessence.”

“It’s what I know; it’s all I can know. Dragonessence is mana, it is magic, and its usage is not only illegal, it’s dangerous.”

“Yet you benefit from the relics you find.”

Twillo pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not saying I agree it should be illegal or forbidden. I’m just telling you what I know.”

“I see. Then I suppose it is my turn to explain what will dictate the rest of our lives together. Dragonessence isn’t magic in the way some may think of magic. It is cosmic energy, a life force that is cultivated by having an understanding of the power once it is unlocked. It came from dragons. The power was introduced to us by Father Dawn and Mother Dusk. In doing so, they created life as you now know it.”

Twillo nodded. He’d heard this before as sermons at some of the stave churches he had frequented over the years.

“Dragonessence is neither good nor bad. It can be manipulated in a number of ways, as I’m sure you know by now. There are three aspects of dragonessence that you will come to understand before we return to civilization. It is paramount that you are able to comprehend the power in this way because of the enemies you will soon face.”

“Enemies?”

“I’ll get to that, Left-Handed One, but let’s just say you aren’t the only person that understands this unique cosmic life force. The wristlet you wear will be a primitive, yet effective, indicator for how much dragonessence you have stored. When you summoned me back in the cave, it was the dragonessence that you had stored up since your birth that fueled my arrival, and repaired your body.”

“I did that?”

“You did, but your energy sources are now depleted, which we’ll cover in a moment. Before we do that, you must understand the three main aspects of dragonessence, at least in the traditional sense. The first aspect is the ability to store dragonessence and access it when needed. A component of this is shutting it off completely, thus cutting yourself off from the power entirely. The second aspect is to use dragonessence you have stored to increase physical traits, and a component of this is building this stored power through cycling. The third aspect is using this power to imbue objects with mystical, yet coded powers.”

“Relics.”

“Yes, what you call relics. For our purposes, your main focus will be on the first two aspects of dragonessence, storing and using. You will need these to summon me so I can help you.”

“And what is it exactly that we are trying to achieve?” asked Twillo. “You do know why you’re here, right? Because I still have no idea.”

“Dragons will return to the Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland, the greater world as well. This isn’t prophecy, it is fact. These motions have already been put into place. What we are facing now is an argument about which dragons will return, and what their initial influence will be. The ones that have already started the process—doing exactly what you are doing now—will bring dark influences of dragonessence to the world. How is your world now?”

Twillo squinted at the horizon, as if the answer lay somewhere in the distance. “The Four Kingdoms?”

“Yes. I do not know the current history.”

“The kingdoms are stable, although the current emperor, the great-grandson of the man who united and restructured the Four Kingdoms, isn’t doing so well. At least from what I’ve heard. But stable. Each of the Kingdoms has its own ruler, or set of rulers known as ravenna, who report to the emperor.”

“So you would say it is stable?”

Twillo slowly nodded. “For the most part, yes.”

“Things will not be stable if the darker aspects of my kind are able to achieve their goals.”

“And together, we’re supposed to stop them.”

“That is correct,” said Adventus.

“A relic hunter currently wearing a skirt and a dragon that I can’t even see at the moment?”

“You seem skeptical.”

“Let’s say we do this, let’s say we actually band together and go about cultivating dragonessence, growing our shared power. How does that bring dragons back to the Four Kingdoms?”

“Through finding the ziggurats.”

Twillo stepped to the edge of the cliff and looked out yet again. A breeze rushed past, followed by a tinge of apprehension from being so close to the edge. He could see the cave in the distance now, the Quill of Katzimo hopefully inside. “Ziggurats?” he finally asked.

“There are ziggurats scattered across the Four Kingdoms, great energy points put here by Father Dawn and Mother Dusk. We will bring dragons and enhance our power by visiting them.”

“And you know where they are?”

“I do not.”

“But you are certain that’s what we’re looking for.”

“Yes, this information is clear to me. Not only that, there are other points where we can recharge our power rapidly through vortexes.”

“Vortexes, huh?” Twillo continued to stare off at the horizon. For a brief moment, he wondered if he was crazy. He wondered if he had actually died, if this was the Realm of the Forgotten, if he was having some sort of fever dream.

“You have some familiarity with Icenordian stave churches, do you not?”

“A great familiarity, yes.”

“I suspected as much, Left-Handed One.”

“Again, how.”

“When I agreed to come here—I do know that this was something I agreed to—some information about you became available. Yet I don’t know details, I can just sense certain things. Like your left-handedness and your association with stave churches.”

“I come from a previously important family, as I told you. We were big supporters of stave churches until…” Twillo smoothed his hands over what was left of his clothing. “Until that all changed. We were saracents.”

“Saracent refers to what in Icenordian culture? This term was used in my time to mean dragon riders.”

“It means dragon riders?” asked Twillo. “Is that actually what the word means in the Sagic language? I was always told it meant noble.”

“It’s a term for it, yes, but it can mean noble as well. Dragon riders were noble. Most of them, anyway. And your family was some sort of ruling family?”

“Of Sparrow's Rise, a city in the north. All saracents report directly to the ravenna, like I mentioned. Think petty kings. I always liked that term for them. Petty bastards. Vraizard the Blade is the Ravenna of Icenor. He is, in turn, overseen by the Dragon Moon Emperor Otonashi—”

Adventus laughed. “Did you say Dragon Moon Emperor? Imagine that!”

“What’s so funny about that?”

“I am a dragon moon. Why would they name the emperor after my kind? I suppose I should be flattered. Regarding your status as saracent—”

“I’m a relic hunter now.”

“You come from a line of dragon riders who have supported stave churches through the ages is how I see it. And that’s where we’ll start looking for clues, at those churches. You do know why stave churches were built, do you not?”

“To worship Livia and Vitharr.”

“Worship the Goddess of Luck and her father, the God of Fate? My how things have changed. Stave churches were built to pay respects to dragons like me. They are called ‘stave churches’ because of the pillars, or staves, that hold up the nave create a huge space inside. What do you think that space is for? It was for dragons. It’s all coming together now.”

“What is?” Twillo asked.

“Why I would have agreed to band with you in the first place? You are a clever relic hunter, who comes from a line of dragon riders, and who has connections with stave churches. Not only that, you are a relentless adventurer, someone who is able to solve puzzles and risk their life seeking objects that may not exist.”

Twillo had to agree. “On my better days, sure. Although I don’t know how I feel about being called relentless.”

“Regardless, your dragonessence has been unlocked, and there are ways to accelerate the limited power you have. We should start at stave churches. I’m certain. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to uncover the locations of the ziggurats at those churches. But remember, we’re not the only ones hunting for them, don’t forget that. For now, you can get this Quill of yours, and then we will head to wherever you think is best for us to begin the process. That is, unless you want to spend another night in the desert.”

Twillo took a final look around and shook his head. “I think I’m good.”

.Chapter Thirteen.

The Seven Hanging Pillars

Twillo stood at the mouth of the cave, the relic hunter reliving what had happened the previous day. He could see the body of the wolvencree had already been picked at by the black-winged vultures that circled overhead, occasionally releasing death rattles that made his skin crawl. They wouldn’t attack anything living, he was certain of this, but they would draw attention at some point. He needed to be quick about it.

“Let’s hope this is fast,” he said as he entered the cave, the overwhelming stench wafting over to him.

Twillo breathed through his mouth as he circled around the creature’s gargantuan carcass. He could still taste the wolvencree’s stench, which was nauseating to the point that he felt his stomach curl.

He moved past the main section of the lair, Twillo’s eyes scanning a darkened cave wall. He noticed a notch in the stone, one that looked suspiciously out of place. “Found it.”

“What have you found?”

“Can you see what I can see?”

“I have an overview of everything you’re doing. I would call it a bird’s-eye view, but it can be a bit murky and dark at the moment.”

“Dragon’s-eye view.”

“Sure, we can call it that.”

Twillo found an opening big enough to slip his hand through. It felt like it had been carved, definitely not a natural rock formation. The notch gave way, and as it did Twillo heard the sound of rock grinding against rock.

“Gears?” asked Adventus.

“Arcane artificers. Their creations continue to bring wonder to my life.”

A portion of the rock slid open, the space large enough for a person to slip through sideways. “And this Icenordian king killed them all? Or they all moved to the Tribute Islands?”

“A combination of both. I’ve heard rumors that there is still a group of them out there. Maybe I’ll find them one day.” Twillo pressed through the opening and came to a darkened chamber, one that was instantly illuminated due to the nature of his sight. He saw Sagic script carved into one of the walls and approached it. “You can read this script, can’t you?”

“Read what?”

“You can’t see in the dark?”

“Not as well as you, Left-Handed One, at least not in my current form. If I were actually there, I’m sure I could see it.”

“I’ll make some light then.” Twillo took out a stone from his bag known as a firequip. He found a loose rock and placed it before the wall of script. After sprinkling some Lunar tree shavings on the ground, Twillo ran the firequip against the stone, causing instant sparks that ignited into enough light to illuminate the text.

“I see…”

“Yes? What does it say? Is it a clue?” asked Twillo.

“A clue?”

“A clue to figuring out what to do so I can get the Quill.”

“Is that what you were hoping it was?”

“I can’t read the language. Not many can, just priests and select Magi.”

“Then what language do you read?”

“The Sagic language, but it’s no longer written in this vertical form.”

“Alas, another thing that changed after the Age of Dragons. Sad really,” said the dragon, “it is such a beautiful script.”

“Yanzon the Undisputable had problems reading it. One of his tutors simplified the script into what we have now, which reads horizontally, left to right.”

“This particular Icenordian ruler had quite the effect on the Kingdoms, didn’t he?”

“Unfortunately, yes. What does the text say?”

“Right. The text is merely a greeting to the person that finds this relic and an explanation of how to use it. This is a rather dangerous object, isn’t it?” Adventus asked.

“The Quill of Katzimo brings a curse to any name written.” Twillo squinted up to the top of the smooth rock wall. “It looks like there’s an opening up there.”

“If you had a mastery of dragonessence, even a rudimentary one, you’d be able to use the power to simply float yourself up there.”

“Float?”

“Among other things. Or jump. Or fly. Or you could climb the wall.”

“I could climb the wall if there were notches…” Twillo examined the smooth rock yet again. He ran his finger across the Enkiro Ring of Animation. In doing so, he took a look down at his hand and noticed the faint glow. “Dragonessence is a stored power, one that can be utilized for various things. We’ve established that. We’ve also established that relics, like my ring, were made using dragonessence. Is there a way to absorb dragonessence from relics and use it for myself?”

“There are many things that are possible, but we’ll need to get to a vortex to begin. I’m powerless at the moment, and until I have some power, I won’t be able to help you in that regard.”

“Right. That’s good to know.”

“Why?” asked Adventus.

“Because I have plenty of objects scattered across the Four Kingdoms, not to mention mapstones leading to other relics that may help me.” Twillo placed his items on the ground, near the entrance he’d just come from. He focused on the smooth stone wall and activated the Enkiro Ring of Animation by tapping it ten times. While doing so, he moved his hands as if he were sculpting air. The rock rippled, which sounded like someone cracking their knuckles. The solid wall of rock rearranged itself, enough that Twillo would be able to make it to the top, especially if he used his Gloves of Maruth, which he had in his satchel.

“You are quite resourceful,” Adventus said once the ring lost its power.

“The only way to survive in my line of work is to be inventive.” Twillo looked down at the glowing piece and smiled. “This ring has saved me more times than I can count.” He slipped his hands into the gloves, which had an incredible property that was only activated if a hand was actually inside. The surface of the leather changed into an adhesive mesh that would allow him to scale the wall. “It shouldn’t be long now.”

Traps, adverse conditions, death-defying climbs—Twillo had done it all to retrieve relics, solving countless puzzles in the process. Yet as he stood in the next room, looking up at a series of seven pillars that hung upside down, Twillo wondered how he would open a blocked exit he had already spotted at the top, a good fifty feet up.

He could try to use his gloves to climb the walls, but something was off about the stone in this room, as if something like this had been planned for. Twillo had encountered this particular type of moss stone before, in the Kingdom of Middling. It was moist to the point that he knew his gloves wouldn’t work. It might get him near the pillars that hung from the ceiling, but he’d inevitably slip. Since he could only use the Ring of Animation once every twenty-four hours, he’d lost the opportunity to modify the texture of the rock as well.

Twillo paced in the room for a few minutes. He occasionally stopped to take a look at the pillars hanging from the ceiling, the relic hunter once again counting seven in total. They were large, around three feet in diameter.

He reached into his bag and swapped out one of his gloves, going for a single piece known as the Nalig Dowsing Glove. This was useful for finding water, but he’d also noticed that it could find hidden passages as well. After scanning the entire room with it and coming up with nothing, he placed his hands on his waist.

“What am I missing?” he finally asked Adventus. “Right, you need light.”

Twillo made a small fire as he had in the previous chamber, its glow soon tracing up the walls.

“There is something written here on the side of one of the pillars,” Adventus told him.

“What does it say?”

“It says they must come down.”

“Come down?”

“To access the door, all seven pillars must come down.”

Twillo bobbed his head left and right as he considered how he would get the explosive to the top and detonate it in time to collapse the pillar. “I have some Gourdian shell shards. It creates a small explosive when mixed with basanic fire. I don’t think I’d be able to—”

“Did you say Gourdian shell? As in Gourdian giants?”

“Their pottery from ages ago, yes. If you grind it, the dust creates a greenish smoke. As shards, it creates a mild explosive when mixed with basanic fire. Well, I suppose that depends on your definition of mild. It would blow someone’s fingers off, but I don’t think it would cut through stone that thick. Not unless I have a lot of it. Which I don’t.”

“If I may…”

“Yes?”

“This is a task you would be able to complete with dragonessence. Either store enough to summon me and I’ll take the pillars down myself, or crumble them yourself.”

“I could do something like that with dragonessence?” Twillo asked.

“Not initially, but later on, yes. We are somewhere between Vendir and Padrian Sands, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And you plan to go to Padrian Sands next?”

“It would be easiest. There is a stave church there that I have access to. A monk friend of mine happens to be in the city as well. He’s fairly good with Sagic script.” Twillo tilted his neck toward the fire to show the dragon his newest tattoo, the vertical script written in red ink. “I had it done a few days back based on his design. It was designed by his counterpart, but I’m sure he would approve.”

“That is a rather odd tattoo,” Adventus said after a cautious pause.

“Why? It’s what I am.”

“How could you have possibly known that at the time? This would have been before we met.”

“My tattoo says ‘relic hunter,’ right?”

“Relic Hunter? Not at all. The word written on your neck is vosrene, which translates to ‘godsend.’ Your tattoo says godsend.”

“Godsend?” Twillo asked.

“I’m sorry if that’s not what you were looking for.”

Twillo slowly shook his head, a smirk tracing across his face. The stave church in Sparrow’s Rise, where Twillo had grown up, had the same name. The Vosrene Church. “I guess that sort of fits, all things considered. Anyway. These pillars.” He peered up at the seven stone pillars hanging above him. “I don’t think I’ll be able to take them down now. Let’s go to Padrian Sands and figure it out from there. We’ll see what we can do later with the help of dragonessence.”

.Chapter Fourteen.

Understanding the Power

Twillo’s arrival in Padrian Sands was met with little fanfare, aside from a few stray looks regarding his clothing. His cloak and top were cropped, lower waist and legs covered by the myordukai skin, and his boots were covered in grains of silver-black sand giving him the appearance of some wayward itako, a shaman who had gone on a vision quest. Or perhaps one of the Stylites of Southfall who lived their lives on the tops of pillars that towered over the southern kingdom’s rocky landscape. He was certainly out of place.

“Padrian Sands hasn’t changed as much as I would have thought,” Adventus said. “Some of these buildings have been here for seven hundred years. The pulley system is new, though. I don’t remember seeing so many wires crossing the open air above the city.”

Twillo nodded as he took in the sight of Padrian Sands from its lowest point. The city scaled up on terraces connected by winding steps, the statue of Livia at the top of the cliff, visible from where he currently stood.

His hood over his head, Twillo would first pass through the student quarters, where the better merchants had their shops. Beyond it was the Torolf Stave Church, the building no longer used due to the sprawling Monk’s College on the northern side of the city. Visiting the abandoned stave church would serve two purposes. Not only would Twillo be able to get a little money and a change of clothing, he’d be able to see if there was a vortex there that could kickstart his dragonessence.

During he walk from the cave, he’d had plenty of time to think about what had happened the previous day, and why he, of all people, had been chosen for this role in the first place. He was a relic hunter, and he had been since everything was stripped from him in his youth. Coupled with a dragon that needed to find locations that had been lost to time, he was certainly an ideal candidate to take on some epic quest, yet he had never been a fighter regardless of the sword training he’d had in his youth.

Even if he knew there were fights coming his way that would push him to the limit, Twillo was ready to see how far it would go. This was the kind of spontaneity and sheer adventure that he lived for, why he so enjoyed the traveling nature of relic hunting.

“Actual food,” Twillo said as he passed a wooden stand selling Hoersung buns, the same food he had used to trick Katashi the kitsune magnate in the carriage ride from E’Kanth. Twillo attempted to place his hand in his pocket, only remembering then that he didn’t have pockets. “I’ll… just get food later,” he said as he continued on.

“After you get pants.”

“It is amazing how useful they can be,” Twillo told Adventus as he wound his way through the rows of merchants and students perusing their wares.

Twillo would have gone to one of the two main universities in Padrian Sands had it not been for his father’s actions. Considering he was the son of a saracent, there would have been a place for him at University Vraizard, which was named after the current Icenordian Ravenna.

Yet maybe this was for the best.

Travel had been Twillo’s best teacher, the life of a relic hunter forcing him to come to grips with not only his place in the Four Kingdoms, but the many of the people and their histories, actions of empire, from victory to tragedy.

As he passed through the cobblestone grounds of Torolf College—students moving about with scrolls tucked under their arms, naive looks on their faces—Twillo’s eyes settled on the cascading, tier-roof design of the Torolf Stave Church, which was situated before a small park in the middle of campus that had views of the sea. For a brief spell he examined the carved dragons that ran along the ridges of the church’s roof, which accentuated its protruding dormers.

“They don’t make them like this anymore,” he said as he approached the three-story structure.

Twillo took a set of stone stairs that ran down into the basement. He found the key where he had left it and let himself in, the basement cold and a bit damp.

Upon lighting a lantern, he changed into a fresh pair of pants and draped his myordukai skin over a chair so it would air out. Twillo also changed into a tunic and a vest, and put a dark blue cloak over that, one with a hood. “I should probably bathe.”

“I can’t smell you.”

“In that case, I’ll take care of that part later,” he told Adventus, “after we’ve figured out if there is a vortex here or not. Nothing outside because of the college grounds, right?”

“Not that I felt.”

Twillo scratched the back of his neck as he looked around the basement. “Any other place I should check?”

“The nave.”

He took the steps up to the main room of the church, which was dusty as always and exceedingly dark, even with the murky stained glass windows at the top letting in a bit of light.

Twillo was just about to ask Adventus if he could see anything when his wristlet began to glow.

The wooden panels beneath his feet began to illuminate. Silver energy ran in a zigzag pattern toward the eight staves. Twillo thought it would reach the pulpit, but before it could, the energy stopped and peeled back into the air.

“Is this a vortex? What do I do—”

Before he could finish his question, the dragonessence pooled into his wristlet. The jewel glowed bright blue and softened.

“No, this is something else,” Adventus finally told him, the sound of his voice calming the relic hunter to some degree. “All of the dragonessence that has been stored in this church since the last time someone drew upon it is now yours. Can you feel it, Left-Handed One?”

Twillo was about to tell Adventus that he couldn’t feel anything, but just as these words pressed to the front of his lips, he noticed something different about his next step. There was a lightness to it. He felt as if all the energy of the world was coursing through him. He felt like a god.

“This is remarkable,” Twillo said as he examined his hands.

“There isn’t as much dragonessence here as I would have liked considering the space is no longer used. It leaves, you know. But at least you now have enough for us to begin. I’m assuming that there’s another church around here.”

“Not in Padrian Sands, no. At least one like this, mostly because of the Monk’s College. That’s where I was planning to head anyway, well, after I deal with a fixer.”

“A fixer?”

“The woman who gave me the mapstone that led me to, well, you. And certain death,” Twillo said, as he continued to feel the power rippling through him. “I should at least update her. She is holding one of my relics, one that I would like back. Then again, I’ll need the mapstone to guide me to the cave when I’m ready to return.”

“I can guide you back to the cave when the time comes.”

“You can do that?”

“I can do a number of things, Left-Handed One. Now, are you ready to begin your first lesson? In a perfect world, we would do this outside. But I’m thinking that some of the things I’m about to show you would draw attention, especially considering this church is in the middle of a college campus. It is a strange place to have a lair.”

“A lair?”

“Your basement dwelling.”

“Oh, that.” Twillo shrugged. “I’m probably not the only one who has found that hiding in plain sight works best. And sure, I’m ready to begin.”

Adventus had Twillo sit in the middle of the nave. This was easy enough considering the space had been cleared of its benches. Once he was seated on the ground, the dragon began speaking:

“I’ve told you the three aspects of dragonessence. The ability to store and shut off your stored power to shield your presence; the ability to use it to increase your power and do miraculous things through cycling; the ability to imbue an object with dragonessence to give it what some would call magical properties. Today, we are going to focus on this second aspect, using dragonessence and its various applications.”

“And this is how I would summon you?”

“Yes, it is, but we aren’t there yet. I don’t believe you’ll be able to summon me until we have reached our first vortex. Just remember: vortexes for power, ziggurats for greater power. Think of it like that. Now, your wristlet. Tap it with your left hand.”

Twillo did as instructed and the blue jewel began to glow.

“This wristlet, it is a very curious artifact, or relic as you would call it. It isn’t something a warrior monk of Southfall would wear; it seems to me like it was designed to skip past the rank and tier cultivation system they practice down there. It is a way for novices to instantly access dragonessence, which was more common in my day. I’m sure there is more to it than that, but that is my immediate assumption. According to you, dragonessence only became illegal after the Age of Dragons ended. Before that, people used dragonessence freely. Are there still warrior monks? I don’t remember you telling me.”

“There are, but not many. Most have either become Southfallian water harvesters or they are part of the Magi, the group of dragonessence users under the emperor’s control. There are ascetics as well in the southern deserts, and wandering cultivators whom I’ve come across from time to time. There are also archmages employed by Vraizard, but I don’t know the extent of their power.”

“Fascinating. I look forward to hearing more of this history. As for this wristlet, the craftsmanship of it is of your people, Icenordian elves. Very curious, but it will be helpful in what we must do.”

“And I’ll never be able to remove it?” Twillo asked as he ran his thumb along the bottom portion of the wristlet.

“Unfortunately, no. It will become part of you. Over time it will simply seem as if it faded away, at least in my assumption. Tap the jewel again, and this time pull your hand away slowly. Do you see the light on your fingertips?”

Twillo tapped the wristlet and pulled his fingers away. He did so again, noticing this time that some of the blue light shifted to a silver glow radiating across his fingertips. He brought it up to his face. “Is this really dragonessence?”

“It is. What I want you to do this time is move your hand as if you will tap it again, but pinch the dragonessence and pull it away from the wristlet.”

Twillo did as instructed; more of the power moved from the wristlet to his fingertips. The closest sensation Twillo could relate to what it felt like to pinch the dragonessence was kneading dough, but even this didn’t do it justice.

This idea that he was pinching it too hard came to him and he released the power. As he did so, the silvery dragonessence shot to the top of the rafters and fizzled out, dust falling into the nave.

“Careful, Left-Handed One. You are using energy in its purest form. The way you interact with it will dictate how it is distributed.”

“By Livia…” Twillo looked up and saw one of the carved wooden faces at the top of the nearest stave glaring down at him, almost as if it were judging the relic hunter.

“Dragonessence is a deadly fighting force when used correctly, but that’s not all it can do. Activate the power yet again, and this time cast it to the ground, beneath your feet. I believe you are familiar with the intuitive nature of an action like this considering your ring of animation.”

“It’s the same?”

“I don’t know, but that ring uses dragonessence, and I believe it will work the same way. Try floating with it. That’s what I’m suggesting here.”

Twillo tapped the wristlet. The idea was to use the power to levitate his body, but he shot backward instead, the energy heading up into the rafters before dissipating. Yet again he looked up and saw another of the carved wooden heads glaring down at him.

“It is all about finesse, Left-Handed One,” Adventus told him on the tail end of a laugh. “I was wondering how you would orchestrate this task. Once you get better at cycling dragonessence and utilizing it, things like this will come completely naturally to you. You probably won’t even need to interact with the wristlet to use the power. Try again, and this time open both hands toward the ground with the intention of raising your body using pillars of energy. If it helps you to visualize this, do so, but it isn’t necessary. You will be able to see it.”

Twillo placed his hand over the wristlet and drew it away, both fists clenched shut for a moment. He opened them and pressed his hands toward the ground.

Silver energy flashed from his palms. Twillo hovered a few inches above the ground.

“Just like that,” Adventus told Twillo as he lowered to the ground. “More of it and you’d be able to scale to the top of the cave back in the desert. Even more and you’d be surprised at what you will be capable of.”

Twillo ran his hand over his skull. “I don’t even know how to describe what this is. Amazing? I’d call it that, certainly. It’s going to take a lot of practice. I can see that. But I have access to several stave churches across the Four Kingdoms, so that shouldn’t be very hard. Wait. Is this the only way to produce dragonessence? Surely we aren’t going to be venturing across the continent looking for churches to recharge.”

“That’s why we need to find vortexes. They aren’t always at churches from past experience, but that’s a good place to start.”

“And ziggurats.”

“Correct. Those will help us bring back the dragons from the Realm of the Forgotten before another entity is able to do so. These will be harder to find, I believe. As to your question about other ways to produce dragonessence, yes, now that you have some stored, I can explain how you can produce it on your own,” the dragon told him. “The first way has already been covered. We can visit stave churches and other energy points, find vortexes, and later ziggurats. That will increase your power storage immensely.”

Twillo continued to examine the wristlet. “Is there a limit to how much I can store?”

“Not particularly, no. That said, the more you have stored, the more you’ll be able to cultivate through inanimate objects like your relics. There is a negative aspect to this as well.”

“Oh?”

“As I previously mentioned, you will soon be on the map of those looking to use this power for evil. The more you have stored, the more visible you’ll be to others through dragonaura. You’ve already seen this in relics. Look at your ring. Really look at it.”

Twillo noticed the glow of his Enkiro Ring of Animation. “And others can’t see this?”

“Normal people, no. But those who will soon be hunting us can. If you are simply wearing or using a relic, you won’t draw much attention, but if you have a lot stored, you certainly will. Something to keep in mind. Remember the first aspect of dragonessence I told you about? The ability to store the power and turn it off? That’s when that will come in handy. But we’ll work on that later. We still have time. Now, as to producing dragonessence on your own. There are ways. One is through combat.”

“I’ve never been much of a fighter, but I have had training.”

“That’s going to change. If you do this right, you’ll be like the warrior monks of Southfall. Now, I should say, they have an entire system when it comes to cultivating and understanding dragonessence. They have a ranking and various tests, or at least they used to. Perhaps that will come in handy once you’re able to summon me, once you hit a wall.”

“A wall?”

“What I’m trying to say is that with true instruction, from someone who actively uses this power, you’ll be able to go further. So think on that—do you know a way for us to get training in Southfall? That would be one way. No need to answer me now. Just something to think about. Have you ever seen warrior monks fight?”

“I haven’t. I don’t know anyone that has.”

“It is a glorious sight indeed,” Adventus said with a sigh. “And it’s not what you expect. They aren’t physically hitting one another. We’ll keep it at that for now.”

“I do have a place in Shetro Kell, outside of Southfall’s capital, Acrine.”

“That would be a good place to start, if Shetro Kell is anything like it used to be. Although I don’t think that will be easy, even if you are able to find someone. In the meantime, I can teach you what I know. Once you are able to summon my third form, it will make our lessons even easier.”

“Your third form?” Twillo asked as he recalled what it had been like to see Adventus as a dragon thus far, and then in a snake-like form in his dream.

“Yes, but let’s unlock the first form before we get too far ahead of ourselves. So, producing dragonessence through combat is possible. Absorbing it through objects is possible but more difficult. You would be able to absorb minute amounts in the air if you were able to do something like access the core of your power. The final would be through meditation. Have you meditated?”

“I can’t say it’s something I do regularly.”

“It’s not for everyone, and maybe it isn’t for you. But that is another option. There are likely more ways, but we won’t be able to delve too deep into that until we can uncover the information we need, which would start at the Monk’s College. Especially in a place like Padrian Sands, they should have quite the library.”

Twillo recalled the architectural masterpiece that was the college’s spiral library. “Their library is amazing, and it’s likely where a monk I know is studying.”

“Good, then that is where we can go in the morning. We’ll get any information we can use and move on. Now, let’s test your power once more. This time, I want you to use it with control, and rather than release the dragonessence fully, I want you to absorb it back into your palm. Touch the wristlet, push the power forward, reabsorb it. This will prepare you for cycling. I’m aware that it has been a long day, so we won’t go any further tonight.”

Twillo followed the dragon’s instructions. This time, as he lightly touched the wristlet, he formed the semi-malleable silver energy into a ball of power, and was able to smooth back into the wristlet.

“Good. That is the start. You’ll get there yet, Left-Handed One.”

.Chapter Fifteen.

Interlude II: The Father of a Relic Hunter - The Dampening of the Screams

Shotaro Vos Undlin hated his name.

Icenordians took their father’s name as their last name, and Saracent Undlin was as harsh as he was cruel. Undlin was an unforgiving man, known for his callousness towards anyone who crossed him in any way. To many, he was Jecha incarnate, even though most in Sparrow’s Rise were too superstitious to dare mention the God of Carnage.

Shotaro never truly recognized the trauma of his youth, assuming it was something that any part of the ruling class was accustomed to dealing with. Yet certain aspects of what his father had done always haunted him. Mostly, it was the screams. The screams of someone who had been buried alive in a box made of vikan wood, their fists beating against the underside of the box as dirt was shoveled on top, the pleas to Undlin to free them, the promises of payment, the prayers to Livia—it was burned onto Shotaro’s soul.

These screams were what led Shotaro to do something that would have brought incredible shame to a saracent, to the point that they would be stripped of their land and holdings if it was ever discovered. Yet in doing so, Shotaro, as the only heir to his father’s seat, had become the Saracent of Sparrow’s Rise. Anyone that suspected anything looked the other way. And not long after the incident, Sparrow’s Rise had settled into a spell of peace that came coupled with a dampening of the screams for Shotaro.

Further muffling the screams was a light and beautiful elven woman named Coraluna. The third daughter of a saracent out of Storgata, Coraluna brought with her a glow that had brightened Shotaro’s life and softened his heart. It remained this way for years, up until the point that their only son Jhaeros was born, whom Coraluna nicknamed Twillo.

The birth of a child should have been cause for celebration, yet it spawned a deep sickness in Coraluna over the course of a few years that led to her death.

After it happened, Shotaro knew that it wasn’t right to blame Jhaeros for his mother’s death, yet seeing the boy didn’t do what the monks at the Vosrene Stave Church had suggested. He didn’t remember her through the beauty of his son’s face; he couldn’t honor her through raising their son to be a good man.

Seeing Jhaeros only brought pain.

Anger at the divine aside, Shotaro knew that he couldn’t fall into the same barbarous footsteps of his father as a response. Yet as time wore on, he found himself closer and closer to snapping, especially as the screams started up again. There was only one option that made sense any longer, and that was escape.

Looking to spend as much time away from Sparrow's Rise as he could, Shotaro became obsessed with relic hunting. It started with collecting, but soon moved into hunting itself. Shotaro’s newfound obsession left his attendants constantly figuring out ways to account for his travels across the Sagaland and raise Jhaeros in his prolonged absences, especially the swordmaiden named Renda who had started training the boy.

Somewhere on the border of Middling and Southfall those screams reached peak crescendo, Shotaro unable to sleep for days on end.

For a while, the only thing that would stop them was firewater.

The constant alcohol added weight to Shotaro’s form and erased his thin elven features, replacing them with a ruddy appearance like that of a dwarf of the Tribute Islands, his eyes always glazed, a twitch about his hands coinciding with the second drink of the day. His long white hair, once thick as a horse’s mane, thinned. Soon, his need to escape through relic hunting led to drinking, and his need to drink led to gambling.

Gambling was a demon that whispered, screamed, and bucked.

It led Shotaro to make choices that put him in situations that only his immense coin could save him from. The trajectory of his life that followed was one of lows and very few highs. Yet he persevered. And in doing so, Shotaro came to learn of a golden bracelet that was rumored to bring a person back from the dead.

With this unique relic, he could do the unthinkable. He could bring Coraluna back from the Realm of the Formless. He could fix his own life in the process, and finally be a man worthy of his son’s admiration.

He just needed the bracelet. Everything else would fall into place.

The fixer that told Shotaro of the object was named Romulus, a brick of a man out of Seondzus. Cast in the shadow of mountains that spanned all the way to the western coast, Seondzus was the perfect place for someone like Romulus. The transient nature of the place, a Middling border town northwest of the Southfallian city of Enkiro, brought with it some of the best and worst the Four Kingdoms had to offer.

And if what Romulus had told Shotaro was true, the bracelet was currently up for grabs.

“...For the right price,” Romulus said, baring his teeth, which looked like the jagged rocks of Icenor’s volcanic desert.

Shotaro finished his horn of firewater. The horn came from a taxidermied argali that Shotaro had hunted in his youth. Upon visiting the Tribute Islands, he’d seen a dwarf with one of these horns cast along a braided strip of leather that the man wore like a necklace so he could always have a cup ready if there was drink. Shotaro had copied the dwarf, finally finding a purpose for one of the argali’s horns. “I have coin,” he finally told the fixer. “You know that.”

“I know you have coin. But this relic isn’t something that is for sale.”

Shotaro grinned at Romulus. “Middlingers and their riddles. You just said it was available for the right price.”

“Icers think they can buy everything; I suppose when you own it all, that comes with the territory.” Romulus pressed away from the table. He returned a few moments later with a murky green bottle of kvoss, which was a firewater out of Eastlon made from oats, grains, and water. It was sour, but Shotaro didn’t mind as he waited for Romulus to fill his horn.

“Well?” Shotaro asked as he raised his horn to the man. “Are you going to tell me how much this priceless object costs? I’ve come prepared to pay for it.”

“I didn’t say it was priceless.”

“But it’s here, in Seondzus, yes?”

Romulus grunted a positive response. “That’s right.”

“I’ve always disliked that word. It doesn’t quite roll off the tongue.”

“It was the name of a dragon that lived in the mountains outside of town. At least that is how the legend goes. Hard to imagine there were dragons now.” Romulus took a sniff of his drink, nodded, and took a small sip from it.

Shotaro did the exact opposite, the Icenordian saracent finishing his drink in one gulp.

“Go easy, old friend.”

Shotaro scoffed at this warning. “I’ll go easy once you tell me more about this bracelet.”

“It’s a wristlet, the Wristlet of Droll is what it was called by the artificer who crafted it.”

“Was he from Droll?” Shotaro asked, referring to the Icenordian city. There was a scattering of villages beyond, but not much else that far north toward the fjords.

“Probably not. How many Icenordians were artificers? They were dragon riders back then.”

Shotaro waved the conversation on. “It’s hard to know how things were five years ago, let alone five hundred. Listen, Romulus, I’ve come a long way, you know that, and it was because of the letter you sent me that I’m here. Now, I’m asking why you would send for me, tell me of a relic that could bring…” His eyes filled with sadness, augmented by the alcohol in his system. Shotaro looked away. He changed the subject, not wanting to say Coraluna’s name. “Were you truly planning to yank my tail?”

“The person who owns it doesn’t want money. He has money. The man is a magnate out of E’Kanth that inherited a fortune when his wife’s father died. His wife died after that—suspicious, but that’s just the facts—and money is no real object to him. But he does want to get rid of the Wristlet of Droll.”

“Why?”

“He says it bothers him.”

“How so?”

Romulus leaned forward and placed his hairy arms on the table. He clasped his hands together. “He says that he can hear it. Something like that. I don’t know. It speaks to him.”

“Like a voice in his head?”

“Like a voice in his head,” Romulus said with a nod.

“Then what does he want for it? What does he want for this wristlet, if not money?”

“He’s a gambler, and he wants to gamble for it.”

Shotaro shook his head. “This is a joke, right?”

“I know you like to gamble—we’ve done pretty well together a couple of times in Eastlon—”

“Heh. I remember.”

“He wants to gamble for it, that is what I’m saying here, Shotaro.”

“Saracent Shotaro Vos.”

Romulus looked up at him and grinned with a pained look in his eyes. “That’s what he wants, Saracent Shotaro Vos. I’ve been reluctant to tell you any more. To be honest, I hesitated even to send the letter, but of all the relic hunters I know, you seemed like the one who would be most keen to try for something like this. And I know, you consider yourself more of a hunter than a collector, but let’s face it, you’re more of a collector.”

“Come on…” Shotaro started to say.

“You’re not off diving into a bottomless hole and trying to figure out some insane puzzle left behind by an artificer. You know that. Sure, when you started a few years back, you were more inclined to do these kinds of things, but that’s not you anymore.”

Shotaro sucked in his gut and smoothed his hands over his vest. “I’ll still go out there if I have to. I will. It has to be the right relic. And regardless, I didn’t come here to be insulted. If this man you know is in town, and he has the Wristlet of Droll, then with Livia’s stained grace, I will win it from him. Whatever the stakes.”

“Are you sure about that?” Romulus asked carefully.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

There was a trick to playing a game of spinning die and it lay in the handwork.

Twist your wrist too quickly, and the die would peter out before you could get an adequate spin. Many considered this cheating, and Shotaro knew that countless deaths across the Four Kingdoms could be attributed to people trying to cheat in this manner. There was a finesse to it, a balance between twisting it enough to satisfy one’s opponent yet also being able to partially manage its fall.

A die had only six sides, and because of this, a game of spinning die was pretty easy to follow. Each opponent got six spins, the highest score possible being thirty-six. To up the ante, they alternated the spins. There were regional variations to the scoring style, but this was the style that the magnate, a man named Lunthar, wanted to play.

“Livia be with me,” Shotaro mouthed as he stood across from the man in his summer home, the relic in question behind him practically on a pedestal. Romulus had just returned with a new set of spinning dice, one for each man. This had been one of Shotaro’s stipulations when agreeing to the challenge. He didn’t want Lunthar to have any advantages other than his own natural luck.

Like all spinning dice he’d used before, the outer surface was made of bone with a piece of ironwood piercing it. Rubbing it in his hands, Shotaro found the piece to be adequate, not as good as the ones he had crafted in Sparrow’s Rise, but the weight was fine, and the fact that the die was textured from circles that had been carved in each surface and painted black made it unique.

“Romulus, you’ll be our witness,” Lunthar said, the magnate’s voice deep and cunning. He wore a vest made of red silk, one with the top three buttons open, the man’s chest tawny from too much sun. It was clear by the location he’d chosen for his home on the outskirts of Seondzus, his overall look, and the smell of nature that radiated from the magnate that he liked the outdoors.

“To thirty-six?” Shotaro asked, even though they’d already agreed on this.

Lunthar grunted a response.

“I’ll call respins,” Romulus said. “As for who goes first—”

“Eh, the challenger can go,” said Lunthar with confidence. He tapped his spinning die on the standing table, one made specifically for the game with a circular inlay in the middle that was generally considered the bounds of play. There were other games where one tried to get points by having the spinning die land in certain quadrants, but they were skipping that for now.

Yet again, Shotaro hesitated.

If he lost the game, everything he had worked toward since taking his father’s position would be sacrificed. He’d be no better than a blinded rake lost somewhere between Vendir and Padrian Sands. If he won, he’d take possession of the Wristlet of Droll and use it to bring his dead wife back from the dead.

It had come to this. He had truly bet it all.

With a flick of his wrist, Shotaro spun the die using the technique he’d developed. “Four,” Romulus called out once it settled on a side.

“Not bad for an opener, but I’ll do better.” Lunthar spun his die, the piece twisting just a second or so longer than Shotaro’s before landing.

“Three.”

Shotaro nodded at Romulus and spun his die again, landing another four.

“Again?” Lunthar groaned.

“They were new—”

“I’m not questioning the spinning die,” he snapped at Romulus. “And you have no relics on you?”

“Not on me, no,” Shotaro said. “In the room I’m staying in, yes.”

“I’ll just spin. Too early to get worried.” Lunthar rubbed his hands together for a moment to psych himself up. He spun his die and landed a two. His face twisted into a mask of frustration as Shotaro took his turn.

Romulus called it yet again: “Three.”

This was followed by Lunthar rolling a five, the magnate clapping at his good fortune.

Shotaro’s next roll brought his overall score down quite a bit. He had rolled the cursed one, as it was often called in this game.

Lunthar spun his die and pulled a four. “Not looking so hot anymore, are you, Icer?”

“Score check,” Shotaro said, just to give himself some breathing room.

“Four, four, three, one—twelve,” Romulus told him. Shotaro glanced at the Middlinger to find a bead of sweat on the side of his head. “Against… three, two, five, four—fourteen. Twelve to fourteen, Lunthar is leading.”

Shotaro went for his die again and accidently flubbed the spin.

“Respin,” Lunthar said.

“Three,” Romulus said at the end of Shotaro’s corrected spin.

Lunthar made his move, the Middlinger spinning another four. “Looks like I’m all fours now. A good place to be. Final spin, Icer.”

“Livia, be with me,” Shotaro mouthed. He looked down at the spinning die, his hand shaking. After settling his breath, he gave the die a final spin. Shotaro even started his spin on the number six, hoping that he’d be able to short-spin it in a way that would force the die to land on the number he needed. He tried not to gasp when this actually worked, not sure if Lunthar would call him out or not.

“Six,” Romulus said with bated breath.

The only way for Lunthar to win now would be to spin a four, a five, or a six. They weren’t great odds, but they were better than Shotaro had been looking at just moments ago.

Lunthar took his time preparing his move. The magnate held his hand over the table and slowly twisted it toward him before finally letting the die go. It seemed to spin for ages, but eventually, the die toppled onto its side.

Lunthar had landed another four.

“Yes!” he said, his subsequent shouts peppered with his own claps.

Romulus cracked his knuckles, unable to hide his pained expression. “Final score: Shotaro, twenty-one; Lunthar, twenty-two.”

Lunthar couldn’t help but laugh. “Ha! Don’t glare at me like that, Icer. It was a fair bet!” He sauntered over to the mantle and procured a bottle of firewater. “What’s with the glum look?” he asked Shotaro as he returned. “It’s not like you lost any money. Now, let me see that horn of yours; this is some excellent firewater out of the Tribute Islands.”

Shotaro removed the horn from his neck and tipped the opening in Lunthar’s direction. The magnate was right, Shotaro hadn’t lost any money, but if he did what he had agreed to do, it could completely change the trajectory of Icenordian rule in the modern era.

Not only that, but if the plot was ever exposed, which it certainly could be considering the stipulation of the bet, it would bring enough disgrace upon his family name that it would ruin it forever. Jhaeros would not become the Saracent of Sparrow's Rise, and his life, and his children’s lives if Jhaeros chose to have them, would forever be marred in shame.

The screams started the moment Shotaro looked down into his murky firewater, the sound emanating somewhere beyond the back of his head. He traced his eyes around the room until they landed on the golden wristlet with its dull blue jewel, the piece sitting on a satin cushion on the mantel. A prize he had been denied, even if it looked shabby.

As he stared at the Wristlet of Droll, the screams stopped, replaced by a soothing hum like that of an ocean goddess’ voice trailing over waves lashing against a shoreline of white sand.

It was intoxicating, it was telling him something, beckoning him to take what was rightfully his.

Shotaro knew what he needed to do next.

The wristlet belonged to him. It was the only way.

.Chapter Sixteen.

Tales of a Relic Hunter I: The Tavern, The Tattoo, and the City of the Dead

Anneli Vrignava smeared her rag across the bar in lieu of a greeting. The elven orc had a few customers at her tavern, two of which looked like they were one firewater away from blackout drunk.

She traced her eyes over the relic hunter. “I was wondering when my favorite bird monger would return.” Her dark hair was pressed behind her pointed ears, the woman with almost as many ear piercings as Twillo. The muscles he had noticed in their first meeting were on display now due to her sleeveless tunic, which revealed plenty of tattoos on her arms.

Twillo placed the mapstone on the counter and slid onto a stool. “I live to tell the tale.”

Anneli quickly took the mapstone from him, her eyes narrowing to some degree as if displaying it was cause for alarm. In some parts of the kingdom, even a mapstone could get one in trouble if it was made visible in front of the wrong authorities. Yet Padrian Sands was a progressive place with its two universities and the Monk’s College. Twillo knew there was little to worry about.

“Well? Did you get it?” Anneli asked, the fierceness in her eyes softening as she hid the mapstone away.

“Unfortunately, no. I did not. But I will take my tongue back.”

“How do I know you don’t actually have the Quill?”

“If I was trying to keep it from you, why would I return with the mapstone? I could have just left it in the desert. I should have done so. It’s a death trap, the cave.”

The smile on Anneli’s face thinned. “Is it?”

“I’m not going to say that I was nearly eaten by a wolvencree, but that is definitely something that could have happened. Not to mention the rake. Did you pay a lot for the mapstone?”

“No, but I did trade something for it.”

“Was it worth anything?”

She shrugged. “Not really.”

“Do you ever go to the Artifance?”

“I’ve been to the one in E’Kanth a few times, but I don’t go every year. I usually hear about the regional ones that travel with the royal court.”

“Yes, the Emperor’s Vorn.”

“Those are easier to manage, and I don’t have to go to E’Kanth. As much as Middlingers don’t like Icers, they really don’t like people of mixed heritage like me. Not to mention I have a business to run.” Anneli gestured to the tavern. “The fixer thing is just a side business. Why are you asking about the Artifance?”

“I’m telling you to trade the mapstone or sell it when you can, but don’t trade it or sell it to someone who you consider a friend. I’ve done some pretty insane things to get relics.” As if to illustrate his point, Twillo pulled his sleeves back, revealing his tatted arms. In doing so, he also ran his hand across the wristlet, the jewel of which started to glow.

Twillo quickly covered it with his hand. “Don’t mind that.” He glanced around and found one of the drunks at the bar looking over at him. The man grunted and turned his head the other way. “The tattoos are what I was referring to. All are related to something in my life. Generally, those events are crazier than not. What I’m trying to say is—”

“What kind of bracelet was that?”

“It’s a wristlet, and it’s just something that I received from my father, that’s all.”

“So it’s a relic.”

“No,” Twillo lied. “Not to my knowledge.”

“Yet it glows?”

“So do… your eyes?”

Anneli nearly tossed her bar towel at him. “It appears that you’re as good at flirting as you are retrieving relics. And I know a relic when I see one. Was your father a collector or a hunter?”

“I really couldn’t tell you. He was absent for most of my life.”

“Who raised you?”

“Various people. Only in the end, before everything unraveled, was my father there. And that’s when he gave this to me.” Twillo slowly removed his hand from the wristlet. It was no longer glowing.

“Careful, Left-Handed One,” Adventus said. Twillo tilted his head to the side upon hearing the dragon’s voice. He quickly corrected this so he would appear more natural.

Anneli placed her rag on the bar and crossed her arms over her chest, revealing some of the tattoos on her arms. They were mostly floral, her right sleeve with an ocean motif, left with a wyrm-style dragon. “Am I supposed to be impressed by your tattoos?”

“They’re evidence of some of the more difficult relics I’ve uncovered. Tributes to them, really. I don’t own all of them anymore—most have been traded away—but I’m showing you them to make a point.”

“And that point is?”

“The Quill of Katzimo isn’t worth it. How do I know? I’m exactly the type of person who would know. Relic hunters are foolish and greedy. But this one isn’t worth it, believe me. It would take a team of relic hunters to fetch it, and as you know, most of us work alone.”

“Let me see your tattoos again. Also, you’re in my bar and it’s night.”

“Yes?”

Anneli motioned to some of the bottles. “That means you should be drinking something.”

“Sure. Do you have any kvoss? I’ve been craving it lately, and I don’t know why.”

“I have some top shelf stuff. It’s not cheap.” She took a bottle out from a bottom shelf. “This stuff is from Eastlon.”

“All kvoss is from Eastlon.”

“It’s made in other places too, you know. It’s not that difficult to distill.”

“Yes, but all kvoss—I’m talking the real stuff—is from Eastlon. What do I owe you?”

“Two-fifty.”

“Have change for a silver?”

Anneli quickly made change. “Now, let me see those arms.”

“I’m drinking at the moment.”

“Then let me see one arm.”

Twillo placed his left arm on the countertop, specifically hoping to keep his right arm, the one with the wristlet, hidden. To make this even easier, he kept his right hand on the glass that she had given him, where it would remain for the night.

Anneli took his left arm and lightly ran her fingers over his skin. “You have a lot of work.”

“I do.”

“Ah, and there’s the tongue.”

“Yes, the Tongue of Ravenna Megren,” Twillo said, referring to the darkened tongue he had tattooed above the dragon that sat over his left inner wrist. The dragon was in reference to a statue from Sparrow’s Rise.

“We’ll start there, then. Tell me how you got this tongue. Then I want to know about the dragon.”

“There’s no story behind the dragon, only that I grew up in Sparrow's Rise, where there is a statue of Yanzena in the center of town. So I guess that one is more of a personal one to me. Anyway, the tongue,” he said as she traced her finger around it a second time. “The tongue was one of my first relics.”

“When did you find it?”

“Years ago. A decade if not more. It wasn’t my first, but it was the first time that I had to venture into…” Twillo thought of the best way to describe what he’d done. “Let’s call it the unknown, the unknown of our world.”

“Where’s that exactly?”

“Up north, the City of the Dead.”

More than a decade ago, the young relic hunter stood before Icenor’s City of the Dead, the necropolis threading past a thick forest that stretched outward to a series of fjords.

He had been here before.

It was common for people to come to the City of the Dead once in their life on a pilgrimage known as an Amber Vind. The graves they used in the City of the Dead were known as cholums, which looked like small square homes made of stone and mortar built along the wooded hillocks of the region.

As it grew rockier, closer to the fjords, the cholums became more pronounced, the graves stacked on top of one another, cube upon cube, many reaching in columns up to the sky. These were marked by six-foot-thick pillars that featured sculpted human forms stacked on top of one another, their faces and sizes ranging from young and mischievous to old and dying. These pillars, known as vigans, extended to the edge of the landscape.

A meeting ground between the old and the new came in the form of scaffolding around the vigans and cholums, repairs often taking place for the older structures during the spring. Many seemed close to the same height due to the rolling nature of the landscape and its jagged formations, but they grew larger toward the front end of the city, where the newer graves were located.

This wasn’t where the relic hunter was heading.

The item he was looking for, a rumored tongue that belonged to a ravenna named Megren Bana, was at the very tip of the City of the Dead, on a cliff at the top of a towering cholum that overlooked the sea.

The City of the Dead had been a piece of Icenordian heritage for well over a thousand years. The oldest cholums and vigans were closest to the sea; the newest, the ones that the relic hunter’s generation would be buried in, closer to the entrance. There were numerous Icenordian jokes about the necropolis one day extending all the way to the capital of Vendir, the dead finally overtaking the living.

There were even songs about it.

Most didn’t venture all the way to the back of the City of the Dead. It was quite the trek, and it grew increasingly dangerous the further out one got. Not only that, anyone who wanted to truly explore the region had to do so on foot, which wouldn’t have been so bad if there weren’t superstitions about this as well. Footwear wasn’t allowed in the City of the Dead. Icenordians considered wearing shoes in this environment to be disrespectful, even if their bodies were entombed away from the main roads.

With the rough terrain, the gravel was sharp to the point that the relic hunter’s feet were bleeding by the end of the first day. He had debated wrapping his feet at the start, but scaffold workers near the entrance to the necropolis had advised against it, claiming that it too was disrespectful.

The young relic hunter had merely shrugged off this warning and moved on.

Now, far away from civilization, he figured that no one would see him wrap his bloodied feet anyway. He did so using leather strips, which he tied off at the top of his feet. This would provide much needed relief.

The distant trill of various seabirds, razorbills and gannet, and waves breaking against jagged rocks reminded him that the ocean was much closer than it appeared. He truly was beyond civilization now, the scaffold workers he’d seen at the start of the city miles behind him now.

As he looked up at one of the smaller viga pillars, the relic hunter was reminded of the warnings he’d received from these scaffold workers.

The yokai they’d mentioned were each troublesome in their own right, but only the myling would actually be a problem. A relative of the gaki and rake of the lower desert, these small humanoid creatures traveled in packs, usually scurrying about on all fours. But they were also incredibly stupid and scared of loud noises, which was why the relic hunter carried a small gong with him and a mallet, which he currently had looped around his neck.

As far as he knew, the ashinagatenaga, the other yokai they had warned him about, no longer existed. Similar to the basan, or fire chicken, this particular yokai had been killed off by humans and elves eons ago, mostly because of the way that it looked.

Ashinagatenaga looked like humans, yet their arms and legs were almost three times as long as a normal person’s arms and legs, making them quite tall and lanky. Like the giants, the daidarabotchi of lower Middling and Southfall, these types of yokai didn’t sit well with humans, which in terms of the people of the past meant they had to go.

The workers had also mentioned ohatsu, or serpent woman. While these yokai still existed, they lived in the waters beyond the fjord, the bottom half of their bodies that of enormous snakes, their top halves resembling human women. Even if they were a threat, the young relic hunter didn’t plan to go that far out.

He wasn’t fearless, but he knew that fear was often irrational, especially when tied to superstitions. This wasn’t to say that he didn’t have his own superstitions—he still prayed to Livia and Vitharr—yet he tried not to let this dictate his life or the direction it took.

The Icenordians had built the necropolis to honor those that had passed into the Realm of the Fortunate. Yet as time blazed by, the further the city expanded, the more cursed the back half became. Not only was it irrational, it was also ironic in the fact that it didn’t honor the dead, those long family lines crumbled by superstition and fear.

This was why the relic hunter forged ahead.

It was part of who he had become. In losing everything, one doesn’t become fearless, yet they do recognize what is worth fearing. They understand what matters better than most, and what mattered to the relic hunter at that moment was obtaining the Tongue of Ravenna Megren.

“So… I’m supposed to believe that you journeyed to the very end of the City of the Dead and retrieved the tongue from the top of a cholum? That’s what you’re getting at, right?”

“It wasn’t quite that easy,” Twillo told Anneli as he glanced down at his tattoo. It was done in a stylish way, its outline dark like the tattoos of the Tribute Islands.

She shook her head. “No one goes that far back unless there is something in need of repair. And when that happens, it usually is a while before Ravenna Vraizard sends his Honor Guard and repairmen. At least from what I’ve heard.”

“Have you taken your Amber Vind?”

“No, I have not. Maybe when I’m older. The idea of the City of the Dead doesn’t sit right with me. And for the Amber Vind, people stay overnight, right?”

“Two nights, no sleep. And no sleep during the day. They keep awake with tea, fasting, and reciting famous yoika poems,” he said, referring to a rhythmic poem composed for specific people to describe their innate nature. Once a poem like this was written, it was said to be owned by the person that it described. The yoika poems of certain Icenordians of the past were still recited, especially the funnier or grimmer ones.

“Orcs don’t get yoika,” she reminded him. “Why would anyone want a poem about them anyway?”

Twillo took a sip of his firewater, wincing at the sourness.

He expected Adventus to say something anytime now, yet the dragon hadn’t spoken since Twillo had started his story. He would have asked if he was still listening, but Twillo knew better than to draw attention to the literal dragon in his head. Even if Anneli was starting to grow on him to some degree, telling anyone that he had soulbinded with a dragon from the Realm of the Forgotten seemed like it would be a mistake.

“Do you have a yoika?” she asked once he didn’t say anything.

Twillo nodded.

“Can I hear it?”

“No, you cannot,” he said after a long pause in which the elven man at the other end of the counter made eye contact with Twillo again. He was the same man who had caught a glimpse of Twillo’s glowing wristlet earlier. “Perhaps I’ll tell you another time. I can, however, finish the story of the Tongue of Ravenna Megren. Before I do, you might offer that fellow a drink, on me. It seems he’s one firewater away from minding his own business.”

“Anything in particular you’d like me to give him?”

“A kvoss. Why not? These electrum are burning a hole in my pocket.” Twillo slid the bars of coins that Anneli had recently given him across the slick wood counter.

“You’re a generous man.”

“I’m a generous man with a good story who would very much like his relic back.”

Anneli raised a playful eyebrow at Twillo. “That all depends on how good this story is. How is the tongue a relic anyway?”

“I’ll get to that.”

The first night in the City of the Dead did not count as part of the young relic hunter’s Amber Vind. He had done the pilgrimage as a child, after his mother had passed, and he distinctly remembered the way his father had sobbed through the night when he thought no one was looking.

It was a memory he often tried to forget.

That morning, the cold, early spring wind brought with it something that sounded like whispers as it flitted through the cracks and crevices of the stacked cholums. The relic hunter was familiar with this strange phenomenon, but knowing something and experiencing it could be very separate things. He could have sworn that there were moments that the wind spoke to him, whispering the names of famous Icenordian dragon riders, describing their battles, promising that he would one day achieve a greatness that would change the course of history.

He discarded all of it, the relic hunter aware that people had gone mad from what are known as the Whispers of the Dead. He remembered the story of a mendicant who had tried to decipher this strange phenomena years ago, only to throw himself off the top of one of the vigan in the end. According to legend, the sounds grew louder the closer one got to the end of the fjord.

The relic hunter moved on, past ritual items from times past, empty glass bottles of firewater, and vikan wood that had been sculpted into effigies. He ventured deeper into the City of the Dead, the terrain shifting as a natural divide cut through the landscape.

He hadn’t received a mapstone for this particular relic.

In certain circles, it was a commonly known fact that the Tongue of Ravenna Megren was entombed at the top of a cholum at the back end of the necropolis. The tongue didn’t actually belong to the Ravenna himself; it belonged to one of his chancellors, a man who had worked his way up through the ranks and had become an important part of the ravenna’s entourage and had used dragonessence to better his power of persuasion.

Yet as all subjects would one day learn, their usefulness only extended so far. Ravenna Megren had called for this chancellor’s tongue, only to find out later that it was where his attendant had drawn his unique power, the tongue itself augmented by dragonessence.

It sounded too good to be true, yet the relic hunter knew in his gut that the relic existed. After all, why would people still be talking about a ravenna’s tongue from the Age of Dragons if it didn’t exist?

The day was pushing into night by the time the young relic hunter reached the outer edge of the City of the Dead. Waves crashed into huge stone formations that circled the tail end of the fjord, misting the air below.

Towering before the relic hunter was the final cholum, surrounded by two vigans, each depicting piles of sculpted bodies in orgic positions. Precariously erected near the edge of a cliff, the stacked cholums were twice the size of any of the room-sized tombs that he had yet encountered, something he wasn’t expecting. It was a massive structure, made larger by the opposing nature of its components, each tomb at least ten feet in height.

It would be quite the climb. Luckily, the young relic hunter had brought plenty of rope and a grappling hook.

He had just reached the top of the first cholum when movement to the left caught his attention. The relic hunter turned just in time to see something that completely startled him. A yokai slipped forward at a rapid pace, lifting itself to the top of the first cholum using its long arms and legs. It did so to the next one, where it turned to the relic hunter and crouched.

“Ashinagatenaga,” said the relic hunter, recalling the strange name of the yokai thought to be extinct. He had a sword with him, one that belonged to his father, but it was mostly for show.  The piece, which was down on the ground next to his things, truly needed some work. The blade was half-dull; it would do little against actual bandits or nefarious yokai. Yet it looked like a serious weapon, and if he was forced to do so, the relic hunter could always wield it as a blunt object.

Would the yokai try to engage him?

The ashinagatenaga was immediately curious about the relic hunter.

Crouched on the edge of one of the cholums above, the yokai wrapped one of its long, lanky arms around its legs. A loincloth was just about the only article of clothing that the yokai wore, aside from a band of thread tied around one of its wrists. The forehead of the yokai’s cranium protruded over its eyes, forming a deformed brow. While the yokai’s teeth were jagged and pointed, they weren’t frightening, nothing like the double jaws of the rake that the relic hunter had seen in his youth, when the kills were paraded through Sparrow’s Rise.

The creature held a small stone, as if it were planning to pelt him with it. Even so, the ashinagatenaga was hesitant, perhaps overcome by curiosity.

“I am not here to harm you,” the relic hunter told the yokai as he showed his hands, well aware that it could strike him with the rock at any time.

“What are you here for?” the creature called down to him, its voice like that of a teenager. It had a slight accent, something clipped about the way it spoke.

“The Tongue of Ravenna Megren. I’ve been told that it is at the top of this particular stack.”

The creature tilted its head up. “At the top of the cholums?”

“Yes, have you been up there?”

“I haven’t, no. I keep to the lower cholums.”

An idea came to the relic hunter. “Would you care to join me? I could use the company.”

“And we could talk?”

“We could,” he said as he removed his grappling hook. He tossed it to the top of the first cholum and pulled himself up, now just one grave home away from the ashinagatenaga’s higher perch.

Still not certain of the relic hunter, the yokai shifted to the next cholum up and once again peered down at him.

“Where are you from?” asked the yokai.

“Originally? Sparrow's Rise. But now I don’t have a home. I travel.”

“Don’t elves need a home?”

“Not as much as they think they do.”

“Don’t elves need money?” asked the yokai.

“They do, but in lieu of that there are certain items of value that we can trade, like the relic at the top of these cholums. Although, I’m not planning on trading it.”

The ashinagatenaga once again moved to a higher cholum. “So you are a collector?”

“Of a sort, yes.” The relic hunter tossed his grappling hook and once it was stable, he continued up the stack. He could feel it in his biceps every time he tugged on the rope. He continued on, the yokai growing more excited the higher the relic hunter climbed.

“How many of you are there?” he asked the yokai as he started up the next cholum.

“Not many.”

“I thought you were extinct.”

“No, we just avoid your kind, elves and humans.”

“I don’t blame you.” The relic hunter tossed his grappling hook to the next cholum. He began his climb, and upon reaching the edge of the structure his rope gave way. He managed to grab onto the ledge with one hand, the relic hunter dangling there for a moment before another hand clamped down onto his back.

“I can help,” said the ashinagatenaga, who had grabbed the back of the relic hunter’s cloak, preventing him from falling.

“By all means!”

The yokai helped him up to the next cholum and quickly raced over to the other side of the platform, as if it assumed that the relic hunter would attack him.

“Thanks. You were sent by Livia herself.”

An odd smile formed on the ashinagatenaga’s face. “Livia doesn’t venture this far out.”

Upon catching his breath, the relic hunter looked over the side of the stacked grave home to see his grappling hook on the ground. The cholum was between ten and fifteen feet high. He could certainly try to descend some of them without injury, but it would be risky. He turned back to the yokai. “Would you help me climb to the top? I don’t know what I could do in return, but if there’s anything—”

The ashinagatenaga curled one of its long arms back and scratched the crown of its head. “You want my help? You aren’t scared of me?”

“Why would I be scared of you?”

The yokai stood. It was clear just how tall the creature was, the yokai easily twice the relic hunter’s height due to its timber-long legs. “Humans and elves have never associated with my kind. Orcs used to, but they are no more.”

“The only orcs left that I know of are either mixed with elven blood, or sailors out of the Tribute Islands.”

“So they do live,” said the yokai.

“They do.”

“That’s good to know. I liked them. And I don’t mind helping you.” The yokai sniffed the air. “You have food with you?”

“I do.”

“I would like to try some.”

“Certainly. You can have as much as you want. Just get me to the top—only a few more cholum to go now—and get me back to the bottom.”

“And you’ll talk with me more?”

“I will,” the relic hunter assured the ashinagatenaga. “It would be my pleasure.”

“And your name?”

The relic hunter smiled. “You may call me Twillo. You?”

“You cannot pronounce my name.”

“Then I will call you Ash.”

Anneli looked down at Twillo’s empty glass of firewater. “I’m supposed to believe that you befriended an ashinagatenaga—a yokai that doesn’t even exist—who then helped you climb to the top of a cholum where you simply retrieved the Tongue of Ravenna Megren? Not only that, you named it Ash?”

“That’s exactly what happened. Ash ate all my food too—it really liked the Hoersung buns—but I was fine with that.”

“And the relic was just sitting there at the top of the cholum? It wasn’t bolted down?”

“The stone case it was in was bolted down, but the hinges still worked.”

Anneli grabbed a glass and began to clean it with a different rag. “And here I was expecting some swashbuckling story about you battling ghosts and exploring tombs.”

“Not every journey is a journey. Sometimes it just turns out to be an extended trip. And there are plenty of those to be had in the City of the Dead. You asked me for the story about the Tongue, and that is the story. Now, can I have it back, or am I going to have to summon a dragon to tear this place to the ground?”

“A little on the nose,” Adventus said as Anneli began to laugh. “Perhaps you shouldn’t joke in this manner, Left-Handed One.”

Anneli brought her arms over her chest again. “And now you are summoning dragons. Delusions of grandeur is something I’ve come to expect from relic hunters, but summoning dragons? Sure, summon a dragon, and in the meantime I’ll get you your tongue.” She produced a key from her apron and stepped into a back room, returning a few moments later with a small box that held the tongue. “I don’t see a dragon.”

Twillo glanced up to the ceiling, as if he was tracking a dragon. “He’s on his way, I assure you. Anyway, it has been nice catching up,” he told her after he had placed the wooden box in his bag. “I’ll stop by next time I’m in town. Let me know if you’ve heard something, and that mapstone, get rid of it. Trust me.”

“I’ll be sure to do just that. And where are you off to next, if I may ask?”

“The Monk’s College to visit the library.”

Anneli raised an eyebrow at him. “A big reader, are you?”

“When I get a chance, yes.” He finished his drink and bowed his head to her in a polite way. “May Livia guide her robes over your journey.”

Soon, Twillo was navigating the maze of steps that would eventually bring him to the stave church, entirely unaware that he was being followed.

.Chapter Seventeen.

The Amulet of a Forlorn Monk

The steps that defined Padrian Sands weren’t any easier to navigate with a belly full of firewater. The winding nature of the city streets created a labyrinth of confusion during the night, even if most of the pathways were lit by lanterns. Yet with the breeze rolling up from the sea, and the general quiet, Twillo more or less enjoyed his walk back to the Torolf Stave Church.

Upon reaching the church, he thought about heading over to the benches that had been erected before the old wooden structure, the ones with views of the sea. But it was too dark to actually see the silky water, and it was late, so Twillo headed through a side entrance instead and settled in the basement.

“You’re quite the storyteller, aren’t you?” Adventus asked, the appearance of his voice startling the relic hunter to some degree. The dragon had been quiet along the walk over. While Twillo hadn’t forgotten that he was with him, his sudden presence took the relic hunter off guard.

“I guess I am.” Twillo placed the small wooden box containing the Tongue of Megren on a table in the corner that had been mounted against the wall, a feature common in older Icenordian homes. After his boots were off, he took bedding out of an ironwood armoire and arranged it on the ground.

After a long yawn, one in which he actually stretched his arms out wide, Twillo removed his cloak and the collared blue top he usually wore over a tunic and got comfortable.

“And here I thought you would bathe.”

Twillo smirked at the low ceiling of the basement, as if he were looking directly at the dragon. “I would have if Anneli had invited me back to her flat.”

“Do you think that was a possibility?”

“The two of us? It might be in the future,” Twillo said with a playful confidence, one tied to the strong kvoss he had imbibed.

“And it doesn’t bother you that she is orcen?”

“Bother me? Not in the least bit. Those things don’t normally concern me.”

“Even as a saracent?”

“Are you referring to the idea that saracents have pure blood?” Twillo placed his hands behind his head and laughed. “Nonsense. I don’t buy into any of that. In what I’ve seen in my travels, there is always a class that is above others. They’ll do anything in their power to maintain this structure, including claims of blood purity. My blood is no purer than a Middlinger’s, whose blood is no purer than a half-giant from Southfall, whose blood is no purer than a Tribby with a chip on his shoulder…”

“Would you feel this way if you hadn’t traveled so extensively?”

Twillo thought about this for a moment as the room started to blur, sleep coming to him. He yawned again. “To be honest with you, I don’t know. Maybe not.”

“It is amazing how much a single experience can change us, especially when one compares it to the sheer number of experiences we are bound to endure.”

Twillo yawned again. “It is. Lakk enz, Adventus.”

“And to you, Left-Handed One, lakk enz.”

Firewater had a way of distorting Twillo’s dreams.

The relic hunter found himself back in the City of the Dead and climbing cholum with Ash’s help as dragons twisted in the air above, the water beyond like overlapping serpent tails slapping against hidden rocks and creating foamy swells.

Upon stepping off the cholum, Twillo floated into the air, his dragonaura glowing all around him as he dove into the water beyond. Was this what was to come once he better understood the power?

Looking down at his hand and then pressing it forward, Twillo surged through flowing drapes that reminded him of Livia’s long robes.

He continued to fly backward as silver energy pooled around his fingertips, only to be interrupted by a voice he was becoming increasingly familiar with.

Left-Handed One, you must awaken!

Twillo ignored this voice until it came to him again, louder this time.

“Left-Handed One! Someone is here!”

Twillo gasped awake just as an elven man jumped on top of him. The man pulled his shoulders back and slammed Twillo onto the ground. Scrambling to reposition himself, the intruder used a knee to press Twillo’s face against the floor as he tried to remove the wristlet.

The smell of alcohol mixed with body odor came to Twillo as he struggled to press the man off him.

“Use dragonessence!” Adventus said.

The intruder continued his attempt to rip the relic off; Twillo tried desperately to buck the man off to no avail.

“Use dragonessence, Left-Handed One! It is stored within you. The wristlet is merely a tool to help you understand—”

Twillo forced his energy forward, which caused him to flinch up. In doing so, he felt a burst of power come to him, enough that he was able to flip the intruder over. Recognition followed, Twillo remembering the man as one of the drunks from the bar. He was a wiry elf with a swollen left eye, his ears missing chunks from ripped piercings.

The intruder was fast, able to scramble back to his feet and tackle Twillo yet again. The two slammed into the ironwood armoire. Twillo pushed the man away. As he sent his fist forward, he felt a rippling surge of power spin past his knuckles.

Wham!

The punch that followed sounded as if it had broken the man’s jaw. The intruder hit the floor hard, out cold, his legs twitching.

“What did I just do?” Twillo asked as he looked at his closed fist, his knuckles on fire.

“You backed your attack up with dragonessence! Instinctively, I believe. Did you mean to do that?”

“No.” Twillo started to pace before the body. “It was like you said, instinctively.”

Twillo ran his hand over his fist. It wasn’t as sore as he would have expected from a punch like that, his attack augmented by the strange power he had been tasked with cultivating. If it hadn’t been clear before, it was now. This power was going to change his life in ways that he still couldn’t imagine. Not only that, if what Adventus said was right, it would attract enemies that were much stronger.

As if he were reading Twillo’s thoughts, Adventus spoke again: “You’re going to need a better weapon than a magical letter opener and your fists. The people that will soon be after us will not be as easy to handle as an Icenordian drunk.”

“You mean a sword? I can tell by the way you’re looking at me that you mean a sword.”

“Looking at you?”

Twillo swept loose strands of his white hair back. “Just the sense I’m getting.”

“What about that sword that you mentioned in your story, the one you had in the City of the Dead? Where is this blade?”

“That one? It’s a family weapon. It belonged to my father, and his father. I don’t actually know how far back it goes.”

“And where is it?”

Twillo swept his hand over the room. “In E’Kanth. It’s in a pretty poor condition.”

The drunk finally started to moan.

“You should get him out of here before he figures out what happened.”

“I plan to.” Twillo approached the man and crouched before him. He reached into the front of his tunic and removed his Amulet of a Forlorn Harvest Monk, a piece that he always wore around his neck. Twillo rolled the man over onto his side, and slapped his cheek a few times. “Wake up.”

The man blinked his eyes open and as he did Twillo dangled the amulet in front of him.

“Wha—?” the drunk asked, but soon his eyes were locked onto the amulet. All of this was happening in the darkness, yet because of his ability to see in pitch-black conditions, Twillo watched as the man’s eyes dilated.

Once he was certain that the amulet had worked, he placed it back over his head and tucked it into the front of his tunic. He helped the man stand and led him up the stairs to the exit. From there, Twillo guided the intruder to the row of benches at the front of the stave church.

“Where am I?” the man asked in a feeble voice.

“You will sleep now.” Twillo motioned for the elven man to lie down. Once his assailant was down, he returned to the basement, making sure to lock the door behind him this time.

“What did you do to him?” Adventus asked.

“The amulet forces people to forget things once they’ve seen it long enough. From what I’ve tested, it only causes them to forget the last thirty minutes or so, but there is a confusion that follows. I essentially wiped his short-term memory. It is known as the Amulet of a Forlorn Harvest Monk.”

“And I’m assuming there’s a story behind how you got it?”

Twillo nodded. “There always is.”

“And a tattoo?”

“Around my neck.” He adjusted the collar of his tunic, only then realizing that it was completely dark in the basement and Adventus wouldn’t be able to see it.

“So you wear the necklace over a tattoo of the necklace?”

“I do.”

The dragon laughed. “You are an odd fellow, Left-Handed One. I look forward to hearing that story about the amulet one day. For now, it is best that you get rest. We need to make advancements tomorrow and in the days that follow. And we need to get your sword.”

.Chapter Eighteen.

A Clue to the Past

The Monk’s College was built into the cliffs and wind-sculpted limestone rock formations northeast of Padrian Sands. While its name hadn’t changed, the college’s student body had certainly morphed over the years. Both monks and nuns now studied at the college, many moving into civil service fields after they graduated.

Only the truly devout, or those good with citing and reading the Sagic language, were given posts at stave churches across the Four Kingdoms. Due to Victrin Otonashi’s reforms, the co-ed campus also hosted students from all corners of the Sagaland, which had been one of his more ingenius ways to integrate the people and forge new bonds.

Most of the buildings were long and flat, several stories tall with long covered walkways used during rainy days. The grand rooftops were designed in a similar way to the stave churches, marked at their corners by dragons sculpted from vikan wood, which gave the Monk’s College a fierce and dignified look, especially when contrasted with the black Icenordian flags, which hung vertically. At the back of campus was the grand library built into a tall tower, the floors of which spiraled upward at a constant slope. At its entrance stood vigan pillars, the sculptures of intermingling bodies stacked high into the air.  It was quite the architectural achievement.

“Magnificent,” Adventus said once they came to a stop on the main campus. It had taken Twillo longer than he would have liked the previous night to calm down from the random attack, but he had finally gotten some sleep, aided by the dark nature of the basement. Well-rested, Twillo was ready to figure out where they were going next, and he knew just whom to talk to.

The only problem would come in finding the man.

“Livia, be with me,” Twillo whispered as he casually strolled through campus, hoping to find Vradon.

“And you know the monk you’re looking for?”

“Yes. I know him well.”

“And what makes you think you’ll find him in this sea of people?” Adventus asked. “Do you have a relic for that?”

“Not exactly.”

Moving hurriedly before Twillo were throngs of students from all walks of life, some in ecclesiastical attire and with their long hair wrapped around their necks, others wearing simple cowls tied off with belt ropes. There wasn’t quite a uniform at the college, but people seemed to generally choose either the cowl or go full monk, as Twillo had once put it to Vradon during a conversation about the place.

“He’s here. He’s probably…” Twillo shook his head.

“Yes?”

Twillo turned in the direction of one of the buildings on the northern side of campus, one with the delicious scent of baked bread wafting from its open windows. He could feel the heat as he walked by one of these windows and he could also smell the stew, which was strong and hearty.

“Vradon,” he said as he spotted the portly monk seated by himself on the ground, a Hoersung bun in the monk’s lap and a bowl of soup in his hands.

The portly monk looked up at him. “Twillo?”

“Care if I join you?”

Vradon slurped down some of his soup. “What are you doing here? Sorry, I was aware you’d be in these parts—Olaf told me—yet I didn’t expect to find you.”

“That’s because I found you.” Twillo squinted over to the entrance of the canteen. “Do you think they’d give a wayward elf a bowl and bun?”

“A wayward elf, huh? As for the canteen, they’ll feed anyone that goes in, you know that.”

“Right. In that case, I’ll return. I have a favor to ask of you.”

Curiosity traced across Vradon’s face. “Oh? Do you need something translated?”

“Not exactly. Actually, what does this say?”

Twillo pulled the popped collar of his top down to show Vradon his neck tattoo. “I’ve had two translations now.”

“It says vosrene,” Vradon said with confidence. “It means to be sent by a god.”

“Godsend?”

“Yes, that would cover it.”

“Olaf told me it meant relic hunter,” Twillo said, referring to Vradon’s counterpart.

Vradon tried to hide a laugh and failed. “I’m sorry, but you know Olaf isn’t great with the Sagic language. He must have confused vosrene with vosyend, which roughly translates to relic hunter, although it could mean treasure as well. I suppose the more important question is why would you get this tattooed on your neck?”

“I guess I’m just spontaneous like that. I’ll be right back.”

Vradon took a bite of his bread roll. “You know where to find me.”

“His pronunciation isn’t ideal,” Adventus said once Twillo got in the canteen’s soup line. “I suppose that is to be expected, but he should know that.”

“I’ll be sure to let him know.”

“Can we even trust this monk? You need to be careful what you tell others.”

“Relax,” Twillo said under his breath. “I’ll just tell him I’m hunting down a relic and it mentioned vortexes and ziggurats. We’ll take it from there. After I eat, he’ll probably just walk us over to the library, we’ll get the info we need, and we’ll figure it out from there.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s never easy,” Twillo assured the dragon, “it’s just better to think that it is, and hope to get lucky, trust in Livia.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Easy. Then Vitharr has spoken.”

After their meal, Vradon led Twillo to the library which cast a long, cylindrical shadow over the campus, the sun squarely behind it. It was here, in a courtyard before the library, that Vradon turned to Twillo and placed his hands behind his back.

“You said we would discuss what it is you’re looking for later, and, by my judgment, it is now later. How can I help you?”

The relic hunter’s eyes darted left and right. It was risky to speak of these things in public. “I’m looking for something, two things, actually. I wanted to know if you’ve ever heard of them.”

“Is this a relic? You know I don’t follow the fables surrounding these objects.”

“Fables? You’ve seen literal proof of what I’ve uncovered.” Twillo moved on from this conversation. It was an ongoing argument between the two. “Have you ever heard of ziggurats in the Four Kingdoms?”

“Come again?”

“Ziggurats? No? How about vortexes? I figured the library here may have something that could point me in the right direction.” Twillo gestured up to the seven-story structure, the outer surface of which had a spiral walkway that went all the way to the top. Monks and students moved along the walkway, a few of the religious men with large scrolls tucked under their arms. “There has to be something here.”

There was pain in Vradon’s eyes now, as if he knew better than to go down this rabbit hole with the relic hunter yet he couldn’t resist the chance to display his knowledge.  “And why do you need knowledge of these things?”

“Just something I’m following up on.”

“Is that so? And you just happen to be looking into vortexes and ziggurats for some relic?”

“Sure, let’s call it that.”

Vradon turned, as if he were going to lead Twillo into the library. He stopped, the next words out of his mouth delivered with some hesitation: “You’ve actually seen one of these vortexes you’re looking for. Maybe more than one.”

Twillo stepped in front of the monk and offered Vradon a friendly grin. “Go on…”

“Your natural charm will get you nowhere with me. I’m spoken for,” Vradon reminded him. “And what I’m referring to is the stave church in E’Kanth. The courtyard there, that’s a vortex, evna in Sagic. The reason I know is because of some of the writings below the church. I translated some of it. The rest was too…” He bit his lip as he thought of the right word. “Too complicated for me to get a good reading. The vertical script can take some getting used to, but only someone alive during the Age of Dragons would be able to read it in that form.”

“What do you mean?”

“The old Sagic script moves vertically, as you know, but then portions of it branch off the main sentence line in the particular text at the church. The knowledge to read this is lost to us, at least lost to anyone I’ve shown it to.”

Adventus’ voice appeared in Twillo’s head: “I believe I could read it, Left-Handed One. Press him for more information on the vortex. If you are familiar with this church in E’Kanth, then it is where we should head next.”

“So, this vortex,” Twillo said as he maintained his grin, “you are saying that the vortex is simply in the courtyard there? I don’t recall seeing it.”

Vradon nodded. “Things like this are often hidden in plain sight. When you visit, look at how the courtyard is laid out, and pay close attention to the stone tiling. It creates a rune. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.”

“And Olaf knows about this?”

“He does, but he doesn’t care much about it. These vortexes are no longer useful. Dragonessence is no more.”

“Right. But what were they used for at the time? Do you know?”

“Vortexes were concentrated pockets of dragonessence used for dragons and their riders to recharge their shared power. The churches were built around these vortexes, at least some of the earlier ones, as tribute to the dragons. They were places of worship and power, and they served different purposes for different people. Consider them charging points that allow dragon riders to move swiftly across the land. Although this is no longer the case. Now, they are no different from the relics you collect, artifacts of the past.”

“And the ziggurats? Know anything about them?”

“Ah, those.” Vradon exhaled in a painful way. “I learned that those were temples to dragonessence. More concentrated energy, said to be designed by the Gods themselves. If they exist now, they would be in ruins or hidden in places that no mortal would venture. This is by design.”

“And do you happen to know where any of these ziggurats are located?”

“That is not information generally provided for monks of my ranking but, and I truly am risking my neck in doing so…”

“So?”

“So perhaps I could do a little digging,” Vradon said. “For prosperity.”

“Of course, for prosperity. I’m just a curious elf.”

“I thought you were a wayward elf.”

“That too. I would really appreciate it,” Twillo told the monk.

Vradon smoothed his hands over his robes. “But if I uncover anything, you’re going to need to tell me why you are interested in ziggurats. And this goes without saying, but we can never speak of this in front of Olaf. He would be furious with me for getting involved. It’s illegal, you know.”

“Dragonessence?”

“Yes, and by proxy the study of these things. While important for historians and other higher ups in the church, it is generally something that is done very carefully. Even if the Otonashi situation in E’Kanth is a mess at the moment, we should still tread lightly. If I do find something out, you owe me an explanation.”

Twillo nodded. “You have yourself a deal.”

The two were quiet for a moment. Finally, Vradon spoke: “What now?”

“Now? I suppose I should leave for E’Kanth. If I hurry, I’ll be able to reach there by morning.”

.Chapter Nineteen.

Drunken Dragons

Twillo arrived at the Torolf Stave Church on the university grounds. Even though he confirmed that the drunk from late last night was indeed gone, the relic hunter was cautious as ever as he let himself in and began gathering his things. While he still had a bit of dragonessence, indicated by the strength of his wristlet’s glow if he touched it, Twillo didn’t think he had enough to deliver the kind of strike he had earlier that day. There was also this feeling that most of that had been instinctual, and that he might not be able to summon the power in that way again.

“We will need to train soon,” Adventus told him, “once we know what direction we’re heading after E’Kanth.”

Twillo began checking the items he was bringing, from trusted relics to other things that often came in handy, like his ground-up yandori shell and his myordukai skin. “You’ll train me in your dragon form?”

“Not until I can take my third form, which will come later. But we can practice other things in the meantime.”

“You keep mentioning your third form, yet you never tell me what it is.”

“In due time, Left-Handed One.”

Twillo found the small wooden box that contained the Tongue of Ravenna Megren. He was just about to place it in his bag when he noticed something was off about the weight. He popped it open, his heart sinking upon reviewing the contents of the box.

Adventus spoke: “She stole it?”

“It appears so.” Twillo removed a swath of fabric that had been tied into a thick knot and placed inside the wooden box.

“You should have checked it last night.”

“Likely.” Twillo continued collecting his things, moving even faster now. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been robbed, and it likely won’t be the last. We’ll stop by the tavern on the way to the carriage stand, but I doubt we’ll find her. Anneli could be halfway to Vaymund by now,” he said, referring to a Middling border city just south of the River Sava.

Twillo left the church, his hood hanging from the crown of his head as he moved quickly toward the tavern. Upon reaching the tavern, he found the front door locked and the windows boarded up.

As if on cue, drops of rain began to strike the rooftop, immediately funneling toward gutters on opposite sides of the slanted roof. From what Twillo could tell by the sudden change in humidity and the incoming thunder, a coastal rain was imminent.

After beating on the tavern door for a spell, Twillo placed his hand on the doorknob and summoned the power of the Enkiro Ring of Animation through close to a dozen taps. The metal doorknob came to life and melted away. It fell to the ground and bucked like a horse. Twillo opened the door and used his foot to sweep the piece of writhing metal into the tavern.

“It appears that she isn’t here,” Adventus said, pointing out the obvious.

“I should have—” Twillo lowered his head. “I should have checked last night, and I certainly shouldn’t have told her as much as I did about the object.”

“Yet you trusted her. Why?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“Because she was pretty?”

Twillo laughed at himself. “I’m sure that had something to do with it. I am my own worst enemy at times.”

“I believe that is something that applies to all beings. What now?”

“She clearly knew that I would be back,” Twillo said after looking the bar over and noticing the more expensive bottles were all cleared out.

“Do you think she left something behind? Some indication of where she went?”

“I would assume not, but it’s worth a check.”

Twillo slipped behind the bar. He searched through the cabinets and flipped through bits of parchment, hoping for information on Anneli’s whereabouts.

He knew that he wasn’t going to find them.

He could tell by their conversations that she was clever, clearly willing to take a gamble considering he could have just checked the wooden box right in front of her. No, Anneli had played him. He was certain that the elven orc wouldn’t have left something behind for him to find her.

After his search, Twillo grabbed a bottle of Ramidean firewater. He popped the cork out of the first bottle and took a pull from it, wincing as the alcohol burned its way down his throat. “We will find her at some point. I know some fixers that are good at tracking others.” He wiped his mouth with his arm. “No one gets away with my tongue.”

“And then what? Will you punish her?”

Twillo laughed as he took another drink from the bottle. “Punish Anneli? No, I will get my tongue back. You know?” He examined the Ramidean firewater. “The stuff isn’t half bad. Maybe I’ll grab another bottle before we go for the trip.”

“You intend to drink your way to E’Kanth?”

“This second bottle is for Olaf. Although drinking my way to the City of Dragons doesn’t sound like a bad idea now that you mention it. Maybe I should take three bottles.”

“Olaf, Olaf. Do you mean the monk in E’Kanth?”

“Exactly. He likes to partake when Vradon is away. If we’re going to use this vortex—and it’s actually there at the church—I’m assuming we’ll want to do so privately. The best way to put an elf to sleep, aside from a blunt object to the side of the head, is a bottle of kvoss. I heard someone say that one time.”

“That’s a strange statement.”

“It is, but it’s true.” Lightning crackled outside. Twillo looked to the rain-battered window to see that the sky had officially opened up. “We’ll give it a minute to die down. If it doesn’t, you can use your wing to shield me from the rain.”

“Funny.”

Twillo brought the bottle to his lips again. “What? It would work, wouldn’t it? Also, dragons don’t drink, do they?”

Adventus laughed. “It takes quite a bit to get a dragon drunk. I wouldn’t advise doing so.”

“So they do?”

“Where do you think they got the term firewater?”

Twillo took one more drink and corked the bottle. “I’m imagining drunk dragons and it’s absolutely terrifying. Still, I hope we can share a drink one day, Adventus.”

“As do I, Left-Handed One.”

“In the meantime, I’ll grab a few more bottles. After all, she did rob us.”

The additional bottles that Twillo took came in handy once he reached the carriage stand.

The first-class carriages at the front were full, and the covered second-class carriages were completely booked. While he could have waited for the next caravan, the relic hunter was in a hurry. Now that he had some firewater in his belly, Twillo was perfectly fine with riding in one of the open carriages with those who couldn’t afford a roof over their heads, a fact made worse by the drizzle that seemed to saturate everything.

“I have to save one of the bottles for a friend in E’Kanth,” he announced to the elves and humans in the third carriage, “but this one, and what’s left of this one,” he said, showing them the bottle he’d half-finished in the tavern, “is for all of us!”

Even with the rain, the dismal conditions and the chance that their caravan could be attacked by bandits or worse, the appearance of firewater seemed to lighten the mood.

At some point, one of the men in the back began beating on an empty firkin, his wife singing a trilling yet graceful song about the infamous kitsune named Corobashi while others clapped along. A milkmaid in a stained apron handed Twillo her child. She joined the other woman, slipped her arm around her waist, and sung as well, both of them completely drenched.

“Careful with those,” Twillo told the child as the young girl reached her wet hand to one of his earrings. The elven youth giggled, her dimples on display, the girl beaming with a playfulness that only children seemed to be able to carry on their faces.

A rainy day transitioned to a breezy night, one that required thick blankets handed out by the people running the caravan.

More alcohol was passed around, the group making quite a ruckus until they were silenced by the elven orcs that were part of the patrol team. Perhaps there were other scenarios in which the group would ignore the guards, but being that they were in the volcanic desert, and that there was always the chance for rake or myling to try to attack a caravan, not to mention wolvencree, the people quieted down.

“I heard that wolvencree have two heads,” said one of the women, the same aproned milkmaid who had given Twillo her child earlier.

“I heard that their teeth are the size of daggers,” said a man near her, a thin fellow with tattoos running from his lip to his chin like the dwarves of the Tribute Islands.

Twillo cleared his throat and took on the voice of an orator: “I have seen two wolvencree in my life, one dead and one alive. They do not have a pair of heads. I can only imagine how terrifying they would be if this was the case. They are large; by Livia I tell you they rival the size of a dragon.”

“How do you know?” the man asked.

“I’ve seen dragon bones in Sparrow’s Rise alongside the carcass of a wolvencree. They were on display for Ravenna Vraizard’s yearly visit to his summer home, and believe me, good fellow, they are the same size.”

“Did you see the Crown Ravenna?” asked the milkmaid, hope in her eyes.

Twillo almost mentioned Embla by name, as if he knew her personally, but he stopped himself just in time. “Yes, and the princess, our princess, was as beautiful as all the stars in the sky, as fair as the moon on a winter’s night, as lithe as—”

“Her ears must be twitching now at the prospect of a possible suitor,” said the milkmaid. Everyone laughed. This joke was made funnier by their current location—no one riding in third class would ever get anywhere close to someone like the Crown Ravenna.

“I would be so lucky,” Twillo said with a wide grin.

“You said that you saw another wolvencree, one that was alive. Care to speak on that?” asked the man next to her. He took a bite out of a piece of thick bread and chewed it with his mouth open as Twillo continued.

“I am a lucky elf,” Twillo told the group. “Livia has blessed me more times than I could ever know. I know she watches all of us and bends and shifts our lives in ways.”

“I wish she’d shift mine toward a bit more coin,” the man said to a spout of laughter.

“Ah, yes, money, the bane of all existence until you have enough of it for power and boredom to take its place. Now, as for the live wolvencree, one night, I was venturing alone in the desert northwest of Padrian Sands.”

A few listening gasped. The same chatty milkmaid spoke: “Why would you do that? Are you a relic hunter?”

“A relic hunter? No, nothing of the sort, Your Ladyship,” Twillo assured her, the woman smiling at the fact that he’d referred to her respectfully. “Foolish, really, but I’d heard the story of a wandering cultivator, and I wanted to do a little wandering myself. In doing so, I ventured too far from the main road. It was too late to try to go back. In searching for a place to rest I came to a cave, one with a grand opening that had jagged, teeth-like rocks hanging above its entrance.

“The wolvencree was gone for the time being, so I got as far upwind as I could before it returned. Lo and behold my perch allowed me a perfect view of the entrance of the cave. I saw it.” Twillo cleared his throat again, selling a fear that didn’t take much to sell considering his embellished story had elements of truth to it. “I saw the wolvencree drag a rake into its cave.” He snapped his teeth; the milkmaid nearly jumped back. “The wolvencree ripped its body in half. It left the rake to struggle. I’m no fan of rake, but just end the poor thing’s life, for Vitharr’s sake, don’t let it suffer. Yet that is exactly what it did. The rake struggled for hours, moaning in agony before it finally died. Only then did the wolvencree return to finish it off. Absolute monster.”

“So horrible,” the woman said, now hiding her mouth with the bottom of her apron in fear.

“Yes, extremely so. And the wolvencree itself.” Twillo slowly shook his head. “The beast was large and red, its flesh like that of a burned corpse with razor-sharp hairs. Its mouth was big enough to chomp this cart in half, and it was fast, so very fast. By far the worst was when it stepped out of its cave, threw its head back, and released the most terrifying, nerve-shattering, dread-inducing screech I have ever heard in my life. Vard, my heart!” Twillo placed his hand over his chest and closed his eyes. “Even now, years later, I get shivers just thinking of that howl.”

He showed them his trembling hand to prove what he meant.

“Livia, be with us all,” the milkmaid said.

“Yes, Livia be with us all.” Twillo settled down and brought his hood over his head. “But do not fret, friends and fellow travelers. We’ll be safe tonight. There is nothing to be afraid of. She’s here now, watching, I can feel it.”

And with that statement, Twillo retired to his own headspace, no longer in storyteller mode. A few of the travelers finished a different bottle of firewater they’d been passing around, but nothing more was said.

“Was any of that even necessary?” Adventus asked Twillo.

Twillo didn’t respond.

Instead, he peered out at the desert, certain that he had just seen a woman hovering there, her robes draping down her form and lithely spilling over the moonlit sand.

Twillo blinked, and she was gone.

.Chapter Twenty.

Vortex

Twillo waited near the carriage drop-off point on the far end of E’Kanth’s District Rune, sticking to one of the shanty roadside bars that served firewater made of mare’s milk known as indeve. Indeve had a pearly white color and was sour, yet the alcohol content was low, and when it was warmed up it could be quite filling.

To pass the time, Twillo watched two older men play game after game of spinning die.

The pair played in the Southfallian way, the winner being the one with the lowest score. Each man had a string of electrum that they used for counting, the coins affixed to leather strips making it easy for them to keep score. Their flagons of indeve were constantly filled by a bosomy barmaid who carried an exhausted look on her face as she sifted through their backhanded comments.

The scene was entertaining, to say the least.

When it finally became time to leave, Twillo brought his hood over his head and stepped out into the night.

He could smell the rain in the air, the streets and surfaces of the famous City of Dragons still shiny and slick. It wasn’t a long walk from the roadside bar to the Church of Illum, yet Twillo wanted to be certain that Princess Embla had left before he started moving freely.

He assumed Olaf would know, the thin Icenordian monk always up on the latest gossip. The Crown Ravenna likely wouldn’t visit the Church of Illum itself, but Olaf may have met with her privately, or perhaps with some of the Moon Dragon Emperor’s royal court, who thrived on gossip.

All this remained to be seen.

As he approached the stave church, Twillo naturally circled around to the back of the towering structure, to the building where he kept his cart and relics. The outside quarters were a stone’s throw from the courtyard, the one that Vradon had claimed was actually a vortex.

“Well?” Twillo asked aloud as he approached the stone courtyard, his eyes tracing over the stone below his feet. The space had recently been weeded yet it was cluttered with other things, from ceremonial objects to some of the tools that the groundskeeper and his son were using in preparation of spring. “Is this what we were looking for?”

“Do you not feel it?” Adventus asked.

Twillo glanced down to his wristlet and saw that it had a hint of blue glow to it. He also noticed something else—there was a vibration to the relic now, almost as if it were pulsing. “This is the real deal, isn’t it?”

“It is more than that, Left-Handed One. Once this vortex is used, I will become summonable in my dragon form. You’ve seen this form once. Once we reach the first ziggurat, or perhaps more vortexes, I will become summonable in my vordic form.”

“Vordic form?”

“Wyrm form, like that of an enormous flying serpent.”

“No wings?”

“No wings.”

“So you can take three forms, that of a dragon, that of a serpent-like dragon, and—?”

“A dragon warrior, my third form.”

Twillo tried to imagine what a dragon warrior would look like and failed. “Sorry, perhaps I had a bit more indeve than I should have...”

“Yes, the indeve will creep up on you. Once I am summonable, we can truly begin improving your power. But I assure you, once we take this next step, we will become a known thing, which brings its own challenges.”

“A known thing, huh?”

“It won’t be long before we are hunted. You will understand this better in the future, but in bringing me back by using this vortex, the risk to your life will grow exponentially.”

“You’ve yet to explain who these future enemies will be.”

“You’re right, and that’s another thing we will cover soon,” said the dragon. “As you know, parts of my memories have been stripped from me, so some of it will be unclear.”

“By a God, or a Goddess.”

“Correct. What I’m saying here is that before we use this vortex, you need to be absolutely sure you are ready for what is to come.”

Twillo looked up at the roof of the Church of Illum, at the wooden dragons carved along its ridges. He thought of everything that had happened up until this point, from the trauma of his youth to nearly dying in a northern desert. Dragonessence was real, he’d seen the extent of its power, and even if there was a steep learning curve to come, Twillo felt he was ready. Perhaps it was the alcohol.  “Let’s do this.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, but before we do anything, we’ll need to go inside and speak to Olaf. We can’t have him knowing what’s happening out here. Luckily, I have this.” Twillo produced the bottle of firewater he had stolen from Anneli’s tavern in Padrian Sands. “Not the best kvoss, but it was free, and Olaf loves this stuff. Be forewarned. He’ll probably want to enjoy it with me.”

“So you’re saying you’ll be drunk when I am first summoned?”

“I’m half-drunk now,” Twillo admitted. “How do you think I’m handling this so easily?”

Upon entering the stave church, Twillo found Olaf seated in the nave in complete darkness, his head bowed forward. Twillo cleared his throat; the thin monk tensed up, his focus still on the altar as he spoke.

“Gah! You know better than to scare me like that.”

“How else was I supposed to get your attention?” Twillo shook the bottle, the sloshing sound of the kvoss echoing across the expansive space. “I brought you something, an apology for a future or perceived transgression.”

“Ah, the best kind of apology, a preemptive one. In that case, let me light a few candles and grab some glasses.” Olaf fussed with his long white hair, which was wrapped around his neck as was custom for Icenordian monks. “I don’t mind drinking in the dark, but they say that’s a surefire way to be deemed a drunkard.”

“We can’t have that.”

“No, we cannot.” Olaf went to work lighting candles, and soon, subtle light illuminated the space inside the Church of Illum. “There, that’s better.” The monk handed Twillo a pair of crystal glasses and took a seat on a cushion, his legs crossed under him. Stave churches didn’t have pews, and while there were side benches that were used for seating, it was equally common just to sit on the ground on pillows.

As Twillo got comfortable, Adventus’ voice appeared somewhere at the back of his head: “What have they done to this church? Why are the rafters covered?”

Rather than answer, Twillo poured a glass of kvoss and handed it to Olaf.

“Something has changed about you.”

“Oh?” Twillo asked as he poured himself a smaller glass.

“I can sense it.”

“Nothing to report, aside from a botched mapstone.”

“A botched mapstone? Do tell…”

Twillo gave a heavily altered account of what had happened in Icenor, leaving out the wolvencree’s attack and the appearance of Adventus. By the time he finished they were on their second glass, Olaf seeming to relax even further into a seated position. It was on their third glass that Twillo mentioned that he had run into Vradon in Padrian Sands, that Vradon had mentioned that there was some Sagic text on one of the walls that he hadn’t been able to fully translate.

Olaf laughed, his face now with red splotches on it. The slender monk had an alcohol allergy, but that rarely stopped him from partaking. “Ah, that blasted text. He will be trying to decipher that for Vitharr knows how long. I’ll be long gone by the time he’s finished. I keep telling him that it’s impossible to translate that particular style of Sagic text and he knows it. It’s a word scramble where the meaning of the words changes the meaning of the piece as a whole depending on how it is structured. This is why he couldn’t simply translate the vertical text and then translate the horizontal text. Understanding it is a lost art.”

“Do you think I could see it?”

Olaf lowered his glass from his lips. “Why?”

“Curiosity.”

“You? Curious?” He laughed. “Since when?”

“Since ever?”

“I know, I know, Jhaeros, Twillo. And yes, you can take a look at it. Stare at it all night for all I care, if you can stand it. The text is along the wall in the crypt beneath the church. The bodies are no longer there. I don’t know if they were ever there, and I don’t believe the space to be haunted. There are enough sounds in this old building to say otherwise, but they don’t bother me.” He smirked, the monk shifting closer to full-on drunkenness. “Anyhow, that’s where it is. On a stone wall down there, a carved one. I can show you.”

“Please,” Twillo said. “I’ll get one of the lanterns.”

Olaf gave him a funny look.

“Vradon said it was quite fascinating; I, um, want to see for myself. The light will help.”

“I suppose so. Let’s go, and then I should probably head to bed. I have meetings in the morning.”

“Speaking of which…” Twillo retrieved one of the lanterns on a side table. He used a candle to light it and returned. “The Crown Ravenna, is she still in E’Kanth?”

“Princess Embla? No, she left a day or so ago,” Olaf told him as they headed past the rectory, to a hall that curved into a passageway behind the altar. Twillo had never ventured to this section of the Church of Illum. It always seemed off limits for some reason. “Careful of the steps,” Olaf said as they started down to the crypt, “they are much steeper than they should be.”

The decline was sudden, Twillo wishing for a handrail by the time he reached a cold chamber below, one that seemed as if it were once a cave. They soon came to a section where the chamber split into two. Olaf stopped before a wall of rock with the Sagic language carved into it, much of the text spreading rhizomatically from the initial vertical script.

Adventus spoke before Olaf could say anything: “Hold the light closer, Left-Handed One.”

Twillo did what the dragon requested and took in the sight. “Let me get a better look at it.”

“Yes.” Olaf yawned. “It is fascinating, but impossible to truly understand without knowing the structure. Too bad, really. To be able to decipher these texts would certainly be something worth our while. Vradon has tried all possibilities. It is a futile endeavor—”

“It relates the location of two ziggurats,” Adventus told Twillo as Olaf continued to explain how the text was impossible to translate. “One of the ziggurats near Shetro Kell, past the Oraibi Monument. The other is beyond the City of the Dead.”

“Beyond the City of the Dead?”

“What?” Olaf asked Twillo. “What does that have to do with this text?”

The relic hunter quickly covered for his mistake: “I was just thinking that I’ve seen something similar in the City of the Dead, um, beyond the places where people normally frequent on an Amber Vind,” he said, referring to the northern pilgrimage. “That’s all.”

Olaf’s eyes darted across the illuminated text. “Ah, yes, you would find something like that there.”

Twillo faked a yawn. “Well, it’s just as beautiful as Vradon said it would be, but you’re right, I have no idea what it says. Speaking of which…” He was just about to mention the tattoo on his neck, the one that had been incorrectly translated by Olaf, yet decided against it. “Speaking of which, I believe it would be good to call it a night. You?”

“I am thinking the same thing.” Olaf turned to the exit. “Perhaps a nightcap before we do? That bottle of kvoss isn’t going to finish itself.”

It wasn’t uncommon for Twillo to spend time in the visitor quarters outside of the Church of Illum. He’d worked late into the night before, cleaning his cart or arranging his relics. It was something he was known for; Olaf wouldn’t question why Twillo headed outside rather than up to his room in the rafters above the nave.

It was the perfect cover.

Once he was in his storage space and there were a few lanterns lit, Twillo went straight to his cart and ran his hand along it, tracing his finger across the kitsune that were carved into its surface. “I think I’ll clean it while Olaf is falling asleep,” he told Adventus. “In the meantime, what did the script say about the City of the Dead?”

“It said it was beyond the necropolis, which I take to mean it is in the sea.”

“In the sea? How would we get to the ziggurat if it is underwater?”

“I will be useful in that endeavor. I can swim quite fast, you know.”

“I’ve been wondering about that.”

“About what?” Adventus asked.

Twillo found a cloth and a bit of wood polishing oil they kept in a glass jar. He began smoothing the oil over his cart. “Once you are summoned, how long will you be here?”

“I will be here as long as you can maintain me with the power that you have stored. Once the dragons have returned—”

“You’re quite confident this will happen.”

“The spinning die has spun, Left-Handed One. Your kind and dragons, we have what I would consider a symbiotic relationship. At least this will be the case once we are reborn. We have always been soulbound. Well, not always, but through the Age of Dragons.”

“So until this time that you are fully here, the dragonessence that I have stored will fuel your return and how long you can be here. Is that what you’re getting at?”

“Yes, and soon, collecting more power to store will become paramount to survival. You recall the ways to produce dragonessence?”

Twillo puffed his cheeks out and nodded. “Vortexes and ziggurats. The more I cultivate, the more I attract. Meditation and combat.”

“Correct. These all play into the three main aspects of dragonessence, starting with the ability to store and shut off your stored power to shield your presence; the ability to increase your power and do wondrous things through cycling; the ability to imbue an object with dragonessence and give it magical properties, which is how relics were made.”

“Just like that, huh?”

“It will become easier, but yes, just like that.”

Twillo grinned. “By Livia.”

“And you will soon see what it is like to actively store the amount of power it will take to summon me. I believe you will find the experience profound.”

“But I had the power before, back in the cave.”

“Yes, but it was stored in a dormant way.” Adventus paused for a moment, as if he were thinking. “Maybe this is a better way to understand that occurrence: you had the power stored within you, yes, but it was dormant. By agreeing to soulbind with me, it all poured out of you at once, allowing me to take my form and combat the yokai, yet also depleting all your reserves. We will correct some of this soon.”

“And then I will be able to call you at will?”

“If you have enough stored dragonessence, yes.”

Twillo continued rubbing the oil on the cart as he thought about what the dragon had said. “I don’t know if I should be excited or afraid.”

“You should be both. And this weapon of yours, you mentioned you had a sword in E’Kanth.”

Twillo placed his rag down and began rummaging through his things. Soon, he produced a shoddy sword with a golden hilt that was covered in black smudges. He drew the blade from its scabbard, the steel slightly tarnished.

“Oh my.”

“It was this way when I got it,” Twillo said as he examined the weapon, “when my father gave it to me.”

“It needs work.”

“It does.”

“Yet I sense there is something special about this blade,” Adventus said. “Do you know someone who is able to work on something like this?”

“I know of someone in Vendir,” Twillo said, referring to the capital of Icenor. “A man named Arban.”

“And Vendir is on the way to the City of the Dead.”

“We’ll certainly have to stop there, yes.”

“Then it is decided. We’ll get your sword worked on then, and just hope for the best in Southfall on our trip to find the ziggurat near the Oraibi Monument. You’ll still be able to train with it. I’m sure of this.”

Twillo twisted the blade through the air. As he did so, muscle memory from his extensive sword training came to him, Twillo carving out a slick infinity sign before returning the blade to its scabbard. He placed the sword on a bench and returned to his cart, where he began polishing the wood again.

He preferred being a relic hunter.

Later, once Twillo was certain Olaf was asleep, he slipped outside and approached the courtyard. There was a charge in the air now, something he immediately noticed as the blue jewel on the golden wristlet began to glow. “What do I do?” he whispered to Adventus.

“Touch your wristlet and prepare yourself, Left-Handed One. I’ll take it from here.”

With these words, a spiral of power kicked up from the courtyard, rattling the ceremonial objects in the vicinity as it twisted toward Twillo. The energy that struck him was dragonessence in its purest form, a blistering silvery power spiraling faster and faster around Twillo as he began to float, his teeth gritted, his arms out wide and trembling.

It felt as if his skin was being peeled back, the cosmic force oscillating through him searingly hot, blindingly real. Silver waves of dragonessence rippled across the courtyard, spreading to eight different corners. Upon reaching each nexus it swelled backward, Twillo rising even higher into the air.

All of it was so sudden that he found it hard to breathe, hard to understand what was happening as his eyes rolled to the back of his head, the power pouring out of him. Twillo was on the verge of passing out when bits of silvery dust bloomed into the form of a white dragon.

The sparkling dust solidified, the dragon’s body taking shape.

Twillo fell to his knees.

He looked up, his heart in his throat as he stared at a dragon, one with blue eyes that matched the glowing jewel of his wristlet. Adventus had spines that lifted in ridges on his head and trailed down his neck, each with gray accents, tipped in black.

His maw seemed multi-tiered, like the beak of a prehistoric bird, a sharp mouth that concealed myriad sets of sharp fangs. He expanded his wings, the membranes a grayish white, like the northern ice of Twillo’s kingdom, one mixed with the silver-black of volcanic deserts.

Tears came to Twillo’s eyes while gazing upon Adventus.

He took in the creature’s beauty and power, Twillo aghast by the dragon’s presence, his sheer majesty. He felt powerless looking at the ancient creature, even as he remembered that he had been the one who had summoned the dragon.

Adventus was large, yet in remembering the space just behind them, the nave of the Church of Illum, it was clear that he would be able to fit inside had the room not been constructed in the rafters. It was also clear now in examining the dragon that Twillo would be able to ride the creature, Adventus perfectly sized for a rider, and with a natural nook in the arches of the his shoulders.

Adventus’ nostrils flared open.

He released a puff of blue fire, his jaw lifting into a smile. “It feels good to be back,” he said, his voice amplified yet still soft, as if he were whispering. “It truly does. Look at the wristlet.”

Twillo glanced down to see that its glow was deeper than it had been before, the relic looking as if it was fully charged.

“Make no mistake, Left-Handed One, this is a triumph.”

Twillo nodded, ready in earnest to see where this path led him. He was aware that he had just passed the point of no return, and he was fine with that. That was, after all, the life that he had cultivated, one of an adventurer, a risk taker, a relic hunter, an outcast.

This was precisely why Livia had chosen Twillo for the task.

Seated on one of the dormers of the Church of Illum, one leg crossed over the other as she watched the scene unfold, the Goddess of Luck felt a rare, overwhelming sense of satisfaction. Her long robes draped to the point that they were hanging off the roof, the hem swaying in the wind, Livia knew that what she had done would bring trouble in the near future, that it would present challenges for Twillo that would be difficult to overcome. She also knew that Jecha would soon make his countermove.

Yet for now, she felt true satisfaction.

Livia was convinced that she would right the mistakes of her past, the ones that had led to the abandonment of dragonessence.

Glory, triumph, and luck would all play roles in the coming days. But tragedy lay on the horizon, soon to roll over the whole affair like a dark cloud.

The Goddess of Luck watched Twillo press his head forward. The power cycled all around him as Adventus vanished, leaving behind a fractured galaxy of dragonessence in his wake.

The relic hunter got to his feet. His knees buckled, and he passed out.

Livia casually floated down to Twillo.

She remembered everything upon seeing his glowing wristlet, how she had driven Twillo’s father mad, and all the occurrences that had fallen into place afterward. Was it worth it? Were the pieces she had put into play, and the lives she had manipulated fifty years ago going to pan out? That remained to be seen.

Livia crouched before the relic hunter and ran her hand across his cheek.

He really was a remarkable fellow. Perhaps naive, considering what he had just done and the implications, yet truly brave.

“Soon.” She ran her hand across his cheek a final time. “All will be clear.”

.Chapter Twenty-One.

Notorious Dragon Riders and the Dragons that Followed Them

Twillo awoke upon being nudged by something. His immediate thought was that it was Adventus, Twillo not clear as to what had happened after he had recalled the white dragon. He gasped awake to find the man who looked after the grounds of the Church of Illum, a Middlinger with a bald spot, long and wispy strands of hair hanging off the side of his head. The groundskeeper was joined by Olaf, the tall monk’s shadow.

“And here I thought I was one who had too much to drink last night. Ha! I have prepared some food and tea.” Olaf raised an eyebrow at Twillo. “Well?”

“Well?” Twillo sat up and took a look around, the early morning chatter of birds reaching his ears.

“What happened out here? It looks like a wolvencree tore through the area. We have enough to do without having to rearrange everything.”

“It’s fine,” the groundskeeper said. “My son owes me a favor. I’ll just have him do it. Anyhow, I’ve got to get back to it.” He waved at the pair and departed.

Olaf waited until he was gone to speak again: “You need to be more careful, Jhaeros. Not only that, you should be respectful of our groundskeeper and his time.”

“The name is Twillo.”

“She was asking about you, you know.”

“Who was?”

“You know who I am referring to,” Olaf said.

Twillo sat up and did his best to fix his long white hair, strands of which were matted against his forehead. “Princess Embla? Why? She doesn’t even know I’m alive.”

“She claims she saw you peddling your wares. She asked me specifically if I’ve heard from Jhaeros Shotaro Vos, the would-be Saracent of Sparrow’s Rise. Last I checked, that was you. I told her I was fairly certain that you were dead, and if I did see you, I would treat it as if I’d seen a ghost. I only hope she believed me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that last night?”

“Because I didn’t have anything to be concerned about, but then I found you drunkenly sleeping in the courtyard here, and realized that you may be bringing more attention to yourself than you should be. You need to be careful.”

“You already told me that.” Twillo got to his feet and followed Olaf over to an outdoor seating space, one in the shade. It was here that he found Bravelon tea and zimollon, the square-shaped pastries that were dusted in sugar.

“I don’t want to have to worry about you. I already worry about Vradon.”

“What is there to possibly worry about with Vradon? He’s fine. He’s at the College.”

“I just worry.” Olaf returned to his earlier line of questioning. “Well? What are you planning to do?”

“You mean right now?”

“Yes, right now. You weren’t planning on sleeping in the courtyard all day, were you?”

“Now that you have lit into me about it, I guess not. I’m heading south. I need to get a few things I need before I go, but that’s the plan. You won’t hear from me until I need to go north again.”

“Vague, but that is what I have come to expect from you,” Olaf said.

Twillo ate one of the square pastries, which was delicious as always, just the right hint of sweet. “Maybe it’s better that I keep things vague. I’ll be back around, though.”

“When?”

“That depends.”

Olaf stood and took a few steps away from the table. “You’re stressing me out today. But…” He stopped and turned back to the relic hunter. “Do let me know when you head out. And this goes without saying, but, ugh, may Livia guide her robes over your journey. One more thing.”

“Yes?”

The monk nodded to the table. “Look under the plate.”

Twillo lifted the small ceramic plate to find a platinum coin, the most valuable currency aside from promissory notes, which were only tradable in certain circumstances. Five hundred electrum were worth one silver coin, and fifty silver coins were worth one gold coin. A platinum coin was worth five gold coins. It was a considerable amount, easier to travel with than over a hundred thousand electrum.

“What’s this—?” Twillo asked as he examined the coin, one that was recently minted with Emperor Rindr Otonashi’s visage stamped onto it.

“From the exchange of that pendant you gave me several days ago.”

“What? No, I can’t take this, Olaf. That money was for the church.”

“Do you have money at the moment?”

Twillo scratched the back of his head. “I’m sure I can scrounge something together. I have items I can sell as well. There’s also the stave church in Shetro Kell. I was there last year; I squirreled some stuff away.”

“It’s fine. Truly. I’m sure with whatever you’re getting into, you’ll find a way to donate again at some point. Your family always has, for centuries now. And if you don’t, that’s fine too. May Livia guide her robes over your journey. Did I already say that? In that case, hopefully she hears me this time.” Olaf offered Twillo a short bow and departed.

It was only an hour or so later that Twillo left E’Kanth, City of Dragons, on horseback. The horse was a mild one, brindle, with several brands on one of his hind legs. His name was Oats, according to the handler. And as he trotted along, Twillo got a sense that Oats had made this journey many times.

Oats had been rented from a service that was originally started by Victrin Otonashi, the current Moon Dragon Emperor’s grandfather. It allowed for both courier services and horse rentals, as well as private caravans. The deposit just so happened to be a gold coin, which Twillo would get back if he successfully arrived in Shetro Kell. This left four gold coins in his pocket after breaking the platinum.

“Once we are away from civilization, and during our down times, we can train and work on cycling dragonessence,” Adventus reminded Twillo as he rode out of town.

The hood of his cloak was over his head, his old family sword now sheathed at his waist. “And you are sure it won’t scare Oats?”

“Horses and dragons generally weren’t fans of one another, but if you tie Oats to a tree, I’m certain he’ll be fine. He won’t be happy, but he’ll be fine. In the future, we’ll be able to travel through other means.”

“You’ll fly,” Twillo said.

“I will, and you will hold on for dear life, Left-Handed One. We will need to travel at night after we’ve reached that stage. People won’t take kindly to dragons suddenly appearing above their heads. But perhaps we are getting ahead of ourselves; we should focus on reaching that plateau first.”

Twillo picked up speed, the familiar clop of the horse’s hooves percussive and satisfying. “You said that we would soon be hunted.”

“Sadly, that is correct.”

“Care to tell me by who?”

“Yes, of course. Now is an ideal time for that conversation. They were known as the Senja. Are you familiar with the term? Sen means old, jane is the word for guard. Sen-ja, old guard.”

“Old guard?”

“Ah, so you haven’t heard the word. The history of the Senja was likely buried to erase any power or myth it might hold over the populace. You may have heard what brought an end to the Age of Dragons.”

“War.”

“But what was the war about, Left-Handed One?”

Twillo smirked. “What all war is about. Somebody wants something that someone else has; or perhaps somebody wants revenge for something someone else did in the past; or maybe someone wants more power than they already have; or finally, someone wants to right the wrongs of the past and build a better future.”

Adventus seemed amused by this statement. “I don’t think it is quite that easy, but that does cover quite a few reasons for human conflict. The war that ended the Age of Dragons and brought, as you have told me, Icenordian rule to the Four Kingdoms, was due to the Senja. You’ve explained that Yanzon the Undisputable was quite harsh.”

“He was; after the Age of Dragons he was responsible for turning dragonessence from something widely used into something banned by the emperor. He’s also the one who severely punished arcane artificers, relic makers.”

“And why do you suppose he did this?”

“For power,” Twillo said as Oats slowed. They came to a small bridge, the horse hesitating a moment before crossing.

“I’m sure that had something to do with it, but it was likely more than that. The Four Kingdoms were nearly destroyed by the dragonessence that the Senja used to their advantage. At the completion of the war that ended the Age of Dragons, it would make sense for this Icenordian ruler to push things to the extreme to solidify the death of the Senja.”

“I’ve honestly never thought of it that way, but I’d never heard of the Senja up until now, so that makes sense. Who were they anyway?”

“The Senja were notorious dragon riders and the dragons that followed them, a mixture of Icenordians and Middlingers, as well as a handful of Southfallians. It is hard to say who was in charge in the end, but they almost brought an end to civilization as we know it. This brings us to the ziggurats. If not for these structures, we wouldn’t be speaking. Father Dawn put the structures here to thwart the true influence behind the Senja, but no one was certain at the time.”

“Father Dawn made the ziggurats?”

“He did, through his vessels.”

“And what do you mean by true influence?” asked Twillo.

“Jecha, God of Carnage.”

A ripple of fear trailed down Twillo’s arm. Jecha’s name had numerous superstitions tied to it. Even saying the name came with a chance for extreme bad luck, the word practically a slur in certain parts of the Four Kingdoms.

“All this was because of the God of Carnage?”

“It certainly was. And that would be why I’m here. Jecha has somehow managed to rebirth the Senja, which should be impossible. It is our goal to stop them, or at the very least, get ahead of them. We won’t be able to stop Jecha, but we can at least give this world a fighting chance until the Gods handle him, as they did years ago. This is why I keep saying we will soon have enemies. What happened last night will certainly attract attention, Left-Handed One. Don’t think for a moment that others aren’t watching.”

“And we don’t know how many ziggurats there were?”

“We do not, but we now know the location of the first two. Near the Oraibi Monument and beyond the City of the Dead.”

Twillo thought of the Oraibi Monument, and how the only way it could have been constructed was by giants. The monument featured three swords stabbed into the ground next to one another, each sword twelve feet across and a hundred feet tall. It was one of the many wonders of the Four Kingdoms. “And you don’t know what reaching the ziggurats and activating their power will do?”

“I do know that, to some degree, anyway. Even if parts of my memory have been stripped, I know that the ziggurats will allow us to bring some of the good dragons from the Realm of the Forgotten back to the Sagaland. Of this, I am clear. It will also strengthen me when I am here, help me change to my other forms, and allow me to stay longer before I return to limbo. You can say goodbye to Oats at that point.”

Twillo patted the horse on the side of his neck. “I don’t know. He’s a pretty good horse.”

Oats snorted a response.

“Yes, he seems to be, but this is a primitive way to travel. Anyhow, you asked about the Senja, and this is what I can tell you. Changing subjects, be on the lookout for a good place to practice cycling and training. We need to do that as much as we can. And your sword? You said you knew of someone in Vendir.”

“A man who was once a smith for Ravenna Vraizard.”

“And he can work with arcane objects?”

“You believe my sword to be arcane?” Twillo asked.

“I’m more sensitive to these things than you, but there is energy there. I am certain of it. You received it from your father, correct?”

“Yes, and the wristlet.” Twillo’s eyes grazed across the golden bracelet and its blue jewel. It was to the point now that it was always glowing, Twillo forced to adjust his sleeve to cover this fact. “The sword and the wristlet are all I have from him.”

“It was as if he knew your destiny.”

“My father?” Twillo shook his head bitterly. “He knew very little, and in the end, it was who he knew that brought him down.”

“And his name?”

“Shotaro Vos Undlin.”

It was a moment before Adventus replied. “I see. Perhaps there is more to his story, Left-Handed One. That is generally how these things go.”

They came to a meadow that was half a mile away from the main road. The trees surrounding it cast huge pockets of shade onto the budding grass that was slowly tracing across pockets of dry soil. Butterflies and bees had already begun to appear, spring evident even though only a few small white flowers had opened up.

“This will be a good place for us to begin.”

“I thought we were coming here to rest,” Twillo told Adventus, half-joking.

“Retrieve your sword; I would like to see your current skill set.”

“Are you planning to come here?” Twillo motioned to his surroundings. “I mean, are you looking for me to summon you?”

“Not now. You can challenge me at a later date, perhaps closer to a vortex or church so you can recharge. We must keep an eye on your power.”

Twillo gulped. “Challenge you?”

“It would be better in my third form, but I do not know if I will be able to utilize that form until we reach our second or third ziggurat. Hopefully sooner rather than later. Now, about cycling. As I have told you, combat can help cycle the dragonessence that you have already stored up. That’s what we will do here. We will focus more on summoning the power later, when we find a place for the evening. Your sword, Left-Handed One.”

Twillo tied Oats to the branch of a luna tree and stepped to the center of the meadow.

It was common for saracents, regardless of gender identity, to receive extensive combat lessons from the age of five onward. The idea was that the skills would be so ingrained by the time they were an adult that it would be second nature.

Twillo’s teacher, an elven orc swordmaiden named Renda, had trained with him until the age of fifteen, when his life had changed in ways he could have never fathomed. Renda never was a mother to him—she was much too harsh for that—yet the woman had spent a considerable amount of time with Twillo, especially in his father’s absence.

Now, in a meadow somewhere between E’Kanth and Shetro Kell, Twillo recalled the day that Renda had finally given in to the fact that he was left-handed. She had gone as far as to teach herself to fight left-handed so she could better instruct him, the shield-sworn woman always one to challenge herself.

As if he had been transported back in time, the hundreds of lessons with Renda returned to Twillo once he removed his hooded cloak and let it drop to the ground. His bags already behind him, back with Oats, Twillo unbuttoned the front of his top, which would provide better arm movement. After a few crossbody stretches, he placed his left hand on the hilt of his blade and smoothly removed the sword from its sheath.

Twillo’s technical curriculum had always been one designed to quickly injure an opponent.

There were other curricula that Renda had mentioned—Twillo recalled that there was an entire theory around disarming an opponent—but for a saracent, one that would be called upon to summon the type of courage it took to rally his men or defend himself to the death, quick and efficient was the key factor.

In the movements that followed, Twillo held his sword as if his fingers were floating on the hilt, the lessons of his youth radiating from him. It was entirely uncanny, unlike anything he had experienced in recent memory.

After a few practice maneuvers, a horizontal crosscut brought with it a boost of power that Twillo wasn’t expecting.

The surge caused him to step back, his core suddenly brimming with power. As if Renda was there, he quickly sheathed his blade and awaited further instruction.

“I was not expecting that, not this early on,” Adventus said after a long pause. “You have clearly trained.”

“I have.”

“I expected as much from a saracent.”

“Former saracent.”

“Yet you rarely carry a weapon.”

“I’ve found them to be cumbersome. My letter opener usually does the job.” Twillo placed his hand on the relic, which was affixed to his belt. “There are other tactics that I can employ with some of the items I generally carry with me, from the Gourdian shells to the Basanic fire. I’ve just never been a fighter, not in this role, anyway. Not as a relic hunter. Some are. Some will go to great lengths to be some sort of hybrid between relic hunter and mercenary. There are even those who have studied with the Brethren of the Tribute Islands. Not me. I never found it necessary, at least for most occasions. Fighting is certainly an answer, but through my relics, I have found ways to avoid it.”

“In answer to what just happened, that power you felt, that was cycling.”

Twillo looked down at the shoddy hilt of his sword. “That was cycling dragonessence?”

“You sent dragonessence out and you absorbed it back in, thus strengthening and enhancing your core power. This is cycling.”

“How?”

Adventus was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, there was excitement in his voice. “You were trained by a professional, were you not?”

“Renda, a former Honor Guard. She was a very good teacher.”

“That explains everything. She likely would have learned techniques designed by those who once trained alongside dragon riders, especially at the caliber she would need to be to teach the son of a saracent.”

“So I already know how to do this, but I don’t know how I know?” Twillo started to laugh. “Is that what you’re telling me? Livia, you devil!”

“She can be tricky, that one. Think, Left-Handed One, think of some of the things your teacher would say. Perhaps remembering them will help you cycle more dragonessence.”

Twillo bit his lip. The last time he had seen Renda was quite some time ago. Not only that, he had practiced blocking his past for so long that parts of it had become blurred to him. “I… honestly can’t remember.” He drew his sword, flourished it, and returned the weapon to its sheath. “I wish I knew. I can feel her lessons, if that makes sense, when I use my sword, but I don’t recall anything about absorbing power at the last moment.”

“Maybe it will come to you. Until then, I will explain what I know about cycling. Energy that you dispel when attacking can be absorbed back at the very last moment of an attack. In the past, dragon riders would cycle their power during training sessions, often with their dragons or fellow riders, rather than do it during actual combat when you would need the boost of power. That said, you can reach a point where you are able to cycle during a fight, striking and absorbing, constantly fueling yourself.”

“Were there many dragon riders?”

“At its peak, yes, there were hundreds. But toward the end those numbers dwindled, especially as the dragons chose sides. This is a story for another time. Try it again. Cycle dragonessence.”

Twillo got into his stance and attempted the same attack.

Again and again, he tried to replicate what he had done earlier until he was sweating. The sword soon grew heavy in his arm from repeated attempts, his biceps straining. It was clear he had more training to do.

“You’re thinking too hard about it.”

“I am,” Twillo admitted.

“That’s fine. It’s a good start. As we continue on, try to remember what your teacher taught you. It will come to you, I’m sure of it.”

.Chapter Twenty-Two.

Interlude III: Playground of the Gods

Shotaro Vos Undlin looked across the table to Romulus, the fixer out of Seondzus who had arranged the spinning die game, one that would soon go on to change both of their lives.

Fever dreams through a long night had Twillo’s father on edge, the Icenordian saracent unable to cast aside what he knew needed to happen next. Shotaro had worked too hard to simply betray his country due to a badly placed bet.

The contract he had signed with the magnate named Lunthar had to go. Not only that, the Wristlet of Droll belonged to Shotaro, he was certain of it.

Shotaro now felt as if he’d been robbed of the relic, even though he’d never possessed the item to begin with. A very small voice at the back of his head questioned this, yet the voice was easy enough to ignore with the screaming, screaming that reminded Shotaro of what he’d be able to do with the wristlet, a relic said to be powerful enough to bring his wife, Coraluna, back from the dead.

“And if I help you?” Romulus said after a long, excruciating pause. His big hands had been clasped together for so long that his knuckles were red.

“Fifty platinum coins.”

“That’s a fortune.”

“It is.”

“And you can produce it?”

“I can,” Shotaro assured him. “I travel with guards for a reason, you know.”

“Then why aren’t you asking them for help?”

“Because they’re formerly of the Vraizard’s Honor Guard. Even if they are in my employ, I can’t trust them the way I can trust a Middlinger like you.”

Romulus finally sat back and took a deep breath, the big man’s shoulders tensing and relaxing. “Because I’m an outsider.”

“Precisely.”

“And all you plan to do is take the contract and steal the wristlet?”

Shotaro pursed his lips. “Yes.”

“Why do I feel that this could get out of hand?”

“By Livia, it won’t. If it does, I have a blade.”

Romulus laughed cautiously. “You mean that old family sword of yours?”

“What’s so bad about it?”

“It’s more of a blunt object than a blade.”

“I’ll get it to the smith in Vendir next time I’m up north,” Shotaro assured him. “But that’s neither here nor there. Romulus, do you agree to help me?”

The fixer slowly shook his head. “In and out, Shotaro.”

“Yes,” said the saracent, yet again annoyed that Romulus hadn’t addressed him correctly.

“If we’re going to do it, we should do it tonight. Lunthar has a dinner he’s planning to attend with a family of magnates that also have a summer home in the foothills outside the city. I know because I was invited.”

“And you declined?”

Romulus nodded. “I did. These dinners are not for my taste. The food is excellent, obviously, but the crowds…”

“What about the crowds?”

“I didn’t grow up this way.”

“Which way?”

Romulus motioned toward Shotaro. “Your way, the way of finer things in life. Having them around and having them forced onto me just doesn’t sit right. Not only that, they usually start gambling after enough firewater is shared. The stakes are out of my league.”

“Stakes like the one I just agreed to?” asked Shotaro, a sad grin tracing across his face.

“Exactly like that.”

Shotaro normally didn’t wear dark clothes.

As a saracent, he was expected to dress in a way that dignified his position in the Four Kingdoms. Finer silks; heavily embroidered haori capes; stiff collars with gold bargello needlework; crisp, ironed clothing; boots of the finest leather, often made of certain yokai by the finest cobblers—all were entirely normal for Shotaro and anyone of his class. Just about the only dark clothing he had were his night robes, which were a dark shade of blue with silver threading.

It would have to do.

Now in his sleeping attire, Shotaro called one of his guards in and told the man he would be resting soon. “I want you to go out with Duken,” he said. “Make a night of it.”

“Are you certain, Your Lordship?”

“Yes, a night of it. I can’t do that anymore, you know. Too old. Here’s a couple of gold coins.” Shotaro dropped a coin purse down from his sleeve. “I am demanding you do that. Have fun, young man, and do so for me.”

His ploy worked. As soon as the guards were gone, Shotaro stuffed his flask in the front of his robes and guided his leather belt around his waist, his gut spilling over it. From there, he waited. It was another forty minutes or so before Romulus showed up, the fixer also wearing dark clothing.

“My night robes were all I had,” Shotaro said, even though Romulus hadn’t asked.

The two departed, Romulus leading the way to Lunthar’s summer home.

The streets of Seondzus were buzzing that night, lit by paper lanterns tied to ropes above, their halo-like glows orange and warm. There was a slight breeze, but not enough to rattle the lamps. The wind carried a variety of smells, from roasted meat to a warm cider that they made locally that Shotaro wasn’t a fan of. The smell reminded him of the liquid courage that would be required to break into a magnate’s home.

He felt a familiar thirst.

Before they could head any further, Shotaro stuffed his hand into his robes and found the flask of a kvoss that definitely wasn’t from Eastlon. He drank half of it and handed the flask to Romulus. “The rest is for you.”

“I’m fine.”

“I insist.”

Romulus took the flask from Shotaro and poured some into his open mouth. “Happy?”

Shotaro swiped the flask out of his hand and finished it. He wiped his arm across his mouth and stuffed the flask back into the front of his robes. “How much further? I can’t remember it being this far,” he said, suddenly on edge. Shotaro instinctively went for the grip of his weapon, ready for anything as they turned the corner.

“Just around the corner from here. Relax.”

Shotaro recognized the area now, the trim bushes and rough flagstones that he had complained about during their last visit.

Sure enough, the home at the top of the hill was dark. Even better, the lights were out in the servant quarters behind the place.

“Thank you, Livia,” he said as they crept up the pathway to the main door. He turned back to Romulus, who was trying to make himself look small and failing miserably. “How do you want to do this?”

“You assume I can pick a lock.”

“I don’t assume; I just figured you’d know a way in.”

“You’re lucky, Shotaro.” Romulus slipped around the Icenordian and went for something in his pocket. He began fiddling with the locks, which was much louder than Shotaro would have liked.

“Hurry, will you?”

“It is not that easy to pick a lock.”

“We’ll be spotted.”

“Just a bit more…” Romulus let out a sigh of relief as the door clicked. “That does it.”

“Let’s make this fast.”

“How will you see inside?”

“My eyes,” Shotaro said. “I will guide you.”

“Heh, I forgot you Icers have that power.”

“It comes in handy,” Shotaro said as he stepped into the mud room. He transitioned to the parlor, where he saw a wooden box placed on the same table where Lunthar had held the game of spinning die.

Now, Shotaro would correct that.

Now, he would seize what was rightfully his.

Or so he thought…

The box turned out to be empty; Shotaro ground his teeth as he turned back to Romulus, his hands shaking. “That would have been too easy, wouldn’t it?”

“It would have, yes. Let’s head into the next room. He has several more to go before we’ll reach his bedroom,” Romulus whispered. “It’s a strange layout.”

“You don’t think he has the wristlet on him, do you?”

“No. Lunthar is clumsy with his relics. I noticed it. You saw, didn’t you?”

“You mean how the wristlet was just sitting on the mantel?”

“Exactly.” Romulus began to burp and swallowed it just in time. “Sorry. Lead the way.”

Shotaro placed his hand on the Middlinger’s arm and guided him into another room, one with plenty of seating around a table made from polished stone. It was quite the piece. Shotaro appreciated its craftsmanship as they passed by the table, knocking his fist against the surface.

“Sorry,” he told Romulus when he realized just how loud his actions had been.

The next room was accessed via a set of stairs that led down into a parlor that smelled of smoke, one where Lunthar clearly liked to nurse a pipe. A bit of light entered the room from above, Shotaro not certain of where it was coming from. It was here, in a shiny wooden desk, that he found the treasonous document he had signed.

“Make yourself useful and hold this,” he told Romulus as he gave him the parchment. “We just need to find…”

Shotaro scanned the room again and stopped on a display case. He found exactly what he was looking for, the Wristlet of Droll placed on the same satin cushion it had been displayed on the last time he’d seen it.

He approached the wristlet, and as he did the screaming that had been ever present at the back of his thoughts dimmed until it no longer existed. It was a magnificent decrescendo, one that brought a satisfying sigh to the Icenordian saracent as he fixed the jewelry over his wrist.

Wham!

The strike that followed caused everything to flash.

Shotaro stumbled forward, colliding with a lantern.

As he got to his feet, he caught Lunthar standing near him with a club, pointing it at Romulus. “You dare—”

Shotaro tackled the magnate and tried to get on top of him.

Perhaps in his heyday, or even a few years back when he was in better shape, Shotaro would have been able to take the spry and sinewy magnate. Yet it wasn’t long in their struggle that he was sucking in breaths that felt tinged with blood, his heart wailing in his chest.

“And you!” Lunthar brought his hands around Shotaro’s shoulders and slammed him against the floor. He did so again; the sound of Shotaro’s flask slipping out of his robes and hitting the polished stone tile seemed to echo through the room.

Seizing on the opportunity, Shotaro grabbed his flask and slammed it against the side of Lunthar’s head. The magnate spilled to the side; Shotaro somehow managed to get to his feet.

He drew his shabby sword and pointed it at the magnate. “Stay back,” he bellowed to Romulus who had taken a step closer to the two of them.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Lunthar said, a bead of blood trailing down the side of his face. “You wouldn’t dare, Icer!”

Shotaro swung the dull sword with all his might.

He struck the magnate in the face, the dull blade breaking the man’s jaw as Lunthar flew to the side, directly into a bookshelf.

Before he could get an arm up to protect himself, Shotaro came in again with another strike, this time wielding the blade overhead.

He beat the man with the blunt sword until he was certain, without a shadow of a doubt, that Lunthar was dead. Sucking in deep breaths, tasting more blood, seething with adrenaline and fear, Shotaro turned to Romulus and locked eyes with the large fixer even though the room was spinning. “Let’s go. We got what we came for.”

.Chapter Twenty-Three.

Journey to Shetro Kell

As they continued on at a good clip, Twillo tried to remember what Renda had taught him about absorbing and releasing power. He couldn’t recall her ever mentioning the word dragonessence.

This didn’t surprise him in the least.

His final lesson with the elven orc had been so long ago. Not only that, the last time he’d seen her had been brief and chaotic. Renda had burst into his bedroom, helped him pack a few things, and instructed him to leave and never look back.

The trauma of what had followed, what Twillo had been forced to endure, had a way of obscuring much of his past. He simply had tried to block it out, to forget about it completely, which had a way of also blurring her many lessons. At the time, this felt justified. And as he aged into the life of a relic hunter, one who was always on the move with their identity obscured, his past had a way of fading into the background even further. He had truly embraced the role of Twillo, Jhaeros Shotaro Vos simply a name.

Yet now, asked by Adventus to recall what he had learned, it was this very past that Twillo needed to comb through, trauma that he needed to unpack.

It would take some time.

They camped that first night on a small plateau, one that overlooked the road from E’Kanth to Shetro Kell. Built during the time of Yanzon the Undisputable, the roads that crossed the Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland were remarkable in their longevity. The irony that Victrin Otonashi the Victorious had used these very same roads to swiftly move his armies toward E’Kanth to later take the Capitol was simply an act of history. As structures were built on top of one another, victories followed, one emperor’s advances used by a future emperor to take the throne.

Such was life.

From his current vantage point, Twillo could see other fires within several miles of them, campers and wanderers, perhaps bandits. He had chosen their current location because he had thought that it would give them some privacy. This didn’t seem to be the case. With spring on the horizon, more people looked to be traveling. Had he taken this very same journey during winter, Twillo could have camped in the middle of the road itself. But now, the area was busy, not quite bustling, but not far off.

“This probably isn’t a good place for us to work on dragonessence,” Adventus said, the dragon picking up on Twillo’s thoughts.

“You said I could work on it through meditation. Can you teach me that?”

“First, you’d have to know how to meditate. Is this something in your spiritual practice? I haven’t seen it thus far, if that is the case.”

“I don’t really have a spiritual practice. I mostly just ask Livia for help, sometimes Vitharr, and try to give as much as I can to the churches when I’m able. I suppose that is my practice. Give when I can, pray for any help, and hope for the best.”

Adventus laughed. “You are generous for a poor man.”

“I wouldn’t consider myself poor.”

“No, I wouldn’t either. Perhaps I misspoke. You have a wealth that many only wish they could embrace, one of comfortable austerity. Regarding meditation, you would need to have a particular practice, or know other techniques to begin cycling dragonessence in this way. I don’t think it’s something I could teach you, but it is something you could perhaps learn from a warrior monk of Southfall. There is a lot you could learn from one of those monks. Yet from how you’ve made it sound, they aren’t very accessible.”

“No, they are not. I suppose I can practice trying to cycle just using my hands.” Twillo gestured as he had earlier, touching his wristlet and moving his hand away, the silver-hued energy following his fingertips.

“Yes, that’s a possibility. But if we want to advance quickly, which we do, it would be best for us to find one of these warrior monks.”

“Finding a Southfallian monk that would be willing to help us won’t be easy,” Twillo said as he got to his feet.

“It won’t, no, but perhaps my appearance could help convince one that it would be a worthwhile endeavor. These dragons that we will eventually free, they will need riders. Some will find their own, but initially, it would be good to have someone available, someone willing.”

“And reaching the first ziggurat will free the dragons or just power?”

“Advanced power is what is needed to free the dragons. Reaching the first ziggurat will help me take my second form. I believe reaching the next one will help me either take my third form, or begin releasing dragons. From there, I do not know what will happen. Think of these ziggurats as realm locks. The dragonessence they release needs to be used with extreme caution. I will gauge that accordingly. We will need other riders, though. And they need to be individuals that we trust.”

Twillo thought of the two Icenordian monks he was most familiar with, Vradon and Olaf. He knew them well enough to know that they wouldn’t be interested in hopping on the back of a dragon and fighting some war that was yet to come. There were others he had met over the years, however, scrappy relic hunters and maybe even a few fixers. He would have volunteered Anneli Vrignava if she hadn’t stolen from him…

An idea came to Twillo, one related to training in the south. “I have never seen one personally, but I have heard that there are pillar dwellers around the Oraibi Monument. They are called Stylites.”

“Stylites?”

“Did these monks not exist in your time?”

“I can’t say that they did. What are they?”

Twillo recalled the abandoned pillar he had encountered in the southern desert, one with a platform at the top. He had even climbed to the top to examine the space, the relic hunter surprised to see just how small the platform was. “Stylites are hermits. They live at the top of pillars. I’ve heard that some torture themselves.”

“Mortification of the flesh? How would that bring them closer to any of the gods?”

“They do it for Leenaka.”

“The Goddess of Fertility? These Stylite monks think offering up their own flesh will somehow help them?”

“Southfall is a tough region to live in. It’s unlike any of the others, especially the further south you get. Well, I suppose that one could equate its desert with the ones in Icenor, but the Icenordian deserts, while barren, still have life and water from snowmelt. Southfall not so much.”

“It is, it would make sense that the absence of dragonessence would lead to perversions.”

Twillo closed his eyes and pressed his palm out. He held that there, imagining dragonessence swirling around his fingertips. He shook his head. “Less imagining, more cycling.”

“There isn’t time to be hard on yourself. Once you better understand the power, or perhaps after we have visited more vortexes and ziggurats, whatever you have imagined will be squashed by what you are able to accomplish. One thing I can say, however, based on what you were doing earlier with the sword. You cannot force the cycling of dragonessence. It will not bend to your will. The usage of this power will be tied to everything about you, from your current mindset to your skill level. Think of it like water in that regard. Move with it, not against it.”

Twillo opened his eyes and relaxed his shoulders. He rolled up his sleeve and looked down at the glowing blue jewel on his wristlet. He touched it again. As he pulled his hand away, he saw more silver energy roll over his fingertips. It was vaporous, not quite water-like and certainly not like smoke.

As he slowly began to massage the power, Twillo noticed the outline of a silver sphere begin to form. Once he was better practiced, or perhaps after he met someone who could show him techniques that would give him an edge, Twillo would be able to conjure dragonessence without the usage of his wristlet. He would then use it to enhance his physical capabilities, and he would cycle this power to increase the amount he was able to store. Maybe, if he was lucky, he would even get good enough that he could imbue a relic with some property.

That remained to be seen.

The forests beyond E’Kanth provided cover from an increasingly warm sun. As they traveled, Adventus and Twillo fell into a quiet spell, sometimes interrupted by Oats, who was quite gassy at times. The following night, as they camped in a thicket of trees away from the main road, Twillo practiced accessing dragonessence. It became more instinctual at some point, yet he still wasn’t able to turn it on without touching the wristlet.

He trained with his sword the next morning, moving through some of the warm-up techniques that Renda had taught him. Twillo was surprised to find himself going through the motions—overhead raises with his sword, side-to-side twists, behind the back twists using his torso to further the stretch, then leg stretches and something Renda had called sword infinite, which was a technique in which he traced an infinity sign in the air while holding the sword with one hand to strengthen his wrist and practice weapon balance.

Twillo could tell that there was a way to access power. He could sense that he wasn’t far from being able to do something like spark his own dragonessence and augment an attack. Yet he also knew that rushing to do so would be premature. First, he needed to access the power swiftly and be able to cycle it. Then, as Adventus had suggested, the sky was the limit.

And it truly was.

It was on the second night that he got a better grip in using dragonessence to float. The stability necessary took some concentration. Yet again, it was one of Renda’s lessons on focus that helped him in the end. By finding a single point of focus and ignoring all on the periphery, Twillo was able to float and actually move forward. Once he mastered this, there were a number of things he could think of that would make his relics obsolete. No longer would he need the Gloves of Maruth to climb things if he could simply float. Not only that, if he was able to utilize dragonessence as an actual force, he could do things like simply blow a door off its hinges, rather than use the Enkiro Ring of Animation.

Dragonessence wouldn’t entirely replace Twillo’s usage of relics, but it would certainly change what he was able to do.

The third day was met with more sword practice, Twillo working in a meadow that he was certain was a meeting ground for yokai based on some of the trinkets left behind. He knew yokai had smaller villages in harder to reach parts of the Sagaland, yet he had never come across one, only the hints that they truly existed. Perhaps if he met with Katashi the kitsune in Vendir he’d ask the man to take him one day.

A rest break before noon provided another opportunity for Twillo to practice accessing his power and releasing it, yet he still wasn’t able to cycle dragonessence. Soon, they would reach Shetro Kell, the Oraibi Monument and the ziggurat somewhere west of the city.

All they needed to find it was a little luck.

In three days’ journey a landscape can change drastically.

As if a veil was lifted, the budding greenery of Middling slowly faded away to reveal a hardtop feathered by twists of sand, one that would soon lift into the great rock formations draped in shadows from the lavender clouds above. A dust-covered landscape of sandstone colors and intricate mazes of fissures and hidden passageways was in store, a place of arid crevasses and hidden nooks where one could find everything from a skeleton to a quick meal.

And for all of it to crumble.

Twillo knew from his travels that this was what eventually happened in the desert kingdom the closer one grew to the southern coast. The mountains and canyons turned to dust, to great sand dunes that filtered away toward the peninsula city of Longtail, one so hard to reach by land that most either sailed from Nalig in the north or from the Southfallian capital of Acrine.

The kingdom of Southfall was ruled by Ravenna Murkairn, a combat veteran out of Enkiro who, in traditional Southfallian fashion, was once a monk and even a member of the Emperor’s Magi. The kingdom was a magical and mysterious place, yet Twillo was glad to finally see the semblance of civilization after a long journey through a thicket of woods south of E’Kanth. It brought him comfort.

While he hadn’t yet been able to replicate what he had accomplished on the first day, still not able to fully cycle dragonessence, he had been able to use the power in certain ways. By tapping the wristlet, Twillo had successfully floated himself several times now with control. He had even started to use the power to float other objects. According to Adventus, his understanding of dragonessence would continue to grow exponentially over the coming weeks.

“There will be a time when you look back on this trip and laugh at how little you could do, yet you should also feel true accomplishment. You are advancing rapidly.”

While Twillo hadn’t summoned Adventus during the journey—the relic hunter more interested in keeping his stored power—it was agreed that he would do so at night after leaving Shetro Kell. They would use the white dragon’s surveillance ability to their advantage, hopefully able to span long distances in a short amount of time and spot one of the pillar monks known as Stylites. Twillo was convinced that this would be the easiest way to learn more about actually cultivating dragonessence; the nuns and monks who took this role were often esoteric in nature, and would perhaps be more susceptible to helping Twillo over someone who was trying to become part of the Emperor’s Magi.

It was a gamble, but everything in his life was at this point.

As the road began to grow in size to accommodate camel-drawn carts and other travelers, Twillo kept to the side. His hood over his head, even though it was warm, the relic hunter did his best to maintain a low profile.  There weren’t many Icenordians that visited the kingdom of Southfall. There was a stave church in the main cities, and winter often brought tourists looking to escape the cold up north, but Twillo’s appearance would be one that would draw eyes if he stuck around for too long. His white hair, his elven ears, tattoos, and earrings—he would certainly stand out.

Shetro Kell spanned for miles, the city consisting of brick and sandstone buildings all low to the ground. It was rare to find a building that was more than one story tall, and while the underground networks connecting some of the structures weren’t as vast as they were in places like Acrine, capital of Southfall, there were plenty of these hidden passageways to escape the heat. The buildings were constructed low to the ground due to the great winds that roared across the desert. Just about the only thing visible on the skyline were minarets, Twillo just happening to come to reach the city during the afternoon Call to Remembrance, as it was known.

“The Sprin Yundolee,” Adventus said. “I didn’t know if they still did it.”

“They do.”

The Call to Remembrance, or Sprin Yundolee, was a memory prayer to Sphaerus, God of Wisdom. The minarets allowed for it to be amplified, monks and nuns at the top chanting in specially designated chambers. The sound was haunting, and from what Twillo had experience, it could be heard across the desert. There were times when he had wondered if what he had heard was an auditory hallucination, not unlike the Fata Morgana. It was things like this that made him question time and space.

Twillo soon reached the one-story stave church, its square rooftop marked by a carved stone dragon on each corner. “I think I’ll keep you just a little longer,” he told Oats as he tied the horse to a stake in the shade of the church. After he made sure the horse had some water and feed, Twillo turned to the church, known as the Nor Sandress.

Because of the traditional heights of the buildings, the Nor Sandress had been built deep into the ground, meaning Twillo had to take a flight of stairs down to reach the main entrance.

“Do you sense a vortex, Left-Handed One?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Twillo said as he carefully opened the large wooden door. Walking into the nave, he looked up to the rafters, where a stained glass ceiling let in light, the image depicting a hooded figure riding a dragon. A smirk slowly cut across Twillo’s face. He had been visiting these places for so long, yet only now recognized what the space had been used for, the interior large enough to fit Adventus in his first form.

“There is power here,” Twillo finally said as he pulled back the sleeve of his overcoat and saw the jewel glowing on his wristlet.

“Yes. you should absorb it. It doesn’t seem like anyone is here.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Twillo placed his bags and his sword on a side bench. He sat on his knees before the altar and tapped the jewel. A swirl of dragonessence followed his fingertips. His next movement was instinctual. He circled his hand in the air before him, the dragonessence of the space funneling into his palm. This was one of the techniques that Adventus had taught over the course of their journey to Shetro Kell, an easy way to conduct the mana of their world.

Twillo began to float as power poured into him. He felt what was becoming an increasingly familiar sensation of excitement in his core, yet he was in control, and was soon able to lower himself safely to the ground.

“You continue to improve, Left-Handed One.”

Twillo slowly got to his feet. “Glad to hear that.”

“Where to now?”

“To the crypt. I need to grab something before we continue.”

One thing Twillo had noticed in working with dragonessence was that he slept better afterward. He was long past the years of troubled sleep—those were reserved for the trauma of his youth—but he was normally a light sleeper, a fact nullified by the dragonessence.

It was a welcome change.

He slipped out of the crypt later that night, the keepers of the stave church asleep in their rooms across the hallway. Twillo now had what he needed, a relic known as the Butterflies of Light. He also had refilled a small jar of ground yandori shell, which was useful in producing a hallucination, and he had topped off his supply of basanic fire. Another important relic, one known as the Firkin of Replenishing, was strapped across his back. This would prove crucial in the coming days.

Twillo approached Oats, who had been given more feed, likely by the pair that ran the Sandress Nor Church. “What should we do about you?” he asked as he ran his fingers across the horse’s forehead.

“You have enough power to summon me for a short while,” Adventus said. “I don’t know if I made that clear or not earlier. This is the advantage in what you have done in storing your power.”

Twillo considered this as he continued to run his hand along Oats’ snout. The horse snorted. “It does seem like he wants to go with us. My only concern is that I may need you later, in the ziggurat itself. There is no telling what we will encounter.”

“That is likely true.”

“And there’s not a vortex here.”

“But there may be one near the Oraibi Monument. There was ages ago.”

“Are you certain?” Twillo asked the dragon.

“I am. But I have no way of knowing if it is actually there or not. It may have been covered by the desert. Are there any churches out there? Any buildings?”

Twillo remembered the last time he had visited the three enormous swords practically pinned to the land. There was a small settlement a mile or so away, near a natural spring. “I know a place near an oasis.”

“A natural spring. That’s it. That’s the vortex.”

“You’re sure?”

“Natural springs don’t come often in the deserts of Southfall. You said it was natural, right? You are certain it wasn’t built by water harvesters?”

“I believe it was natural.”

“Then that settles it. We can fly for as long as we can toward the mountains west of here. Oats is no longer needed.”

Twillo hesitated. Aside from the dream he’d had, Twillo hadn’t thought much about actually riding a dragon. He could handle heights, but he didn’t know how well he would handle being that high up. And to have all of it tied to the energy he was actively storing only made it riskier. Sure, there was his wristlet, but aside from power management, there was literally no safety net.

A flight to the desert could prove disastrous.

“Well?” Adventus asked.

Twillo nodded, slowly summoning a courage he had developed long ago. “You think I’m ready?”

Adventus laughed long and hard. “Do I think you’re ready? No one is ready to ride a dragon, but you are as ready as you’ll ever be. Let’s return Oats.”

Twillo mounted the horse. Soon, he had reached the western gate of Shetro Kell, where he was able to return Oats and get his gold coin deposit back. “Even at night, huh?” Adventus commented as Twillo walked toward a line of merchants with lanterns sitting on sandstone bricks.

“The merchants?”

“No, I expected them. I mean the horse service.”

“Yes, even at night. The Otonashis have truly made some improvements. I don’t agree with it all, but small things like this keep the kingdom operating. There is less starvation as well.”

“Oh?”

“Grain and meat movement. Part of Victrin’s restructuring was having the kingdoms focus on what they were able to produce more efficiently. Middling, being the breadbasket of the Sagaland, usually produces most of the grain. Tribute Islands produce tropical fruits and fish, which are distributed all across the four kingdoms. Icenor has very good root vegetables and certain kinds of meat. Southfall has spices and meats as well.”

Twillo realized it looked like he was talking to himself. He cleared his throat, made sure no one had paid any attention to him, and moved on to the row of merchants.

After a little perusing, he bought plenty of bread and dried meats, enough to feed anyone he came across. He also bought items he may need including leather strips and cloth. Knowing that he would be in the sun, Twillo purchased a kind of cloak they wore in the south, one of cheesecloth design made to go over a person’s clothing and provide more shade from the sun. From there, he filled up his Firkin of Replenishing and set off, straight into the desert, the pack heavy on his back, four gold coins in his pocket.

The firkin was a remarkable relic, one that would replenish itself with water as long as it remained half-full. When handling it earlier, Twillo had also noticed something else—the silvery glow of dragonessence. It was becoming increasingly visible to him. He would soon be able to see it in the objects around him.

He looked forward to that day.

“We just need to get far enough away that the city guards won’t see us,” Adventus told him.

Twillo started off the main road which would bring one from Shetro Kell to Enkiro and the mountain city of Seondzus. He traveled until he came to a bluff, one that overlooked a dry riverbed.

“This looks as good a place as any.”

“Are you ready, Left-Handed One?”

Twillo made sure his firkin was tightly strapped to his body, his satchel full of items and his sword, and letter opener, at his waist, all secured. “I think?”

“Then summon me.”

Twillo placed his hand on the wristlet. He bent his head forward, the energy starting to lift in pillars around him. It began to ripple and crackle; cosmic dust exploded from every direction and came together to form the white dragon.

Adventus threw his head back and let out a puff of blue fire. His voice was loud and clear as he stretched his wings wide: “It feels good to be alive. Climb on.”

.Chapter Twenty-Four.

Pillar Monks and Dragon Riding

Twillo’s first reaction was to laugh. It came on suddenly as Adventus tore through the air, the cold desert air pressing past the two of them. He was so afraid that he laughed even harder, to the point that tears started coming. Twillo buried his head for a moment, holding on just as Adventus had instructed him as they arced even higher into the night’s sky.

“Keep an eye on your power, Left-Handed One! I will know as well when I’m nearing exhaustion, but two heads are better than one.”

Even faster movements from the dragon caused Twillo to buckle forward, the strands of his long white hair whipping around his face as they plummeted toward the ground. Yet again, Adventus rose higher into the sky, his wings spread wide as he circled above the desert. The contours of his upper back and shoulders were shaped perfectly, a place meant for dragon riders, the ridges that rose from the back of the dragon’s neck creating a natural saddle.

“What do you see?” Twillo asked once the dragon slowed to a steady clip.

“A pillar in the distance. Perhaps one of the Stylites monks you mentioned is there?”

“Is it in the direction of the Oraibi Monument?” Twillo looked ahead, expecting to see the giant swords lifting out of the ground. Even with his enhanced vision, all he could make out was the outline of a cluster of mountains, purple light tracing over their craggy forms.

“Yes, west. As long as we head west, we’ll reach the Monument. Shall we check on the pillar?”

“Can you fly higher?”

“I most certainly can!”

“Fly higher and we can come down around it. I’ll approach on foot. Better that way; if someone is there, it’s best they don’t spot us initially.”

Twillo felt the sheer power of the dragon as Adventus sent his wings behind him, the two pressing through a wispy cloud. It certainly wasn’t like riding a horse or any other creature Twillo had ever ridden. The natural saddle he’d found himself in was akin to the humps of a camel, but that was about the only similarity between the two species, camels with their thick fur, attitudes, and bony gait. Adventus was the exact opposite. No smell, white scales cool to the touch, the dragon as graceful as a hawk, completely in control of its movements.

“I’ve waited ages for this,” Adventus said, his voice loud and booming.

“You can’t fly in the Realm of the Forgotten?”

“I can, but it is not the same in pitch black. Hold on!”

Adventus began to spiral. Slowly at first, but soon he was moving at a speed that had the world somersaulting around them. Adventus broke his barrel roll and was steady again, Twillo’s stomach feeling as if it were sixteen feet in front of him.

A deep breath in helped some, yet the exhilaration, the sheer movement so high up, had his skin crawling again.

As he had before, Twillo laughed.

“You keep laughing!”

“This is amazing. Amazing! I can’t believe people used to do this!”

“That they did,” Adventus said as he came to a complete stop. He stayed there for a moment, his neck bent forward as he scanned the ground below. Twillo tried to scan it as well, but it seemed so far away, so minuscule.

He caught a glimpse of the wristlet.

The blue jewel wasn’t glowing as brightly as it once had. It pulsed in a slow way, which led him to believe that faster pulsing might mean that he was running out of power. That was the strange thing about all of this—he had summoned Adventus through dragonessence. It was Twillo’s power that was keeping Adventus alive. They truly were soulbound.

Adventus reared up and dipped toward the desert below. He neared the ground, kicking up clouds of dust as he settled.

Once Twillo was sure he could dismount, he hopped off the dragon. His knees buckled immediately, the sensation of being on solid ground suddenly foreign to him. He caught himself and looked up at Adventus, who lowered his snout to the relic hunter.

“Not bad for your first flight, Left-Handed One. Catch your breath and we can move on. I suppose waiting until morning before contacting the monk would be the courteous thing. You can set up camp there.” Adventus motioned his wings toward a gathering of boulders, some with overhangs large enough to shield someone from the sun.

“Or I can try tonight. Let me catch my breath, as you said. The sooner we continue on, the better.”

Twillo took his time on his way toward a fifty-foot-tall pillar that rose out of the desert, a beacon of austerity. It was clear that there was a Stylite at the top, the ascetic’s form visible in the hints of a glowing fire.

“I wonder if they will respond,” Adventus said, the dragon gone now, his voice at the back of Twillo’s head yet again.

“I’m guessing they won’t.”

“Then what will you do? Will you climb up there?”

“They usually have a way of preventing that due to bandits. I’ll figure out a way.”

“I’m sure you will, Left-Handed One.”

It took Twillo another thirty minutes to reach the pillar. Once he did so, he set his things on the ground, hoping it would be obvious that he wasn’t there to rob the religious recluse.

When it was clear that the person hadn’t noticed him, he brought his hands to his mouth and shouted: “Hello up there. I’ve come for a visit along my way to the Oraibi Monument. I have food and water. Care for a chat?”

“Care for a chat?” Adventus asked once there was no response.

Twillo shrugged. “It seemed like the right way to start things off,” he said under his breath. “I’ll try again.”

It soon became clear that Twillo wasn’t going to be able to get the hermit to respond. Not only that, if he kept yelling, he would likely draw unwanted attention. “Last time,” he called up to the top of the pillar. The space at the top was protected by a parapet, one with a bucket and rope currently hanging over its edge.

While Twillo could always use his Gloves of Maruth to climb up, this would be no better than simply taking the ladder that had been chiseled into the surface of the pillar. He had another way now, one that would put his dragonessence to the test.

Twillo touched the wristlet.

“Ah, looking to scare the hermit, are we?” asked Adventus once it became clear what Twillo was planning to do.

“Not scare, but if they aren’t responding…” Twillo began to hover. It was slow at first, the relic hunter floating just a few inches above the ground. Soon, he rose high enough into the air that a fall to the ground would come coupled with severe injury. “This is what I need to do at the wolvencree’s cave.”

“I still can’t believe you plan to go back there.”

“It’s on the way,” he told Adventus as he cleared the parapet and landed on the platform. The Stylite came toward him with a pole. “Wait!” Twillo told the nun, who stopped just inches away from striking him. “It’s not what it seems.”

The light from the small fire she had in a chimney made of clay revealed traces of her hooded face, one with long wrinkles trailing down her cheeks. “Speak quickly, elf. Do not think for a minute I don’t know how to use this thing.” To emphasize her words, she shoved the pole forward, yet again coming inches away from striking Twillo in the chest.

“I’m unarmed, Your Ladyship. I left my sword down there.”

“You have a knife at your waist, and you have used a relic to float,” the nun said, her eyes darting to the fading blue glow near his wrist.

“It’s a letter opener,” Twillo told her, still maintaining his smile. “I’m sorry to barge up here like I did. Perhaps I should have waited until morning.”

As cautiously as ever Twillo pulled up his sleeve, revealing the glowing blue jewel of his wristlet.

“You have a relic. Many do. Why would you come to me with this?”

“It’s no ordinary relic, and I didn’t exactly use it to float.” Twillo gulped. He hadn’t actually had to explain what he was doing to anyone since encountering Adventus. Now that he had an audience, he found it hard to get the words out.

“Be honest with her, Left-Handed One. She is a hermit and no one is around to believe her. If you must summon me, do so. But do keep an eye on your power. If she strikes you, you will need to catch yourself before you hit the ground.”

“You might not believe what I have to say next,” Twillo told the woman, “but this wristlet here came into my possession in a cave in Icenor. I was on my deathbed, and a dragon came to me.”

“A dragon?”

“Yes. Somehow I have made contact with the Realm of the Forgotten and activated my own dragonessence through this relic, which I can use to summon this dragon. I know it all sounds crazy—”

Her eyes softened into something that resembled despair. “Are you saying the Senja have returned?”

“You know of the Senja?” Twillo asked.

“What is your name?”

“Twillo.”

“Your real name. That is a Sagic word, not a name I’ve ever heard, even for an elf.”

“Jhaeros Shotaro Vos, former Saracent of Sparrow’s Rise.”

“Former?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We are atop a pillar with all the time in the world,” the Stylite nun told him. “But I suppose storytime can wait.”

“You mentioned the Senja. That is exactly why the dragon has come to my aid, to help me thwart what will happen to the Four Kingdoms once they return. Mark my words,” Twillo said, his smile fading, “they are coming.”

“And the dragon is with you now?”

“He is. I can hear his voice in my head, and I can also use my wristlet to summon him. He has agreed to meet you, if you’d like.”

The woman gradually lowered her staff. “Meet a dragon?”

“Yes. What may I call you, Your Ladyship?”

She pulled her hood off her head, revealing a white V painted on her forehead that trailed down the bridge of her nose. “You may call me Sister Tonandi. And I do not know if now is the time for me to meet a dragon. I don’t know if it’s something my old heart can take.”

“You seem pretty hearty to me. You are, after all, a Stylite nun,” he told the woman. Sister Tonandi was skin over a skeleton as they said in Icenor. If she wasn’t fasting, she was eating very little. From a quick look around at her supplies, it was clear that she was in need of a resupply. “It takes a certain kind of person to do what you do, and you are that kind of person.”

She seemed to scoff at this statement. “You speak as if you know me, as if you know a thing about what I am or why I am here.”

“I don’t pretend to understand your relationship with Sphaerus, Sister. That, I assure you.”

“What is it you would ask of me? You have disturbed me in the middle of the night to tell me that the Senja have returned and that you have the company of a dragon. Why?”

“I know that I will never be like one of the warrior monks of your country, but I do hope to learn something from you, something that would help me better my own skills for when the inevitable comes. I was trained in sword combat, but I know little of using dragonessence alongside it. I also could use assistance in cycling.”

She peered at him for a moment. “You said that you are heading to the Oraibi Monument. Why is that?”

It was at this point that Twillo decided to cut his explanation short. If she was interrogated in the future, she would only know of his existence, not his end goal. “The dragon wants to see it. I do not know why.”

“So you are following orders?”

“Sure, let’s call it that.”

Sister Tonandi turned to the trapdoor exit of her pillar. “Sleep. For now, I would like to sleep. Tonight, you will rest at the bottom of the pillar. It is safe there. Yokai do not come near it. Not normally, anyway. In the morning, after I have decided the best route forward, we will discuss how what I know can help you. There will need to be an exchange for this information. This is how a follower of Sphaerus, God of Wisdom, operates. Information is valuable, especially information deemed illegal to pass along. Thus, an offering must be made.”

“To you, Sister?”

“Yes, to me. Be thinking about what you have to offer.” She stepped aside fully and motioned Twillo to the exit. “Take the stairs down and save your power. You will need it come morning.”

.Chapter Twenty-Five.

Power of the Spheres

Upon waking the next morning, Twillo found Sister Tonandi seated before him, the woman in the same tan robes she had worn last night, her forehead freshly painted. The ironwood ball on the polearm she’d almost struck him with earlier was on the ground next to her, one of its ends wrapped in cloth.

“I thought you would never awaken.”

“The sun is barely up,” Twillo said as he squinted at the sky.

“It is best that we start early, is it not? People don’t often come this way, but that doesn’t mean that they won’t today. There are also yokai and other desert dwellers who may be able to tip the Senja off. I have decided to help you further your advancement,” the nun told him matter-of-factly. “Please understand that by becoming a Stylite, I have vowed not to interfere with worldly affairs. Even so, I’ve decided to act in my limited way. It is a personal choice.”

“Thank you.”

“But I’m not doing it for you; I’m doing it for the greater good. Have you decided what you will exchange for the lesson I am planning to provide you?”

“I have.” Twillo reached for one of his relics. “This replenishes the water that is inside as long as it remains half full.” He tapped on the wrought iron hardware circling around the bottom of the wooden cask. “It’s called the Firkin of Replenishing.”

“I know what it is,” she told him.

“They aren’t entirely uncommon, but they are hard to come by. I didn’t see one up there.”

“The Stylite who held this post before me destroyed it.”

“Why would anyone do that?” asked Twillo.

“To challenge himself. He barely survived, but he decided to pass this challenge on to me. How thoughtful of him.”

“Well, you have this now.” Twillo drummed his fingers on the cask. “It is my offering. You can rest easy knowing that there will always be water available.”

Once she was on her feet, Sister Tonandi stepped away from Twillo and motioned for him to follow. She now used her polearm as a staff. “And you are sure you won’t need the firkin?”

“I need it, but I can get another. Let’s just say I know a guy in Seondzus who can get me another.”

“You may need water between here and the Monument.”

“I may, but I have other ways to find it if so,” he said, referring to his Nalig Dowsing Glove, which allowed him to find both water and hidden passages.

“I have something you can use, but we can deal with that later. Leave your things behind.”

“Tell me, Your Ladyship, how long have you been here?” Twillo asked after he’d caught up with the woman. Even if she was using the polearm as a staff, she was quite nimble.

“At this pillar?” Sister Tonandi stopped walking and glanced up at the sky, as if she were watching the number flutter by. “I’ve been here for over seven years. Three more years, and my post will end.”

“Everyone does ten years?”

“No, most don’t. It is the final test.”

“And what is your reward?”

The Stylite nun settled her gaze on Twillo. “Peace and loneliness. The sky. Watching it change. That is a reward as well, a chance for closeness to Sphaerus.”

“And dragonessence?”

“That has nothing to do with this.” They came to a flat hardtop, one with cracks and fissures twisting through it, accented by diamond-like grains of sand. The nun turned to Twillo. “You are too late to actually train as a warrior monk, but that is not why you’re here. Because of who you may face in the future, you should be aware of what I am about to show you. The Brethren are able to use these powers to some degree as well in their own limited way, but I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about the Magi.”

“You assume the Senja will come from the Emperor’s Magi?”

“They are the only ones with access to forbidden knowledge. The true story behind the Age of Dragons, what Yanzon the Undisputable did afterward to artificers, the documents that were preserved—someone in the Magi would have access to those, and the same someone may even use them to their advantage. I want to show you what they’re capable of. It is important that you know.”

“Should I have my sword?”

“You mean the blunt weapon you left on the ground back there? Having it isn’t necessary for the time being. I only used this to make it easier to walk.” She dropped her polearm on the ground and brought her fists to the ready, the older nun’s knuckle bones practically pressing through her delicate skin.

“I think she wants you to fight her,” Adventus said, his voice startling Twillo to some degree. It had been the first time the dragon had spoken that morning.

“Well? Will you make an attempt?” Sister Tonandi asked after Twillo hesitated.

“You want me to… punch you?”

“You won’t punch me.”

“Are you sure about that?” Twillo asked as he gradually brought his fists up. He lowered them and shook his head. For a moment, he thought he saw a flash of silver around her body, but he couldn’t be sure. “You’re certain?”

“We don’t have all morning.”

After a deep breath out, Twillo approached the woman and prepared to swing at her.

Not certain of what to expect, he went in for a relatively soft punch, one that would have clipped her in the shoulder had the punch landed. His fist never got close to her.

At about a foot away from her body, Twillo struck what felt like an invisible wall.

He was flung backward, and did two complete somersaults before finally coming to a stop. The dust settled around him; Adventus laughed in his head.

“You should have warned me,” Twillo said as he got to his feet.

“Again,” Sister Tonandi told him as he approached. “Fists up.”

“Why would I try to strike you again? It is clear you are protected by some kind of shield.”

“It isn’t a shield. It is dragonessence, or better, my dragonaura. This was why I wasn’t too concerned about your arrival on my platform last night. Had you tried something, well, you see what would have happened now. True warrior monks are protected by their dragonaura. Are you familiar with this term?”

“Somewhat.”

“That is what you struck. It is created through an accumulation of the dragonessence that I currently have stored.”

“Yet you have no way to track it, like my wristlet. This is the case?”

“We are trained from an early age to know what it feels like and to gauge it through ranks. Do you know the feeling of hunger? Of fullness? Of fatigue? It is like this. Start thinking of it in this way. You still will need the relic, but reframing your conception of dragonessence will help. Another way to think of it is the urge to use the restroom. You do know when you have to go, do you not?”

“I have to go now, especially after you nearly knocked the piss out of me just a moment ago.”

Sister Tonandi continued: “What you struck was my dragonaura, which you will need to strengthen in the future. The opponents you come up against, if they are advanced in this way, will likely have a dragonaura. This will also extend to their mounts.”

“Their dragons?”

“Precisely. You will have to break through their dragonaura to actually land a strike.”

“And how will I do that?”

“Repeated attacks, ones that are augmented by dragonessence. Do you understand what it means to augment an attack with dragonessence?”

Twillo offered her a short nod. “I was able to cycle a few days back and recall the power as I was practicing with my sword. I’ve only been able to do that once.”

“So you were taught cycling through combat.”

“Yes, but I don’t remember the lesson.”

“Releasing and retaining it at roughly the same time is always a challenge. You may be able to cycle it later on, but not at the moment. In that case…” She thought for a moment, and as she did a red-tailed hawk did one circle overhead and moved on. “Cycling through spheres could help.”

“Cycling through spheres?”

“I need you to know a little more about combat before I get to that. When warrior monks actually fight, do you know what they’re doing?”

“I’ve never seen them spar, so no.”

“They absorb attacks through various blocks and redistribute them into stronger strikes. So they block,” she said, moving to block with her forearm, “and they release dragonessence at the right moment, or they absorb it. This is why their weapons are made of ironwood rather than steel. They rely more on fists. What makes it challenging is the fact their opponent is doing the same thing, both trying to block one another and overpower at the same time.”

Twillo imagined a pair of monks in tan robes with white paint on their foreheads blocking attacks over and over again.

“This is after their dragonauras have been dismantled. What you need to understand here is that these attacks are fueled by immense energy. The same power that shot you back earlier, imagine that even stronger, more concentrated. Some can even funnel it. Imagine a fist striking you as if it is a spear.”

“That sounds painful.”

“It is deadly. I would show you what that looks like, but we need you alive. Or should I say, your dragon needs you alive.”

“Thank her for me, Left-Handed One.”

Twillo cleared his throat. “He thanks you for that.”

“Some things to be wary of: the first is someone else’s dragonaura. Remember, if they are able to utilize it, you will have to break through it before you can actually reach them with an attack. Even so, they can still utilize dragonessence after you have destroyed their aura. The more advanced will be able to kill you with a single punch. Give them a weapon and it will only make them stronger. Now, cycling through spheres. Sit down with me. And pay close attention to what I’m about to show you.”

Sister Tonandi kept her eyes shut for several minutes before finally opening them, her gaze settled on the seated relic hunter. “The thing that you must understand about dragonessence is that there is no one way to use and cultivate it. Warrior monks have their own system with the ranks and feats that have to be accomplished before one is considered for the next rank. That will not apply to you. You are too old to begin that process.”

Twillo almost made a young at heart joke but he didn’t. He could tell by her tone that she was dead serious.

“That relic you have, the wristlet, do you know anything about it?”

“I do not. Only that my father gave it to me before… his death. My sword as well. They are the only two things I have from my past, from him. And his name, I suppose, but I no longer use that name.”

“Do you know someone that may know about it?”

Twillo thought back to the night that it all happened. He faintly remembered seeing his father’s friend, a fixer out of Seondzus named Romulus who later helped Twillo with some of his first relics. They had never spoken about the incident. “I know one man.”

“Then I would suggest visiting this person and finding out about the relic. The reason I mention this is because it ties back to what I was just telling you. There are different ways to utilize dragonessence. That relic is something that any self-respecting warrior monk or water harvester would never utilize. But it is effective.”

“Why is that? Why wouldn’t they utilize it?” he asked.

“Because in a way, it is cheating. The wristlet allows you to skip much of the prep work that people like me have put into our practice. It accesses your power, the dragonessence you have stored naturally over the course of your life. It amplifies it to some degree, and it allows you to advance faster than you should. You should be taking your time with this power; I realize that this isn’t applicable with your current trajectory.”

“No, it is not. If what the dragon is telling me will come to pass, that I will be hunted, then I will have to advance rapidly. But I’m not opposed to this. And I’m accustomed to using relics. It comes with the territory, does it not?”

“It does. Watch.” Sister Tonandi touched her chest.

As she drew her hand away, silver spheres began to populate the air around her. The orbs were semi-transparent, yet their outer surfaces reflected the sun to create a crown of light that grew bright enough to obscure her body. As she lowered her hand, the spheres faded until there was one melon-sized orb floating above her palm.

“By Livia…”

“This is dragonessence in its purest form. It is what an arcane artificer would have used to imbue an object,” she said, her voice slightly strained, “and it is tied to my life force to the point that if something happened to it, if it were absorbed in some way by someone else, I would die.”

“You mean through combat?” Twillo asked, not able to hide his amazement. He remained transfixed by the glimmering silver orb.

“That and other means. If you want to cultivate your power, you must first be able to summon it this way. It will gather energy, the natural dragonessence of our world, as long as you have it out. Can you see it doing so now?”

Twillo squinted at the silver orb. Even though it was bright, he noticed that its edges were starting to fray. At first, it looked like the orb was diluting, but then he realized it was actually growing larger.

“You see it, don’t you?” Adventus asked. “She is using concentrated dragonessence to attract more power. I told you something similar, did I not? That much of this energy is interchanged, hence the term cycling.”

Twillo touched his chest and brought his hand away. “How do I access it?” he asked the Stylite nun. “Do I use my wristlet first?”

She offered him a knowing smile. “You can’t access it, not yet. Not until the power is unlocked. You see, the way that we practice dragonessence—and by we I mean warrior monks and nuns, water harvesters—is through transmission. Different tiers and different masters can grant a wide variety of skills to practitioners. This is how water harvesters are able to bend the landscape and keep the water flowing. It is also how I am still accessing my core.”

“So I need to have the power unlocked? You can do that?”

“I can. But that is all I can do. Powers can only be transmitted to someone else a finite number of times. I believe I will be able to do so only once more.”

Twillo shook his head. “Are you saying that you would lose your core?”

“No, dragonessence will remain within me, but I will no longer have access to it. What I would be giving you is the power to access your core, allowing you to cycle and cultivate dragonessence in a faster way. You will need to be careful. It is very bright. This technique isn’t something that you would want to do, for example, in one of our cities. Not out in the open. It is highly illegal.”

The sudden reverence Twillo had for the woman was making it difficult for him to know what he should say next. He wanted to thank her, but he wanted to also clarify what she meant by transmitting the skill to Twillo. Was she really willing to make that kind of sacrifice? How would it affect her other powers?

“I have a few questions…”

“I assumed you might. Perhaps what I say next will answer some of them. I am willing to transfer this ability to you. It has probably been hundreds of years since someone like me, a Southfallian, has given an Icenordian like yourself the power to access your core. I could be wrong on that. We live in a strange world of strange occurrences that defy all odds more often than not, a playground for the Gods. But I digress. In giving you this ability, I will forfeit my own access. While I may still be able to cultivate dragonessence in other ways, I won’t be able to do what I’ve already shown you with my dragonaura. So I will be giving up that aspect.”

Yet again, Twillo had the urge to ask her why she would do such a thing but he kept his mouth shut.

Sister Tonandi motioned her chin toward the pillar behind her, the nun seeming to sense what he was thinking. “I am pushing a hundred years old. My death will come soon, within the next several years. I will likely die alone on that pillar. If there ever was a chance for me to leave my mark, to push our world toward a better destination, it is this. So come forward. You will soon have this ability, and then you will continue along your way. In return, I will get to spend my twilight years with enough water to soften the time I’ve spent suffering in this desert.”

Twillo approached the nun and got down on his knees. He bent his head forward in reverence, and she placed her hands on the crown of his head. All this was instinctual, and for a moment, Twillo felt as if he had done something similar before. Had this been a dream that he had forgotten? Was it a vision of the future?

He couldn’t be certain.

The feeling that rolled down his shoulders next was akin to stepping beneath a waterfall in the Tribute Islands on a scorching hot day. It was powerful yet straining, warm yet cold. He sat up, the relic hunter now directly in front of the older nun. He could see every wrinkle on her face, yet her eyes were youthful, brilliant.

“Try it,” she said. “The power is yours now.”

Twillo brought his hand to his chest. As he brought it away he produced a small silver orb. It was nothing like the large sphere she had produced, nor had it been accompanied by the other orbs that had radiated around Sister Tonandi when she had revealed the ability. But it was something, a start.

“Mine seems so weak,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

The Stylite nun offered him a soft smile. “Continue to work on cultivating the power and it will grow stronger over time. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I could use some help bringing that firkin to the top of the pillar. It looks heavy.”

.Chapter Twenty-Six.

Three Swords in the Desert

Twillo knew that what had just happened was a remarkable thing. In the life of traveling and adventure that shaped the man he had become, Twillo was keenly aware of the power of spontaneity, of chance and sheer circumstance.

Yet as he walked in the direction of the Oraibi Monument with newfound power, a smirk appeared on Twillo’s face, one that hid the sheer awe he felt for how things had just played out. He had gotten very lucky in the random encounter with Sister Tonandi, as if Livia herself had intervened…

As soon as he could, Twillo would access his dragonessence core and grow its power. Not only that, he would get a tattoo of the stylite pillar to honor the occasion that he knew would later go on to change his life. Perhaps he would have the tattoo done in the Icenordian capital of Vendir. After all, it was his next stop on the way to the City of the Dead.

Twillo brought the hood of the cloak he’d purchased in Shetro Kell over his head.

He felt good, warm, and energized. As he continued on what was once an ancient road, the relic hunter kept his eyes on the horizon. It was cloudy now, and while there was always a chance for a mirage, it was nothing as bad as it was further south, and nothing like the Fata Morgana that he had grown accustomed to in Icenor.

“Are you sure you have enough water?” Adventus asked as they passed over a dried creekbed, one with fossilized fishbones sparkling in some of the stones.

“I believe it will be enough. There is an oasis near the Monument. I can fill up there.” Twillo now carried the water skin that Sister Tonandi had given him, which he had filled up using the firkin.

“We could also find some shade and take to the sky tonight. That may be the smarter move.”

“And faster.”

“You will also be able to examine your dragonessence core, and perhaps grow its power while we wait.”

Twillo considered this. “Flying sure beats walking. I’ll look for a place. And really, what a morning to be alive.”

“Truly,” Adventus said, a hum of satisfaction in his voice.

Even with the haze from the late morning sun, Twillo expected to see the Oraibi Monument at some point in the distance. Three enormous swords rising out of the ground were hard to miss, yet as he continued on, the sky began to shift from white to gray, thunderclouds appearing. Twillo had just reached a spot of shade when he didn’t need it any longer, the sky growing increasingly dark.

“We need to get to higher ground,” he said.

“That would be advisable, yes. Do not be afraid to summon me.”

“You just want to fly around in the rain, don’t you?” Twillo asked as he started to the south, toward a series of flat-topped hills.

This region of Southfall was defined by horizontal strata, which made for good views and even better shade. It also created natural channels for water to funnel. Growing up in the north, Twillo was aware of how quickly an environment like this could change from barren to a series of running streams and potential floods.

His arrival at the first flat-topped hill was accompanied by thunder.

As he had predicted, the sky opened, the smell of wet rock suddenly heavy in the air. Bolts of lightning followed, Twillo suddenly wishing he had brought an umbrella like the ones they used in E’Kanth.

Within minutes he was completely soaked. While some travelers might have stayed closer to the ground, perhaps finding a place to hide while the rain fell, it was clear to Twillo how lethal this idea would be. The dryness of the desert, its packed hardtop, was unable to absorb water very well. Because of this, it didn’t soak the ground as it did in other parts of the Four Kingdoms.

Natural funnels and rivers became apparent as the water all had to go somewhere. As he watched the water rush below, Twillo noticed an energy to the air. “Do you think…?”

“Once the lightning passes, yes. This would be one way to gather dragonessence.”

Twillo sat on the ground, ignoring how saturated his clothing was as he got comfortable. He waited until the lightning stopped. Once he was certain it had moved on, he brought his hand to his chest, where he could feel the power almost instantly. Pulling his hand away, Twillo noticed a sudden pressure, everything narrowing on the periphery as he produced his core of dragonessence.

The rain that was falling began to spin around the small silver sphere of energy, yet it never touched the sphere as the outer edges of the orb began to fray. Twillo also noticed after keeping it there for a moment that it was becoming increasingly brighter. It reached the point that he couldn’t look at it directly.

“That is enough,” Adventus said as the rain began to let up. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”

“You’re right.”

Now squinting, Twillo reached his hand out to his dragonessence core and it floated back to his chest. He pressed his hand onto the wet clothing, the sphere suddenly gone. He exhaled audibly and the rain completely stopped. Soon, sunbeams cut through the heavens, revealing the gleam of the three enormous sunken swords that made up the Oraibi Monument in the distance.

“Perhaps we should continue now that it is cooler. It will give you a chance to dry off.”

“Yes,” Twillo said as he got to his feet. He shook his hands out and then went about dealing with the water that had soaked his clothing. Once he was halfway dry, he looked out toward the Monument. “What a beautiful sight.”

“It truly is. I feel we will find the ziggurat soon.”

Twillo reached the outpost that had been built along an oasis. The Oraibi Monument was erected on a flat hill that sat over the outpost, the shadow from its three long blades casting vertical stripes onto the myriad tents below.

“That was quite the rain,” said a man holding a ceramic pot used to catch water. He set it down and smiled at Twillo. “Coming in from the desert?”

“I am.”

“Then welcome,” he said, his Southfallian friendliness on display. It came with the part of the Sagaland they called home. They generally had to band together to stay alive. “Need any pointers?”

“Pointers?”

“Do you need me to point you anywhere?”

“Ah, yes, yes. Maybe a meal would be nice. I was drenched earlier, but that has since dried.”

“Cold soup is what you want,” the man said, maintaining a smile.

“Something warm?”

“Not when it’s this hot out.” To exhibit what he meant, he ran his hand across his forehead, wiping the sweat away. There were others behind them, some carrying water casks. All were dressed in desert-appropriate clothing made from the same material as Twillo’s cloak, only thinner. The material had a way of fraying, long strands of it hanging from many a hem.

There were thin goats about, their ears tagged, several lapping from puddles that had yet to dry. Beyond the collection of tents was the oasis itself, its waters muddy from the rain.

“Come, stranger, I’ll show you the best place for soup.” The man set his water down and led Twillo to a tent by the water, one with a ring of red yarn tracing around it, its color almost bleached pink. A man and a woman were seated on polished stones, the man half asleep, the woman stirring a pot of cold liquid. “This is the place. And don’t worry, I’ll put your first bowl on my tab.”

“Thank you,” Twillo told the man, who merely nodded at him before departing.

The cold soup was flavorful and hardy, the thin strips of meat cut into something that resembled noodles. After he’d finished and given his compliments to the chef, the woman merely grunting a friendly ‘thank you,’ Twillo approached the oasis.

“Well, any idea of where we should head next?” he asked Adventus.

“We will need to search at night. Perhaps it is best to leave the outpost.”

“We could climb to the top of the hill, to the monument.”

“We could. Actually, yes, I would say that would be a good place to depart from, but again, we may draw attention.”

“What if I…?” Twillo shook his head.

“Yes?”

“Couldn’t I simply drop over an edge somewhere near you, grab on, and the two of us fly away?”

“You could. Dragon riders of the past often performed stunts like this. They had annual festivals, and they were magnificent. I participated in a few and even won a handful.”

“You had another rider?”

“I did. And once he died, it was an elven woman.”

Something about Adventus’ tone told Twillo that he wasn’t ready to speak about this. Instead of pressing for more information, which was hard because Twillo was actually interested in the past, he asked instead about what they should be looking for. “These ziggurats. Any idea what to expect?”

“By definition it will be a terraced compound with receding levels. It might not be easy to spot at night. There are mountains and hills and the land beyond the monument. Maybe it would be best for me to fly around alone. Then, if you run out of power, I won’t bring you down with me.”

“You would simply fall out of the sky?”

“Not exactly. I would disappear; or rather, return to the intermediary space, the pocket realm. Then you would hear from me in the same way you do now.”

“I still don’t understand exactly how that works. You were in the Realm of the Forgotten.”

“And now I’m in a pocket realm, which gives me access to two realms, but in limited ways. There are four realms total that we know of. You shouldn’t think of them as touching one another because that is not how it works. They simply are. The Realm of the Formless, where the gods live; the Realm of the Formed, where we are; the Realm of the Fortunate—”

“Where the better beings go.”

“Yes, judged by Sphaerus in the end through the Book of Deeds, a catalog of one’s life. And the Realm of the Forgotten, where the wicked go, and creatures like myself are sent.”

“Is the Realm of the Forgotten like this?” Twillo swept his hand toward the oasis.

“No, not in the least bit. It is dark, so incredibly dark that you can’t see anything. Think of it as being banished to eternal darkness. And it is vast. I don’t remember ever meeting anyone else there. Just floating around.”

“And then you were summoned to me.”

“Almost. I spoke to someone, but I do not recall who.”

Twillo’s brow furrowed as he considered this.

Could it have been Livia or her father, Vitharr, God of Fate? It could have also been Vard, God of Good Health, considering Twillo was healed? Or perhaps Yenda, Child Goddess of Youth and Beauty, who could be mischievous? Could it be Sphaerus, God of Wisdom, trying to return an ancient knowledge? Or was Twillo being championed by Father Dawn or Mother Dusk?

He didn’t want to think this. Twillo wasn’t the type to prop himself up in that way. He hardly deserved to even meet a dragon, let alone take part in something that would change the Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland. Yet here he was, now heading up the hill to the Oraibi Monument, where he planned to sit until the sun set.

What was most important was reaching the ziggurat.

Anything else was simply the story that got them to their final destination.

There was a ledge beyond the three swords of the Oraibi Monument, one that would give Twillo a place to sit while Adventus scouted the area. It was a night, the dark sky filled with heavy gray clouds that signaled there would be more rain to come. The desert was quiet.

“Are you ready, Left-Handed One?”

Rather than say anything, Twillo placed his hand on the wristlet. He exhaled a deep breath, and threw his head back, dragonessence pouring from him. The granulated pieces of silver energy formed into Adventus, the dragon batting his wings once before stabilizing in front of Twillo.

A surge of wind struck Twillo, nearly blowing him back.

“I will fly until I find it, or until I run out of power,” Adventus said. “Do not let your dragonessence core glow too brightly.”

“Right,” Twillo said as he accessed his core. It floated before him, light glimmering off its outer surface. “Good luck. May Livia—”

Adventus took off, the dragon veering toward the canyonlands beyond.

Stretching west from the monument were peaks and long flat spaces terraced by the stark cut of the land. A ziggurat would be easy to disguise in a place like this, this part of Southfall difficult to navigate unless one planned to twist through multifarious slot canyons that could be forty feet deep, the sunlight rarely hitting the bottom.

It was a perfect location to hide something, and now that he thought about it, Twillo wished he had come to the region previously to search for relics. Any surface like the one that lay before him was worth scratching.

“Focus,” he reminded himself as he lowered his gaze onto the orb.

He wanted to try something different this time. Rather than gather power quickly, he wanted to do so slowly in hopes that it wouldn’t glow as bright. To do this, Twillo placed his hand beneath the orb and circled his hand, the sphere matching his slower pace. His past in dealing with relics was starting to pay off. Twillo understood the general use of things like this.

Even so, he was surprised it worked.

“Hopefully, this will give you enough strength to find what we need,” he whispered as he watched the sphere offer up a subtle glow. Twillo could no longer see Adventus, but he could feel the dragon in a way that he would never be able to put words to. His limbs had this strange sense to them, a slight tingle, like he himself was flying.

It made him wonder how truly connected they were.

Twillo had come such a long way in such a short time that he could hardly imagine what his life would be like even a week from now. This notion also made him more curious about his past. Had his father known what the wristlet did? Was he actually a better man than Twillo had imagined him to be?

Images of Shotaro Vos flashed across his mind’s eye.

The man’s face was blurred to some degree now, Twillo not able to focus on it fully. He only saw the terror in his father’s troubled eyes when he burst into his bedroom that night and told Twillo to run. This, followed by sounds of sword combat as he protected Twillo’s exit and pushed him into the incredibly difficult journey that lay ahead, one that had gone on to change him.

The struggle of being poor and desolate; the chance encounter with a fixer out of Seondzus who helped and just so happen to be an old friend of his father’s; the path that led him to where he was now, seated beneath the three sword statues rumored to be made by giants watching the night’s sky over a span of badlands awaiting the return of a white dragon.

Twillo didn’t know if he would live long enough to truly appreciate everything that had led him to where he was now, but he certainly hoped so.

“Livia, this is you, isn’t it? You did this?”

Of course, there was no response. Twillo couldn’t see the Goddess of Luck floating before him, a soft look in her eyes as she took in the relic hunter. She reached a hand to the orb he was producing and pressed her fingers through it, softening the glow.

“It is you, isn’t it?” he asked as he watched the edges of the silver sphere fizzle, tears coming to him. He wiped them away. “I’m getting ahead of myself; it could be anything.”

Still hovering before him, Livia offered the relic hunter a soft smile that he would never see. She rose a bit higher into the air, her robes, which extended all the way to the ground below, curled at the hems.

There was a challenge to come soon, one that would put the relic hunter to the test. She wouldn’t be able to intervene directly. Her power didn’t work that way; not only that, but it would draw even more attention from the Realm of the Formless. Yet there were other ways she could intervene, ways that would help a clever Icenordian like Twillo.

He was going to need it.

The Senja were fast approaching, and it wouldn’t be long now until they made contact.

.Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Interlude IV: A Fight from the Past

Shotaro Vos Undlin sat by the window, watching young Jhaeros train with Renda in the courtyard below. The teen was improving, and while his swordsmanship would never match that of his teacher’s, the skills he learned from his lessons would help him in other ways. It would keep him lean and hyper aware of his surroundings, ready to lead Sparrow’s Rise as its next saracent.

All the concepts he’d heard Renda go over with the boy would keep his mind sharp, much sharper than the blade that Shotaro would soon hand down to his son. Shotaro had only needed to use the sword with the golden hilt once, in Seondzus well over a year ago now. And who could blame him? Shotaro had been fighting for his life and for the life of Romulus, who would soon arrive at his estate in Sparrow’s Rise.

In his mind, what Shotaro had done to Lunthar had been valiant. Surely the magnate had overstepped his bounds. Furthermore, he had attacked him!

And what was it that Romulus had mentioned about the man’s wife dying in a mysterious way? Lunthar was hardly a magnate in the traditional sense. It wasn’t like he was born into it; no, he’d gained the money through his wife, whom Shotaro was certain that Lunthar had killed.

The truth of what had happened—that Shotaro had broken into the man’s house, stolen from him and killed him—had been rewritten by Shotaro himself.

In his head, aided by a constant supply of firewater and a self-sycophancy common in those of wealth, Shotaro was the hero. He had bravely recovered the wristlet that belonged to him, and he’d defended not only his own life, but the life of an associate in the process.

He wore the Wristlet of Droll now, as he had for the last several months.

At first, it seemed as if the relic had no power. This had frustrated him to no end, Shotaro on the verge of tossing the wristlet out the very window he sat beside when the jewel had produced a subtle blue glow.

It became clear at that point that he would need to unlock the power. But how?

Possession of relics was technically illegal, even if there was the yearly Artifance in E’Kanth and the smaller shows that followed the Emperor’s Vorn. Finding someone who knew how to unlock the power would take discretion, even with his connections.

Shotaro had already tried to use any influence he had at Torolf College in Padrian Sands to no avail. He had also tried to go through the monks at the Vosrene Stave Church, many of whom owed him a favor, yet was denied any help.

He found this to be a tragedy, really. Over time, no Saracent family, to his knowledge, had given as much money to the stave churches across the Four Kingdoms as his family had. There was even talk to rename the church in Sparrow’s Rise, but Shotaro had humbly pressed back against this for now with hopes of receiving the honor later on in life.

In a strange way, Livia had affected his life yet again.

Shotaro had been on the verge of giving up when he received the letter from Romulus letting him know that he was visiting Sparrow’s Rise. The fixer from Seondzus would arrive later that day with what Shotaro hoped was a solution, a way for him to unlock the power of the wristlet and bring Coraluna back from the dead.

“My love,” he whispered at the thought of her name.

How Shotaro would explain the sudden appearance of his dead wife was something he could figure out later. For now, he still had a fair amount of hope in his heart that it was possible. Not only that, but since obtaining the Wristlet of Droll, the screaming in the back of his head had ground to a stop. So there was that.

Shotaro brought his horn of firewater to his lips. He looked out the window again and returned his focus to Jhaeros, who was guiding a heavy practice sword made of ironwood through the air, Renda watching him closely. His eyes traced over the elven orc’s form, Shotaro yet against stifling his attraction to the woman that he knew was mutual.

He was a saracent. Saracents didn’t have these kinds of relationship with elven orcs. Shotaro had made a lot of mistakes during his lifetime, but he wasn’t going to let this be one of them. Besides, Coraluna would soon be by his side again, his desire for a companion tempered.

He just needed to figure out how to activate the Wristlet of Droll.

Shotaro expected Romulus to show up by suppertime.

Since the man’s arrival was cause for celebration, he now wore light blue robes made of silk from the Tribute Islands, some of his finest clothing. A feast had been prepared, including roasted duck heart on skewers and blue Padrian crab, which was always hard to get at this time of year.

Yet the fixer from Seondzus never showed.

Eventually, once the food started to get cold, Shotaro called his staff in and told them to have it. Shotaro had Renda take Jhaeros to his bedroom while he glumly watched his staff eat. The elven servants settled down to a level in which they felt comfortable with playful banter. The men began to sing an old song about a trickster kitsune who befriended a dragon rider, the women clapping along. A few even stood and began dancing in the way they danced closer to the fjords up near Droll, freely, like no one was watching.

All of it annoyed Shotaro, but he wasn’t the type to take his frustrations out on his servants.

Undlin, his father, had been that type, and Shotaro had vowed long ago never to push it to that level. After all, as he’d seen with his father many times, there was a point of no return, one in which the person you wronged would never be able to look at you the same way.

Later, he called for a barrel of cheap firewater out of Vendir, which his two chefs gladly distributed to the staff. This only made the songs louder, the stories more boisterous, many of the elves with red cheeks and big grins on their faces by the time Shotaro heard a loud knock at the great door that separated his dining area from the entrance hall.

“That must be him,” he said as he lowered his horn of expensive kvoss. Shotaro stood, his servants all going quiet at once. “Do not worry. Romulus and I are old friends. Continue with your merrymaking and I will meet him in another room. Besides, he is late. And I am drunk.” None of them moved. “Please, carry on,” he said as another knock came.

One of Shotaro’s most loyal servants answered the door, the man peeking his head through the crack. Before he could call for Shotaro to join him, the saracent was standing behind the servant prepared to let himself out. He met Romulus in the hallway, a weary smile on his face as he greeted the fixer.

“The servants have eaten me out of house and home,” Shotaro joked as he motioned for Romulus to follow him down the hall, to a room that acted as a meeting area on occasion.

“I apologize for being late—”

“And I apologize for the bottle of kvoss I’ve had during the time it took for you to get here. No matter. But you did miss out on a very decent meal,” Shotaro said, the sound of his singing servants once again echoing down the hall. “In here.”

Before Romulus could enter the room, Shotaro’s servant rushed in and lit a few of the lanterns. Since the staff was either elven or elven orcs, the lighting at night was almost nonexistent. The only reason the entrance hall had been lit was in anticipation of Romulus’ arrival, as the human was not able to see in the dark.

“Please.” Shotaro motioned to a plush leather seat. As naturally as ever, he lowered into the Seat of the House, one carved out of wood and passed through his family for the last couple hundred years.

Romulus sat across from him, the large man waiting until the servant left the room before he spoke. “It has been a while, hasn’t it?” he asked, his tone telling Shotaro that the Middlinger wanted to ease his way into any important conversations.

“No more than a year, but time moves differently depending on your stage in life and the activities that keep one occupied.”

“Yes, activities. And how…” Romulus cleared his throat. “Excuse me. How is your son?”

“My son?” Shotaro eyed the Middlinger suspiciously. He had never once mentioned Jhaeros. “I suppose he is fine. I was watching him train with his combat teacher earlier. I swear he grows several inches every few months. It’s remarkable, and so is he. He is going to be a tall man, a fine man, one who will make a great saracent.”

Romulus glanced down at his hands.

“Is something the matter?”

Shotaro heard a sudden rush of screams from the dining hall, the walls barely muffling them.

“I’m sorry,” Romulus said.

Shotaro was momentarily paralyzed as the screams grew louder, followed by the sound of running footsteps in the hallway. “What have you done?” he finally asked.

“It wasn’t enough money.”

“Wasn’t enough? I gave you fifty bloody platinum coins! That’s more than a small fortune anywhere in the Four Kingdoms. What have you done, Romulus? Answer me!” Shotaro gasped as he suddenly realized a detail he’d missed the night of the robbery.

His face went pale.

While he had successfully stolen the Wristlet of Droll after Lunthar’s murder, Shotaro paid little attention to the contract he’d signed with the magnate, one that Shotaro had hastily given to Romulus to dispose of. That contract contained the details of what Shotaro had agreed to do.

“You… you sold me out!” Shotaro’s eyes leaped to his family sword, currently sitting in its sheath on a table.

“It was high treason, Shotaro. You agreed to help Lunthar kill the Ravenna of Icenor. Surely, Vraizard the Blade would like to know about this considering his life was on the line.”

“On the line? The contract was nullified when Lunthar died.”

“Yet I still had the contract on my person. I needed the funds, I lost—”

“Why would you do this!? I could have given you more. Blast you, Romulus, I could have given you more! I considered you a friend, a dear friend.”

More noises from the hallway followed by the shout of a woman told Shotaro all he needed to know. The woman, Ananda Min, was a saracent out of Icenor’s capital city. If a saracent from Vendir was involved, this meant that Romulus had taken the information all the way to the top, perhaps to Ravenna Vraizard himself.

Shotaro needed to act.

It was clear that his estate would soon be overrun by elven orcs and perhaps the Ravenna’s Honor Guard, Ananda Min leading the charge. He glanced yet again at his sword.

“Think about what you are about to do—”

Shotaro ignored Romulus as he lunged for his weapon. He grabbed it, but rather than strike the fixer who had doublecrossed him, Shotaro charged toward the window. He shouldered through the glass and fell one story down into a thicket of bushes.

Shattered glass and stray branches brought plenty of cuts, yet Shotaro had survived the fall.

Standing, blood dripping from his arms, he looked to the other side of his estate, where Jhaeros stayed.

He had to get to his son.

Shotaro only realized that he’d done something to his ankle after taking his first step. Broken or sprained, he couldn’t tell.

Dragging his foot, he continued toward the entrance to the wing his son stayed in. He had to get to Jhaeros. As terrible of a father as he had been, Shotaro needed to ensure his son’s survival for Coraluna, for whatever was left of his family name after what was set to happen.

He heard Romulus yelling to him from the shattered window above.

Shotaro pressed on, his heart filled with hatred for the Middlinger whom he had so trusted. The metallic, armor-on-armor sounds of what were clearly soldiers moving through his estate pricked his ears.

It was very rare that saracents were stripped of their lands and titles. The last big shakeup had been well over a hundred years ago, when Victrin Otonashi had seized power. Since then there had been little change.

Shotaro felt the sudden weight of a shame that he knew would stain his name and legacy for eternity, a shame that would also end his son’s life if he didn’t get to him in time.

He reached a wrought iron gate and let himself in. He pressed on, aware that he was being pursued, that it wouldn’t be long before Saracent Ananda Min and her soldiers reached him.

Two assassins stepped out of the dark, Shotaro’s heart filling with dread.

They drew their blades, which were much shorter than the swords Icenordians used. Hailing from the Tribute Islands, there was nothing like this particular group known for their gray, featureless masks rimmed in triple-layered shark teeth that obscured their faces.

Brethren, as they were known. Trained killers.

One lunged for Shotaro. The saracent watched in what felt like slow motion as a sword came out of nowhere, the gleam of the blade followed by a trail of blood as the assassin’s head went one way, his body the other.

Renda kept her sword at the ready as she turned to the next Brethren assassin, who pressed back with two blades drawn. Renda met his attack and expertly sunk her sword into his chest, pinning the man who soon gave up the struggle.

“Saracent,” she said, her eyes filling with softness as she turned to Shotaro.

“There are… there are too many coming, Swordmaiden. We won’t survive. Jhaeros must survive. He must escape. I have to give him this.” Shotaro rattled the Wristlet of Droll, which was on the same arm that was holding his sheathed sword. “Both these things—”

“Go, give them to him. He knows the secret passages in the manor. We’ve practiced escaping before.”

“You have? Why?”

Renda took a step closer to Shotaro. “For reasons like this, Your Lordship. Try to escape with Jhaeros. Some of the passages are rather small, but you should fit. You must hurry.”

“No,” he said defiantly. It was so clear to him now. “My story ends here tonight. They won’t hunt him in the same way they’ll hunt me. Where is he now? I’ll go to him.”

“He’s in his room,” she said as a door across from them opened and guards started to spill out.  “I’ve already told him to leave.”

“I’ll return, Renda, and fight alongside you.”

“Without a weapon?”

Shotaro looked down at his sword, the one he was about to give his son. “I’ll take one of the assassins’ blades. I want you to know—” He placed a shaky hand on her shoulder. “I’ve always appreciated you. I’m sorry—”

“Just go,” she said. “And make sure Jhaeros escapes!”

After picking up one of the assassins’ weapons, Shotaro stumbled forward, the Saracent of Sparrow’s Rise dragging his foot behind him. He came to his son’s room and burst through the door to find Jhaeros standing in the dark, his wooden practice sword in hand, the teenage boy trembling.

“Son!”

“F-father?” Jhaeros asked.

“You must leave. Renda said that you know the way. You have to go, son. You have to go now!” Shotaro removed the Wristlet of Droll. “Take this.”

“Your bracelet?”

“Take it, Jhaeros.” Shotaro forced the relic into his son’s hand, no time to explain what it was rumored to do. “And my sword. Take my sword, our family sword. You can get a belt for it later. No, take my belt. No, it won’t fit you. Just take it, Jhaeros. You must go!”

Jhaeros dropped the Wristlet of Droll in a bag already slung over his shoulder, one likely prepared by Renda.

“Good, and my sword, your sword, our family sword.”

Jhaeros took the sword and dropped his wooden practice blade. “I want to help you fight,” he said, a boldness in his eyes that Shotaro hardly recognized.

“No. This isn’t a fight any of us can win.” Shotaro pressed closer to his son and raised a hand to his cheek. “I’m proud of you and… and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I have done. You must not look back, Jhaeros, you must keep moving. You have places to stay in the stave churches we have supported. You know that. I’d say stay here in Sparrow’s Rise but they’ll be looking for you. Instead… Padrian Sands. Get there. And E’Kanth from there. Out of Icenor. The monks will help you, by Livia, I assure you they will help you, son!”

Confusion traced across his son’s face. “And what then?”

“Find a profession, one that won’t tie you to a place—”

“I can hunt relics like you did.”

Shotaro heard shouting at the entrance of the hallway. “Do whatever makes you happy and… and I’m sorry for what you will learn of me in the future. Some of it… I’m afraid, some of it will be true. But that is neither here nor there. Stay strong, Jhaeros, Twillo, like your mother called you. Do not let the sheer weight of existence drag you down.”

“Father—”

“I have to go. You are in Vitharr’s hands now, but I know that Livia will protect you. You must believe that, son!” The sounds of shouts in the other room echoed even louder. “They’re close. I must help Renda.” Shotaro gathered his wits and charged through the door. “Go,” he called back to his son. “By Livia, my boy, you will conquer still!”

Shotaro couldn’t bear to look back at his son as he pushed into the next corridor. He found Renda bleeding badly, the elven orc fighting three blade-wielding elves at once.

Charging forward, he took the brunt of an attack from the largest of the three. The saracent gritted his teeth as he pressed back, trying desperately in that moment to remember what he had learned of sword fighting in his youth.

When it was clear he would be overwhelmed, the spirit of Yodane himself came to Renda, the woman all but channeling the God of War as she used all her might to land a strike on the larger of the guards.

She pressed her sword through the man’s body; Shotaro slipped around her and reached the following man, his arm up and over his head. His momentum was killed once a sword pierced his stomach.

He fell instantly as the sword was drawn away, Shotaro dropping off to the side.

Renda went down next. It took everything he had to drag his body over to her, the pain in his abdomen white hot, blood everywhere. Shotaro covered her with his body as more swords came, stabbing him repeatedly, making a show of what happened when someone crossed Ravenna Vraizard.

As he continued to shield Renda from more attacks, Shotaro could have sworn he felt something lightly fall over his shoulders, as if someone was draping a blanket over him.

The pain changed, and as everything dimmed, Shotaro felt more at peace than he had in years.

The screams had finally stopped.

As his vision began to fade, Shotaro found himself looking at another swordsman, one with long white hair and a tattoo on his neck, the man with a glowing blue wristlet just like the one he had given to his son. Who was he? Who was the man with the neck tattoo?

This strange hallucination was the last thing Shotaro would remember seeing before his death.

.Chapter Twenty-Eight.

A Fight for the Future

Adventus swooped down from high up in the sky, his sudden appearance startling Twillo. He batted his wings again, a gust of wind striking the relic hunter in the face. “I’ve found the ziggurat.”

Twillo returned his dragonessence core to his chest and stood. Once he had his things secured, he approached the edge of the cliff.

“I thought you wanted to try to jump?”

Twillo shrugged off this suggestion. “Maybe another time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Not with everything I’m carrying.”

“Yes,” Adventus said, baring his teeth as he offered the relic hunter a smile. “Perhaps that is best. Prepare, Left-Handed One.”

Adventus swept up into the sky and barreled back around, now at an angle that allowed him to land. Twillo mounted up, and once he was secure, the dragon took a few running steps forward and dropped.

They fell a good thirty feet before Adventus caught enough wind to slingshot forward, the dragon’s wings arcing back as he razored through the sky. Their speed reached the point that Twillo had to shut his eyes and tuck his chin. He ignored the sensation in his gut, the way that gravity reached at the soles of his feet. He had to get used to this.

“How far is it?” he asked as he opened his eyes and squinted at the horizon.

“A few more miles. Hidden in plain sight, as I suspected it would be. It shouldn’t be long now.” Adventus rolled to the right; Twillo gripped the dragon even tighter as he buckled down, prepared to go even faster.

The ziggurat awaited.

Adventus reached the ground and shifted his taloned feet forward, wind whipping around him as he stabilized. Once the dust settled, Twillo hopped off and raised his arm, Adventus pixelating out of existence.

“Better this way.” Twillo turned to what looked like a terraced hill before him. In peering at it closely, it became clear that there was structure to it, the outer walls made of sandstone which had since eroded until they blended into the surrounding cliffs.

The moon, which was barely visible behind dark clouds above, cast a pillar of pale light onto the structure, which gave it a strange, almost golden glow. From Twillo’s vantage point it was clear that there was more than one building, that it had been some part of a complex. That, or the surrounding, flat-topped hills had been carved to resemble buildings.

“I believe the main entrance is ahead,” Adventus said. “I checked the area to be sure.”

Twillo smoothed his hands over his clothing and started up a long flight of sandstone steps. He reached a flat surface and he would have continued looking around if he hadn’t noticed a slight glow. When he blinked, the glow was suddenly gone.

“This must be it,” he said as he brought his hand to the surface.

He could feel that there were carvings in the sandstone, ones that had deteriorated. Yet he couldn’t quite make out what they were detailing, even with his enhanced vision.

“We need to get inside.”

“We do,” he told Adventus as he heard thunder above. Twillo looked up, and as he did a single drop of water fell on his face. “Not a great place to be in a rainstorm.”

“We’re higher up now, but there’s no telling what’s on the other side.”

“Let’s get this door open,” Twillo said as he made sure the bottom of his Enkiro Ring of Animation was smooth against the sandstone. He tapped it ten times, and as he did Twillo pulled his hand to the left, which had a way of liquifying the door. It hardened and hit the rock behind him.

“That’s one way to do it,” Adventus commented as the broken slabs of sandstone writhed on the ground, a few crawling toward Twillo before finally stopping.

“It is. But that’s it for the ring, at least for twenty-four hours.”

“Perhaps you should have saved it.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have a relic that would have made me strong enough to open that door. Let’s see what’s inside. Are you ready?”

“Always, Left-Handed One.”

Twillo entered a chamber that smelled of dead air, the kind he had grown used to in the sorts of places that hadn’t been opened up for hundreds of years. There was always the potential for a trap, something he was keenly aware of as he reached a smooth, polished surface.

“It appears to have been sealed off for quite some time,” Adventus said.

Twillo noticed that the polished stone ground had writing on it, likely the Sagic language. “Let’s see what it says.” He produced his small jar of basanic fire. He sprinkled a little on the ground and the blue flames ignited, providing light for Adventus to examine the text.

“Interesting,” the dragon finally said, the light from the flames dancing against the inner walls.

“Is it a warning or something?”

“Not exactly. It says that those who enter the following chamber will be faced with a challenge that will trap them in their own mind until they perish. If they succeed in conquering the challenge, one that they will have set out for themselves, they will be granted the power of the ziggurat.”

“Trapped in their own mind?”

“That’s what it says. There are no further details that I can discern.”

Twillo heard the sound of rain start outside. He felt a sudden pang of apprehension. If this chamber flooded, there would be little he could do to get out. Adventus wouldn’t be able to save him. He would certainly drown, and that was if he wasn’t bashed to death by the water that could flow into the space.

It was risky, but he had made it this far.

“What say you?” Adventus asked. “Are you prepared to continue?”

“I think I am.”

Twillo bravely stepped into the next chamber, not sure of what to expect.

He now had his sword drawn as a precaution, and he was ready to summon Adventus. The corridor that followed would be a tight fit for the dragon, but at least it would give him a chance to escape if that turned out to be necessary.

Twillo came to a towering statue in the center of the room, something akin to an oversized effigy with a brittle straw dress that ballooned off the statue’s thin form, shaped almost like a lenticular cloud. It was bottom-heavy, the top of its body no larger than the torso of a child and made of what resembled ceramic.

Twillo paused before the statue. “What do you think?” he asked Adventus.

“I do not know what to make of this—”

~~You have entered my chamber.~~

Twillo brought his sword up again and swiveled, half expecting some enemy to spring out of the darkness. It was only once he heard the androgynous voice again that he realized it was coming from the statue itself.

~~You have entered my chamber for the challenge. Do you have a memory in mind?~~

“A what?” Twillo asked, the hairs on the back of his neck standing now as he continued to take in the strange form that stood before him.

~~Do you have a memory in mind?~~

The last thing Twillo recalled thinking deeply about had been his last encounter with his father at their estate, the night that everything in his life had changed.

~~That memory will do. Survive, and you will reap the benefits of the power that is contained in this ziggurat. May Livia be with you.~~

“Wait—” Twillo fell forward, unable to get his hand out in time. He tried to summon Adventus and failed, everything now dipped in a moving blackness.

For a moment, the world was blurred and muted. Then it slowly began to solidify on the periphery, Twillo recognizing where he was immediately. He stood in the hallway outside of his childhood bedroom, the commotion in the room beyond bringing back a sea of memories.

A door kicked open and he saw his father, desperation in Shotaro’s eyes as he spoke to a young Twillo, as he handed him his sword and the wristlet and pointed him down the hallway toward safety. Soon, Twillo’s younger self passed in front of adult Twillo and disappeared. For a brief moment, it was as if he’d made eye contact with himself, but then he was completely submerged in the moment, everything at full volume now as if he was actually there.

Shotaro Vos approached him, his forehead wrinkled with confusion. He was in his bright blue robes, just as Twillo had remembered him that night. “Who are you?”

“I’m—”

The sound of a grunt in the other room interrupted their moment. “It doesn’t matter,” Shotaro said. “Come! We must fight them off before they kill Renda!”

The name of his former teacher had a way of breaking through to Twillo, the relic hunter now aware of what had happened. He had been cast into some dreamspace, some vision, one where he had to survive.

Not only that, Twillo had chosen a point in his past that would put him on a collision course with his with his teacher, Renda. If he could break through to her, perhaps he could discover the lesson he could no longer remember, the one regarding the absorption of dragonessence in combat.

Twillo flourished his sword and grinned at his father. “Let’s punish the intruders together.”

.Chapter Twenty-Nine.

A Fight in the Now

Twillo charged into the next chamber with his father, aware now that he was trapped in a memory, that he had to survive this challenge to gain the power of the ziggurat. A group of elven orcs surged forward, clearly Honor Guard by the cut of their armor. Composed of rectangular plates, the armor allowed for maximum movement, yet it also provided openings for those quick enough with a sword.

Renda had shown Twillo how to discover kinks in a person’s armor; as he came to his first opponent, he fell into a pattern of parrying attacks and looking for those kinks, which he found in gaps in the plates along the man’s torso. Twillo went for it, his blade rimmed in power that he only noticed after he’d cut his opponent down.

Breathing heavily, Twillo glanced to the hilt of his weapon to see a silver glow around his knuckles, one that indicated he was fighting with the aid of dragonessence. He had to remind himself this was essentially a dream, but in doing so, in that split second from looking at his weapon to returning to the challenge, Twillo left himself open for an attack.

Luck intervened as he turned at the very last second, his shoulder taking the brunt of the strike. It drew a small wound, yet it woke Twillo up and reminded him of what he was here to do.

Gritting his teeth, he moved to address his opponent, only to be aided by his father in the end, who stuck his sword into the man’s side. “Focus!” Shotaro said as he withdrew his short sword that looked like the ones they used in the Tribute Islands, a splattering of blood following its tip.

A towering elven orc with a tatted face and visible fangs burst into the space, the brute wielding a mace. Twillo met him with a cross slash that did little against the man’s thick armor. Summoning his dragonessence, Twillo shot himself back to avoid the man’s next attack and then swung back forward, his next strike amplified by the cosmic energy.

He cut straight through the man’s armor, the plates of which cascaded down the man’s chest as they tore open. The injured orc charged at Twillo with his mace overhead, fury overtaking him as Twillo ultimately dashed to the right. The man tripped over his own feet; as soon as he hit the ground Twillo drove his weapon into the man’s back.

Shotaro followed up with a strike directly onto the man’s head, his sword gleaming with blood.

He glanced up at Twillo. “You fight well.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Who are you?”

“Call me…” Twillo swallowed. “Adventus.”

“Adventus?” Shotaro shook his head. “Never heard a name like that.” More sounds of clashing swords reached the pair. “Come on—she’s in there!”

Even though he was limping, Shotaro led the charge into the next room, which had a direct exit to the outside. The large wooden door was open, revealing a surreal night beyond, one with swirls of white in the sky like they’d reached the outer edges of reality.

It was here they found Renda, the elven orc warrior drenched in blood, only the whites of her eyes visible. She’d cut through a literal sea of opponents. It was clear now that the ones who had reached Twillo and Shotaro had been the select few that had been able to get around her.

Renda turned to Shotaro, and for a brief flash, a softness traced over her eyes. The moment was interrupted as more soldiers flooded the corridor, Renda immediately moving back into action.

How? How was Twillo going to be able to sidebar with her in a dream? How would he ask her about cycling?

He stepped back, allowing Shotaro to rush forward, his father brazen as ever. Maybe Twillo would be able to remember the technique through watching the woman move into action. He recalled that her lessons were an extension of who she was and how she fought. Maybe it would trigger the memory…

Renda ducked the next strike that came to her.

She pushed forward, her sword pressing out of the man’s back, her precision to the point that she’d found the opening in his armor without even trying.

Her opponent gasped; she tried to pull her sword out, but got it stuck somehow.

Pulling her fist back, she sunk it into his face as she brought him to the ground. She grabbed his sword with her nondominant hand, her left hand, and spun just in time to reach another attacker.

The man exploded backward, her attack amplified by dragonessence.

Twillo gasped as he recognized what she had done.

How could he forget? It had been so easy!

Renda cleaved her weapon forward, cutting another down. He saw her do it again, a calculated flinch that he recognized now as her striking and absorbing her own dragonessence back at the very last second.

It all came to him, Twillo with no time to process how the memory of this technique had been suppressed. Renda had told him not to rely on the skill; he recalled that much, that it was forbidden, so he’d never really focused on it.

Until now.

Until the point when he needed the power.

Even with the confusion of the close-contact fight, Twillo experienced newfound strength in his next attack. His sword met his opponent’s blade; he reabsorbed the strike at the very last second, swelling his own dragonessence and causing a momentary blip in time, as if reality itself had skipped a beat. Exploding forward, Twillo brought his sword around and cracked it into the side of his opponent’s face.

He released the sudden burst of power he had just stored. Dragonessence tore through the man’s head, misting out the other side.

His opponent fell.

Renda’s eyes went wide as she saw Twillo, utter shock coming to her. “Jhaeros?”

Twillo wasn’t expecting that, and he wasn’t expecting her momentary pause to be what took his father down, two swords pressing out of Shotaro’s body at the same time and ripping outward.

Had this been how it had actually happened? Was what Twillo was experiencing fact or dream?

It was a dream; he was trapped in a memory. He had to remind himself that none of this was real, that this challenge was all about survival. His father had already died, and there would have been nothing he could do to prevent it.

As the room stretched even larger—how was that even possible?—more elven orcs spilled into the space. Twillo couldn’t focus on his injured father; he had to endure the vision until it ended. Twillo brought down an orc who was seconds away from springing on top of Renda.

“You must run!” he told her, bewilderment in his voice. “You must survive!”

“How…?” Renda blocked several strikes.

She brought her sword back and sent a burst of silver dragonessence tearing forward.

Another lesson. Twillo remembered seeing her do this only once. It all made sense! Dragonessence, how it was stored, how it could be distributed. Twillo already had a background in combat. He also had an understanding of relics that only a hunter could have. These were the things he would use to his advantage. This was how he would survive all this, and not only this challenge, but the challenges that lay ahead.

Back to back with Renda, Twillo began cutting away at his enemies. He surged forward at an opening in the fight, energy cascading around him as more and more soldiers appeared.

They would soon be overwhelmed.

At the moment he started to feel terror, Twillo felt the buzz that he had grown increasingly familiar with, one that signaled that Adventus was set to appear.

He took a big step back as dragonessence poured out of him.

Rather than form into a dragon with wings or a serpent-like dragon, it formed into a large, muscled man in silvery dragon scale armor, one with a mighty spear that looked like Adventus’ barbed tail, and just about the craziest helmet Twillo had ever seen, with two blue eyes on either side. Adventus now stood well over a foot taller than Twillo

“It’s…you!”

“My third form. You have summoned me into a…” Adventus looked around. “We are trapped in a pocket realm.”

“Is that what this is?”

“One based on your memory. This is your memory, correct?”

“It is,” Twillo said as he cut down an approaching attack. “That’s my teacher.”

“Renda. You’ve mentioned her.”

Rather than say anything, Renda continued fighting, the woman wielding two swords like it was something she’d grown up doing.

An elven orc lunged for Adventus. He drove his spear through the man’s body, lifted him, and flung the man into the wall.

“By Livia, this is your third form?” asked Twillo.

“I already told you it was, Left-Handed One, but I don’t believe you’ll be able to summon it just yet in the Realm of the Formed. We’ll see. My vordic form, wyrm form, would be next on the scale of what you can adequately power. I consider this my strongest form.”

“How are you stronger in this form than your dragon and vordic forms?” Twillo blocked a few strikes. He shifted back; Adventus swung his spear like it was a club, completely taking the elven orc’s head off.

“It is my strongest form in terms of pure power, that’s why. Watch.” Adventus flew forward, grabbed his next opponent by the neck, and exploded into the air. He slammed the man against the ceiling, and let him drop. Adventus swooped down and pinned him to the ground, his spear cracking the marble floor. Another opponent surged for him. Adventus released a plume of blue fire from the palm of his hand.

“For Vitharr’s sake,” Twillo said as the elven orc ignited. The man ran through the ranks, his blue fire transferring to others he came into contact with.

Renda sent her sword behind her, stabbing an assailant in the chest just as he was about to land a strike. She spun, cut him away, and shifted her focus to Adventus. The swordmaiden raised her two blades at the dragon-man. “What are you?”

“You are bold,” Adventus said as Twillo got between the two of them.

Yet again, Adventus tossed his spear. It struck one of the orcs and stabbed him into the wall; gold-framed paintings fell on top of the man’s head once the spear returned. He flicked the blood away.

“None of this makes sense, I get that. But we must stop them. All of them,” Twillo told Renda as some of the soldiers began to press back, clearly aware that they were outmatched.

“How are you doing this, Jhaeros?”

“That will likely never be revealed to you. But you must live through tonight. I need you later on…” he said, referring to something that would happen after he was on his own. “Leave. Let us finish the rest.”

Renda approached Twillo, both of her swords still at the ready. “Why are you in the form of a ghost?”

“I don’t know.”

“You are made of light. You are with a dragon warrior. Why, Jhaeros?”

“They’re getting away,” Adventus said.

“Go ahead,” Twillo told him. “I’ll catch up in the courtyard. We’ll end this, and be done with the challenge.”

“See you soon, Left-Handed One.” Adventus raced out of the open doorway, leaving Twillo with Renda.

“What has happened to you?” his former teacher asked, confusion in her eyes, blood dripping from her chin.

“That’s a story for another day.”

“Your swordwork still needs tightening up. You are clearly using dragonessence. How?”

“That’s a story for another lifetime. None of this should make any sense, to me or you, yet here we are. And I got what I needed from you.” Twillo bowed his head to her. “Thank you.”

“What do you need?”

“I don’t have long to grow my power. I realized in watching you fight that you’ve already taught me techniques that will help me cycle dragonessence and use it as a weapon. I had forgotten. It’s been so long.”

Renda nodded. “Form and purpose, Jhaeros. Keep those things in mind, and you will overcome all odds. Hopefully, I’ll see you again.”

“You will,” he assured her. “But not like this. For now, you must escape. You must hide… somewhere other than Icenor. Hide in Middling. You have a place there.”

“I do.”

Twillo bowed his head once again to his instructor. “May Livia guide her robes over your journey.”

“And yours. Go with Vard’s intent.” Renda slipped past Twillo, pausing for just one more second before fully departing. “I loved your father.”

“I know you did.”

“May Livia guide her robes over your journey.”

Twillo nodded.

Once he was sure she was gone, he turned to the courtyard. Upon reaching the wide open space, he found Adventus wielding his enormous spear with one hand while also controlling pillars of blue fire with his other. The dragon was whip-fast, using his speed and extreme stamina to take on multiple opponents with relative ease.

Twillo charged into the fray, joining Adventus.

The two worked in tandem as they handled the rest of the soldiers, Twillo covered in blood, sweat, and grit by the time the last opponent approached. Their final opponent stopped dead in his tracks and dropped his sword. He took off running in the opposite direction, only to be speared from behind by Adventus.

“I believe we’ve done it.”

“You think?” Twillo asked the dragon warrior.

Adventus looked up as the sky parted, the moon and all the stars swirling into a black hole rimmed in silver energy. “The challenge is ending. I’ll see you on the other side.”

Twillo gasped. He was back in the darkened chamber with the strange statue, which seemed both alive and dead at the same time. Questions came to him, but before he could voice them, he heard the statue’s androgynous voice:

~~You have succeeded where others have failed. The power of the ziggurat is yours.~~

The enormous straw dress began to shed, the statue’s true shape revealed in the form of a thin pillar of glowing energy. It shifted horizontally and fired toward Twillo.

The beam struck him in the chest, Twillo feeling a surge of power akin to the first time he’d summoned Adventus. Only this time everything didn’t go black.

He held strong.

One leg forward, his head bowed as dragonessence rippled and crackled all around him. As if it had been sucked into a vortex, the cosmic energy funneled into his chest, all of the activity ceasing to exist in a matter of seconds.

Twillo gasped.

The statue that had been erected before him was no more.

“Adventus?”

“I’m here, Left-Handed One,” said the voice in his head.

“What… what just happened?”

“Which part?”

Twillo rolled onto his back and looked up at the darkened ceiling, noticing hints of exhaustion. It was as if he’d actually fought, his arms sore, muscles pulsing. He knew this wasn’t the case; he’d been here the entire time. “What is a pocket realm exactly?”

“A pocket realm is a transitory realm that can have an effect on your realm, the Realm of the Formed. Actually, I suppose it could affect any realm, but I’m not an expert on things like that. I am in a pocket realm at the moment, a place between the Realm of the Formed, your realm, and the Realm of the Forgotten, where all dragons were banished.”

Twillo sat up. “Renda. I actually met her, didn’t I?”

“She was there, wasn’t she?”

“No, I mean, in the past, twenty years ago. I was transported back there. She said I was like a ghost. I saw her again, you know.”

“Oh?”

“But that’s—”

“Another story for another day,” Adventus said, finishing his sentence. “To answer your question, yes, what just took place was a version of what happened in the past, only elaborated upon by this particular ziggurat’s keeper. Your interactions with Renda were partially real. I couldn’t tell you how she may have come to interpret them in our reality.”

Back on his feet now, Twillo made a gesture as if he were swinging a sword. “I understand more about cycling, her lessons. She recalled her own power at the very last second. Her attack still landed, but the dragonessence was cycled in doing so.”

“What a wonder and what a fight back there.”

“Yes, what a fight.” Twillo looked at the glowing jewel, which seemed deeper somehow, more defined. “I can summon your second form now?”

“I believe so, yes, but for a limited time.”

“Your third form is something else entirely.”

“You liked that, huh?” Adventus asked once Twillo had turned to the exit.

“I don’t see how you are more powerful in that form than your vordic form,” he said, using the word Adventus had taught him for wyrm.

“Perhaps I should clarify. The vordic form is stronger, but I can do more damage in my dragon warrior form.”

“Is that what I should call it?”

“To make things easy and without dealing with translations too often—dragon form, vordic form, and dragon warrior form. The latter is more powerful, in my opinion, because I can be more calculating in what I do. It also depends on what I’m up against. Against an army, you’d want my vordic form. In a close fight in a chamber such as this,” Adventus said as they came to the next room, “my dragon warrior form would be ideal. If we’re simply needing to fly and fight in that way—a real possibility, I might add—then my dragon form is best.”

“Good to know.”

“Exciting, isn’t it?” Adventus asked as they reached the exit.

Twillo heard the light patter of rain outside. He stepped out into the desert air, seconds away from summoning Adventus when he caught something heading in his direction. It was moving fast, and he wouldn’t have even noticed it had it not been for the current location of the moon.

Twillo spotted another dragon rider.

.Chapter Thirty.

Cliffhanger

A midnight blue dragon with red accents along the outer edges of its wings flew toward Twillo. Its rider, a man in a cloak over scaled armor, leaped from his mounted position on the dragon’s back. He landed a few feet away from Twillo, and drew a curved scimitar.

“Jecha’s greetings,” he said, his voice raspy, eyes with a glowing red nature to them. The Senja warrior’s face was hidden by a sinister reptilian mask with two horns on his forehead, his dark hair in a ponytail.

“Now, Left-Handed One! Summon me!”

“Which—”

“I’ll control the forms,” Adventus told him hurriedly.

Twillo brought the wristlet up and the air exploded with bits of dragonessence, Adventus going with his winged form. He shot into the air, fast as Twillo had ever seen him move. The dark blue dragon trailed after him as the rain picked up, lightning crackling above.

“How did you find me?” Twillo asked coolly. He was certainly frightened by the man’s sudden appearance, but he’d been in enough sticky situations to not let this control his demeanor.

“You know how.”

“No, I do not.”

“There are more like me. They will find you.”

“You were once a Magi, were you not?”

The man grunted a positive response. He barely flinched as the dragons collided overhead; Twillo’s eyes jumped to his wristlet to see that it was still glowing strong. Even so, he would need to end this soon.

“A Magi is someone of honor, yet you’ve done this.” Twillo slowly slipped his hand into his bag. The only reason he was able to do so was because of the way his bag hung from his body, partially concealed by the way he was standing. Once his hand was in, he found the roughly textured Gloves of Maruth, which allowed him to grip various objects. “You’ve made a deal with Jecha, the devil himself.”

“Put your bag down.”

“As you wish.” Twillo lowered the bag to the ground. As he stood again, he slipped the glove over his hand. “If you were once a Magi, then you should be able to fight me without a sword. Unless you’ve lost your power.”

“A sword will do. Draw yours, Icer. Enough talk.”

Twillo had barely gotten his weapon out of its sheath when the man reached him wielding a scimitar.

His opponent’s opening attacks were incredibly strong, Twillo barely able to fend them off. He managed to break through and land a strike, yet the man’s armor was too strong for Twillo’s sword, which might as well have been a blunt ironwood weapon.

The Senja warrior shouldered into Twillo.

They hit one of the outer walls of the ziggurat; Twillo used his relic-glove to grab the man by the back and flip positions with him, causing his opponent to momentarily lose his weapon.

Twillo tried to strike his assailant in the skull with the hilt of his sword, yet his opponent continued to show the extent of his training as he kneed Twillo in the stomach.

He wanted desperately to use the cycling lesson he had just remembered from Renda. But in the heat of the moment of an actual fight, it was incredibly difficult for him to focus on everything around him, not to mention the energy he was using through Adventus.

In his next approach, Twillo was shoved by his opponent, his movement amplified by dragonessence.

Twillo exploded backward into the rock wall near the entrance to the ziggurat, losing his sword in the process. For a brief moment, everything flashed red. Tasting blood, he blinked rapidly, his eyes tracing across the ground where he found his bag.

Scrambling toward it, ignoring the rain and the mud, Twillo located a small clay vial containing what was known as the Butterflies of Light. He broke the clay vial and spread his fingers in the direction of the Senja warrior just as the man reached him.

A burst of light that almost resembled a flutter of butterflies swarmed the Senja warrior.

The man tried to bat them away with his scimitar. This gave Twillo a chance to look to the sky to see that Adventus had taken what had to be his vordic form, the enemy dragon doing the same. Both were now enormous serpent-style dragons, with long whiskers hanging from the fronts of their faces, their jaws filled with dozens of teeth. The two were locked in an intense battle, their fight peppered with puffs of fire, terrifying screeches, and sudden drops as they struggled to overpower one another.

It was loud and violent.

Even if Adventus was strong enough to stop the other dragon, his power was tied to Twillo’s, and Twillo knew he wasn’t at the same level of strength as his opponent. He also knew that if the Senja warrior died, the dragon would cease to exist.

The sound of rushing water below the ziggurat gave Twillo an idea.

These types of sudden floods were incredibly powerful. All he needed to do was position the man correctly and let nature take its toll. His glove would help in that regard.

Twillo recalled earlier that there was a deep drop from the main terrace of the ziggurat to the ground below, the stairs he climbed earlier now halfway submerged.

The Butterflies of Light faded and Twillo moved closer to the ledge, feigning injury.

He got on his knees, seemingly oblivious to the approaching Senja warrior who had both hands on the grip of his scimitar. The heavy drops of rain pelted Twillo as he threw his head back, watching the dragons clash overhead, Adventus starting to succumb to the other dragon’s powers.

His opponent approached and Twillo twisted to the side, moving from his knees back to his feet as he stepped behind the man.

He grabbed him, and charged toward the ledge.

They went over the ledge together. Twillo was able to send his hand back and catch the rock with his Gloves of Maruth.

The rock was wet, but it was porous enough that his glove held him.

Unfortunately, Twillo wasn’t yet in the clear.

The man had managed to grab onto his leg. The two were seconds away from falling toward the rushing floodwater below when Twillo kicked him in the face with his heel.

The Senja warrior opponent fell, twisted to the side, cracked his masked head on the side of one of the steps that Twillo had climbed earlier, and slapped into the surface of the rushing floodwater.

Holding on with one hand, Twillo looked to the sky to see the enemy dragon suddenly burst into a mist of cosmic ashes.

Adventus morphed into his dragon form and shifted toward Twillo.

.Chapter Thirty-One.

Bound for Eastlon

It was hard for Twillo to keep his eyes open as they flew east toward Shetro Kell. His power held strong, but his energy levels had started to deplete, and he knew that he would lose the ability to summon Adventus in the near future. The rain and occasional bolts of lightning made the flight more harrowing than it should have been, yet the dragon had assured him that he was accustomed to flying during storms, that they were safe.

“You did well back there,” he told Twillo again as they neared the outskirts of the city. “But it won’t be so easy next time. You must train more. Not only that, you’d do well to eventually come to understand your dragonaura.”

They touched down behind a pair of buttes with a bridge spanning across their tops, an old lookout point likely from the Great Reunification period over a hundred years ago. There hadn’t been an all-out war since then, only skirmishes that the Otonashi had been able to put down.

Twillo took shelter under a rain guard, one that had been carved directly into the rock. As rain pattered the hardtop, he discovered remnants of vagabonds in the form of a soiled cot and some rusted bits of armor, which he naturally checked for any signs of relics.

After sweeping all this aside, Twillo got his myordukai skin out of his bag and covered his body, the Icenordian now shivering. He glanced up to find Adventus on the ground before him, rain dripping from the dragon’s white scales and the high tips of his wings.

“I know what you are thinking,” Twillo told him.

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“You are thinking that I need to grow stronger, that I came too close back there.”

“I already told you that, Left-Handed One. And you are plenty strong. But our enemies have been studying dragonessence most of their lives, at least some of them. You got very lucky back there; that is what I’m trying to say. The dragons they are with, the true Senja, have been waiting for this moment for over five hundred years.”

“You have as well, haven’t you?”

Adventus shook his head. “I had long since given up hope that I would ever return to the Realm of the Formed. I was wrong in this regard. Had I been training, had I been better prepared, I may have been able to defeat the dragon back there. I owe it all to you. You saved me.”

“I got lucky.”

“I already told you that. Livia must be quite fond of you.”

Twillo smirked. “I don’t know if I would call it that. Next time, I may not have the same opportunities as I had back there. I wish you could take your third form, if we’re being honest.”

“Then we could train.”

“We could.”

“You could always train against me now, in this form.”

“Why do I get the feeling that’s a bad idea?” Twillo glanced around again. “I’ll get a fire going, and no, I don’t need any help doing that. You aren’t hungry, are you? Or do you feed exclusively off dragonessence?”

“Yes, I do get hungry in this realm if I’m here long enough. It wouldn’t be very difficult for me to find something if you wanted to wait here.”

“I have things I can eat. Go ahead, see what you can find. I need to rest.”

“And tomorrow?” asked the dragon after he flapped water off his wings.

“Tomorrow, we will begin our trip north to Vendir, and the City of the Dead beyond that. Perhaps we will be able to discover a vortex or two along the way.”

Twillo awoke the next morning to find that the fire he’d started was out. He was still an hour away from Shetro Kell and would need to regroup from there.

The most important thing to do was to get to a vortex, where Adventus could recharge. There was certainly one in E’Kanth; he could easily head north from Shetro Kell to reach the City of Dragons, back through the woods. But there were other routes, namely by way of Firebreath, which would put him near the coastal city of Eastlon.

Twillo thought about this as he made Bravelon tea for himself using some of the flower petals he’d picked outside of Padrian Sands. Eastlon had a large Icenordian population because of the Tribute Islands, which were southwest.

“There has to be a vortex there,” he whispered as he sipped his tea.

“Where again?” asked Adventus, who was no longer in his physical form.

“Sorry, thinking out loud. We’ll go from Shetro Kell to Eastlon, skip Ramide, north perhaps to Firebreath, then E’Kanth, and Padrian Sands to Vendir. And I was referring to Eastlon. There has to be a vortex there.”

“Why Eastlon?”

“There’s an Icenordian presence there considering its proximity to the Tribute Islands. Has been for ages.”

As Twillo drank his morning tea, he thought about Renda, how real their encounter had felt.

Staring out at the desert brought a memory of the swordmaiden taking him to a series of bluffs outside of Sparrow’s Rise. At that time, Renda had a vikan wood pole with a balled bit of leather on the end, which she used to teach him about swinging his weapon overhead yet maintaining his footing.

Twillo touched his chest. As he withdrew his hand, his dragonessence core took shape. It seemed smaller than it had been last time he’d seen it, likely from last night’s energy expenditure.

“Can you control this?” he asked Adventus.

“Control your core?”

“We are soulbound.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Perhaps you could train with me by controlling the core while I practiced my sword swings.”

“Interesting. Let me see.” It took a moment, but soon the core began to tremble. It rose higher into the air and spun once around Twillo’s head. “Yes, I do believe this is something I can do.”

“If that’s the case, I can also practice what Renda showed me, reabsorbing my power just as I’m about to strike.”

“You mean cycling and using the core as your target.”

“Precisely.”

Once he was on his feet, Twillo drew his sword.

With a hand out for balance he began stalking the glowing orb, which was always a step ahead of his practice strikes. He loosened up once he got the hang of it, and with each attempt Twillo tried to reabsorb his own power as the tip of the sword neared the silver sphere.

This had an interesting effect.

The sphere began to grow larger, pulsating as dragonessence swirled around and into it.

“It’s working,” Twillo said as he lowered his sword.

“It is. This is a very good way for you to naturally cycle your own power and augment your combat skill at the same time. Good thinking. We are a good team, Left-Handed One.”

Twillo smiled at the silver orb. “We are. Now, brace yourself, dragon, here I come!” He charged forward and swung his sword at the orb, only for Adventus to zip around to the other side, gravity taking the relic hunter to the ground.

Adventus roared with laughter. “You’ll need to try harder than that.”

For the next hour, Twillo worked on cycling dragonessence, the orb growing in size and intensity. The conversation was kept to a minimum, his work finally paying off once he found himself in a groove that he hadn’t been in for some time. It was like slipping into a pair of old boots, Twillo’s strikes growing stronger and more precise as he got used to what it felt like to cycle dragonessence in this way.

It wasn’t exactly a flinch at the very last moment of a potential strike, but it wasn’t far from that, and he could instantly see the reward in the form of the orb gaining more energy. Twillo had stumbled upon a profound breakthrough.

“I will be ready next time,” he said once he finally lowered his sword, his breaths heavy now, sweat on his brow.

“I know you will be, Left-Handed One.”

Twillo spent little time in the desert city of Shetro Kell. He decided not to visit the room he had at the Kovenene Stave Church, going straight to the caravan portion of the city instead. He paid for first-class passage mostly because he wanted to try to get some rest along the way to Eastlon.

As the caravan waited to start up, tea was brought by an older dwarf with a long mustache, the man offering Twillo a curt smile, his eyes hidden beneath bushy brows. Not all dwarves had a grudge against Icenordians, but Twillo knew what his people had done to theirs, and while much of that was in the past, there was still progress to be made.

“That was quite the look he gave you,” Adventus commented once the man was gone.

“I’m used to it by now. Some parts of the Tribute Islands can be that way. Other parts have changed considerably since the Great Reunification.”

“Passing grudges mirror the weight of words, or so the old saying goes.”

The caravan started, Twillo glad to see that he wouldn’t be sharing his carriage with anyone. He thanked Livia and kicked his legs out, with plans to doze off for a spell. If he was lucky, he would awaken in Bravelon.

Adventus had other plans. “Before you rest, let’s review what you’ve learned about dragonessence. The three aspects of dragonessence that you should be familiar with are the ability to store it and shut it off, which we’ll do in Bravelon; the ability to use this stored energy to augment your own capabilities; and a technique that allows you to imbue objects with power, which you aren’t able to do yet. This is, by far, the hardest of these aspects to master, namely because it allows you to give others power.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“Is that not what your relics do? You can now cycle dragonessence through combat based on what your teacher taught you. Sister Tonandi has granted you an ability that will allow you to examine your core, which you’ve cleverly tailored to your own cultivation style, and you now realize the power that vortexes and ziggurats can give you. Perhaps we will find others like her across the Sagaland, ones who can unlock powers by transmutation. If you’re wondering where this fits in the three aspects of dragonessence, it would be in the third category, the ability to imbue an object. But that is a conversation for another time.”

“And you will explain how to turn it off in Bravelon?”

“Before Bravelon, after you’ve rested. You will find that turning it off once it is activated can cause some distress.”

“Distress?”

“Your natural stamina will wane. You also won’t be able to speak to me when you do.”

“Noted,” Twillo said as he got even more comfortable. “If only we knew how many ziggurats there were. Then we’d at least get a sense for what’s in store after the City of the Dead, which, based on the underwater location, won’t be easy.”

“If we’re lucky, finding it will put us on a path to the next one. If not, we may have to travel around visiting stave churches and ancient monuments until we can find more information. Perhaps the monk friend of yours at the library will have something for us.”

“Yes, Olaf.” Twillo let out a satisfied breath. “I have to say, this lifestyle truly is like being a relic hunter, you know. Half my year was usually spent traveling around following leads that may or may not pan out. Yet one lead always leads to another. That’s the strange part about it, about travel in general. Once you open that door and embrace the spontaneity that follows, there’s no telling where you’ll end up.”

“As long as it isn’t in a wolvencree’s cave.”

“No, we’ll go back there too,” Twillo assured the dragon on the tail end of a yawn. “That Quill of Katzimo may come in handy one day.”

.Chapter Thirty-Two.

The Spires of Eastlon

Eastlon was known for its vast spires, many of which were completed in the last two hundred years. Serving as everything from homes to public works, the stone and woodwork installations honored Father Dawn and Mother Dusk, the spires rising from the land like spikes upon approaching the city. Architects often studied in the city, and it had become somewhat of a rite of passage for one to have a spire erected in their honor.

“Are you ready to attempt to hide your dragonessence?” Adventus asked as they reached the carriage station.

“And you say I’ll feel weak?” asked Twillo.

“You’ll feel worse than that. You’ll feel like you haven’t eaten in days, yet you won’t be hungry. Do not forget you are completely nullifying your own life force by doing what you’re about to do. You may need to rest further.”

“We need to move on.”

“Do you have a place here? A stave church you can stay at?”

“I have a room I can use in one of the spires,” Twillo told the dragon. “They’re at the back of the city; the stave churches are beyond it due to flooding. Icenordians were always suspicious about the water around these parts so they built the churches further back.”

“Then go to the place where you can rest first. Once you are ready, we can continue the search for a vortex. We’ll use it at night and replenish our power.”

“There has to be a better way to understand the power I’m currently storing,” Twillo said as he glanced at the wristlet. He heard the carriage he was riding in come to a stop, the horses grunting.

“Ranks would be helpful in that regard. Then you would understand what rank you’re at and could better gauge it that way. But the only people to codify this would be Southfallians, and we are now in Middling, not to mention current restrictions on this information. Remember that the wristlet you have here is basically something crafted by an arcane artificer to circumvent a rank-style system.”

“So it is solely based upon intuition.”

“Yes, I would say… yes, think of it like music. There are various ways to play. One can play by ear, or they can read sheet music. Some can do both, yet all can create music and be talented in their own right. Dragonessence, once unlocked, is like that.”

“I wonder if Icenordians had a way to rank in the past.”

“It was very fluid back then, the connection between a rider and their dragon. We looked out for each other.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to do something like that.”

“You do come from a line of dragon riders as a saracent. My suggestion would be to trust your instincts, trust the wristlet, and trust me. I’ll tell you when our powers are waning. Now, it is time, Left-Handed One. I won’t be able to speak to you until you have reactivated your dragonessence. Do not forget that. Now, this is how I believe you will be able to hide your stored power.” Adventus explained yet again what he wanted Twillo to do.

“Here goes,” Twillo said as he slowed his breathing.

He had practiced this earlier during the ride, Twillo likening it to holding his breath and remaining absolutely still.

A final exhale helped him empty his stomach fully. Remaining in this neutral state, Twillo clenched his fists together and willed his dragonessence away. Soon, he could feel a weight lifting from his shoulders, one that made his throat tighten.

The wristlet no longer glowed.

“Adventus?” he whispered, his first breath out almost painful.

No response.

Twillo was just about to ask for the dragon again when the door of his carriage opened. “We have arrived, Your Lordship,” said a carriage guard, a Middlinger with a clean-shaven head with visible scarlines on his forehead.

“Yes, I’ll just be…” Twillo slipped forward. He would have fallen out of the carriage had it not been for the guard, who caught him just in time.

“Please, rest here. We can call a different carriage to escort you to where you’re staying—”

“No, no. I’m fine.” Twillo coughed as if he’d caught a sudden cold. While he crouched for a moment, the guard began removing Twillo’s bags from the carriage, including his sword. “I’ll take that.”

The guard handed the sheathed blade to Twillo. “Very unique piece, Your Lordship.”

“But it needs some… work. I know. I’ll get it worked on in Vendir.”

“Yes, Your Lordship. About your bag?” The guard gave Twillo a squeamish look once the relic hunter motioned for him to place it over his shoulder.

“I’ll be fine,” Twillo said once his bag was secured. “I don’t have very far to go.”

“In that case, I’ll walk alongside you until you get there.”

“You don’t have to—”

“It can be rough in Eastlon.”

“Since when?” Twillo asked the carriage guard.

“The Triumvir was just here.”

“All three?” Twillo asked, referring to the three ravenna who ruled Middling. There was the oldest brother, Edgar Oni, the Old Fat; the middle brother, Yalen Oni, the Middle Pig; and their younger brother, Melbik Oni, the Young Fatter.

Like the other ravenna, including Vraizard in the north, the petty kings reported directly to the Moon Dragon Emperor. But everyone knew the truth—the three brothers, known for their gluttony, only held their role because of how much their family had aided the Otonashis in the past. It was their advisors that actually ran the Kingdom of Middling.

“Aye, they were all three here, yet the protests were mainly from them. There wasn’t enough booze and pillowers for the three to get their fair share. Never in my life have I heard people complaining about there not being enough firewater and whores.”

Twillo simply nodded.

He rarely commented on politics of other countries, especially with the chance that they could turn a conversation sour. People may hate their leaders, but they’ll hate an outsider’s view of their leaders more.

“Right, let’s get you where you’re going,” the guard said once Twillo didn’t reply.

The man kept his distance as Twillo limped in the direction of the spires.

A second wind was starting to come to him, yet the ennui from relinquishing his power continued to make it hard for Twillo move at his normal pace. As Adventus had warned, there was a hunger too, yet he also had absolutely no desire to eat anything.

Had anyone ever weaponized this?

It was a thought that Twillo quickly moved past, yet it seemed to linger as he continued slowly as ever toward the spires. The absence of dragonessence was no joke.

Twillo reached the base of a particular spire, one actually made of wood with blackened metal paneling. Maintained by an old shieldmaiden who went by the name Rose, the spire was about fifty feet tall with several rooms on the first floor and additional space in the basement. Like the other spires in Eastlon, it wasn’t attached to a building or used as some ornate part of a church. It was simply a monument, one of many, which would have made it hard to find if it hadn’t stood out.

“Here,” Twillo told the guard. He reached into his pocket for some coins.

“It’s quite all right, Your Lordship, I had a reason for coming this way.”

“You did?” Twillo asked, a tinge of fear coming to him. He subtly lowered his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The guard’s eyes dropped from Twillo’s face to his weapon and back again. He started to laugh. “Not for that reason, Your Lordship. If I’d stayed back with the caravan, I would likely have been recruited to make a return journey to Shetro Kell, the one just about to leave. Now I can rest in the city for a day.” He tapped on the side of his head. “May Livia be with you. Isn’t that what Icenordians say?”

“Close enough,” Twillo told the man. “And thank you.”

Once the guard was gone, Twillo knocked on the door. Rose came a few moments later, the shieldmaiden in a linen dress covered by an apron with embroidery over its pockets.

“Look what the dragon pissed out,” she said, the woman quick on her feet as always.

As a shieldmaiden, Rose had once spent more time than anyone rightly should as a pillower for soldiers. Now retired, the middle-aged woman had found herself a cushy position simply living in and maintaining one of Eastlon’s spires.

“I just need a place to rest my head for… an hour or three.”

“Is that all you need?” she asked with a wink. Rose had a flirty charm about her, one that always left Twillo blushing at some point even if he was used to it by now.

He reached his hand in his pocket for some of the silver coins he had gotten as change for his carriage ride. “For your troubles, Your Ladyship.”

“It’s no trouble to me, but I’ll take the coins anyway. Food will be ready in a few hours. I’m making stuffed pie. The place might be hot,” she said as she led Twillo into a circular space with high ceilings, “but you’ll be downstairs, so it shouldn’t be too bad.”

“Thanks, and I’m not hungry.”

“Are you hungover then? Something seems off.”

“What? No. Well, not exactly.”

Rose stopped walking. “What’s wrong with you then? You look as if you’ve seen death.”

Twillo thought back to all the things that had led him directly to this moment with the shieldmaiden, from being ripped in half by a wolvencree to his recent encounter with a dragon rider. He tried to put these into words, but all he could issue was a positive grunt and a single statement: “I just need rest.”

Twillo didn’t know how long he had slept. Being underground in a windowless room made it nearly impossible to discern the time. Upon taking the stairs to the first floor, he saw that it was indeed night, the door to Rose’s room shut. There was a large slice of stuffed pie waiting for him on a table, which he ate before departing.

His energy levels were still low, but he knew that would change once he reached the stave churches that peppered the outer edge of the Eastlon skyline.

Twillo took the lane that folded away from the spires. He could hear the ocean beyond, the rushing waves peppered by the squawk of cormorants and murres. The area was dimly lit, but rather than keep his hand on his family sword, he drew Kestrel’s Letter Opener, which he could easily conceal and use in its largest form if he was pressed.

Shadows seemed to reach for him with open arms. Eventually, he grew comfortable walking in the dark, everything with a slight illumination to it due to the elven nature of his vision.

Twillo reached the stave churches, some of which towered over the others, almost as high as some of the spires toward the ocean-facing side of Eastlon. Once he was certain that no one was around, Twillo sat with his back to a wooden message board with a couple of scrolls hammered into it.

“Time to come back,” he said as he tapped his finger on the wristlet.

He massaged his hand in the air, calling forth the dragonessence that he had hidden inside him. He kept doing this, just as Adventus had instructed, and soon there was a stir of energy within. What followed was akin to an adrenaline rush, Twillo’s energy levels suddenly back to what they would normally be. He felt ecstatic, completely himself again as the dragon’s voice came to him.

“It appears you got some rest.”

“I must have been out for hours.”

“I would love to tell you that you will get used to turning off your power, but it will never be easy.”

“That’s just about the closest I’ve ever felt to death, and I’ve been close to death,” Twillo said, his comment causing Adventus to laugh. “We are here; do you sense a vortex nearby?”

“I do. This is quite a strong area. Notice it yet, Left-Handed One?”

“Actually…” Twillo could certainly feel the pull, one that likely had something to do with him reactivating his power. He turned to the right, and passed under the archway that opened up into a garden filled with moth orchids that had already started to bloom. They brought with them a scent like that of oils that women used in the north, especially those who ran in the same social circles as saracents and magnates.

The sweet, heady smell reminded Twillo of his childhood.

Another whiff and he was transported back to Sparrow’s Rise, to the summer, where he would spend time with Embla in her family’s estate.

Her mother, the Queen Ravenna, always had flowers from Eastlon and beyond in their garden, Twillo remembering the otherworldly colors and the amount of work she put in alongside her gardeners for the short spring and summer season. All that work for just a flash of color and a fragrant floral scent in the air that seemed to cover half of the city.

He stopped and shook his head.

“That was a long time ago,” he said.

“A memory came to you?”

“Just now, yes. My childhood.”

“You’ll have to tell me about that someday,” Adventus said as they reached a courtyard.

“Gladly. But there’s only one problem with that.”

“Yes?”

“I can only recall certain details. I blocked a lot of it out, especially with what happened at the end, when my family home was raided, my father killed.”

“Like what happened in the portal dimension?”

“Yes.”

It was a moment before Adventus spoke: “He died to give you what you have now.”

“All he gave me was a sword and this wristlet. For years I didn’t understand what had happened and I still don’t.”

“The answers are out there somewhere. You mentioned a fixer in Seondzus.”

“Yes, Romulus. Seondzus City is to the far west of here and we’re heading north, but perhaps after we’ve found the ziggurat in the City of the Dead, we’ll head west. It really depends on where the compass points us next. There is another option as well, but all this is beside the point. Are you ready?” Twillo motioned toward the brick cast before him, a rune that represented the Sagic language clear now that he knew what he was looking for. “This is it, isn’t it?”

“Let’s begin. And after?”

“And after, we fly to Firebreath. What do you say?”

“And you think there will be another vortex there?”

“I do,” Twillo told Adventus. “The city is named Firebreath. There has to be.”

“Is that how you go about hunting relics? On a hunch?”

“That’s the best way to do it.”

After taking a look around to make sure no one was watching, Twillo activated his wristlet. The power that surged around him electrified the air, his heart suddenly in his throat, Twillo on the verge of falling forward when he stabilized.

He had this.

As soon as this thought crossed his mind, Adventus formed, the dragon immediately pressing off the ground, a gust of wind trailing after him. “Meet me outside the city,” he said with a deep breath out.

“Wh-what?” Twillo asked as Adventus swooped down and speared into the night’s sky. “Wait!”

Running now, Twillo nearly tripped over his own feet, his eyes still tracking the increasingly small white dragon in the air.

He charged toward the main road, nearly collided with a man riding a horse on his dash in the direction of the hills beyond the town. Reigniting his dragonessence came with a sudden rush of power that he was glad to use, Twillo running even faster, looking like a madman as he passed by a tavern with a few Middlingers drinking outside.

“Har! Look at the Icer run!” one of them snorted, beer flying out of his mouth.

Twillo ignored them as he kept his eyes on the dragon.

He soon reached the edge of town, just a few farms beyond, and took off along one of the fence lines. Adventus reversed course and came closer and closer to Twillo, almost as if he were going to pounce on him. He corrected at the last moment, flying directly over Twillo, the relic hunter watching him pass overhead.

“Come on,” Twillo said as the dragon swooped over him.

Adventus circled back around and finally landed. “My apologies, Left-Handed One. Sometimes, it just feels good to be alive, to move freely.” He extended his wings and settled them on his back.

“Next time, how about waiting until we are out of town to appear?”

“You’re the one that summoned me.”

“I simply took in the vortex’s power.”

Adventus considered this, his big nostrils flaring as he continued to stare at Twillo. “Now that I think about it, perhaps I did summon myself.” His eyes lit up. “This is good! We are soulbound, and we are operating more and more as a single unit.”

“Then we need to be careful. We don’t want the entire continent chasing us. We’re lucky all I saw back there was a man on a horse and a few Middlingers outside one of the taverns.”

“It’s been so very long,” Adventus said, his voice now with a hint of nostalgia to it. “Our connection is strong, Left-Handed One. It will take us far.”

“By Livia.”

“We’re going to fly high tonight, higher than we’ve flown before. Hold on as best you can.”

Once Twillo was mounted up, Adventus pressed away from the ground, the rush of gravity that followed forcing Twillo to bring his head down and suck in deep breaths. The white dragon barreled into the sky, his powerful wings bringing them higher and higher.

Twillo clenched his eyes shut as they continued to climb, his limbs suddenly colder than normal, his heart fluttering. They neared a trail of wispy clouds and traveled beneath it.

Twillo felt the fear fade away.

Upon opening his eyes, he reached his hand into the air and touched the cloud, which was wet and cold.

“You should see the mountains from up here,” Adventus said.

“I would love to!”

“There is always the chance for the altitude to affect you, but it is worth the view. The mountains reflect onto the tops of the clouds. It is a grand sight.”

Twillo glanced at his wristlet, acknowledging its glow.

In looking at it, a pang of sadness washed over him as he thought about his father, how little Twillo had known at the time. Had Shotaro actually been a relic hunter? How did he come across such an object? The only person who could possibly know would be Romulus, the fixer out of Seondzus. Hopefully, Twillo would get to head there soon. But before he did, the City of the Dead awaited, and beyond that the second ziggurat.

After seeing Adventus as a dragon warrior, Twillo knew that the sooner they were able to unlock this transformation, the better it would be in the long run.

In his fight against the Senja dragon rider, Twillo had nearly been defeated. He needed more practice, and who better to train with than Adventus?

.Chapter Thirty-Three.

The Vortex of Firebreath

Landing a mile or so outside of the Middling city of Firebreath gave Twillo a chance to compose himself.

The city was built predominantly for the breadbasket of the Four Kingdoms, which extended north of the city all the way to Vaymund and east toward the coastline. With all the grains that moved through Firebreath, there was no wonder that it had a host of breweries, pubs and other ways for farmers and workers in the area to squander away what little money they were able to cobble together. This also brought various debt-related services, which came with enforcement and the need for the emperor’s court to sometimes get involved.

It came as no surprise to find that the emperor’s court, or Vorn, as it was often called, had erected tents outside of the city.

The Vorn had a strange way of keeping the kingdoms unified. The fact that this came through disputes and justice only grew its popularity. Many of the trials held were public, overseen by counts, ravenna representatives, and the Emperor’s powerful Office of Aedile, which was run by two magistrates who oversaw all public institutions.

More importantly, the Emperor’s Vorn also traveled with a mini-Artifance.

“You aren’t seriously considering going, are you?” Adventus asked Twillo once the relic hunter had explained what the tents were there to do, and why they were surrounded by so many scattered booths.

“Of course I am.”

“What about turning off your power?”

“It’s late. We will be fine, Adventus.”

“The plan was to move through Firebreath after checking for a vortex and head to E’Kanth from there.”

“The plan remains,” Twillo told the voice in his head, “and it’s not like we won’t be able to do all that tomorrow.”

“I suppose…”

Twillo reached the outside entrance of the Vorn, where he was subsequently checked by a pair of guards in full armor. One nearly laughed at his sword.

“I’ll get it fixed up one day,” he told the man as he passed.

“Sure you will, Icer.”

Twillo shifted into the late-night crowd, the people moving about with horns of local firewaters, the men and women speaking loudly as they told stories of relic hunters of yore and shared laughs.

“Will you be drinking tonight?” Adventus asked as Twillo placed his hood over his head.

“Likely not. We’re professionals now, right?” Twillo looked up at a woman who moved light on her feet as if she were a flirty shieldmaiden. She touched the shoulders of men that she skipped around, Twillo the only one noticing that her hands flitted in and out of pockets of their robes. The woman was a thief.

“Weirdly enough, the Emperor’s Vorn is as good a place to seek justice as it is to get robbed,” Twillo said as he readjusted his own items, his bag now partially concealed by his cloak.

He moved on, ignoring the white dragon’s warning to be careful.

Twillo had spent countless nights like this, shifting through the Vorn after hours, trading relics and sharing tips.

He was in his element.

There were various kinds of collectors, from those who casually sought items for display, to those who truly meant to use them for malicious purposes. Sellers and hunters were similar, all with their own agendas. The true art in being a relic hunter was navigating these agendas, finding the correct information, and seizing upon opportunities.

Toward the back of the stands, most of which had items that weren’t actually relics and questionable mapstones, Twillo saw a man that he recognized.

With long hair and a goatee, Garnax, a Middlinger from Ramide, didn’t look the part of a relic hunter. There was nothing immediately questionable about him or suspicious, and the kindness in his eyes made it so that most who met him immediately felt as if he were trustworthy. He was an outcast just like Twillo, a man who had survived to tell the tale so many times that his stories had blurred together.

But he never forgot a face.

“If it isn’t the infamous Icer,” Garnax said as he raised his horn of firewater at Twillo. “I heard you skipped out on this year’s Artifance.”

Twillo greeted the man with a hearty handshake, the kind that they were known for in Middling. “Things came up.”

“They did, did they? I heard you were chased out of town; now, you are here, looking to offload some of your lesser relics.”

“You heard that, huh?” Twillo asked as Garnax gave him the horn of firewater. Twillo took a respectful sip from it, as one did when greeting an old friend, and gave it back.

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re a known thing when it comes to this field.”

“Am I?”

Garnax snorted at the funny look Twillo gave him. “So what brings you to Firebreath? Is there some dispute you’d like the Vorn to settle?”

“I came just for the night, passing through, saw the mini-Artifance, and figured I’d see if there was anyone I know.”

“And you’re looking to trade?”

“It depends what is on offer,” Twillo told him. “There is something in particular I’m looking for.”

“In that case, follow me.” Garnax led Twillo away from the crowd, to a space near one of the larger tents that had a few stacked cages near it, ones large enough to transport humans. “Two things.”

“Two things?”

“Actually, three things I’ve heard about. Nope,” Garnax burped. “Three things I have.”

“And mapstones?”

“I have two of them.”

“So two mapstones, but three relics, one of which you’ve only heard about.”

“That’s right,” Garnax told him. “Ever heard of a Yamauba Paintbrush?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Apparently, anything you paint in the air with the brush is painted into existence, but it only works for a limited amount of time. It’s in the Stormking Mountains somewhere. Used to be owned, or maybe created, by a Stylite monk. The tip has to be wet with blood first.” Garnax showed Twillo his hands. “Hey, I don’t invent these things.”

Without skipping a beat, Twillo continued: “And what else?”

“There’s a haunted doll in a box hidden beneath some ruins in the Tribute Islands. But that’s neither here nor there. No mapstone. All I know is that it is near the Miyaji Red Gate.”

“Haunted doll. What’s the other mapstone for?” asked Twillo. “You said you had two, right?”

“The other one is for a brooch that channels the power of a demon bear, an onikuma. Located somewhere west of Folke.”

“It does what?” asked Adventus, Twillo echoing his surprise.

“Did you say demon bear?” asked Twillo.

“That’s what they say,” Garnax said with confidence.

“Anything for use underwater?”

“Underwater? An Icer like you going swimming?”

“If I can,” said Twillo.

“Well, I don’t have anything like that, but I met an Icer heading to Vendir with an object. Can’t remember the name. If he’s around, you’ll find him there, likely. At the usual place,” said Garnax, referring to the type of tavern where hunters and collectors usually gathered. “As for me, I have mapstones for both the Demon Bear Brooch and the Yamauba Paintbrush. Plus some information about a haunted doll. You interested?”

“I am.”

“I figured you would be. Got anything to trade? I’m not looking for money.”

Twillo would have preferred trading the Gourdian shards that he carried with him, but Garnax was aware that the potsherds weren’t exactly hard to come by, and he wasn’t wrong.

The Gloves of Maruth, on the other hand, which allowed Twillo to scale walls, were another thing entirely. The gloves had come in handy numerous times, most notably in his recent fight against the Senja dragon rider.

He had offered up the Nalig Dowsing Glove, which was useful for finding water and hidden passages, but Garnax already had something similar in the wand of an archmage that he had recently acquired. As for the other things Twillo had, the Enkiro Ring of Animation was out of the question. It was a relic he’d never part with.

The trading aspect was the bittersweet part about relic hunting.

While it was possible to simply hoard everything one discovered, opportunities came up that were hard to pass on, including things like mapstones from trusted sources. The Brooch of a Demon Bear? That would go perfectly with Twillo’s Amulet of a Forlorn Monk. The information regarding a haunted doll? A paintbrush that used dragonessence to paint things into existence?

It was worth it.

The two mapstones now in his bag, Twillo cut straight through the main road of Firebreath to an inn he had stayed at before. The stave churches that had once been in the city had all been razed to the ground during the Great Reunification, which had taken place over a hundred years before Twillo’s birth.

That didn’t mean there wasn’t a vortex somewhere in the city.

Arranged in a grid, Firebreath was a place that had come under attack numerous times.

Whenever there was a war, Firebreath was at stake, namely because the city controlled much of the grain that ran through Middling and beyond. Since it was Victrin Otonashi that had last conquered Firebreath, the city now had grand lanes and public works, similar to the central district of E’Kanth. The better hotels were here, the ones Twillo couldn’t afford.

He found a seedier room instead, one that was toward the outer edge of the city near a collection of graves that showed signs of the various skirmishes for control of Firebreath. The room was above a tavern, the place warm and smelling of alcohol. Yet the walls were thick, Twillo not able to hear the patrons below.

“Do you believe you made a good trade?” Adventus asked after Twillo had sat on the bed.

He began removing his boots. “I believe so, yes.”

“Even if the gloves saved you at the first ziggurat?”

“I can float now.” To demonstrate what he meant, Twillo grazed his hand across the wristlet and floated off the bed. He lowered back down, the blue glow dimming.

“Then why didn’t you float during your fight?”

“I was in the heat of the moment. Now…” Twillo shrugged. “I won’t have that same opportunity again. But I’ll figure out another way if I’m ever in a similar situation.”

“You’re sure?”

“Not of myself, no, but of Livia, yes. And I can always get the gloves back from Garnax next time I see them. He won’t get rid of them, if his past relic behavior is any indication. He is more of the hoarder type when it comes to actual relics.” Twillo relaxed onto the bed. “I’ll take a walk in the morning, look for a vortex, and we’ll move on at night. Lakk enz, Adventus.”

“Lakk enz, Left-Handed One.”

Twillo purposely slept in the next day. Upon waking, he found a tray of stale bread and cold porridge outside his door, one with congealed butter on top.

“It was hot earlier,” Adventus assured him.

“I’ll get them to warm it up downstairs.”

Not long after, Twillo ate the porridge at the bar below, a few people already starting on early afternoon drinks. He caught the gaze of a dwarven man, and struck up a conversation about the Tribute Islands, the dwarf surprised to learn that Twillo had actually visited.

Upon settling his tab, Twillo pulled his hood over his head and stepped out, the day surprisingly cold. Yet again, Adventus advised him to turn off his dragonessence, but he decided not to in the end. Besides, he needed the dragon to help him find the vortex.

Over the next hour, he combed through the city with Adventus, looking for any indication that there was a vortex. They arrived back where they had started, Twillo just about to give up his search when he turned to the graveyard.

Firebreath’s expansive cemetery covered an area of rolling hills. It was likely placed here because of the terracing that would be required to tame the land.

Like the City of the Dead, there were stacked cholums coupled with traditional graves, a few dome-tipped mausoleums and several crypts. The only other person in the vicinity was a bird monger, the man dressed in flowing robes and a wooden beak mask, a load of caged birds across his shoulders.

“I have a costume just like that,” Twillo told Adventus after he’d passed the man, who paid little attention to the roaming relic hunter.

“You do?”

“I left it in Padrian Sands. Best to travel light.” Twillo dipped through the courtyard of one of the larger mausoleums, one dedicated to a relative of the Otonashi family. Polished marble and intricate detailing decorated the outer walls of the structure, which Twillo admired for a moment before moving on.

He came to a row of crypts, and was just about to continue on when he noticed a familiar pull that indicated there was dragonessence in the vicinity.

“The vortex is around here.”

Adventus spoke. “Yes, I can feel it too. Once we find it, we can find a quiet place to wait until dark.”

“In the graveyard?”

“Why not?”

Twillo considered this. He was superstitious about certain things, but he’d never felt any superstition when it came to the graveyards. Not only that, but if he walked up one of the nearest hills, he’d be able to see Firebreath on the horizon. There was comfort in that.

In circling around the crypts, Twillo came to an area with long stone tables that looked like it once had been intended for rituals. He’d seen similar things before in his travels.

The power was strongest here, so strong that Twillo’s next step felt heavier than normal, as if the dragonessence was calling him back.

“This is certainly it.”

“It certainly is,” Adventus said. “You could train here until night. If someone comes, I’ll be able to see them ahead of time given my current view.”

“Like a bird.”

“And unlike a bird monger.”

Twillo placed his things on one of the stone tables. He touched his chest, accessing his dragonessence core, the silver sphere hovering at a point directly in front of him. He removed his father’s sword and began stalking the sphere once Adventus took over.

Twillo swung at it, reabsorbing his power at the last moment. The sphere itself twisted, silver energy oscillating around it.

“Good, just like that,” Adventus said.

He stumbled a few tries, but soon, Twillo reached a point where he was not only going over the sword skills that Renda had shown him, but also cycling dragonessence with each attempt.

The wristlet let him know it was storing more power through its glow, yet Twillo could also feel the cosmic energy pooling in his center mass. He tried floating and striking at the same time, which resulted in him flipping onto his back, the wind knocked out of him.

“Try again,” said Adventus.

“Might need to rethink that one,” Twillo told the white dragon as he got to his feet and once again floated into the air. His next attempt at a floating strike failed, but he wasn’t sent on his back this time, Twillo balancing in the air as if he were surfing on a plank.

“Think of the possibilities.”

“I am,” Twillo told Adventus as he floated yet again.

With both hands on his blade, he focused on the sphere before him and swung at it. He lost his balance. He wasn’t able to cycle dragonessence in his attack, but he was able to keep himself afloat.

“Better,” Adventus told him.

“Think of the possibilities,” Twillo said, repeating what the dragon had said earlier.

Twillo was never able to float and cycle at the same time, yet he did reach a happy medium in which he was able to deliver strikes, keep himself afloat, and even use the power to surge his attacks forward or downward. With practice, he’d be able to float above an enemy, swoop down, strike, and move out of range.

“Like a dragon,” he said upon the completion of his last attempt.

“Exactly like a dragon. Although, you can’t use fire.”

Twillo smirked at the sky, as if Adventus were directly above him. “That’s what you’re for. I think I’ll rest now, eat some of the stale bread from earlier, and wait until night. In the meantime?”

“In the meantime, a story. I’m curious. How did you get that ring of yours?”

.Chapter Thirty-Four.

Tales of a Relic Hunter II: Baumundas the Giant and the Enkiro Ring of Animation

There was a famous pocket of trees north of Enkiro, past the border between Southfall and Middling. Pushing three hundred feet tall and fed by mountain runoff that twisted into tributaries outside of Seondzus, the Garguan Trees had stood tall in the Four Kingdoms for thousands of years.

Upon seeing them for the first time, the young relic hunter was certain that they would tower over E’Kanth’s Ember Gate Colossus, the trees so large that it was hard to imagine the canopy at the top. While stunning, most avoided the forest due to a giant yokai known as a daidarabotchi that lived in the area. Baumundas was his name.

Yet this was where the mapstone led, and as the relic hunter turned it over in his hand, the vibration reminded him just how close he was.

Initially, the relic hunter thought he would be able to befriend Baumundas.

He had met giants before in Southfall, and found them to be much gentler than people made them out to be. It was all about approach, but upon reaching the border area and meeting with some of the farmers, he soon realized that this notorious giant wouldn’t be so easy to reason with.

“He takes my livestock whenever he wants,” one farmer told him, the man a former soldier with tattooed arms and horizontal scars crossing his brow. “I’m lucky in that regard. He has taken children too.”

Another farmer had a similar story. “The giant looks like he belongs in a hole in the ground, all covered in soot and plant matter, about half the size of that dragon rider statue in E’Kanth.” The man spat. “Hair is long, in his face, and he can pick up a cow with a single hand. Saw him rip the head off a bull. Just played with it. Hasn’t been a kid taken for a while, but there was one about a year or so back, right before winter, a boy. Curse you, Baumundas! I’d move, but the land was given to me by the Otonashis for my military service, same as the others around here. It’s all we got.”

After speaking with several more people, the relic hunter camped that night in one of the fields in the shadows of the Garguan Trees.

He went over the items that he had brought to help him retrieve the ring, which was said to be able to animate objects for a short amount of time. How the giant had taken possession of the relic, and how the relic hunter could even use it, was another story entirely. He assumed that it was merely part of Baumundas’ collection, or perhaps something stashed away in whatever hovel he called home.

That was what the mapstone was for, one he had purchased from a fixer in Seondzus named Romulus. If he could make it to wherever the giant lived in the woods, the mapstone would do the rest.

The relic hunter would need all the help he could get, which was why he’d brought several items including the Cloak of Obscurity, a relic that used dragonessence to provide a unique camouflage. It didn’t make him invisible, but it did help him blend into his surroundings, especially thickly wooded areas.

Also with him was a recently acquired object known as the Rotting Wand that made anything it touched rot. The only thing it wasn’t able to rot was the case that it came in and its grip.

He had stocked up on Gourdian shards, which when used with basanic fire created a small explosion. To achieve this, he’d also brought tiny vials of basanic fire that were protected by a leather case, allowing him to craft something akin to a proximity explosive.

The final item, one which fell into the category of some of the weirder things he had traded for at E’Kanth’s Artifance, was known as the Screeching Clutch of Folke. The leather clutch, which was made of finely stitched beads and leather, released a terrifying feminine scream when opened. It continued to release the scream until it was snapped shut, creating quite the distraction.

Anything to avoid a fight with the giant.

The morning consisted of a scouting mission, the relic hunter venturing deep into the woods. the Garguan Trees were much larger than the vigans of the City of the Dead, yet shaped in the same way, the wood knotted and anthropomorphous. He ran an outstretched hand along some of these knots and occasionally paused to look up to a top he would never see.

Only a dragon could fly that high, and they died long ago.

His relic cloak now over his shoulders, the relic hunter was sure to wrap it around his body and place the hood over his head to further hide his form. He gauged every step carefully upon approaching the carcass of a moose, flies loitering around its body, the air with a sour smell, not unlike spoiled milk yet gamier.

He came to another animal carcass, the carrion attracting flies. He paused to note that the land began to slope downward into a dry gully, water pooled around its edges.

A snoring sound reached him next, one that had been partially obscured by the wind. It took him a moment, but in tracing his eyes across the gully he found Baumundas.

What he had assumed was a clump on the ground was actually the giant. Baumundas had mud caked over him and moss tracing across his back, his hair tangled with roots, his nails brittle and yellow like calcite.

The relic hunter paused.

He closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for his beating heart to slow to some degree. His mapstone vibrated.

The Enkiro Ring of Animation was near, close enough that he began scanning the area, hoping for a treasure trove of sorts. He found exactly what he was looking for in the form of a natural overhang at the far end of the gully, one that created a shallow cave where the giant could rest on a rainy day.

It had to be there.

In checking the side wall of the gully, which extended about twenty feet from the ground, he noticed a path carved into the rock, one that was likely placed here long ago.

He traced his eyes over the walls again, looking for signs of Sagic language or rock carvings. While it would have been interesting to further explore the area, the relic hunter needed to see to the task at hand.

It was time to set a trap for the giant known as Baumundas.

It took him hours considering he had to do so in silence. The relic hunter had to be equally careful not to trigger one of his own explosives. The powdered basanic fire was placed beneath Gourdian shards, with more rocks on top laid out carefully. As long as Baumundas came in the most logical direction toward the sound of the screeching clutch, the trap would work.

At least this was the idea.

He was certain that the shards weren’t powerful enough to blow the giant’s foot off, but it would cause some damage, and it might even bring Baumundas to his knees.

By that point, the relic hunter would hopefully have the Enkiro Ring of Animation and be on his way.

Night would make things easier, and he’d have the added advantage of being able to see in the dark. “By Livia,” were the only words that slipped out of his mouth as the sun fully set, the moon beginning its rise as Mother Dusk came alive.

The relic hunter crouched in front of the Screeching Clutch of Folke. He knew that as soon as he opened the clutch, the screams would start. They would awaken the giant, which would make it much harder for him to retrieve the relic.

It became time.

He could feel it in his gut, and after another quick prayer to Livia, the relic hunter reached for the clutch. The female wailing started as soon as he opened it. As he had practiced, he set the clutch on the ground, and silently moved away from the trap.

Baumundas roared alive, the giant instantly furious at the screeching noise emitting from the darkened woods. By the time the giant got to his feet, the relic hunter was perched along the edge of the gully, his mapstone in one hand, Rotting Wand in the other as he tracked the yokai.

The world shook as the giant slammed both fists against the ground, let out another terrifying bellow, and took off toward the clutch.

As soon as the giant was clear of the gully, the relic hunter raced along the ledge he had discovered earlier, toward the natural overhang. The first explosion met his ears right as he was about to drop into the gully and begin rummaging through the giant’s things.

As predicted, the giant cried out in agony. But then quiet spread over the forest, even as birds continued to depart from their nests above. The relic hunter could sense the tension now, and he knew without having to see that the giant had realized that this was a trap.

The giant came charging back toward the gully, limping, one of his toes blown off.

He jumped down into the wide open space and huffed as his eyes darted left and right, seething to the point that he was trembling. While all this was happening, the clutch continued to scream. It screamed and shrieked, its voice that of a banshee.

Baumundas began scanning the walls of the gully. As he did the relic hunter sunk back into his cloak, crouched now, his hood fully covering his face to the point that he could only see through the small slit open at the bottom.

As still as ever, the relic hunter waited for Baumundas to scan the northern part of the gully.

Once the giant’s back was to him, he tossed the mapstone on the ground about ten feet away from the yokai, the rock vibrating. Huffing, the giant turned to the mapstone. He charged toward the area, and then stopped, cautious as ever as he tried to figure out what was vibrating.

Seizing the opportunity, the relic hunter took a running leap off the ledge as he held the Rotting Wand with one hand. It was a one in a million shot, but something had inspired him in that moment, and he knew that he was going to land his attack.

As the giant turned toward the sudden sound of the relic hunter’s feet leaving the ledge, he was met by the Rotting Wand, which the relic hunter jabbed right into his eye.

The two fell to the ground together, the relic hunter barely managing to escape from being crushed.

He crawled away, the Rotting Wand now jutting out of the giant’s eye as it screamed in agony.

Baumundas tried to swipe at him. Yet the wand continued to do what it was supposed to do, the yokai trembling as its power took shape.

The relic hunter hid with his back pressed against a rock wall as the giant’s entire body began rotting, stinking to the point that the relic hunter vomited. It was twenty minutes later, once he was sure that the giant was dead, that he finally began his search for the Enkiro Ring of Animation. He found it on the skeletal finger of a child, the bones warped.

The relic hunter left the forest at night, heading north toward E’Kanth.

It was best that the locals didn’t know what he had done.

Things were better that way.

“You vomited?” asked Adventus, who had been quiet throughout the story.

“I’m not proud of it,” Twillo told him.

“The smell must have been horrendous.”

“It was.”

“And the Rotting Wand?”

“It’s still there, or what’s left of it. The piece rotted with Baumundas. All that was left in the end was a pile of… muck. I don’t know how to describe it, but it was foul.”

“What about the cloak?”

“The Cloak of Obscurity? I traded it long ago. That was a mistake.”

“And the clutch?”

“I still have the Screeching Clutch of Folke at the church in Padrian Sands. I don’t generally carry it with me.”

“Why?”

“Because the clasp doesn’t work as well as it should, and sometimes it opens and screams randomly. I suppose I could get it fixed.”

“So you are technically a giant killer?”

Twillo cast his gaze over the vortex that he would later use and slowly nodded. “I never really considered myself that.”

“Why not? It is clear you have slain a giant, at least if your story is to be believed. And I don’t see why I wouldn’t believe it. I suppose if you did go around calling yourself that, it would bring unwanted attention.”

“Exactly, and we can’t have that. The less attention the better.”

.Chapter Thirty-Five.

To the City of Dragons and Beyond

Night seemed to sweep over the hills of the grand cemetery, the stars fluttering into existence above, evidence that Mother Dusk was on the move. Twillo, who had been seated with his back against the wall made of marble in the cemetery, stood and smoothed his hands over the front of his clothing.

“Shall we?” he asked Adventus.

“Yes, I believe it is time.”

Twillo approached a flat surface, one with weeds growing up through its cracks.

He could feel dragonessence. He could see it now too, like steam flowing off the top of a bowl of hot liquid. He stretched his hands out. The silvery energy stirred.

Wispy at first, it grew in definition, the dragonessence spiraling around him. He floated into the air, cosmic power flowing, the world on the periphery and no longer of relevance.

It was the first time that Twillo understood how dragonessence could lead someone astray.

It came to him in an instant, the sheer nature of what he could be capable if he mastered the mana that defined his existence. It was the might of the Gods coursing through him, an omnipotent power, and this part about it scared him. This wasn’t who Twillo was, nor was it who he had ever been. He’d never been one to seek power for influence, his saracentic nature cast aside on that fateful night over two decades ago.

Yet he recognized it now.

Looking down at his hands, at the glow of silver energy, that faint hint of spheric puissance, Twillo knew that it was a force to be reckoned with. After all, it was strong enough to transcend realms, to bring dragons back from the dead.

He had always had a poor opinion on the suppression of dragonessence by Yanzon the Undisputable, the iniquitous Icenordian dictator from hundreds of years ago. Yet he now understood why someone looking to conquer the Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland would do everything in their capability to contain and abolish the cosmic energy.

Especially after the Age of Dragons.

It was too dangerous, yet it was also entirely necessary, especially now, when the fate of the Four Kingdoms was at stake.

Twillo lowered to the ground and let out a deep sigh. “I believe we are recharged.”

“That we are,” said Adventus.

He summoned the dragon, who appeared in his first form, flapping his wings as he transitioned to the ground. Adventus bowed his head; Twillo placed his hand on the dragon’s snout. “To E’Kanth.”

“To the City of Dragons and beyond,” said Adventus.

Once Twillo gathered his things, he climbed to the spot on the white dragon’s back where he could best perch.

He bent forward, his surroundings shifting as Adventus took flight.

They speared into the air, Twillo clenching his eyes shut as they ascended even higher, only opening them once they leveled off.

A pocket of rough air caused Adventus to shift to the side, causing Twillo’s heart to skip a beat. He let out a deep sigh once the dragon stabilized, the boom of their flight heavy in his ears as his white ponytail beat in the wind behind him.

By the time they landed outside of E’Kanth, Twillo’s legs were slightly numb, his heart thrumming in his chest from the descent. He tried to hop off Adventus, yet his legs gave way, causing Twillo to fall onto his rear.

“Dragon legs, that’s what they used to call that,” Adventus said as he turned to the relic hunter. “It can happen on long journeys.”

Twillo was happy to sit on the ground for a moment and reorient himself.

In the distance, he could see the outlines of E’Kanth, the pair not far from the northern Rune District, the location of the stave church overseen by Olaf and Vradon. By touching his chest, he quickly accessed his dragonessence core, the silver orb hovering before him. It looked strong. All was well.

“Visiting the ziggurat has truly grown the amount of power you’re able to maintain. A flight like that should have exhausted your resources.”

“Do you have a core?” Twillo asked as he looked past the sphere to Adventus.

“I do not. Dragons aren’t able to cultivate dragonessence, this is why we must soulbind with a rider like yourself. I believe Mother Dusk and Father Dawn put this into place so we wouldn’t become too powerful, especially after mistakes they learned with giants. It forces us to behave to some degree, until we find a human who shares the same malicious intentions, the kind which can only come from Jecha.”

“You don’t believe people are naturally good or bad?”

“I do, but Jecha amplified the dark side of human nature in the past and looks to do so again.”

Twillo reached his hand out to his dragonessence core and returned it to his chest. In doing so, he felt a rush of energy, as if he had just caught a second wind. He turned toward E’Kanth. “It’s funny when you think about it.”

“What is?”

“While we are bringing back dragons to battle the Senja, we are also battling a banished God. You and me, a scruffy disgraced-saracent-turned-relic-hunter and a dragon back from the dead.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Adventus began to fade away, which was something Twillo noticed he was able to do on his own. Soon, he was gone, just bits of fading light where the dragon had been moments ago. His voice returned to its place somewhere at the back of Twillo’s head: “We will be able to use the vortex in E’Kanth too, you know.”

“How long does it take to recharge? I meant to ask that.”

“A vortex is an interesting relic, as you would likely call it. The place itself was imbued with an incredible power, one with rules written into it by a team of arcane artificers. A dragon rider can only absorb energy from it once a day, but multiple dragons are able to use the same vortex in that same period of time.”

Twillo started down a road that wound its way through pastureland, the City of Dragons on the horizon. “How does one use dragonessence to write code like that? I guess what I’m asking is: did you ever see any of them actually do it in the past?”

“I did. And I remember it clearly. They write it as if it were a math formula, yet it is done in the air with pure dragonessence itself using the Sagic language. There were basics that were necessary to begin imbuing an object, basic code, I suppose you could call it. But then it was up to the artificer’s skill as to how long they could hold a power, write it, and infuse an object at the same time. The vortexes took teams. I’m sure the ziggurats were the same.”

“And Father Dawn? Would he have shown his face to create them?”

“Maybe. He may have also simply possessed one of these artificers and done it himself. He has operated that way in the past, at least according to legend.”

The conversation died down as Twillo passed a group of farmers heading back from the city, several of which were drunk. One of them pointed at Twillo and yelled “Icer” in an aggressive way, which reminded him to pull his hood over his head.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Adventus said as they grew closer to the outer gates of District Rune.

Twillo laughed. “It’s the ears. Or it’s the hair. Or maybe it’s the eyes. Or perhaps it is all three. It is night, you know.”

“Yes, the glowing yellow eyes of an Icenordian. You get used to seeing it—”

“Especially when they’re yours. But I’m fine with them,” Twillo said as he waved his hand toward the drunks. “The world as we know it wouldn’t exist without casual racism.”

Upon reaching District Rune, Twillo prepared to pay the guards a small bribe to let him pass. It was an unwritten rule about E’Kanth that traveling into the city at night usually came with additional scrutiny. Paying the guard off was a way to avoid this, and it only cost Twillo a few silver coins in the process.

Once he reached the Church of Illum, Twillo took the side entrance, and was just about to head to the rafters when he noticed something in the darkened nave.

He blinked his eyes twice upon seeing Olaf seated on the ground as if he were deep in meditation. Something was off about the way the monk sat, his head bowed forward, a line of drool dripping from his mouth.

“Olaf?” Twillo approached the man, his foot nearly slipping in blood.

He placed his hands on Olaf’s shoulder. In doing so, Twillo found that his body had been propped up by a board, the monk clearly dead.

“Ugh!” Twillo was struck in the back, his vision flashing red and black.

Adventus yelled in his head, the dragon not able to see from his perspective what was actually happening. Twillo blinked his eyes open a few moments later to find himself pinned by a pair of Icenordian soldiers, the elven orc employed by Princess Embla pacing before him. He was the same guard who had chased Twillo through the drainage ditch during the Artifance.

“Rowian…” Twillo said, the man’s name coming to him. “What have you done?”

Rowian stopped pacing and crouched in front of Twillo. “What have I done? The monk was harboring a fugitive. The punishment for doing so is death—”

“This is not—”

Rowian slapped Twillo across the face. He pointed at him. “Do not interrupt me. The punishment for harboring a fugitive is death. The punishment for being a fugitive, one that assaulted the Crown Ravenna, is also death, yet the Princess has tasked me with bringing you in alive.”

“To Vendir?”

“To Vendir,” Rowian said.

“Left-Handed One, summon me and I will handle these miscreants! That, or use your power! What they have done here is beyond the law. He was a monk. Curse you, Vitharr, he was but a humble monk!”

Twillo bit his lip, tasting blood as he considered his options.

If Rowian was planning to take him to Vendir, he would have an opportunity to fight back later, likely in the carriage ride through Icenor’s volcanic desert. He could also wait until they got to Vendir, where they were going anyway. Twillo could even wait until he was able to confront the Crown Ravenna and tell her what her guards had done. There was no way Princess Embla would have condoned an attack on a monk.

“You shouldn’t have killed him,” Twillo said, anger rising in his chest.

He could feel his skin starting to prick, deep breaths doing little to calm him.

Rowian sneered. “And you shouldn’t have assaulted the Crown Ravenna. If it was up to me, you’d be there next to the monk. But she has other plans for you.”

“How did you know I would come here?”

“How?” The elven orc nodded to Olaf’s dead body. “He told me. Well, he told me after a little persuasion. He doesn’t have the stomach for torture, but most elves don’t.”

“You have made a grave mistake,” Twillo said, his words coming carefully now. “This mistake will not only cost you your life, but it will cost you the lives of your men.”

“You’re in no position to make idle threats, Jhaeros.” Rowian stood. Soon, he returned with a blunt object, likely the same one Twillo had been struck across the back with earlier. “Ironwood,” he said as he smoothed his hand over the end of the club. He placed the end of the club between Twillo’s shoulder and neck. “Hopefully this doesn’t kill you.”

Rowian swung the club against Twillo’s head, knocking him out for good.

.Chapter Thirty-Six.

Passenger

Adventus stood before Twillo in his dragon warrior form, his armor sharp and bone-like, white like his scales, two glowing blue eyes on each side of his helmet. With one hand on his spear, he gestured for Twillo to approach.

The relic hunter removed his sword.

Looking down at his weapon, he noticed that it had been refurbished, the piece now with a silvery glow to it that reminded him of dragonessence. Was he supposed to attack Adventus? And what was the swelling black hole behind the dragon warrior, which absorbed all the light in the vicinity?

Twillo lowered his weapon; Adventus gestured for him to raise it again.

As he got into position, Adventus’ dragon armor began to pull off his body, sucked into the vortex behind him. It removed his skin and his flesh in the process, revealing a skeletal form that appeared reptilian. The troubling image caused Twillo to scream. His voice created sound waves that struck the black hole, collapsing it.

He was falling, and suddenly he was riding on the back of a dragon, his enemies all gathered before him, the sky lit with plumes of blue fire.

Left-Handed One…

Twillo blinked his eyes open to find more blackness, a thatched nature to his vision as if his head had been covered. His ears rang, the side of his head throbbed, his mouth was parched, wrists bound behind him. “Where…?” he whispered.

“You are awake! You stirred several times and I thought I’d lost you. Rowian’s strike could have killed you.”

“Where…?” he asked the voice in his head.

“In a carriage, on your way to Padrian Sands. They have a female prisoner in the carriage as well, although I believe she is dead. I am only able to catch glimpses when enough moonlight comes through the window.”

“My vision…”

“Your face is covered by a blackened veil.”

The images that followed had Twillo choking up for a moment. Olaf was a good friend, and to see him dead like that, to learn of his torture… Twillo balled his hands into tight fists. He still wore his Ring of Animation; he could break from his bindings anytime that he wanted. Knowing this relaxed him to some degree. “Tell me everything that has happened since E’Kanth.”

“They loaded you in a carriage and left the city. The woman was already in here with you.”

“And Olaf?”

“They left him behind.”

Twillo shook his head. “Their cruelty knows no bounds.”

“No, it does not. What do you plan to do now?”

“You said we are outside of Padrian Sands?”

“Correct. Past the River Sava. You have been out for some time.”

“We make it look like an accident,” Twillo said, elaborating on an idea that had already come to him. It had been fuzzy earlier, when he was in the moment, but now it was clear. “I will free myself, and then summon you. Together, we will see to the guards. No last words necessary. This is for Olaf. We will send them to the Realm of the Forgotten, and go from there.”

“To Vendir?”

A smirk replaced the savage look on Twillo’s covered face. “No, to the cave, the Quill of Katzimo. My things? Are they with us?”

“I believe they placed them in the trunk.” Twillo could feel the letter opener still sheathed at his waist, the piece partially digging into his stomach. “Good. They didn’t get my letter opener. Try not to burn the carriage.”

“There doesn’t need to be any fire involved.”

“No, there doesn’t.”

Adventus spoke again: “And the woman?”

“After we are finished, I will see that she gets a proper burial.” Twillo tapped his ring against the cuff on his right wrist. The metal twisted away, the cuffs coming alive. He shifted his body back to prevent the cuffs from doing something like spilling to the floor and slithering out.

Soon, they gave up the fight, Twillo’s hands now free, his wrists bruised. He removed the black veil over his head and paid little attention to the woman in front of him as he looked out a pair of shutters. “Are you ready?”

“This will not be a challenge for me, Left-Handed One.”

Twillo banged his fist against the top of the carriage, which would let the guards know that something was awry. He did so again; the carriage skidded to a halt. Twillo heard the sound of someone dismounting from their horse.

As the door opened, Twillo shouldered out of the carriage, and struck the man, who was already in the process of drawing his sword. He summoned Adventus, dragonessence pooling in the air all around him as he stumbled away.

Back on his feet, Twillo drew the letter opener, which morphed into a rapier.

But his weapon didn’t matter by this point. Adventus had taken his vordic form.

The enormous, serpent-style dragon whooshed past him, causing Twillo to fall backward. The dragon collided with the first elven orc and tore him apart, his barbed tail whipping at one that was still mounted on his horse. As Twillo got to his feet, he sensed the presence behind him, and turned just in time to find Rowian.

“What have you done?” Rowian asked, a wild look on his face.

Twillo narrowed his eyes on the guard. “I told you this wouldn’t end well.”

Adventus took out several other guards and then flared up behind Twillo, the dragon hovering over the carriage as if he were to protect it.

Rowian gulped, his sharpened ears pressed back. “If Vitharr deems this my fate, then so be it.”

He charged at Twillo with his bulky sword.

Twillo sidestepped his first attack. Dragonessence came to him as he surged around Rowian. Behind his opponent, Twillo thrust his weapon forward, his attack amplified by cultivated power. There was nothing fancy about what he did next as he ran his rapier through the small of Rowian’s back.

Withdrawing it, Twillo replaced the wound with a solid kick that sent Rowian forward, allowing him to follow up the strike with another deadly wound, his blade pressing out of the front of the elven orc’s stomach before he withdrew his blade for a final time.

Rowian hit the ground, and began to crawl away.

Twillo watched him for a moment, aware that the elven orc was now bleeding profusely. He had punctured internal organs with the rapier. The likelihood that a rake or myling would find him before morning was high.

“It is up to you,” Adventus said, his voice booming as ever now that he was in one of his physical forms.

“It is no longer up to me,” Twillo finally said as he flicked his rapier at the ground, removing some of the excess blood. “He is in both Livia’s and Vitharr’s hands now.”

Rowian pushed himself up, and fell onto his stomach, the man letting out a terrible grunt. He dragged himself even further away from the carriage, but was moving slower now, closer to death by the moment.

Twillo watched as one of the horses charged into the desert.

If Rowian didn’t bring attention to what had happened, the roaming horse would.

“In that case, I will prepare our departure.” Adventus twisted up in the air, his red, tendril-like whiskers trailing down as his lower half began to melt into cosmic particles, only to reform as the armored and winged dragon that Twillo was most familiar with. Adventus landed in front of the carriage and waited for Twillo to grab his things.

Once the relic hunter had his father’s sword and the bags he carried from the back, he opened the door of the carriage to check on the woman.

Looking at her now, Twillo could have sworn that he had seen her before.

He recognized the muscled shoulders, her overall demeanor, even if…

Twillo removed the blackened veil over her head to reveal Anneli Vrignava, the elven orc fixer who had stolen his Tongue of Ravenna Megren. He placed a hand on her bruised cheek and lowered it to the side of her neck. “How did you end up here?”

“What of the woman?” Adventus asked, the dragon now directly behind Twillo.

“It’s her, the barkeep who stole my tongue. I believe she may be alive.”

Twillo stepped out of the carriage and placed his bags on the ground. He found a glass bottle that he kept his muskox scent in and placed it next to the bag.

He proceeded to take Anneli out of the carriage, which wasn’t easy considering she was taller than him. He nearly hit her head on the door frame in the process. Once they were out of the carriage, he placed her next to his bag and uncorked the bottle of muskox scent, which he ran under her nostrils.

Anneli’s eyes went wide.

For a moment, she stared at him with confusion, but then she realized that there was a dragon behind Twillo, one with a beak-like maw and a mouth full of sharp teeth, his eyes glowing blue, sharp spines lifting off the sides of his head.

Anneli screamed. She screamed so loud that Twillo acted. He positioned himself behind her and brought his hand over her mouth. “Don’t bite, and don’t scream,” he said as she started to struggle. “We are in the desert. At night. And none of this is what it seems.”

She screamed again, her voice muffled by his hand, her breath hot on his palm.

“Please. We’ve already attracted enough attention. Yes, there is a dragon behind me, and yes, all of this will make sense if you just let me explain it to you. I’m going to remove my hand now. You promise not to scream?”

Anneli shook her head.

“I need confirmation.”

Anneli begrudgingly nodded.

“Good.”

Anneli spun around and tackled Twillo as soon as he removed his hand. She tried to unsheathe his sword, but was quickly met with the snarl of a dragon, Adventus now within snapping distance.

Anneli pushed away, and crawled backward until she was up against the wheel of the carriage.

She tried to speak and no sound came out. She pointed at her throat.

“You’ve lost your voice screaming,” Twillo said as he got back to his feet. “I know all of this is a lot to take in, but just give me a moment and I’ll explain everything. And then you’ll explain. Don’t think you’re off the hook for robbing me.”

.Chapter Thirty-Seven.

No Mapstone Required

Anneli puffed her cheeks out, her eyes still twitching as she tried to make sense of everything.

Twillo knew that what had just happened was insane.

To go from being prisoner of the Ravenna’s Honor Guard to being rescued by a dragon and a relic hunter was a tale that no orator or bard would likely touch. Not only that, it had political implications, and could offend the wrong person easily. Yet that was exactly what happened.

Yet again, Twillo scanned the area, to the elven orcs and horses that were down, all the way out to Rowian, who had since stopped crawling. “We will need to leave soon.” He handed Anneli a waterskin he had found in the trunk of the carriage. “Drink.”

“That joke you made…” Anneli drank from the waterskin and licked her lips. “Back at the tavern, you made a joke about attacking the place with a dragon. It was true, wasn’t it?”

Twillo scratched the back of his head. “I believe there is a saying about fact being stranger than fiction, but I don’t know the exact quote. Yes, it was true. Adventus, meet Anneli.”

“It is a pleasure, Your Ladyship,” the dragon said with a slight head bow. “Where shall we go, Left-Handed One?”

Twillo squinted in the direction that he assumed the cave was in, toward the northwest. “We should go to the cave. It will look like the caravan was attacked. That should be evidence enough to stop the search.”

“And what of their bodies?”

“The bodies will be dragged off by the morning. That is common out here,” he told Adventus. Twillo refocused his attention on Anneli. “Where is the tongue?”

“I don’t have it,” she said.

“Then where?”

“A fixer in E’Kanth purchased it from me. Actually, I traded it for this. It is like the one you have.” Anneli pulled back the sleeve on her arm to reveal a small wristlet with a dull jewel on it. “But it doesn’t glow like yours.”

“You traded it for a wristlet?”

Twillo felt a chill run down his spine. Even if he was well aware that his life was being manipulated, as were the lives of those around him—after all, how had his father come across the wristlet in the first place?—it still reminded him of the destiny that awaited.

Once he didn’t say anything, Anneli spoke again: “This wristlet has something to do with all of this, doesn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“The dragon.” She nodded her head. “All of this is connected.”

“Why did you agree to trade the Tongue of Ravenna Megren for a wristlet with an unknown power?” Adventus asked her.

“I actually don’t know. He offered it to me, I remembered what yours could do, I was curious, and I couldn’t say no. I tried to say no, but I couldn’t. Is this how you control the dragon?” she asked Twillo again.

“I don’t control him. We are soulbound.”

“Why?”

“Why?” A grin took shape on Twillo’s face. “Why what? Why are we soulbound?”

“Yes, start there.”

He scanned the horizon again, looking for any signs of nefarious yokai heading in their direction. Thus far, it was quiet, but he knew he’d soon hear the hideous bark of rake. Even so, it was best if they moved on.

“Would you come with me?” he asked.

“Come with you where?” Anneli tilted her head as she tried to understand what he was asking. Her eyes widened again as Twillo motioned toward the dragon. “You want me to fly with you?”

“It isn’t as scary as it sounds. My plans were to visit the cave, the one with the Quill of Katzimo inside. From there, I will head to Vendir.” Twillo hesitated. Anneli had already betrayed him once, but would she do so again? Now faced with the truth of what he was about to do, was it within her wheelhouse to use this information against him?

He wished at that moment that he could speak to Adventus privately about it, to get the dragon’s take on how he should handle the situation.

There was always his Amulet of a Forlorn Monk, which would erase the last thirty minutes of her memory. But at some point, he’d need something that covered a longer period, especially if they stayed together all the way to Vendir. What he needed was the Tongue of Ravenna Megren, which would allow him to command her to forget.

In gauging how he should proceed, Twillo was also reminded that whoever was helping him had put Anneli in his path for a reason, be it Livia or Vitharr. Not only that, she had been given a wristlet. This coincided with the second ziggurat, which would likely free a dragon from the Realm of the Forgotten.

Another dragon would need another rider.

Was Anneli destined to be one?

“I will tell you everything,” he finally said. “But not here, somewhere else. Grab whatever they may have stolen from you. Your first ride on the back of a dragon is an experience unlike any other.”

Adventus tore through clouds, cutting higher into the night sky, Twillo and Anneli on his back. The elven orc had her head buried in Twillo’s back, hands clenched tightly around his waist. Their initial ascent had her on the verge of screaming at the start, yet she had cooled off since then, even if she preferred not to open her eyes.

“It’s not so bad,” Twillo called back to her.

“I can’t believe you kept this a secret from me!”

Twillo laughed. “Last time I saw you, I wasn’t quite at the point where I was riding on the back of a dragon.”

This reminded him to glance at his wristlet, the piece glowing with a solid blue.

Twillo looked inward for a moment, gauging his own power.

He felt strong; even if he had been attacked back in E’Kanth, the dragonessence he had gained from the ziggurat followed by the vortex in Firebreath was still fueling him. Yet he also knew that he would need to cycle some in the morning, especially if they planned to fly all the way to Vendir.

Adventus began a natural arc toward the ground after they had been flying for another forty minutes or so. Twillo had no idea where they were, yet he trusted the dragon’s instincts, and knew that wherever they landed, it would be close enough to go to the cave the next day.

Twillo saw the crest of mountains in the distance, the moon reflecting off their snowy peaks. “Those are the Stormking Mountains,” he told Anneli. “We’re close.”

He felt her shift behind him as if she were taking a look over his shoulder. “That’s really them?”

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

Twillo felt her turn her head the other way and press against his back again. This was all new to Anneli; her behavior could change once she grew more accustomed to being around Adventus, especially if she came to better understand dragonessence.

This spawned another question. “How did you end up back in the carriage?” he asked as Adventus continued his descent.

“I don’t have the greatest reputation.”

“Neither do I, but it doesn’t explain why they took you into custody.”

“Because of my brother,” Anneli said into his back. “He is part of the Honor Guard. They were returning me to him.”

“Returning you? You don’t belong to them.”

“No, I do not, but orcen tradition—”

Adventus landed abruptly, the strip of cliff appearing out of nowhere, as if someone had summoned it with a snap of their fingers. It was only after looking around for a moment that Twillo realized that he hadn’t been paying attention, that his focus had been on the conversation and what he knew about orcen traditions.

Anneli was quick to dismount, the woman sending her arms out once she was on stable ground. She gritted her teeth for a moment and looked from Twillo to Adventus.

“This should do,” the dragon told the pair. He arced his neck toward the opening of a cave. “That should provide shelter if it rains. But be careful in setting up camp.”

“Always,” Twillo said as Adventus pixilated out of existence.

This took Anneli by surprise. “Where…?”

“There’s more to discuss,” he told her as he placed his things on the ground. Twillo scanned the opening of the cave. It appeared to taper off, creating a perfect space for a hermit. It certainly would be worth exploring in the morning. Once he had his basanic fire, he drew a line of blue fire, Anneli and Twillo on the other side of it, facing the edge of the cliff.

“Shouldn’t we be staying inside the cave?”

“It’s safer this way.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s breezy tonight.”

“And the temperature will drop. But I have a solution for that. Now, about this orcen tradition. I’m unaware of anything that involves your brother looking after you.”

“It is an only daughter sort of thing. Until I’m married. This is why I routinely run away. It is why he generally finds me, usually through other Honor Guard. So they were going to return me to him. To Vendir. As you can imagine, a sister who has stained her skin with ink and lives the life of a fixer and barkeep is cause for concern.”

“And we just happen to be in the same carriage.”

“It appears that way,” she said as she took a seat in front of Twillo, near the basanic fire. She ran her hand over the flames. “Strange.”

“I was lucky to run into a good supply of powdered basanic fire a few years back. I stock up every time I can.” Twillo handed her the myordukai skin. “This will keep you warm.”

“What about you?”

“I have my cloak,” he told her as he finally sat, his bag next to him. Twillo got out some of the dried food he carried and shared it with Anneli. “I suppose you have questions.”

“I have more than you likely have answers.”

“I was that way just a few days ago. I’ll tell you what I know.”

“And then?”

Twillo shrugged. “I guess at that point, it’s up to you. You were given a wristlet, after all.”

He started with what had actually happened that fateful night at the wolvencree’s cave, how his body had been ripped to shreds and how he had been saved at the last moment. He transitioned to what he had learned about dragonessence, about the three aspects necessary for mastering the cosmic energy.

“The ability to turn it on and off to shield one’s presence, thus storing it. The ability to use dragonessence to increase physical aspects of one’s power through cycling and absorbing more. The power to infuse other objects with it, like arcane artificers did hundreds of years ago.”

“It can’t be that simple.”

Rather than reply, Twillo touched his chest and removed his dragonessence core. It immediately began to absorb energy around them, including a bit of the blue from the basanic flames.

While he let his core recharge, he told her about Sister Tonandi, the Stylite nun who had granted him this power. “She is sort of like the arcane artificers of old, many of the warrior monks are. This is how they transfer advanced abilities, by imbuing someone else with the skill which can come with repercussions.”

“And she gave it to you?”

“She did,” he said, “and I was honored to be able to access it this way. In the morning I will show you how I’ve started to cycle power by training with my dragonessence core. I think that is the most important thing I’ve taken away from all of this, that there is no set formula for these powers and how to use them. There are agreed-upon interpretations and traditions, most notably through the Southfallian Magi, but much of that is lost to time.”

Twillo returned his dragonessence core to his chest.

He finally moved on to the subject of ziggurats, vortexes, and the Senja. On the flight over, he had debated how much he would tell Anneli, deciding in the end to explain everything.

He would do the same once he finally reunited with Vradon the monk, who would be devastated to learn of Olaf’s death. In that way it was a test run of how to describe what had happened succinctly. Not only that, the odds that anyone Anneli encountered would believe her story was slim.

This was one advantage of the kind of knowledge Twillo now possessed. It crossed deep into the realm of fantasy. It didn’t seem possible, even in a world of Gods and ancient relics.

Dragons weren’t supposed to exist.

It was late the next morning, when the phenomenon known as the Fata Morgana began to distort the horizon. The mountains in the distance suddenly stood vertically, snow falling off their peaks in shifting columns, the world folded and rippled on the periphery.

The pair kept their heads down, Adventus guiding the way even though he was no longer in the realm. At some point, once the terrain became rough, Twillo reached his hand back and Anneli took it.

They shuffled their feet now, their markings in the sand allowing them to keep in a straight line. Twillo focused on the ground before him, noting the sounds of the volcanic desert, listening for any indication that rake had spotted them.

They traveled this way in an effort to conserve dragonessence, Twillo aware that he would likely need to call on the power later, especially once he reached the cave. If they grew thirsty, he could use his Nalig Dowsing Glove to find water.

The Fata Morgana let up, Twillo watching as the sand swirled before him, the horizon now in its normal state.

Anneli let go of his hand and shuddered. “What is the Fata Morgana anyway? Why does it only happen here?”

“Tell her it is dragonessence that is trapped in a portal realm; the Fata Morgana itself a reflection of the landscape’s energy yet done so in a way that seems surreal.”

Twillo did his best to explain what Adventus had told him. Soon, he found himself as a translator between the voice in his head and the elven orc journeying with him. He spotted the batholith in the distance, the same one that he had sheltered beside in his near fatal first attempt to enter the cave.

The fear returned.

The fear nearly buckled his knees as he relived what had happened in the cave, blinking his eyes open to find his lower half torn to shreds, the wolvencree’s terrible teeth stained in blood, a predator of predators.

“Is something the matter?” Anneli asked.

Twillo shook his head and continued to the mouth of the cave.

There was no longer a trail of blood cutting through the silver-black sands of the desert, yet the skeletons before the cave were still on display, the broken bodies of rake and other desert fauna, not to mention the picked-apart carcass of the wolvencree itself.

Anneli approached cautiously. She crouched before the creature’s giant skull and looked back at Twillo. “You killed this?”

“Not me.”

“No, I mean you, the dragon.”

“Yes, he did,” Twillo said for Adventus. “When it happened, I was over here.” He gestured to the spot where his body had been. Because of the lack of wind reaching the area, his blood was still visible, dried now, staining the cave wall.

“By Livia.”

“Yes, it was certainly through Livia that I survived.” A feeling washed over Twillo’s shoulders, one of recognition, a realization that he should have come to at the start of all of this. “It is Livia, isn’t it?” he asked Adventus.

“Livia?”

“She is the one who contacted you.”

“I can’t be certain.”

“All of this is luck. Every aspect of it.” He gestured to Anneli. “If not Livia, then who? Vitharr wouldn’t be the type to play in the lives of mortals like this, not based on his stories. Who? Sphaerus? What would the God of Philosophy have to do with any of this? Leenaka? This has nothing to do with fertility. Vard? Perhaps the God of Health would be keen to play a part in the rebirth of dragons, but that doesn’t seem likely either. Father Dawn and Mother Dusk can act through a person, yet this doesn’t feel like that kind of situation, and I’m not worthy if it is. Who then? Yenda? Goddess of Youth and Beauty? No, this has nothing to do with that. The Twin Gods of War, Yodane and Nadakunai? This is too early for their involvement. It must be Livia.”

“The pantheon is larger than you think, Left-Handed One. The Four Kingdoms are merely a continent of a larger world. Do not think that there aren’t others who may have interest in the affairs of dragons.”

“There are other kingdoms?” Twillo turned back to the mouth of the cave and stared out at the desert for a moment. Anneli joined him, yet didn’t say anything about the one-sided conversation he was currently having.

“There are, and I can show you them one day, when we are powerful enough. I am not ruling out that it was Livia; the sheer luck required to line up these pieces would fall under her umbrella. But there are other forces at play, and even if it was Livia, perhaps there is a force controlling her.”

Twillo gazed past the wolvencree’s enormous skeleton, to the room where he would eventually find the relic after he solved the puzzle of the seven suspended pillars. “Sorry,” he told Anneli, “went on a bit of a tangent there.”

“So it’s not Livia?” she asked.

“There’s no way of telling, but I have hope that it is. Let’s get the Quill and be done with this blasted desert.”

.Chapter Thirty-Eight.

The Quill of Katzimo

After scaling the wall that Twillo had modified with his ring in his last visit, Twillo and Anneli entered the chamber that followed. The seven stone pillars hung above them.

“And you are sure they need to come down?” Anneli asked after examining them, the elven orc able to see in the dark as well.

“That’s what the script said. Do you see it?” He pointed at the script that had been carved into one of the pillars.

“And you translated that?”

“No, he did.” Twillo tapped on his temple, only realizing after that the gesture looked as if he were referring to a voice in his head, which he sort of was.

To make it brighter for Adventus, he made a small fire in the corner of the room using his basanic powder. Twillo had yet to summon the dragon, which would certainly fit in the cavernous space. It was best that they didn’t completely use their resources considering they’d need to fly to Vendir next, where there would likely be a vortex. If not, he could always head to Sparrow’s Rise, his hometown.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that. Twillo tried to avoid Sparrow’s Rise when he could.

“And how do you propose to get them down?” Adventus asked, after Twillo told him that it would be best for them to conserve energy.

“I have a plan; I just need to measure a few things first. Anneli, lie down.”

“Come again?”

Twillo playfully bowed at her. “Please, Your Ladyship, will you lie down on the ground here,” he said, framing a spot with his hands. “And don’t stretch your arms over your head.”

“What are you getting at?”

“You are at least seven feet tall, I’m sure of it.”

A hint of embarrassment traced across Anneli’s cheeks, visible even in the darkened chamber.

“You worry about your height?”

“You try being a head taller than everyone else and see what kind of nonsense people throw at you, men and women alike. Men see it as a challenge—if I hear another climbing joke I’ll go mad—and women see it as competition.”

“I see it as neither. I’m asking you to lie down because my ring only works in about a seven-foot radius. I want to see how many pillars I’ll be able to animate.”

“Can’t you just estimate?”

“I am estimating.” Twillo dusted some stones away from the ground to make it more comfortable for her to lie. She did so reluctantly, and once she was settled Twillo crouched next to her. He then lay on the ground directly beside Anneli and looked up at the ceiling of the chamber. “Just what I thought.”

“If it has a seven-foot radius you’ll only be able to affect maybe three of the pillars,” Anneli told him, the woman now squinting at the pillars above.

“Correct. And while I can animate them with my ring, I won’t be able to control what they do next. They may fall, or they may just twist in place. It’s a rather unpredictable relic. Not only that, I don’t think the power is available yet. It resets after twenty-four hours, so we’ll need to wait a little while if we go that route.”

Anneli sat up and dusted herself off. “And that’s all you have?”

“I have some extra Gourdian shards, which are explosive when sprinkled in basanic fire.”

She looked at him incredulously. “Are you really this unprepared?”

“Not normally; we just so happened to find ourselves in the vicinity, and I figured we’d solve the puzzle once we got here.”

“That was your plan all along?” Adventus asked.

“Yes,” Twillo told the dragon. “But I already have an even better solution, an easy one.”

“What’s that?” asked Anneli.

“My ring.”

“What about it?”

“The entrance up there. I’ll animate it with my ring.”

“Then why did you have me lie down on the ground?” Anneli asked.

“To waste time.” Twillo shrugged. “The ring hasn’t reset yet from last night.”

“And you’re certain?”

“I am. We have some time to kill. I figured we could think about other options in the meantime.”

Anneli started to laugh. “You’re mental.”

“My mental capabilities are sound, I assure you. This was something I learned long ago in this profession.”

“Explain.”

“Not everything requires a complicated solution.” Twillo touched his wristlet and began to float.

He rose higher into the air, and once he was near the pillars, he gravitated toward the blocked entryway. He ran his hand along it, and in doing so, he noticed how it disappeared into a slot in the stone, like a pocket door. The trigger for the mechanism was either the falling pillars or their impact on the ground.

“It will work,” Twillo called down to Anneli. “All we have to do now is wait.”

“And how will I get up there?”

Twillo lowered, the relic hunter now standing directly in front of Anneli, who had her arms crossed over her chest as she had back at the tavern when he’d first met her.

“Well?” she asked.

“I haven’t tried floating anyone else. I suppose you could hop on my back or let me carry you.”

She raised a skeptical eyebrow at the relic hunter. “Or I could just stay down here while you retrieve it.”

“Yes, that’s a possibility too. Although…” Twillo glanced up to the sealed door. “It might be better for you to be with me. The ring’s influence can be unpredictable, and by unpredictable, I mean violent. But we need to wait just a little longer before it will work.”

There was no real indication when the Enkiro Ring of Animation was ready to use. In Twillo’s earlier tests, he noticed it was at full capacity after about a day. Without knowing how to interpret dragonessence code, which arcane artificers used, all he was able to do was guess when the power reset itself. Not only that, the faint silver glow around the piece was the same regardless of its most recent usage.

The mechanics of the ring would remain a mystery until he met an actual arcane artificer. The likelihood of this was small, but he had heard before that there were still craftsmen in the Tribute Islands who were still able to craft magical items. If they did exist, finding them wouldn’t be easy.

After several hours of waiting, hours in which Anneli rested, they ate, and Twillo used his dragonessence core to gather energy, it was time. “Well, are you coming with me or not?” he asked the seated woman.

“I can’t believe this is how we have to do it.”

Twillo crouched a little and she hopped onto his back, her arms wrapped around his neck.

“It beats having me carry you in my arms.” He glanced back to the top of the chamber. Adventus said something, but Twillo was too focused now on floating two people to pay attention to the dragon. His wristlet activated, Twillo went through the motions he had learned when summoning and using dragonessence.

It was slow at first.

He didn’t move any higher in the air, causing Anneli to wonder aloud if this was another of his tricks.

“I assure you, it isn’t,” he told her as he felt a shift beneath his feet.

Anneli gasped as they rose a foot or so off the ground.

Twillo maintained his focus as the blocked passage came into view. Not knowing exactly how it would react, he floated to the far side of it, where the natural rock wall would provide some protection.

“Ready?”

“Are you ready?” Anneli asked.

“This might get…” Twillo hated to use a pun but he went for it anyway. “Rocky.”

Maintaining his position in the air, Twillo placed his hand against the stone door. He tapped the underside of the ring against its rough surface ten times. The block came alive in a strange way, shifting forward and sideways until it ultimately exploded out of the opening.

“By Livia!” Anneli said as it took out several of the hanging pillars.

The stone door hit the ground below and began bucking around the chamber, Twillo glad they had placed their bags on the ledge in the room beyond, where the rock couldn’t crush them. Possessed, the huge block of stone crushed the pillars that had fallen, the chamber shaking, the sound incredible until it finally stopped.

“That was not what I was expecting,” Anneli said as Twillo lowered into the new opening.

“It’s both my most fascinating and my most dangerous relic. At least for the moment.”

Once they were on solid ground, Anneli hopped down and moved toward the back of the new chamber, which was narrow and about twenty feet from end to end.

“Do you see it?” she asked.

“I see it,” Twillo said as he caught up with her, both with enhanced vision in the dark.

They reached a box sitting on a natural stone pedestal. The small box, which was about the length of a dagger, was made of carved vikan wood, the pattern one of kitsunes and dragons twisting together.

“This is exciting,” Anneli whispered as the two examined what had to be the relic.

“It always is.” Twillo let out a short breath and opened the box, revealing a quill and a thick glass bottle of dark ink. The box had been custom designed for the Quill of Katzimo and its ink to provide no wiggle room, the spacers made of velvet.

He felt the gravity of owning something like this, Twillo starting to second guess why he had come for it in the first place.

Twillo was just about to close the box and send it into an inner pocket of his robes when he heard a terrible wail, one that seemed to echo to the far corners of the long chamber. He recognized the guttural sound immediately.

It was a wolvencree, he was certain of this.

The first thought that came to Twillo’s mind was that they were trapped. There was only one way out, and it was back through the passageway that exited into the mouth of the cave. By the sounds that followed, the wolvencree bashing its body against the rock, it was clear that this was where the beast waited for them.

“How did it learn of our presence?” asked Adventus. “Was it the animated stone?”

“We’re going to die,” Anneli said. “Curse you, Vitharr, we’re going to—”

“No, we’re not,” Twillo told her. “Adventus? Are you ready?”

“You’ll need to get into the space beyond, the cave itself, before you can summon me. If you summon me here, I won’t be able to do anything.”

“Then we need a distraction, something to push the wolvencree away so I can get out there and summon you.”

“Yes, a distraction. What do you propose, Left-Handed One?”

The beast wailed again, as if it was possessed. This thought sent a chill down Twillo’s spine. Was it Jecha? Adventus was right—how had the beast come to know they were in the chamber anyway? It must have been the rocks.

Twillo cast these thoughts away as he went through his options. One would be to simply wait for the creature to give up or rest. This begged a different question: how long would it sit by the exit waiting for them to leave?

Twillo took a step closer to the corridor between their current chamber and the room beyond. He dropped before his bag and began rummaging through it, the wolvencree’s ferocity even stronger in this next chamber.

He could smell its carrion breath, and could hear it seething now.

What about the ground shell of a yandori snail? It produced nightmare-like visions. Would it work against a wolvencree?

He had other things, like his muskox scent, which might force the creature away from the opening for enough time for him to slip out. But other than that, most of the things he carried on his person at the moment were for different tasks.

Twillo placed his hand on his chest as a new idea came to him. Would it work as a distraction?

Anneli approached. “What are you thinking?”

“Dragonessence. I’m thinking dragonessence. I will access my core and Adventus will use it to distract the wolvencree. From there, I’ll slip out and summon Adventus. I have one other thing I can try, but it could backfire. A hallucinating wolvencree is the last thing we need.”

“What do you mean?”

“The ground shell of a yandori snail. I have another vial. If I throw it, it may work. Or it may not. And if any of it gets in our faces, we’ll hallucinate as well.”

Anneli retrieved a thin cloth from her bag and wrapped it around her face. “I’m willing to risk it.”

“Let’s try my core first. Adventus, be ready.”

“Get me in the other chamber, Left-Handed One, and the wolvencree will be no more,” said the white dragon, a savageness to his voice that Twillo hardly recognized.

“Are you ready?” Twillo asked Anneli. “It will be easier to float down.”

He turned his back to her and crouched, allowing the woman to climb on again. As soon as he was stable, Twillo sucked in a deep breath, and floated down to the ground.

It wasn’t as graceful as he would have liked, but soon, they were on level ground with the wolvencree, which was in the other chamber, its snout and teeth striking the exit as it tried to claw its way in.

Twillo settled his breath.

Even with the fear that he was feeling, a terror so visceral that it was making his knees shake and his vision dim, he touched his chest and accessed his core. Silver energy oscillated around the dragonessence core, Adventus taking over.

Anneli pressed her back to one of the walls while Twillo did the same across from her. He waited for the wolvencree to take a step back and give his core enough time to slip forward.

“Go, Adventus!” Twillo shouted as the wolvencree immediately took off toward the blisteringly bright sphere. After waiting an excruciatingly long second, Twillo charged toward the opening.

He slid into the larger cave. The wolvencree jumped in the air, snapping its teeth at his core as the silver orb shot toward Twillo’s chest. It struck Twillo just as the red-skinned monster turned to face him, seething.

Adventus took his vordic form, cosmic energy fluttering all around him.

The serpent-like dragon was on the wolvencree in a matter of seconds, the two erupting out of the cave as Adventus wrapped his body around the enemy yokai. He burst into the sky, the wolvencree tangled in his form, Adventus with his powerful jaw clenched tightly around the giant yokai’s neck.

He slammed the wolvencree into the ground, constricted even tighter, blue fire escaping from his nostrils as he continued to bite into the now whimpering creature.

Adventus killed the wolvencree in the moments that followed.

Once he was sure that the beast was dead, Adventus released its body and dropped it unceremoniously into the desert. He spiraled up into the air and returned to Twillo, his long whiskers floating around him. “Are you ready to fly?” he asked Twillo.

Anneli cautiously exited the cave, the elven orc not able to hide the look of utter shock on her face as she took in Adventus in his second form. The outline of his body began to fizzle, silver bits of what resembled glitter reforming into a smaller dragon, his first form.

Adventus flapped his wings as he lowered to the ground, where he settled. “That is the second time I’ve saved you from a wolvencree, Left-Handed One.”

Twillo started to laugh, the sudden adrenaline drop and the dragon’s comment hitting him at once. He swept his hand through his long white hair and once again looked up at Adventus. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll save you next time.”

The dragon returned his smile. “Perhaps. In the meantime, we should leave. This little incident will certainly attract attention.”

“You’ll take me back to Padrian Sands first, right?”

Twillo turned to Anneli. “You don’t want to come with us to Vendir?”

“I have no interest in going to Vendir. My brother is there.”

Twillo tried not to let the disappointment show in his eyes. “That may complicate our trip,” he said as he examined his wristlet. “We may need more power.”

“There has to be a vortex in Padrian Sands,” said the white dragon. “There was years ago.”

“But where would it be?” Twillo thought of the college town, an image of the Livia statue coming to him. “By Livia. That has to be it!”

“By Livia?” asked Anneli.

“The statue outside the city. That has to be it.”

Adventus nodded. “In that case, let’s go.”

.Chapter Thirty-Nine.

Farewell and Fortune

Adventus lowered toward the enormous Livia statue outside of Padrian Sands. Just as Twillo had suspected, he noticed a glow that indicated there was a vortex where he could recharge. Luckily, it was late now and the roads were empty, no one there to see them arrive.

“And you are sure you won’t go with us?” Twillo asked Anneli after they had dismounted.

“We’ve already returned to Padrian Sands. Why would I change my mind now?”

Twillo shrugged. “I just figured I’d ask. And you’ll be in the same place? I, we, will come back through here after. I need to break the news to a monk friend of mine. I think it is best to wait until after we visit the second ziggurat.”

“The news?”

Twillo lowered his head. “The guards that took us, they executed a monk in the process, a friend of mine named Olaf. His life partner is here at the Monk’s College studying—he does that every spring—I don’t believe he knows yet.”

“They executed him?”

“They did, for harboring me. And first, they tortured him.”

“Monsters. They deserved what came to them, being left in the desert. I’ll be at Storgata,” Anneli said after a long pause. “The tavern.”

“You are part of this now, you know.” Twillo motioned to her wristlet. “There will be—” He stopped himself from saying that there would be more dragons in the future, one of the details he hadn’t yet revealed to her. Instead, he changed subjects. “And I need information regarding the fixer who has my tongue.”

“His name is Lenko. He lives in District Rune, in E’Kanth. Come back when you are finished, when I’ve had time to process this, and we will go there together.” Anneli took a step closer to Twillo. “I promise. And maybe by that point, you’ll have a yoika poem to woo me with.”

“A yoika to woo you with?” Twillo asked, referring to the poem written for noble elves.

“If I remember correctly, you promised me one when we first met, my favorite bird monger.” Anneli turned, and once she was about eight feet away from Twillo she stopped. “And one more thing?”

“Yes, Your Ladyship?”

“First, never call me ladyship again.”

“Noted.”

Her smile faded, worry taking shape on her face. “Try to come back in one piece.”

After charging at the vortex, Adventus took off, the dragon careening through the crisp desert night. Twillo held on tight, his sword and relics with him, including the Quill of Katzimo, which he’d checked after Anneli had left just to be sure she hadn’t lifted it somehow.

He trusted her more now, but it was best to be cautious.

As the wind whipped around him, Twillo didn’t feel the same tension he’d felt before when flying. It wasn’t exactly second nature yet, but he was growing more used to what it felt like to be whisked away on the back of a dragon, moving at speeds that many in the kingdom could hardly fathom.

Adventus was much faster than a horse as he twisted through the night sky, faster than the speed of any arrow Twillo had ever seen. The wind could be a bit much, but the raised bone spikes that lifted off the dragon’s crown created a natural barrier, making it more manageable.

As they continued toward the capital of Vendir, Twillo tried to imagine what it must have been like when dragon riders fought one another. Sister Tonandi had mentioned that riders could extend their dragonaura to their mounts. What, then, would an impact look like if the riders and their dragons were protected by a magical barrier? Surely, in the midst of a high-speed fight, it wouldn’t work the same. Would it protect them from a sudden fall?

Twillo needed to better use and understand his dragonaura.

That was his next goal, something he planned to work on while his sword was being refurbished. He had barely played with it, yet he’d got a sense of how it would work while summoning his core. At first, it would have to be a manual process, but he was certain with a little practice he could summon his dragonaura at will.

They moved even faster.

Twillo occasionally checked his wristlet to see that it was pulsing ever-so-slowly, an indication that he would need to keep an eye on his power. Below him, mountains birthed from the volcanic desert; below him silver-black sand swirled and feathered over age-old crags; below him a river took shape, one of two that cut across the landscape between Padrian Sands and Vendir.

Twillo started to get cold, his teeth chattering by the time they finally started to lower toward the ground. He could see the spire towers of Vendir on the horizon, the home of Ravenna Vraizard and his daughter, Princess Embla, the Crown Ravenna.

The castle was set behind towering walls at the far end of the city, on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Twillo had visited the castle when he was a child and remembered a place entirely made of marble, one with slick floors. Embla had chased him through one of the corridors, and subsequently slid toward Twillo. He stopped her from sliding any further, fell over her body, and crushed her fingertips in the process.

She stopped herself from crying by biting her lip. He told her that he could get someone to look at her hand; Princess Embla stopped him and reminded the young saracent of who she was, that if he injured the princess in any way there would be trouble.

Now, back on solid ground, shivering, Twillo felt a sense of sad familiarity.

His home, Sparrow’s Rise, was north of the city, between Vendir and Bravelon. The whole region felt like home even if he didn’t want to admit it. He had changed, yet everything seemed the same, from the great buildings of the capital of Icenor to the smell of the air, which had a hint of coal to it from the furnaces used to warm homes during the winter and spring.

“Well?” Adventus asked once he had faded away, his voice now at the back of Twillo’s head. “It would be best to get to the city while it is dark, would it not?”

“Yes.” Twillo moved on, ignoring his memories for the time being.

He knew the route from here, and he would still need to keep a low profile when entering Vendir. Rather than travel to the main entrance, he veered toward the path that was used by farmers of the high desert. They grew a variety of things in Icenor, from small grains to carrots, dates, rutabaga, and green onions. Because their farms stretched out from the city, toward the Vraizard River, they had their own entrance so they wouldn’t bog down the traditional front gates, where merchants and travelers entered.

Luckily for Twillo, the merchant quarters were close to where he would soon come out. All he had to do at that point was find the only pink mansion there, where he would hopefully run into the kitsune magnate named Katashi.

He remembered the man from their carriage ride from E’Kanth to Padrian Sands. Katashi had told Twillo to look him up once he came to Vendir, and that was exactly what he planned to do. Twillo would need a place to crash for a couple of days while his sword was being worked on.

Not only that, he’d need to find a tattoo artist.

His hood over his head, Twillo took to the shadows of one of the carts going through the side entrance. Soon, he was in Vendir, with no one the wiser.

Or so he thought.

He was unaware of the fact that he was being watched by Livia, the Goddess of Luck seated on a parapet along one of the outer walls of the city, her robes draped all the way to the ground.

There was trouble in the air, yet she knew that the relic hunter likely hadn’t sensed it yet. Jecha was about, and he had already influenced Twillo to some degree, setting into motion something that would soon take place.

All would come to a head soon, and it would start before he reached the second ziggurat.

Livia floated into the air once the relic reached the mansion, which was notable for its pink outer walls. She watched as he spoke to one of the kitsune’s servants, the relic hunter using his charm as always to convince the woman that he was an invited guest.

Katashi would be another important player in all this, but Twillo had to set the motions in place first. And that would start with the second ziggurat, the power he would unleash, and the dragon he would free if he was able to pass the challenges that lay ahead.

The next several days for the relic hunter were incredibly important in terms of his understanding and mastery of dragonessence.

After all, his life was on the line.

.Chapter Forty.

The Kitsune and the Blacksmith

Katashi didn’t greet Twillo until the next morning. the kitsune was in his bright green silk robes yet again, a pleasant smile on his face.

They were in the study of the pink mansion, an elaborate space with hand-painted walls with a tropical motif and furniture carved out of vikan wood. Since the place once belonged to an Icenordian family, there was a chair against one of the walls, one for the head of the household. Katashi had set a few leather cases in the seat of the chair, the kitsune clearly not one to honor Icenordian tradition of leaving the space open.

“I see you didn’t take my advice when it comes to dressing,” Twillo said.

“And I see you didn’t take my advice to give yourself a little shave,” Katashi told him, a sly grin on his face. He looked the same as he had back in the carriage, his eyes with a fox-like quality, his long white hair now combed back and with a product in it that gave it a shine.

The kitsune magnate motioned for Twillo to sit on the cushion in front of him, and just about the moment he did, trays of food were brought to the room by the servants of the mansion, where they were placed on the ground. Katashi and Twillo waited until all of it was there before he began:

“Something is different about you, relic hunter,” Katashi told the relic hunter once they were alone.

Twillo offered the kitsune a tight smile.

He’d already made a decision that he would tell Katashi what was happening. He didn’t know what kind of communication Katashi had with other yokai, but he felt like it was something that they should know. Twillo also felt like all this was something that regular people should know, but Adventus had convinced him that they needed to wait on something like this.

Rather than drink his tea, or enjoy the spread of dishes laid out before them, Twillo explained what had happened since they last met. Katashi listened carefully, occasionally bringing his hand to his mouth in shock at all that had gone down. Twillo didn’t even have to show him the glowing jewel on his wristlet to convince the kitsune that everything he said was true.

It was clear in Katashi’s eyes that he believed him.

“And now you will seek to unlock the power of the second ziggurat beyond the City of the Dead?”

“Correct. From there, I will continue my search for more of these ziggurats. I wanted you to know what was happening, why I am here at the place you are staying, and why I need to keep a low profile. The only thing that is necessary to handle while I am in Vendir is in regards to my weapon. I know a man named Arban, a friend of my father’s, who will be able to work on it. I do not yet know what he will charge me, but I have a couple of gold coins. Actually, now that I mention it, I need to get a tattoo as well in honor of someone. So two things I need to handle.”

Katashi waved Twillo’s concern away. “It doesn’t matter what the blacksmith charges you. You have my full backing for this. I can even have my servants deliver the sword so you can maintain your low profile.”

“Actually, it would be best if you dismissed them all. How’s this? Until I’m gone, I will act as your servant. I’m not one to take handouts. If you will help me pay the cost to refurbish my sword, I will do the best I can to take the place of your servants.”

Katashi started to laugh. “You?”

“If you need me to, yes. Trust me, it is within my wheelhouse. I need a place to work on my dragonaura, and the courtyard in the middle of the mansion is ideal. It is secluded; no one will see me doing it, especially with the servants gone.”

“At night, I would assume that it creates quite a glow.”

“Then I will work on it during the day and serve you at night. I can cook, you know. I don’t mind cleaning. If we go outside the city, I can introduce you to my dragon friend.”

“This is by no means a humorous situation, Left-Handed One.”

“Relax,” Twillo told Adventus under his breath.

“And you are speaking to this dragon now?”

“Yes. He is always in my head when he is not here. It is a strange relationship, but it works. He’s not chatty unless he needs to be.”

For some reason, this comment caused Katashi to laugh. “I had a friend like that once. I quite liked him. Maybe I will meet Adventus, but you are right that it would need to happen outside the city. Perhaps once you leave for the City of the Dead.”

“You’re more than welcome, but we will likely be heading to the water beyond the fjord. I still don’t know how that is going to work, but Adventus assures me that it will be fine.”

Katashi grew quiet, his vulpine eyes tracing over the relic hunter seated before him. Twillo got the feeling that the kitsune knew more than he was letting on. It was something about the way he looked at him, and how easily he had volunteered to help in any way that he could.

“In that case, I think I will join you for a spell. You can always use another swordsman, could you not?”

“You, a sword?”

“I do dabble,” Katashi told him. “Not only that, I can be quite helpful in my fox form. At least for this leg of your journey, I would like to accompany you. The others you may do on your own, but I would like to see some of this for myself, and I would certainly like to meet a dragon. You have yourself a deal. I’ll dismiss my servants with pay for however long it takes for you to have your sword taken care of. In the meantime, you can use the inner courtyard to work on your dragonessence. I would like to see that as well, if you don’t mind.”

“Do you have access to the power yourself? Do yokai?”

“How do you think I’m able to change my form? Yes, I have access, but I am not aware of the traditional methods of using it. As much as we try not to, we yokai, at least the civilized ones, generally follow the same lives as your kind, humans and elves. It is safer that way.” Katashi rubbed his hands together. “Now, before we get carried away, let’s enjoy this meal. And be sure to try the Hoersung buns. You are right, they are quite good. Especially while they are hot. Also, did you say something about a tattoo?”

“Yes. I have an idea for one.”

“One of the servants has a sister who is a fantastic tattoo artist. We can invite her to come tonight. Do you know what you are looking for?”

“A Stylite pillar, perhaps with a nun seated at the top. I could sketch what I’m looking for, but there may be something similar in a book in the mansion’s library. Have you perused the library any?”

“Limitedly, but yes.”

“Did you see anything on Southfall?” asked Twillo.

“I believe so, yes.”

“Good. Then that will be handled as well.”

Yet again, Twillo wished he had retrieved his bird monger outfit. Luckily, there were plenty of serving uniforms in the mansion, one of which was for a day guard that even had a matching headpiece.

This was what Twillo wore as he left the mansion, his sword sheathed at his side, all of his tattoos aside from the one on his neck covered.

He navigated the winding cobblestone streets of Vendir, staying clear of the nicer areas of the city, especially around the castle, where he could potentially run into someone that recognized him.

It took longer this way, but eventually, Twillo came to Arban’s smith, a quaint building with a domed roof like many of the structures in Vendir. It was clear by the sound that the blacksmith was already at work.

Twillo entered through a side gate, the smells of bituminous coal heavy in the air.

The blacksmith stopped hammering on a piece of red metal once he realized that Twillo was standing there. He set his things down, and approached cautiously. “Vitharr, you trickster, it’s really you, isn’t it?” asked the older man, his long forehead with black smudges across it, hair in a widow’s peak, strands of which were pulled into a tight ponytail. His biceps and overall physique made it clear what he did for a living, his forearms bulging and plastered with a smattering of burn scars.

“I need you to work on something,” Twillo said as he removed his father’s sword. He placed it on the table.

Rather than look at the weapon, Arban continued to examine Twillo. “I haven’t seen you in… twenty years? Or has it been more?”

“It’s been a while,” was all Twillo said.

Arban came forward and clapped his hands on Twillo’s shoulders, the man overcome with joy. “You look ten times better than your father did at your age, my boy! Ten times! What a man you have become. A servant, huh?” he asked as he picked at Twillo’s clothing.

“A disguise. I would tell you more, but it is better that you don’t know.”

“And just like your father, awash with self-mystery.” Arban laughed. “Let’s see what you’ve brought,” he said after Twillo didn’t respond. He began examining the sword and its shabby golden hilt, Arban sighing with disdain once he saw the poor shape that the blade was in.

“I think there is something more to this weapon,” Twillo said. “Perhaps it is like a relic.”

“Like a relic, you say?” Arban asked, yet the tone of his voice told Twillo that he knew exactly what Twillo was referring to. “Well if it’s like a relic, that means it should be treated as one. It’s not cheap, you know. And I’m not talking about my prices, I’m talking about replacing my tools once I have worked on it. Every time I get something that is like a relic, as they say, I generally have to replace things.”

“Not to worry. Everything will be covered.”

“Everything?”

“And then some.”

“How? You don’t even know my price.”

Twillo gestured to the clothing that he was wearing. “I’ll get a side job. How many days? How many days if you work on this exclusively?”

“Four days tops.”

Twillo nodded. “Then I will be back in three.”

.Chapter Forty-One.

Dragonaura

Twillo began his practice that afternoon by accessing his dragonessence core in the inner courtyard of the mansion. Katashi watched from one of the balconies, the kitsune quiet as Twillo worked on cycling his power.

At first, he simply let the silver orb gather energy from the air around it.

Soon, Twillo began tracking it with his sword as Adventus controlled the orb. With every swing, he tried to recall his own dragonessence at the very last moment. Sometimes, he executed the maneuver perfectly, and in doing so the sphere pulsed with power. He missed the opportunity several times as well, the floating orb simply moving out of the way to avoid his attack.

It always seemed to be one step ahead.

As he worked up a sweat, the light around him growing brighter, Twillo pondered how he would unlock his own dragonaura.

He had seen the possibilities of one’s dragonaura through Sister Tonandi, yet she had been unable to provide instruction. Something she had mentioned, something about passing on her power to Twillo and losing access to her dragonaura, struck Twillo as he slowly lowered his sword.

From her statement, it seemed like she was hinting that having access to a core was necessary for spawning the dragonaura shield. “But how do I access it?” Twillo asked as he approached his orb and reached his hand out to it. “Sister Tonandi claimed that she could no longer access her dragonaura once she had passed the power to me.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” Adventus told Twillo.

“May I ask what you are pondering?” Katashi called down to Twillo.

“I’m wondering how to summon my dragonaura.”

“Dragonaura?”

Twillo motioned toward his body, and as he did curls of energy rose from the sphere and painted over his form. “Did I just…?” Twillo looked down at his arms and noticed there was a glaze of energy over them now, a protective shield. “It can’t be that easy.”

He reached for the orb again and sent his hand through it. As he withdrew his fingertips, some of the dragonessence remained, which he was able to smooth over his arm.

“You’re creating a shield for yourself?” asked Katashi.

“I am trying to. The nun who gave me this power was also able to protect herself with her dragonaura. But she didn’t do anything like this. I didn’t see her physically creating an armor for herself. It simply was.”

“Let me join you.” Soon, the kitsune magnate stood with Twillo, his ears flitted back as he examined the dragonessence core. “And you accessed this by simply touching your chest?”

“I don’t know if that part is actually necessary, but tactile sensations seem to work with my understanding of dragonessence. This wristlet, as an example. To access the power before, I generally tapped it and went from there.”

“Let me see the wristlet.”

Twillo offered Katashi his hand. The kitsune examined it closely, yet never placed his hands on the wristlet’s glowing blue gemstone. “And you cannot remove it?”

“No, I cannot.”

“That’s a pity. This is from Droll, I’m certain of it. Their artisans often leave notes along the inner band. They are known for it, in fact.”

“Droll?” Twillo asked, referring to a northern Icenordian city.

“The way it is crafted, the overall design. Yes, Droll. I deal in metalwork, you know. Drollian artisans have a particular style of embroidery there. You said that you used to touch this wristlet to access your power, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“What if there were more options with it? What if there is a way to spawn your dragonaura through the wristlet? I would say that we could check the notes from the artisans, but that is likely impossible. You should play around with it.”

Before he continued, Twillo reached for his core and drew it in closer to his chest again, his energy returning to him. In doing so, he noticed that the partial shield he had provided for himself began to fade away. A memory came to Twillo, one of a conversation he had once had with Vradon about the wristlet. “Actually, there is text on the underside, as you said. And I happen to know someone who copied it down. I don’t know if he ever translated it.”

“And where is he now?”

“Padrian Sands. I will visit there after the City of the Dead,” he said, Twillo well aware that he would be delivering terrible news regarding Olaf. He was starting to feel guilty for not telling Vradon sooner.

“It is worth exploring, but you may be able to figure something out on your own. If tapping the jewel accessed its power, how do you think you would create a shield?”

“A shield would be something that covers me, so…” Twillo placed his palm over the jewel, cupping it to some degree. He felt the subtle shift in the air around him. For a moment, he didn’t think anything had happened, but then he caught a glimpse of his arm and noticed it was entirely coated with a thin layer of dragonessence.

“That’s it!” said Adventus. “You’ve done it!”

Katashi reached his hand out toward Twillo. As his fingers drew closer, he whipped his hand back.

“Did it hurt?” Twillo asked.

“A little sting, yes, but it seems to repel anything coming close to it. Let me try something else.” Katashi took a few steps away and found a pebble. He tossed it at Twillo. The pebble snapped back, never touching the relic hunter.

Twillo cupped the wristlet and his dragonaura faded.

“I need to cycle more, so much more,” he said, determined now that he had made such a profound discovery. “I don’t know how much I will need to reach the second ziggurat, but I’m suspecting that there will be some kind of challenge. There was last time.”

“By all means.” Katashi placed his hands behind his back. “I will leave you to it then. Perhaps tomorrow we can work on our swordsmanship.”

“I would like to,” Twillo told him.

“And for dinner tonight?” Katashi smiled. “I was promised a good meal.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll cook something.”

“And we have the tattooist scheduled for later tonight.”

“Right, I’ll be ready for that as well.”

Twillo kept the meal simple that night, the relic hunter going with a grilled mutton dish he had once had in Southfall. The kitchen was well stocked, which came as a surprise, and Twillo was able to season the mutton in a similar way to how they would do it down south with a hint of garlic and pepper that only grew in the desert.

The tattooist showed up later that night. She was a short elven woman with her hair in a bun, Sagic tattoos lining the outer edges of her ears. Twillo showed her a hand-drawn image of a Stylite pillar, and chose an open spot for it that ran from his elbow up the side of his right arm.

Swift as ever, the woman designed a version of the picture he’d shown her albeit smaller, just about three and half inches long. At his direction, she also designed the silhouette of a woman seated at the top.

As Katashi watched, the woman went to work using a dark ink which matched the other tattoos on Twillo’s arm. She was fast, the tattoo much less painful than the recent one he had gotten on his neck. Upon completion, Twillo paid her some silver coins, and after a cup of Bravelon tea, she was on her way.

His arm now wrapped so it would heal faster, Twillo retired to the room that he was staying in and got plenty of rest, careful not to sleep on the arm. Sister Tonandi would always be with him now, atop her pillar, waiting for death to come.

Up early the next morning, Twillo found Katashi waiting for him in the courtyard, the kitsune in a sleeveless set of purple robes, his hair tied back, a sword at his waist. “I figured the earlier we started, the better,” he told Twillo. “I picked a sword for you.”

Twillo glanced to a bench to find a sword in a black sheath. He took the weapon, and noted that its blade was quite sharp, the piece perfectly balanced in his hands, yet shorter than what he was used to.

“Activate your dragonaura,” Adventus said. Twillo grunted a positive response to the dragon as he cupped his hand around the wristlet, only then noticing the pull of his skin, his new tattoo throbbing a bit.

He would get used to it.

As dragonessence trailed over his body and formed into a shield, Twillo brought the sword to the ready. “Thank you for sparring with me.”

“It is good for us both.”

Katashi moved on Twillo, the kitsune much faster than he would have expected, as if his movements were amplified by dragonessence.

Klank!

Their swords met.

As they met again and again, it became clear that Twillo’s dragonaura only protected his body, that the power didn’t extend to his blade as well. It was only when Katashi tried to hastily take his feet out that Twillo’s dragonaura reacted.

The kitsune magnate was swept backward. He caught himself from falling and was back on the attack in a matter of moments. Katashi maintained his momentum, Twillo soon finding himself entirely on the defensive.

“Where did you learn to fight like this?” Twillo asked after they had mutually decided to take a break, both on the sidelines now catching their breath.

“The Tribute Islands. You are familiar with the Brethren?”

“They normally wield two swords, do they not?”

“You have one of my swords,” Katashi said as he nodded to Twillo’s blade.

“Really, the Brethren? What were you doing with them?”

“Training, studying. I can change my forms, as you know.”

“How many forms can you take?”

“Any form I want. Would you care to see? Would you care to train against me in my Brethren form?”

“I’ve never seen something like that before.”

“It is dragonessence, as you know, but it is also natural to the point that I don’t actually know how I transform. I just do it.”

Katashi’s form began to fade as if it were being erased. Twillo watched as dragonessence pixelated all around the kitsune, the cosmic energy glittery until it revealed a man of similar size to Katashi’s Icenordian elf disguise.

Katashi now wore dark gray robes that were tucked at the knee into legs that had been wrapped in tape. The bottom half of his face was covered by a black mask shaped into the mouth of a demon, one rimmed in shark teeth. Black paint was smeared on his face as if he had placed three fingers on each of his eyes and pulled them up toward his temple.

He was at once intimidating and mysterious.

“You really trained with them?” Twillo asked as he brought his sword to the ready.

“I did.”

Soon, they were sparring again, Twillo on the offensive this time as he wielded his blade with both hands. Katashi managed to duck under his next attack. The kitsune sent his foot out to strike Twillo, only to be thrust backward by dragonaura.

“I have to remember that,” said the kitsune, “and to answer your earlier question—I wanted to know how to be a better swordsman, and I rightly assumed that the Brethren would be the ones to teach me.”

“How long did you train?”

“A while, on and off for two years.”

“And were you an assassin for them?”

“No. Not all of them are assassins, you know. Some are really there to improve themselves, and they pay handsomely to do so.”

“He has lived a fascinating life,” Adventus told Twillo as the two clashed again, their swords sparking. They went at it like this for quite some time, Twillo completely fatigued by the end of their bout.

“I suppose we could take a break,” Katashi said, the kitsune still in his Brethren form. “And we could probably go for a hearty breakfast.”

Twillo sheathed his sword. “Hearty breakfast, huh? Sure. I think I can whip something like that up.”

“And after?”

“Cycling dragonessence. I need to keep the power going until my sword is ready. There’s probably a vortex around here as well. Maybe I’ll go out tonight and see if I can find it.”

In shifting through Vendir late that night, his face obscured by a hood, Twillo found the vortex in one of the older neighborhoods, in a courtyard with crates full of garden supplies stacked up against one of its wrought iron fences. While it was spring in Middling, it was still cold in Icenor, and the people were ready, as they always were, for the season to change.

“This is it,” he said to Adventus, sensing the power all around him. He acknowledged a light sprinkle of silver energy cast across runic tiling beneath his feet. Pulling his sleeve up, Twillo saw that his wristlet was glowing brightly. “Definitely it.”

“You should recharge when we are prepared to leave,” said Adventus. “It may draw attention to us if we do it now.”

“Agreed. I wonder if there are more in the city?”

“It would make sense if there were, considering it is the capital.”

Twillo took a seat on a bench near the vortex. “I’ve been thinking about my sword.”

“Yes? What about it?”

“I’m wondering what having it reworked will do. It would be good if I were able to extend my dragonaura to the blade. I wasn’t able to do that earlier today with Katashi’s sword.”

“I’m not aware of what the sword will do, but there’s something unique about it, and I’m sure it will do something.”

Twillo placed his hands behind his head and looked up at the night sky, the moon absent, hidden behind a dark cloud. He would spend the next day working on his dragonaura and cycling dragonessence. On the morning that followed, he would check on Arban and be sure to arrange payment for services. From there, it would be to the City of the Dead, to the sea beyond.

That left one other thing he needed to do before retiring that night. “We should check on something.”

“Lead the way, Left-Handed One.”

Twillo headed out of the neighborhood, the lane widening as it opened to the main thoroughfare that fed to the walled-off castle complex in the center of Vendir. He could see the watchfires now; he knew that Princess Embla was somewhere behind those walls.

He reached an arcade, which was useful in winter when it snowed a lot. There were still businesses closing up for the night, locking their things away and covering their shops. Once he passed through several of the alleys, Twillo spotted a lantern, one with a green glow.

It was a sign.

Twillo let himself into the tavern and took a seat at the bar. He ordered a glass of cheap kvoss, and once he was good and ready, he began looking around.

The tavern was about half full, most of the patrons keeping to themselves, aside from a pair that were busy with a game of spinning die. After drinking a bit more, he caught an Icenordian man looking right at him. Twillo recognized a relic hunter when he saw one.

As naturally as ever, Twillo joined him.

“I’m looking for something,” he said, his hood still over his head.

“I know you.”

Twillo’s eyes darted nervously around the tavern, but then he realized that he had developed a new kind of fame in this line of work, one not tied to his family and the tragedy of his past. “From the Artifance?”

“That’s right.” The clean-shaven elf looked into the drink that the bartender had just given him. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself down there.”

“I find that surprising.”

“No, it’s true. So, if you are looking for something, I may be able to help you.”

Twillo nodded. “It is a long shot, but I know they exist, and I know that I would have a much better chance to find something like it in the Tribute Islands.”

“Yes?” the man asked as he took a sip of his drink.

“I need to go for a long swim in the future. Have anything that would help me?”

“A long swim?” The Icenordian started to laugh. “It is funny you ask that.”

“Is it?”

“I recently came into possession of an object that may help you. It is a rather miraculous object, however.”

“What does it do?” Twillo asked.

“Let me ask you: have you ever had a relic change the nature of your being?”

Twillo didn’t answer the man.

“This is like that. The Gorget of Illagorn covers your throat and the top portion of your chest,” the man said, illustrating what he meant. “When wearing the gorget, it gives you gills.”

“Gills?” Twillo tried to hide his excitement. This was exactly the man that Garnax had mentioned back in Firebreath.

“By Livia,” Adventus said, which Twillo took to mean that their odds of encountering a man with such an object could only be orchestrated by the Goddess of Luck.

He agreed.

“How does it work?” Twillo asked. “How could a relic give me gills?”

“I got it from a collector in Southfall, who got it from a hunter in Acrine. He claimed that it was made of kitsune leather.”

“The artificer started with a kitsune hide,” Twillo said, the pieces connecting in his head. “He then coded it with—”

“Coded?”

“Nevermind. This relic, the Gorget of Illagorn, how much would I need to pay you for it?”

“You don’t have anything to trade?”

“Not on me,” Twillo said. There was nothing he was willing to part with at the moment, and the item he’d recently come into possession of, the Quill of Katzimo, was out of the question.

The man took another sip from his drink. “I don’t think that you will be able to afford it.”

“Name your price.”

“Six, no, eight platinum coins.”

“How about five?” Twillo asked him.

“Five?” The man stroked his chin as he considered this number. Twillo already knew he was going to accept it. It was clear in his eyes that he found the offer enticing.

“Five platinum coins. Deliver it to me tomorrow, at the pink mansion in the merchant’s quarters. Do you know the one?”

“You’re staying there?”

“Temporarily.”

The other hunter grunted. “I am familiar with the place, yes.”

“I will arrange payment at that point through a friend. Take this for deposit,” Twillo said as he gave the man two gold coins. “And be sure to bring that deposit tomorrow.”

“Are you sure you can trust him?” Adventus asked. Twillo merely nodded at the voice in his head. That’s what these sorts of taverns were for. They were places where collectors and hunters could exchange things freely. This was one of the reasons he had so easily trusted Anneli.

If he couldn’t trust his own kind, then who?

“I have to confess something,” the man said, a hint of shame tracing across his pupils.

“Yes?”

“I have impersonated you before, in the City of Dragons. I just thought you should know that. I did so at last year’s Artifance.” He slid the two gold coins back to Twillo. “I will understand if you don’t want to make an exchange.”

Twillo placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and clapped it, a smile appearing on his face. “Have no fear. I personally find it flattering, and I will find it even more flattering if you show tomorrow with the relic. Morning, if you can.”

“Does early afternoon work for you? A few more sips of this, and I’ll probably be sleeping in.” The man raised his glass to Twillo.

“That’s fine.”

“Then it will be an honor to sell it to you.” He started to laugh. “Besides, I can’t swim.”

.Chapter Forty-Two.

The Gorget of Illagorn

Katashi and Twillo sparred early the next morning. Twillo’s main focus remained the cycling aspect he’d been working on, as well as his dragonaura. During one of their breaks, he casually brought up the relic he’d purchased on Katashi’s behalf the previous night, the one known as the Gorget of Illagorn.

“Five platinum coins, eh? That’s a small fortune,” the kitsune magnate said after he’d finished a glass of water. Like Twillo, his white hair was pulled back into a ponytail and tied off by a golden hair tie.

“I don’t have anything to trade at the moment.”

“What do you have exactly?”

Twillo listed the relics and oddities he carried with him, skipping over the Quill. He almost said the Gloves of Maruth before he remembered he’d recently gotten rid of them. “There are a few things I’m missing at the moment, which I’ll have again once I’m finished with the City of the Dead. But this relic, the Gorget of Illagorn, it’s something I could really use. According to our source, the second ziggurat is beneath the sea beyond the necropolis.”

“Your source?” asked Katashi.

“A Sagic puzzle beneath the stave church in E’Kanth. It’s what led us to the last ziggurat, so I’m fairly certain we are on the right path. But I need to be able to breathe underwater.”

“And this relic will allow you to do just that?”

“That’s what the owner said.”

Katashi ran his hand along his chin. “Will you test it?”

“If there is any script on the relic, I’ll have Adventus read it. If not, sure, we can test it.”

“In that case, you’ll want to fill one of the larger bins with water. There’s one that they use to soak everything. Your head will easily fit in there. Might I suggest moving it out here before you fill it?”

“Good call.”

“And next time, don’t agree to a price too early on. Let me do the negotiating. I’m certain I could have gotten the man down. Now, do we have a little more time, or should we prepare for this man’s arrival?”

Twillo and Katashi ended up training for another thirty minutes.

Afterward, Twillo found the large bin that the kitsune had been referring to and brought it to the courtyard, using a pail to fill it up. They had a late breakfast in the form of bread with fried eggs inside, the two just finishing up when there was a knock at the door.

Twillo let the man in, the elven relic hunter at once surprised and relieved to see that this wasn’t some sort of trick. Before Twillo could greet him, he slid two gold coins on the table.

“Your deposit.”

“Glad to see you made it,” Twillo said as he pocketed the two gold coins. Normally, he would have given these to Katashi, but he had little funding to his name at the moment and there was no telling when he would need money again.

“Where should I—?”

“Please, show me the piece in here.” Twillo led the relic hunter into a well-lit dining area, where they found Katashi seated at the table. As the man entered, Katashi stood politely and placed his hands behind his back.

The relic hunter placed his bag on the table. He removed the Gorget of Illagorn, which was made of blackened leather that made up the chest portion of the piece and embroidered metal clasps for the collar. He turned it over and showed Twillo a metallic plate on the underside of the gorget, one with Sagic script on it. “Just to show you its authenticity.”

“Let me see that.” Twillo positioned himself closer to the light coming into the room so Adventus could get a good look at it.

“Yes, he is telling the truth, Left-Handed One. It is made of kitsune leather, and it will give you gills underwater. You have to wear the chest portion against your flesh,” he told Twillo, “and it will modify the surface of your skin while in use.”

“Well?” asked Katashi as he approached the piece.

“It is authentic,” Twillo said.

“You can actually read the script?” the relic hunter asked Twillo.

“No, nothing like that, I just know quality work when I see it.”

“Like I told you last night, it’s made of kitsune leather. Can’t you tell? It’s so soft.”

Katashi placed his hand on the piece, but didn’t say anything about the man’s kitsune comment as he ran his fingers over the leather. “It is a nice piece. But we will need to test it.”

“Test it?”

“Yes, we have a bin already full of water in the courtyard,” Twillo told the relic hunter.

“And who will test it?”

Twillo began to remove his top. “I will.”

“How did you know it needed to be against the skin?”

“A lucky guess.” Twillo draped his cloak, his collared vest, and his dark blue tunic on a chair back. Now shirtless, he led the pair outside, ignoring the relic hunter’s comments on the myriad tattoos Twillo had plastered all over his body, including the newest one on his arm that was currently healing.

They approached the bin of water, and Twillo got down to his knees. As if he had used the object previously, he took the gorget from the relic hunter and placed it over his chest, clasping its buckles around his neck.

Twillo had already seen the faint glow indicating it was a relic. While it tingled, he wasn’t surprised to notice the inner portion of the leather shifting subtly now that it was against the skin of his chest.

It became hard to breathe.

With each breath coming in shallower than the one before, Twillo positioned his hands on the outer rim of the large bin and ducked his head under.

He took a deep breath beneath the water, bubbles twisting all around him. He took another breath, one that was even satiating.

After a third, final breath, Twillo unclipped the collar and came up for air. He handed the Gorget of Illagorn to the relic hunter and then proceeded to deal with his wet hair, which Twillo eventually swept behind his ears.

“It works, yes?” asked Katashi.

Twillo nodded.

The kitsune produced a small bag of platinum coins from a pocket of his robes. “In that case, we’ll take it.”

The rest of the day was spent training and preparing meals on Twillo’s part. He would check on the sword the following morning, and if everything was ready, they would depart that very same night, first to the vortex, and then to the City of the Dead.

It made sense to fly. It would get them there quicker. The ashinagatenaga who lived among the cholums would certainly see them, but they would likely draw attention from more nefarious yokai.

Twillo and Katashi would have to be ready.

Because they would be leaving the following day, Twillo also made meals that they would be able to eat if they ended up camping in the necropolis for a few days. As usual, he went for cooked fruits and vegetables, meats as well, which he set out to dry overnight.

As he prepared to rest that night, in the room that he had chosen in the southern quadrant of the pink mansion, his eyes traced over the Wristlet of Droll. Yet again he wondered how his father knew to give him the wristlet and the sword. For so long, Twillo had bottled up his anger over whatever his father had done to warrant the raid on their estate.

Yet now, he was aware that there were bigger forces at play.

Had his father somehow been privy to the fact that dragons would return? Was that why he had the wristlet? Was that why Saracent Ananda Min came to their home with her guards that night?

There were two people that would know more, both scattered across Middling. Twillo would seek them out yet again, one easier to find than the other. But that could wait. The second ziggurat was all that mattered for the time being.

Upon awaking the next morning, Twillo retrieved the Quill of Katzimo from its custom case. He found a piece of parchment, and was just dipping the quill in the ink that it came with when Adventus spoke: “You plan to bring a curse to someone?”

“I want to see how it works.”

“How would you know?”

“I mean the ink itself. Is it normal ink? Does it burn something into the paper? I want to know more about it, that’s all.”

“It is dangerous, the knowledge you seek.”

“It often is, but that’s part of the fun. I will write the name of someone who is already dead. How about… Yes, that will do. Yanzon the Undisputable.” Twillo wrote the name of the Icenordian emperor who had taken power after the Age of Dragons, the one who had rid the Four Kingdoms of dragonessence. As he traced out the name, Adventus commented on the strange appearance of horizontal Sagic script, Twillo reminding him that it was because of Yanzon that they wrote this way.

As soon as he was finishing the name, the smell of smoke reached Twillo’s nose. The words didn’t burn off the paper as he had assumed. They rose into the air instead, rotating, emitting a silver light.

They fizzled out of existence, and as they did, Twillo distinctly heard the name being whispered by some unknown force. He shivered.

“What a terrible relic.”

“You aren’t wrong,” Twillo told Adventus as he put the item away, making sure to store it safely. He was going to need to find somewhere to hide it; the Quill was too dangerous to keep on his person in the long run.

As they had before, Twillo and Katashi met in the courtyard below. They drew their weapons and began after Twillo had activated his dragonaura.

“I can certainly tell you have improved,” Katashi said when they were winding down later.

“I wouldn’t have had it not been for your partnership. I appreciate it, I appreciate everything,” Twillo told him, referring to not only the home he was staying in, but the relic he had purchased and the promise to pay Arban as well.

“What else is a kitsune supposed to do?” Katashi asked.

Twillo laughed. “Certainly not meddle in human affairs.”

This brought a grin to Katashi’s face. “Certainly not.”

Twillo and Katashi took the long way to Arban’s place later that morning. Flashbacks to the last time Twillo was in Vendir came to him, followed by flashbacks of his fight for survival twenty years ago. He suppressed them all by looking down at his feet, as if the Fata Morgana was playing tricks on his mind.

Soon, Twillo found the smith, where he expected to hear sounds coming from inside. There weren’t any, leading him to hesitate a moment before he stepped forward and let himself in. If this was some kind of ambush, he had Adventus with him, not to mention Katashi.

He found Arban seated on a stool and sipping tea from a ceramic cup. The blacksmith looked tired, yet there was a vibrancy that came to him upon seeing Twillo, a proud smile taking shape on his face. “I thought you would be here earlier.”

“I figured you would need longer.”

“And who may you be?” Arban asked Katashi.

Still in his elven form, Katashi had gone with something slightly more elaborate now with eyeliner and bright green silk robes that made Twillo wish that the kitsune hadn’t joined him. Later, along their walk over, when he had seen that Katashi’s display was so ostentatious that people paid attention to it and not him, Twillo felt better.

The kitsune never said his name as he answered the blacksmith’s question: “I am the financier. I figured I would join him considering you probably would like to get paid.”

“Yes, this way.” Arban motioned them into another room, where the sword was laid out on the table. It was in the same sheath, nothing particular special about its golden hilt.

Even so, Twillo approached the sword with reverence. He respectfully took it from the table, and slowly slipped the blade out of its scabbard. The shine that followed was blinding, yet it wasn’t because of the polished blade. Twillo recognized it immediately. It had to do with dragonessence.

The object was teeming with cosmic power.

“Incredible,” said Adventus, Twillo nodding at the voice in his head. “How he did this so quickly is beyond me.”

“I always knew you were the best. My father said so,” Twillo told Arban as he finally looked over to the blacksmith.

“Shotaro said many things. Still, I am flattered he would think so.”

Twillo stepped to a wide open space, one clearly designed for people to take a practice swing. As he brought the blade down, a bolt of dragonessence fired out of its tip. It struck a shield and ricocheted to the other side of the room, Arban ducking just in time.

“Vard, my heart!” Twillo said as he quickly brought the weapon down and turned to its sheath. “I’m sorry—”

“I knew there was something different about you,” Arban said, the blacksmith biting his lip. “But I didn’t know it was that.”

“Really, it’s nothing,” Twillo started to tell him.

“And how much for the sword?” asked Katashi as he came forward. “It is a wonderful object and I would say, Your Lordship, you deserve even more than I was willing to pay for it considering the remarkable work you have done here. Let’s discuss that payment now.”

“We will discuss payment in a moment. But I need to say some things first.” Arban’s eyes fixed onto Twillo. “If you are going to use this weapon, you need to be extremely careful whom you show it to. I’m not worried about it coming back to me; I’m worried about what brandishing it will do to you, Jhaeros. This is why I left the hilt the way it was; it is also why I didn’t do anything with the scabbard. Make sure it is in good working order, but it is best for a weapon like this to be kept under wraps. Think of it as a blade in hiding.”

“I will keep all that in mind,” Twillo said as he returned the sword to its sheath. “I wasn’t prepared for it to fire in that way.”

“We should have shut off your dragonaura on our way over here,” Adventus said. “It is a dead giveaway.”

“Jhaeros?” asked Katashi. “Who—?”

“It’s my real name. Twillo is my nickname. My mother gave it to me.”

“I see.” Katashi’s ears lowered to some degree in a way that looked unnatural for an elf. They shot back up as he returned his focus to Arban. “In any event, we appreciate the work you have done, Your Lordship, but we do have some things we need to attend to. Might we discuss the payment now?”

.Chapter Forty-Three.

Crash Landing

Twillo spent the rest of the afternoon learning more about using his sword as a ranged weapon. If his dragonessence was activated, and he put just the right amount of force behind it, a bolt of dragonessence fired out of the tip, one that could help him in a number of scenarios. They tested it with crates, which the power tore through, and even a slab of meat, which it ripped to shreds and partially cooked.

To say it was a game changer was an understatement.

“You are the luckiest elf I believe I have ever encountered,” Adventus told Twillo later that night, while he was preparing a quick meal before they set out toward the City of the Dead.

“It seems that way sometimes, doesn’t it?”

Twillo brought the soup he’d made into the room where Katashi sat. He found the kitsune looking through a few expenditure reports and shaking his head. “I’m going to go bankrupt if I keep funding this little operation.” Katashi laughed as he placed the papers down. “But what else is there to buy? Unless you’ve seen a pink mansion somewhere in Middling or Southfall.” He gestured toward the ceiling. “That’s why I liked this place, you know. The colors, the overall feel—it reminds me of the Tribute Islands.”

“It was likely designed by someone who once lived there. I may go to the Islands next.” Twillo placed the soup on the table.

“To the Islands?”

“I have two mapstones for relics on the mainland, and I plan to follow up on a lead about a haunted doll in the Tribute Islands.”

Katashi tasted the soup, his eyes widening with surprise once he found it to be to his liking. “What inspires you to go after certain relics?”

“Different things.”

“I see, then let me try that question in a different way: what would inspire you to go after a haunted doll?”

“It would probably be useful.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know,” Twillo said after his first spoonful of soup. “But my gut tells me it will come in handy, maybe like the Screeching Clutch of Folke. Something to be used as a distraction.”

It was a moment before Katashi spoke again: “Have you ever noticed that most things come in handy after you acquire them, simply because you now have something to handle some task with that you didn’t have previously?”

“That does make sense.”

Adventus made a noise indicating he agreed.

“And the other relics you would like to get?”

“One of the mapstones is for a relic known as the Yamauba Paintbrush, here in Icenor, in the Stormking Mountains. It was once owned by a Stylite monk, and is said to temporarily bring whatever is painted with it into existence. Think about that.”

Katashi raised an eyebrow at Twillo. “How would that work? Aside from dragonessence, how would that work?”

“That’s the best part about what I do,” Twillo said, genuinely excited. “I learn of these things, and discovering how they work is part of the adventure.”

After a few more spoonfuls of soup, Katashi spoke: “And this other item?”

“The Demon Bear Amulet conjures the spirit of a demon bear, an onikuma. It’s in the woods beyond Folke.”

“The demon bear’s spirit? In western Middling, yes? Not exactly a safe place.”

“No, not exactly. But sometimes, that’s what the job calls for. Besides, I have a dragon now, so if things really get out of hand, I can simply fly away,” Twillo joked. “Speaking of which, you ready for your flight tonight?”

Hesitation traced across the kitsune’s face. “I believe I am.”

“Good. It should prove to be a fun one.”

With the power of the vortex coursing through him, Twillo nearly floated out of town, Katashi on his heels. Yet he knew better than to summon Adventus in Vendir of all places, the relic hunter happy to finally leave the city through the merchant quarters and turn to the Bay of Vendir from there.

It was here, on a rock-filled beach away from the city, that Adventus finally took his first form. Granulated bits of energy swirled into the body of a colossal white dragon, who flapped his wings once, the wind he produced raising a few of the waves as they lashed against the shoreline.

Katashi’s knees buckled; Twillo stopped him from falling.

“Were you expecting something else?” Adventus asked after he landed before the two of them, the water lapping against his talons.

“You are a moon dragon,” said Katashi.

“I am the moon dragon. The last to leave the Realm of the Formed.” Adventus threw his head back and took a deep breath in through his nostrils. “Are you two ready to fly?”

“Let me get situated first,” Twillo told Katashi, “and then you—”

“Where will my things go?” asked the kitsune, referring to the bag he carried and his two swords, one sheathed at either side of his waist.

“It will work; you’ll just need to make sure they are secure.” Twillo grinned at the kitsune. “That is, unless you want to walk to the City of the Dead.”

Katashi adjusted relatively well to riding on the back of a dragon. Like Anneli, the kitsune magnate was frightened at first, but as Adventus found a comfortable cruising altitude, wind whipping all around them, Katashi was finally able to relax. The stark kingdom of Icenor stretched far below them as they continued east toward the necropolis.

Twillo awaited the moment that they would finally see the City of the Dead, cholums stacked on top of one another marked by dark vigan pillars. This came several hours later, the night sky clear enough that he could finally see some of the outlines of the newer graves toward the front. He also saw scaffolding that indicated workers would soon begin their yearly renovations.

“Fly a bit higher,” he told Adventus. “Just in case someone is stargazing.”

The white dragon shifted upward and tore through a wispy cloud. They arced over the first half of the City of the Dead, and were just starting to near the tops of some of the cholums when Adventus tensed.

Whoosh!

He twisted to the side as a dark blue dragon with red accents tried to slam into him.

“You must jump!” he shouted to Twillo. “I need to switch forms!”

It was only when Twillo looked to the right to see the enemy dragon in its vordic form that he realized what was happening.

He couldn’t see a rider.

As Adventus tried for a big circle, Twillo scanned the ground, where he caught a glint of armor near one of the bottoms of a cholum.

“Now!” Adventus cried.

“We can’t jump from this high up—!”

“Just hold on,” Twillo told Katashi as he closed his eyes and pushed off Adventus’ back.

He tapped his wristlet, disregarding the fact that he was now falling backward.

Katashi’s arms tightened around his waist, the wind rushing past the two of them. All Twillo could think of was to float just like the numerous times he had done it before. Why did it matter if he was standing on the ground when he used his power?

They drew closer to the necropolis below and leveled out, Twillo fully in control now. As calmly as ever, the pair stopped just a few feet from the ground.

Twillo let out a deep sigh of relief. “I did it,” he whispered, and with those words Twillo fell the rest of the way, just about two feet or so. “Sorry,” he told Katashi as he scrambled to his feet. He turned and offered the kitsune a hand.

“You were floating. You almost made it. By Livia, we could have died!”

Twillo nodded, his focus now on the glint of armor he’d seen from above. He set his bags down and drew his sword, the blade shining with power. “We’ve got company.”

Watching him grab his blade spawned the same reaction in Katashi, who went for his two short swords. But even if he was preparing for combat, the kitsune couldn’t take his eyes off what was happening in the sky above. Twillo couldn’t blame him.

Adventus had since changed forms, the two vordic dragons interlocking as one of them let loose a searing plume of blue fire. Their bodies smacked together, the enemy dragon roaring as they cut through a dark cloud.

As he expected, Twillo watched a Senja warrior step out of the shadows cast by one of the cholums. The female combatant wore a reptilian mask with two sharp horns on her forehead, her eyes glowing red. Her sword was closer to a scimitar, curved and with a murky glow to it.

The woman was soon joined by dozens of myling, the terrible, humanesque yokai that crawled on all fours. They weren’t much larger than younglings, yet their grotesque features, bald faces, and dreadlocked hair that hung from their veiny heads obscuring their blunt noses and sharp teeth, made them things of nightmares.

Twillo had seen a dead one before in Sparrow’s Rise. While their appearances were certainly terrifying, this wasn’t the part that scared Twillo.

He now understood something that had happened in the desert just a few days back, when the wolvencree had attacked him seemingly out of the blue. By the way the myling twitched and snapped her teeth at the air, it seemed like they had been possessed.

As it had been once before, everything became clear to Twillo in that moment.

Not only would they have to fight a Senja warrior, not only were dragons warring in the skies above, Twillo and Katashi were going to have to fight myling that were possessed by Jecha himself.

.Chapter Forty-Four.

Stones from the Heavens

Twillo cupped his hand over the Wristlet of Droll, activating his dragonaura. “Deal with the myling,” he told Katashi, “I’ll handle the swordmaiden.”

With a flick of his wrist, Twillo sent a burst of dragonessence toward the female Senja warrior. She batted it away and charged toward him, their clash imminent.

At nearly the same time as the dragons collided above, Twillo and the woman met, their swords sparking as they blocked each other’s opening attacks.

Klank! Klank!

The woman matched him pound-for-pound, her strikes actually breaking through the dragonaura that had extended to his blade. It was nothing like what should have happened; she wasn’t repelled in the least, not like Twillo had been in the southern desert in his attempt on Sister Tonandi.

He heard Katashi engaging several behind him, yet had no idea how the kitsune was faring. He would have to trust the kitsune was handling the enemy yokai.

To give himself some space, Twillo pushed back and floated a few feet away from the woman. He deactivated his dragonaura in an effort to conserve energy.

To keep her off him for a moment, Twillo tried for another concentrated bolt of dragonessence. In doing so, he caught a glimpse of his wristlet, which pulsed in a way that reminded Twillo to keep an eye on his power. He needed to cycle dragonessence, and to do so would require closer combat.

Twillo went on the offensive again.

He missed cycling on his first strike against his female opponent, but the next attempt worked. Twillo noticed the feeling of power surging back to him, one he recognized meant he had landed his hit correctly, his dragonessence compounded upon.

Encouraged, Twillo went for a few more strikes, which his opponent quickly parried.

From backpedaling to surging forward again, Twillo was determined to land a hit. He tried for a horizontal cross slash, which the woman ducked. She swiftly kicked him in the side of his knee cap and leaped toward Twillo.

He rolled out of the way, right into the side of a cholum, his knee and the side of his arm now pulsing with pain. Twillo got to his feet. In turning to the woman he saw the two dragons fighting it out above, both in their first forms. They beat at each other with their wings, trying to grab the other with their talons.

A myling lunged for Twillo, the ravenous yokai ripping into him with its claws. Now bleeding from his upper arm, he managed to cut the myling away, the sting something he could ignore as the Senja warrior made another attempt.

The woman bolted toward him, Twillo forced to avoid her strikes now that she had conjured her dragonaura shield. While he tried to put some distance between himself and the woman, the myling continued on the attack, the hideous yokai relentless. They had reached an impasse; if Twillo and Katashi didn’t get the upper hand soon, it was clear they would be overpowered.

Twillo’s eyes traced across the top of one of the cholums. As they did, he noticed a creature with long legs and arms lower from one stacked grave to the next, followed by more of the same.

He recognized them immediately.

Ashinagatenaga had appeared on the scene, led by Ash, the yokai Twillo had befriended so many years ago in a visit to the necropolis.

The lanky ashinagatenaga surrounded the myling.

Just as one was about to leap toward Twillo, the myling was struck in the head by a rock thrown with enough force to kill the enemy yokai.

“This is it!” Twillo shouted, rallying beside Katashi.

“You know these yokai?”

“I do. Focus on the swordmaiden!” Twillo started to duck as another myling was hit by a rock, two more killed by a stray bolt of fire. “I’ll have to keep striking her until her power wanes,” he told Katashi. “Distract her as best you can, but do not strike her until her dragonaura is down. Be relentless; we will win this still. Livia, by our sides!”

Relentless.

The word came to Twillo again as he met the Senja warrior.

The only way to break through her dragonaura would be through repeated attacks amplified by dragonessence. Yet with each attempt, he was immediately thrust backward.

Twillo hit the ground again, scattering some long-forgotten funeral offerings set before one of the stone graves.

As he pushed back to his feet, he remembered a key detail that he hoped would help him overcome his opponent. His opponent’s dragonaura couldn’t be as strong as Sister Tonandi’s; he just needed to keep up the attack, and at the same time pay close attention to his own power levels.

With all the distractions around, this wasn’t easy. There were possessed myling being pelted by ashinagatenaga; a trained Senja warrior with murderous intent; and dragons clashing in the air, their collisions loud and thunderous, the heat from their fire discernible even if it was a cool night.

Twillo just needed to break through her dragonaura.

Intuiting that he needed help, Katashi made as if he were going to attack the woman. Twillo followed Katashi’s feigned strikes with a bolt of dragonessence from his sword, followed by another that forced her to stumble backward.

He could see it now, the outline around her, how it was splintering.

Twillo just needed to keep up his momentum.

He caught his wristlet pulsing even faster out of the corner of his eye. There was only so much he was going to be able to do. If they didn’t bring her dragonaura down soon, he’d lose his steam and they’d be forced to take on a dragon as well.

Twillo tried for two quick strikes in rapid succession. He was partially forced backward by the first attempt yet followed up with another, his sword finally breaking through her dragonaura.

They ground their weapons together for a moment.

Twillo came in again, both hands on his sword as he went for an overhead attack now that her dragonaura was weakened. It had since reformed around the woman and her weapon, but Twillo knew he was close. He might have even landed a strike had it not been for Adventus, who came sailing into one of the cholums.

Rock scattering all around him, Adventus pushed himself up and bared his sharp teeth, a flame forming at the back of his throat. He released a plume of blue, which set several of the myling on fire. The yokai hissed and screeched as they scrambled about, as their craniums were caved in by more stones from the ashinagatenaga.

The sudden appearance of Adventus had caused a momentary pause in Twillo’s attack.

Had it not also distracted his opponent, there was a good chance that her sword would have run through the center of his stomach. Yet the woman had been taken off guard by the white dragon’s crashlanding as well, only managing to slip around Twillo as forward momentum took him straight into one of the vigan pillars.

Ramming his shoulder into the sculpted pillar caused Twillo to drop his sword. By this point, the Senja warrior was already on the offensive, looking to seize on the opportunity that he had just provided her.

His shoulder screaming in pain, Twillo removed Kestrel’s Letter Opener from its sheath, the rapier taking shape at the very last moment.

The nature of his new weapon allowed him to move faster with the blade. He would need to use it to pierce rather than slash, which was something Twillo adjusted for as he pushed off his back heel.

Twillo’s strike shouldn’t have landed, yet that was exactly what happened as he avoided her attempt and used his own dragonessence to thrust his rapier forward. He pierced through her dragonaura, the pointed tip of his weapon grazing the side of her ribs as she attempted to avoid his attack.

Dragonaura filtered away, blood soon gushing from the side of her body.

“Now!” Twillo called to the kitsune.

Katashi charged forward with both swords yet a sudden whip of wind tossed the kitsune to the side; Twillo jumped to the ground as the enemy dragon swooped overhead. He looked up, and as he did he watched the dragon twist onto its back. The woman grabbed on as the dragon righted itself and speared into the air.

As quickly as they had appeared, they were gone.

.Chapter Forty-Five.

Battered but not Broken

Adventus faded away, particles of cosmic dust whirling around Twillo and disappearing into his glowing wristlet.

Using their long arms and legs, the ashinagatenaga began to lower to the ground, led by the one Twillo had named Ash.

The myling were all dead now, their bodies scattered about the cholums and vigan pillars amid smoldering piles of debris. The air reeked of burned flesh. It was an ugly scene.

“You returned.” Ash approached, the yokai much taller than Twillo remembered it being.

It dawned on Twillo that Ash was a full-grown adult now; had Twillo stood next to the yokai, the top of his head would be even with Ash’s hip bone. Looking around, he saw that the others were around this height, Twillo not able to discern which of the yokai were male or female.

“Thank you for coming to our aid.” After a few more pleasantries were exchanged, Twillo explained in limited detail what had just happened. Of course, he wasn’t going to be able to gloss over the appearance and subsequent disappearance of a white dragon, so he went ahead and explained that part as well, which helped him ignore the pain in his shoulder and the slash mark on his upper arm.

“And you?” Ash asked Katashi.

“I am a kitsune.” To illustrate what he meant, Katashi’s face began to change into that of the fox, one with gray hair and with white accents. Katashi maintained the body of a human. While a few of the ashinagatenaga spoke amongst themselves, none seemed all that surprised to see someone change their form.

Ash returned his focus to Twillo. “So you are here because of something that is in the sea beyond, something you need?”

“That’s right.”

“There are ohatsu out there, in the water.”

“Ohatsu?” Twillo had once had a comb made from ohatsu bone, but he had assumed that they were extinct.

“I didn’t think something like ohatsu would still exist,” Adventus said.

“Same,” Twillo told the dragon, only then realizing that he hadn’t explained that Adventus spoke to him in his head. He tapped on his temple. “The dragon speaks to me here when he is not in his physical form.”

Ash merely nodded at this statement, not fazed by it in the least. “The ohatsu are serpent-humans. The bottom half of their bodies are snake-like, the top half that of a human. They are cursed creatures; they are the reason that ships don’t sail past the fjords.”

“That makes sense,” said Katashi. “The only way to get to Hoersung is by land. Actually, I believe there are ships that sail from Nalig, in Southfall, up the western coast of the Sagaland, but my point remains. No one crosses water beyond the fjords.”

“Ohatsu are there, many of them,” Ash said. “This is one reason we stick to the tops of the cholums.”

“They can come on land?” asked Katashi.

“They can.”

Twillo swept his hand toward the stacked graves. “In that case, we can camp atop of one of the cholums tonight. And we will need to be extra careful tomorrow. Do the ohatsu go very deep into the sea? Do you know?”

Ash shook its head. “Not that we know of. They seem to mostly stay near the surface. When it is winter, they gather on slabs of floating ice.”

Twillo imagined people with serpent bodies all gathered on a slab of ice. From what he knew about serpents, they didn’t generally exist in Icenor because of the weather. Apparently, these yokai were different.

“You should rest,” Adventus told Twillo. “But perhaps before you do, I will have a look around. Maybe there is a vortex here in the City of the Dead.”

“We have to be extra careful now,” Twillo said for both the dragon and the others gathered around him. “The Senja clearly know where we are. The woman was different from the warrior we encountered in Southfall; we do not know how many there are, but I believe that Jecha is controlling the yokai as well. Did you see the myling? Are they normally that… organized?”

Ash got a consensus from the others before speaking: “No, we’ve never seen them behave like that before. Usually, they move in small packs, two or three.”

Twillo glanced up to a column of stacked graves, each about the size of a bedroom. “We will need to be even more cautious than we have been,” he surmised. “Adventus?”

“Yes?”

“Care to return for a moment and fly us to the top of one of the cholums? After we’re settled and you are scouting, I can do some cycling.”

“It is important that you rest.”

“I will,” he assured the dragon. “But we have to make sure we have enough power for tomorrow. Not only that, I need to deal with this wound on my arm.”

“I have something you can use,” Katashi said. “I came prepared for something like this.”

“And we have food, plenty of food for all of us,” Twillo said as he motioned to the ashinagatenaga. “We are forever in your debt.”

.Chapter Forty-Six.

A Swim through Turbulent Waters

As the sun rose that morning, Adventus located both the vortex and the ziggurat at the bottom of the fjords. It was in a grotto guarded by ohatsu serpent-people, just as the ashinagatenaga had claimed.

While Twillo had planned to spend the next several hours thinking about how they would reach it, the exhaustion from his fight and his usage of dragonessence was too much. After a meal, and as a cold breeze blew over him, the relic hunter now warm beneath his myordukai skin, he fell into a deep sleep.

He awoke early that evening to the sound of seabirds bickering in the distance. Twillo spotted Katashi sleeping on the far corner of the cholum, the kitsune fully in his fox form, curled up. Katashi’s fur was gray with horizontal white strips heading down his back, his eyes deeply accented by black as if he wore mascara. He looked peaceful.

The ashinagatenaga were on the cholum below them, where they had set up shelters using the larger cholum as support. In looking down at them, Twillo felt a twist of appreciation for the way they had bravely entered the fight on his behalf. Their assistance had helped turn the tide of their battle against the Senja warrior and the possessed myling.

Twillo stared out at the cholums that ran to the cliffs of the fjords, and at the treacherous sea beyond, the sun setting and causing ripples of light across the violent waves. He saw dragon riders in his mind’s eye. He saw the incredible clashes to come, the sky blazing with fire, a city razed to the ground. Once the war was fully on, Twillo would need all the help he could get to stop Jecha’s forces.

Not long after he’d had this vision, Twillo sat on the edge of the cholum and changed the cloth bandage over his arm. He called forth his dragonessence core, watching as the cosmic power began to oscillate around the orb.

It had grown in size since the first time he’d summoned it with Sister Tonandi. He recalled the numerous silver spheres that had seemingly come out of her when she accessed it. Would his look that way one day? Was it a result of the work she’d done?

Twillo continued growing his power until Katashi awoke. The fox trotted over to him and sat.

“Not a bad night,” he finally said, Twillo not at all surprised to hear him speak in his animal form as well.

“Tell the kitsune I agree,” said Adventus, his first words of the morning.

“Adventus agrees. It is a night to reach the ziggurat.”

“I will await your return. And then?” Katashi looked to the west, back toward civilization.

“And then, Padrian Sands for me. You?”

“I should stay in Vendir for a little longer. As I said previously, for now, it’s best that I only join you on this leg. But I am interested.” The fox turned to the ocean beyond. He took a deep breath of the briny air. “It has been ages since something this miraculous has happened to me.”

Twillo stood on the same platform where he had retrieved the Tongue of Ravenna Megren, a gray mist beyond. He was alone now, and he was just about to place the Gorget of Illagorn around his neck when he paused.

“Yes, Left-Handed One?”

Twillo shook his head. He had been psyched up just moments ago; now, he was overthinking what he was about to do and how difficult it would be.

Adventus spoke in his head again: “We can do this. Just stick to the plan. Vortex, then the sea beyond, to the ziggurat. Do not worry.”

His shirt and overcoat now at his feet, Twillo fixed the gorget around his neck. As soon as he clasped it the relic went to work, the surface of his skin changing as it touched his chest. Holding his breath, Twillo summoned the white dragon, and took a running charge toward the opposite end of the cholum.

He jumped, and as he did Adventus passed beneath him.

Twillo and Adventus plunged beneath the surface of the water together, everything coming at Twillo so fast that he kept his head down, his eyes closed.

Adventus exploded out of the sea, and shifted toward the grotto. Twillo finally opened his eyes, the saltwater burning, his breaths impossible with the relic around his neck.

As his surroundings blurred into existence, Twillo spotted craggy rocks ahead, several platforms rising out of the sea with beings on them the likes of which he had never seen before.

Ohatsu had human torsos, as he had been told. While they were serpent-like, their lower halves weren’t covered in scales. Slick, dark blue feathers instead. Several of them screeched upon seeing Twillo and Adventus, their confusion replaced by fury. They took to the water as Adventus went under again.

The dragon broke through the top of the waves, Twillo yet again met with the rush of cold saltwater.

His wings by his sides, Adventus curved upward and speared out of the water, just as some of the ohatsu were about to reach them.

Bleary-eyed, Twillo finally spotted the vortex, which was on a surface in the grotto. Twillo felt the dragon’s body shift as Adventus turned back to their pursuers and released a bolt of fire.

Back under the surface of the water.

Adventus swam quickly toward the vortex as bubbles rippled all around them. An ink cloud of blood formed when one of the enemy yokai came too close to the dragon’s mouth, Adventus taking a bite.

They surfaced yet again, the dragon arcing into the grotto. He landed. Adventus ducked down as the vortex activated; energy funneled into Twillo as he held his breath above the surface, energy pooling around him.

The dragon released a huge plume of blue fire, followed by more concentrated bolts that struck several of the approaching ohatsu. The fire caused instant smoke as it trailed along the surface of the water, Adventus continuing to defend them.

Once Twillo was certain that he had received as much power as he could, he tapped his hand on the side of the dragon’s neck. Twillo didn’t even need to look at his wristlet this time. He could sense his own levels as a feeling of satiation washed over him.

He held on for dear life as Adventus took a running leap and dove through several ohatsu. They breached the water once again. Now able to breathe, Twillo tried to get an idea of where they were going, but the sting of the saltwater and their speed made it impossible.

He couldn’t see the ohatsu chasing them; he didn’t know how close the yokai were to catching Adventus as the dragon swam deeper and deeper into the dark sea.

Twillo’s ears popped, the sounds around him alien, the temperature of the water even colder the deeper they swam. He felt as if he should be drowning, yet each breath was entirely normal, as though they were on land.

Adventus started to veer as if he were circling around something.

A murky light came to him as they surfaced. Adventus spoke: “We are here, Left-Handed One. You must go on without me. I’ll fend off the ohatsu. Quickly!”

Twillo dropped to solid ground, his legs a bit wobbly, fish out of water. They were in a darkened underwater chamber, in some unnatural pocket of air. The place smelled of wet rock and moss.

After unclasping the gorget, Twillo took a deep, satisfying breath. The piece now hung loosely around his neck yet secure because of the portion that covered his bare chest. He finally registered what Adventus had just said. “Go on without you?”

Only now did Twillo see there was a doorway behind them, one illuminated in silver.

“Now,” Adventus said, preparing to use his fire again. “It won’t be long until they are here.”

.Chapter Forty-Seven.

Corobashi Statue

Twillo rushed into the following chamber, the elven relic hunter shirtless and dripping wet, cold as well. The inside of the ziggurat was completely open, all the way to the top, the cavernous chamber empty aside from a single statue in the middle.

The door behind Twillo began to seal shut.

“Adventus—!” he called out.

~~You have entered my chamber.~~

Twillo took another look around, his eyes settling on a stone statue erected before him, which was easily twice his height.

Now that he was actually observing it, Twillo recognized the statue as Corobashi, the infamous trickster kitsune of legend who had once lived in Icenor. While his body was that of a man, his face was that of a fox, similar to the form Katashi had taken the previous day.

But there was something different about the statue, starting with the gleaming metal sword it had resting across the statue’s shoulders. Twillo had heard of the blade before, one known as an odachi. With a length like that of a polearm, the weapon was nearly impossible to wield due to its size.

~~You have entered my chamber for a challenge. Survive, and you will reap the benefits of the power that is contained in this ziggurat.~~

The statue’s jeweled eyes suddenly glowed blue like the gemstone on his wristlet.

The statue came alive and heaved its mighty sword onto the floor directly in front of Twillo.

Diving left, Twillo drew his blade, the tip charged with energy. He fired a shot of blistering dragonessence at the Corobashi statue, which merely caused it to stagger backward.

His mind jumping into overdrive, Twillo went through his options only to realize that he didn’t have many, especially without the items he normally carried with him. He had traveled light this time, just his sword, his letter opener, and his animating ring. The rest was back with Katashi.

Glancing down at his ring spawned an idea, one that would at least buy Twillo more time to figure out the best way to engage a stone statue that was twice his size. All he needed to do was knock the statue over.

Twillo caught the glint of his opponent’s jeweled eyes again. Were its eyes the conduits for the dragonessence clearly powering his opponent?

If that was the case, they needed to come out.

Twillo fired off another bolt of dragonessence, which barely had any effect.

He needed more power if he was going to knock it over, the kind that he’d only been able to produce with his dragonaura.

Twillo steeled himself in an effort to summon the courage it would take for him to battle a towering stone statue. If their swords met, he would be done for, but not with his dragonaura activated. Not if he trusted his own power.

Twillo cupped the Wristlet of Droll.

A shield of dragonessence traced over his form, all the way to the tip of his sword. With a deep breath in, he charged toward the Corobashi statue.

The stone statue heaved its enormous sword over its head, as if it were planning to bring it down right on top of Twillo. With both hands on the grip of his weapon, and one foot back for stability, Twillo prepared to block the statue’s strike.

Somehow, defying all odds, Twillo held strong.

Energy sparked around the pair as the statue was blown backward. It slammed into the outer wall of the chamber and fell to its side.

With little time to spare, Twillo triggered his dragonessence to propel himself forward. He neared the statue’s arm as it was getting to its feet and reached his hand out.

Tapping his ring rapidly worked, the statue’s arm loosening up and flailing as it lost control of its own arm.

Wham!

The statue swept Twillo to the side, the relic hunter flying ten feet back and losing his sword in the process.

The impact that followed knocked the breath out of him. Twillo doubled down yet again as he pushed back onto his feet, ignoring the scrapes and cuts across his bare back.

Charging toward the statue, Twillo drew Kestrel’s Letter Opener mid-air as he reached the half-toppled statue’s face. He managed to get the letter opener under one of the jewels, and activate its power. It grew into a rapier in an instant, which popped the blue gemstone out of its socket.

The statue flung Twillo away again. For a moment the statue flailed around wildly, as if it couldn’t see, the ground shaking as it stomped around.

While it stumbled about, Twillo spotted the glowing blue jewel he had just popped out of the statue’s face. He was certain now that it was like the jewel on his wristlet, which meant it was something he could potentially use in the future.

Once the letter opener was tiny again and back in its sheath, Twillo slid forward, directly under the statue’s attempt at a horizontal cross-slash. He retrieved the loose gemstone and stuck it into his pocket.

One down, one to go.

Twillo took to the air yet again in an epic, dragonessence-powered jump. He landed near the sword he had lost earlier, grabbed it, and fired another bolt at the incoming statue just to throw it off guard.

One of the statue’s arms was now limp, the stone twisted and mangled from what Twillo had done with his ring. Yet it was still able to wield the odachi with its other hand, his opponent doing something Twillo had yet to anticipate. The Corobashi statue teetered backward and used all of its weight to throw the sword directly at Twillo.

He dodged the incoming blade. The sword went straight through the stone, fissures taking shape. Water exploded from the fissures and began to pour into the chamber.

Stumbling yet again, the Corobashi statue approached its sword and drew it from the wall, more water gushing in. It brought its arm back and threw its blade to the other side of the chamber.

Twillo dodged right as the enormous sword stabbed into the stone, creating more fissures that started to crackle all the way up to the ceiling.

The statue charged toward its weapon.

Twillo knew if it succeeded in reaching its weapon that water would tear through the walls and fill the chamber, spelling disaster. He still had the Gorget of Illagorn around his neck, but blindly swimming through collapsing stone? No, Twillo had to act now.

Sizing up the Corobashi statue, Twillo was reminded of his fight against the giant Baumundas, how he had leaped from the ledge to the giant’s head and driven the Rotting Wand into its eye. Now, he had dragonessence to help him. He could do something similar, but if he missed, the statue would remove the sword from the chamber and it would be over.

Twillo sheathed his sword and yet again drew his letter opener.

“By Livia,” Twillo whispered as he shot toward the statue, which had nearly reached its sword.

Summoning his dragonessence, Twillo flew into the air and landed on its good shoulder. He jumped for its vulpine face and managed to straddle its snout.

Twillo drove the letter opener into the side of the glowing eye, his relic instantly growing in size and forcing the blue gemstone out. Twillo reached his right hand toward it and managed to catch it midair.

But in doing so, in caring more about the gemstone than he did his precarious position, Twillo started to fall with the statue to the ground.

~~You have succeeded where others have failed. The power of the ziggurat is yours.~~

The voice came to Twillo just as he was scrambling over the statue’s snout, hoping not to get pinned on the ground.

The power that followed, dragonessence in its purest form, poured into Twillo.

It raised him into the air and exploded outward, tearing into the inner walls of the chamber.

Fissures tracing along the inner walls of the ziggurat split, more water gushing into the space.

The large odachi shook loose, the surge of water that followed adding to the water already in the chamber. It caused more cracks, which began to break as portions of the ceiling came down, as everything shook.

“Adventus, to me!” Twillo shouted, not certain if the dragon would hear him.

A stone falling from the ceiling struck Twillo’s shoulder. It knocked him out of the air even as his dragonaura ultimately stopped it from severely injuring him.

Twillo hit the ground, his hand still clutching the letter opener as he was instantly pinned by more falling stone. Twillo’s dragonaura protected him from being crushed like a shell, but the weight became too much for his magical shield to force the falling stones away from him.

Saltwater twisted into the spaces of the pile of rocks amassing atop the relic hunter.

Twillo tried to force the stones off him, but he was afraid that in doing so he would deactivate his dragonaura and it would all come crumbling down.

Twillo gasped as several of the stones were removed and tossed to the side as if by a giant.

He tried to see what was happening above him, to see what was removing the portions of the crumbled stone, but with all the water, the stress, and falling rock, he wasn’t able to make anything out.

More stones were removed, and suddenly, an armored hand thrust itself into Twillo’s face. He took it. The hand pulled him out of the rubble as his dragonaura deactivated, Twillo face-to-face with Adventus in his dragon warrior form.

The dragon warrior’s two blue eyes on either side of his helmet shone with intensity. “You did it, Left-Handed One. We must leave.”

“You can… fly in this form?” Twillo asked, still bewildered by all that was happening around them.

Adventus used his staff to swipe away more falling stones. “We should hurry.”

Twillo returned his letter opener to its sheath and made sure the two gemstones he had taken were deep in his pocket. “I’m ready—”

Before he could say anything else, Adventus placed his arm around Twillo and the two shot into the air. They burst through what was left of the ceiling of the ziggurat and hit the cold water, spearing toward the surface.

They exploded out of the sea; Twillo gasped at the sudden return to the world he was familiar with, and what he saw hovering in the air near them.

A new enemy had presented itself.

“Adventus, watch out—!”

“It’s fine,” Adventus said, the dragon warrior laughing. “She’s with us.”

Twillo blinked twice as a stunning red dragon glided toward them, one with yellow along her wing membranes and the same thickened armor over her skull and down the back of her neck.

“She?” Twillo asked.

Adventus continued to hold him in the air, the sea far below. “Yes, this is Nalig.”

“Nalig like the Southfallian city?”

“Several cities are named after us,” Adventus reminded the relic hunter.

Nalig rose into the sky and pressed through a cloud before dropping in what looked like a death spiral. She ran along the surface of the water and swooped up before the two of them, batting her red wings a few times as she focused on Twillo. “A pleasure to meet you, Left-Handed One.”

“And you… Your Ladyship.”

“You have a rider for me?” she asked, her pupils flaring with blue power.

Twillo gulped. “I believe that can be arranged.”

Livia hovered over the cold sea beyond the frigid fjords of Icenor’s City of the Dead.

Her flowing robes stretched to the troubled waters below, where the bodies of ohatsu floated, their glistening backs aimed at the night’s sky as frothy waves brought them closer to shore.

It was quite the scene.

Livia turned west, following the relic hunter and the two dragons toward the final row of cholums, where Katashi and several ashinagatenaga awaited their return.

The relic hunter had performed just the way Livia had expected, using his wits and his sheer daring to overcome. His had been a remarkable transformation over a relatively short amount of time, one that she had certainly played a part in orchestrating.

The conflicts to come would need someone like him, someone who could inspire others and adapt, someone fluid and brave.

In that way, the Goddess of Luck had gotten lucky.

As Livia watched the relic hunter lower toward the City of the Dead, she remembered the sacrifices of his father, Shotaro Vos Undlin. The Saracent of Sparrow’s Rise had his flaws, ones that she had certainly exploited, yet he had been a necessary piece in everything that had happened, and everything to come. It wasn’t often that the flaws of a parent could so perfectly sculpt the morals and integrity of their offspring in a way that surpassed all expectations. The relic hunter was living proof that this was possible.

Livia’s interference so many years ago could have shaped the relic hunter into a number of things, from a desperate beggar to a tactless thief; a vengeful noble stripped of his power to a rotting corpse resting in a drainage ditch that fed off the canals of E’Kanth. Yet he had turned out to be just the hero the Four Kingdoms needed, a hero who wasn’t a hero at all. He was simply a person willing to play their part, one who had the mettle to recognize the flow of all things and accept fate as it came.

As Adventus lowered the relic hunter to the top of the stone platform, Livia observed the excitement in the faces of Katashi and the ashinagatenaga. A feeling of joy stirred within her, a smile tracing across her face. It was a moment of triumph that she would share in, even if those in attendance would never know she was there.

After the new dragon greeted the others, Livia watched as Nalig faded into cosmic dust. The red dragon would travel with the relic hunter for a spell until they met her rider. But this wouldn’t come as soon as Livia or the relic hunter had hoped…

A rebirth had taken place in the desert outside of Padrian Sands. Even if Livia had been prepared for it, even if all she had done by taking part in Shotaro’s life had been in direct response to the rebirth of the God of Carnage, Livia wasn’t ready.

The Four Kingdoms of the Sagaland weren’t ready.

The relic hunter himself was ill-prepared, regardless of the improvements he’d made in understanding dragonessence in a short amount of time.

A moment of reckoning was on the horizon. Whether the relic hunter would be able to rise to the challenge or not was beyond Livia’s powers.

It was now in the hands of destiny.

That concept of fate, of a shared destiny, Goddess and relic hunter, made Livia wonder if Vitharr had ultimately decided to get involved. It didn’t seem like something her father would do, but the God of Fate worked in mysterious ways.

Perhaps it was time she paid him a visit.

Livia hadn’t spoken to her father in ages.

Epilogue: The Return

A trail of blood stretched across the silver-black sands of Icenor’s volcanic desert.

It led to the body of an elven orc, the man surrounded by ravenous rake fighting over strips of his flesh. The terrifying yokai were huddled around him, their double-jawed maws covered in blood, the alpha of the group at the lead as he ripped another hunk of meat off the man’s body.

Even if his leg had been partially gnawed through, and the feverish rake had torn off pieces of his armor to get to the meat on his chest, Rowian wasn’t going to give up yet. This wasn’t the way he would die, not alone in the desert, a shame to the Honor Guard, tricked by a former saracent.

Rowian had to return to Princess Embla, he had to tell her what he had seen, that Jhaeros had commanded a dragon.

He came alive, and grabbed the throat of the alpha rake, the elven orc squeezing tightly as the creature clawed at his arms, as the other rake scattered.

Rowian snapped the rake’s puny neck.

He tossed the yokai aside and tried to stand. Impossible. With an angry grunt out, one that barely covered the pain he was experiencing from the puncture wounds in his torso and his mangled form, Rowian began to drag his body again.

He just needed to make it to Padrian Sands…

The other rake descended upon him. Rather than tear into Rowian, they investigated what he had done to their leader.

Bent forward, the hairless, pale-skinned monstrosities sniffed at the alpha’s body and bickered among themselves as a new challenge presented itself, one of domination. The largest of the group threw its head back and made a barking noise, the others doing the same, challenging each other.

A fight broke out, the rake swarming toward one another, a torrent of snarls and shrieks.

Rowian collapsed outside of the bedlam. He tried to lift himself again, but what was left of his muscles failed, his adrenaline drained, his heart slowing, his vision dimming.

“Vitharr, you dog,” he whispered. “Livia, you whore…”

Rowian blinked a few more times and finally laid his head down. This was defeat. After everything he had been through, he would die in an Icenordian desert.

Behind him, dark clouds lowered to the ground, the rake scattering as the sand twisted into granulated robes that soon draped over the body of the banished God of Carnage.

Jecha had a black hole for a face, one covered by a threadbare hood. He was larger than a normal human by several feet, yet he was thin, sickly in the way he held himself.

As he swelled closer to Rowian, the rake all quieted and rose to attention, prepared for Jecha’s command.

His body half-formed, his outline one made possible by the mysterious black sands of the northern desert, Jecha curled a partially withered finger at Rowian.

Rowian came awake with a gasp, his eyes reddening.

His body shot up as his flesh sewed back together. His armor reformed by way of black scorpions and centipedes, which emerged from the sand and stitched together over his form.

Soon, Rowian stood as well, the elven orc a new man in thickened armor, his red eyes growing dark. Rowian wasn’t going to become part of the Senja, not like the other Magi and archmages that the God of Carnage had already recruited.

Jecha needed a vessel. The elven orc, a man of solid muscle and combat skill, would work perfectly.

The end.

Author’s Note

Your words matter.

Thank you for reading The World According to Dragons from start to finish.

Please take a moment to leave a review or rating.

I am an indie author, and your thoughts go a long way in helping other readers decide if Twillo’s journey is one worth taking.

I think it is, and I hope you enjoyed it.

The second book in this series is scheduled for early next year, and I have more series planned in the world of the Four Kingdoms.

If you’re not sure what to read next, I’d recommend my series Pilgrim, War Priest, or Cowboy Necromancer. The first two are progression fantasy books featuring yokai, akin to The World According to Dragons. The latter is a post-apocalyptic LitRPG set in the American Southwest.

Thanks again for reading and rating my books.

Yours in sanity,

Harmon Cooper
www.harmoncooper.com

Other Books by Harmon Cooper

I have written over seventy books. Here are some of the highlights!

An instant bestseller. Pilgrim follows the life of Danzen Ravja, a former assassin trying to make amends with his past.

War Priest is a progression fantasy/cultivation series about a healer forced to multiclass to survive. Expect intrigue, tournaments, combat, humor, training, and a ton of world-building based on Japanese mythology.

Cowboy Necromancer is a heavily researched post-apocalyptic LitRPG set in the Southwest that continues to thrill readers!

GameLit before it was a genre, The Feedback Loop was published between 2015-2018. Volume One collects books 1-4 and has a ton of extra content. If you enjoy audiobooks, it is performed by the legendary LitRPG narrator Jeff Hays.

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