Summer, year 566 of the Varakarian Cycle

  The two months of travel passed before he knew it, and Sitch Nar came into view. The day of Kharg’s return dawned with an uneasy sky, heavy with the promise of an approaching storm. The air was thick with a damp chill that seeped into his bones as he and the caravan made their way along the winding path leading to Sitch Nar. Despite the foreboding weather, a flicker of excitement danced in his chest, mingled with a palpable apprehension. The spires of the city began to emerge from the haze, their silhouettes cutting sharply against the dull gray of the clouds.

  Fafne stirred from his perch on Kharg’s shoulder, wings twitching with the tension he hadn’t voiced. Kharg gave him a quiet glance, then nodded toward a copse of trees just off the road, half-sheltered by the rising slope. “Wait for me there,” he murmured under his breath. “I need to face this first on my own.”

  The faerie dragon blinked once, his eyes gleaming with wordless understanding, then launched into the air without a sound. A glimmer of silver vanished among the branches as Kharg turned back toward the looming estate.

  As they neared the family mansion, perched majestically atop the cliff, Kharg's heart raced. He had always marveled at the grandeur of the estate, its stone walls bearing the weight of countless family memories. Today, however, it felt like a fortress looming over him, a stark reminder of the responsibilities he had deferred and the expectations that awaited him. The mansion watched over the city and the endless expanse of the sea, as if it had witnessed the weight of generations before him, a history intertwined with commerce and adventure.

  The sturdy wall surrounding the mansion was a familiar sight, but the guards stationed at the gate seemed more intimidating than he remembered. They wore chainmail, their expressions stern as they gripped spears that glinted in the muted light. When Kharg’s caravan approached, the guards exchanged glances and their postures stiffened with the arrival of the caravan.

  The guards stepped forward as they approached the gate and their demeanor shifted slightly when they recognized him. “Welcome back, Lord Kharg,” one of them said a bit too formally, though their eyes spoke of curiosity regarding his prolonged absence in the north.

  “Thank you,” Kharg replied softly. He felt the weight of their attention, a mix of respect and pity, as if they sensed the storm stirring not just in the sky, but within him.

  With a subtle nod, the guards pushed open the gate, revealing the expansive courtyard and beyond it, the path that led to the mansion’s grand entrance. The stone walls, once a comforting embrace during his childhood, now loomed like towering giants watching his every step. Kharg trotted in through the gates, took a moment to steady himself as he dismounted, and forced his thoughts to quiet. The bustling city of Sitch Nar lay sprawled out behind him, alive and vibrant, but all he could focus on was the looming confrontation that awaited within the mansion walls. He half-expected the echoes of laughter and merriment to greet him, but instead the air hung heavy with the promise of a storm that mirrored the turmoil in his heart.

  His fellow travelers began to unload provisions from the caravan and the sound of bustling activity provided a stark contrast to his inner turmoil. Kharg offered a weak smile to Halfur, grateful yet aware of the weight of their shared secret. The caravanner’s look was a mix of sympathy and concern which conveyed his support as he knew where Akgun's fury would be directed.

  When he entered the mansion, the familiar scents of leather, wood polish, and the faint hint of sea salt enveloped him. The flickering flames in the hearth cast dancing shadows across the walls where portraits of his ancestors watched over the family legacy, stern and commanding, yet whispering tales of pressure, duty, and sometimes rebellion.

  Kharg stood for a moment in the grand foyer, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew he was going to meet the man who had shaped his life, but now he felt different, transformed by the wild embrace of the north, by the wisdom of the shaman and by the call of something greater than his merchant duties.

  He made a silent vow to embrace whatever awaited him in those chambers above as he straightened his shoulders and readied himself for the inevitable. The stormy skies might loom outside, but within he would find the clarity he had discovered in the embrace of the Tribe of the Wolf.

  His family poured into the grand entry hall to greet him, voices overlapping in surprise and joy as they crowded around with embraces and exclamations. Anneth clung to his arm, peppering him with questions, while Anton circled him in awe of the fur-lined cloak and the unfamiliar northern trinkets at his belt. Jendal and Veleria each gave him a long, searching look before drawing him into a hug, their smiles edged with pride.

  Samira, standing a little apart at first, regarded him with her usual cool composure. Yet when Kharg finally turned toward her, her expression softened and the distance melted away. She stepped forward, took his face in her hands, and kissed his brow in silent welcome before drawing him briefly into her arms.

  At the edge of the gathering stood Akgun, his expression unreadable. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment Kharg’s breath caught. But his father merely gave a small nod, one that carried both acknowledgment and a quiet promise that their talk would come later. The weight of that unspoken conversation settled over Kharg like a stone, yet for now it could wait.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur of retellings. Kharg’s eyes shone with delight as he described his year in the north, speaking of the great hunts with the tribal scouts, the endless tundra storms, and the bond he had formed with the old shaman who had taken him as a pupil. His siblings listened wide-eyed as he explained how he had learned to heal wounds and ailments, to control and calm animals, and even to speak with them in a fashion. There was laughter when he recounted the curious looks of the tribe’s children and quiet awe when he spoke of the strange dreamworld.

  For a time, the hall was filled with the warmth of shared wonder, and Kharg almost managed to forget the difficult conversation that still awaited him. But eventually it was time, he lingered for a moment, finishing the last sip of amber liquor in his glass. He managed a reassuring smile for his mother, then turned and headed upstairs to face the conversation he had been dreading all day.

  * * *

  When Kharg entered Akgun’s study, he felt the familiar blend of awe and trepidation that always washed over him in this room. Akgun was seated behind the desk and his stern face was illuminated by the soft glow of an oil lamp. The air was heavy with the scent of polished oak and leather, overwhelmed slightly by the scent of candles burning and casting a warm light against the darkened walls. The room was a sanctuary of power where deals were made and destinies debated, a place where his father ruled like the merchant lord he was, his mind as sharp as the finest dagger.

  Akgun looked up from behind his massive desk, and his brow furrowed as he saw the mix of weariness and defiance in Kharg’s expression. The room itself seemed to hold its breath and a charged silence hung between them. “Close the door, Kharg,” Akgun said in a voice steady but laced with an underlying tension.

  Kharg complied, and the soft click of the door punctuated the stillness. He crossed the threshold and felt as though he was stepping into a tempest. The room was adorned with shelves lined high with tomes, each a vessel of ancient knowledge and trade secrets acquired over decades. A large desk dominated the center, cluttered with scrolls and maps of trade routes, highlighting the extent of Akgun’s empire. A large window overlooked the cliff and the sea beyond where waves crashed against the rocky shore, a rhythm both fierce and calming.

  “Sit,” Akgun commanded, and gestured to a chair opposite him. As Kharg sank into the chair, he could feel the weight of his father’s scrutiny, searching for answers before he even had a chance to speak. “Why did you remain in the north for a full year?” Akgun’s tone was sharp, the question as pointed as a spear. “You knew your responsibilities lay here. The family, the trade, everything depends on you now.”

  Kharg took a deep breath and steeled himself against the onslaught of frustration in his father’s voice. “Father, it was not a decision made lightly. The pull of the shamanic magic there was too strong and I believe I learned valuable things. Much more than I could have learned simply as a wind summoner.”

  “Valuable?” Akgun echoed, disbelief mingling with frustration. “You chose to forgo your training for a year with those tribesmen so far removed from our ways? Have you lost your mind?”

  “I gained wisdom, Father. The Tribe of the Wolf holds knowledge and traditions that can build upon what we have,” Kharg countered, his voice firming as the memories of the north flooded back to him, the firelight, the songs, the lessons of the earth and spirit that he had absorbed. “I wanted to deepen the bond our families share, and I know it will benefit our house in ways you may not see yet.”

  Akgun’s expression shifted slightly, caught between the threads of anger and understanding. “And what of your place at the Silverwolf? What of the legacy?”

  A weight hung in the air, and Kharg took a moment to collect his thoughts, knowing the next words would be the hardest to say. “I…I cannot accept the role of wind summoner. My path lies elsewhere, in Varakar, where I can study elemental magic more deeply than on our galleons.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  At this, Akgun’s fury ignited like a flash of lightning. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. Kharg felt the energy in the room shift. It was tense and electric, like a storm building beyond the windows. “You dare to abandon our family’s trust? After all I have sacrificed to set you on this course?”

  Swallowing hard, Kharg rose to his feet, conflict raging within him against the tide of his father’s wrath. “It’s not abandonment, Father. It’s growth! I’m not turning my back on you or the Silverwolf. I believe that this journey will ultimately strengthen our connections!”

  Akgun paced the length of the room, hands running through his hair, and Kharg could see the internal battle waging within him. Guardianship against ambition. Legacy against personal destiny. The air crackled with tension until slowly, Akgun halted, the fire of anger dimming to a simmer. He turned back to Kharg, eyes blazing with intensity yet softened by the weight of consideration.

  “Do you truly believe that?” he asked, his voice low and strained. “That your studies there will bring honor to the Silverwolf?”

  “I do,” Kharg said earnestly, feeling the flicker of hope arise as he met his father’s gaze. “I can bring back what I learn and fortify the bonds with the Tribe of the Wolf. This isn’t an end, Father—it’s a beginning.”

  Akgun’s expression softened further, the storm in his heart shifting. “Very well…” he said slowly, the words hesitant but resolute. “If you feel this is your path, then I will not stand in your way, provided that upon your return, you share your knowledge with us. The legacy demands respect, still.”

  Kharg drew in a deep breath before releasing it slowly, his relief palpable. “Thank you, Father. I promise I’ll not forget where I come from.”

  As Kharg left the study, he felt the weight of the confrontation lift from his shoulders. The heavy oak door closed with a thud behind him and he paused for a moment in the corridor, breathing deeply. The stormy sea outside seemed to echo the turmoil he had just faced but there was also a sense of calmness creeping in, like the aftermath of a storm. He straightened his back, smoothed his coat, and strode away with steady and purposeful steps.

  Akgun stood motionless by the large window, looking out at the crashing waves below. The faint sound of his son’s footsteps receded into the distance, and the silence of the room wrapped around him like a heavy cloak. He rested his hands on the edge of the desk, his fingers tracing the grain of the wood absently.

  For all his frustrations, Akgun couldn’t suppress the glimmer of pride that surfaced as he thought about Kharg. His son had stood before him, unwavering, and had the courage to speak his truth, to challenge the path that Akgun had so meticulously laid out for him. How many men could boast of a son with the strength to stand against even his own father in pursuit of their destiny?

  Akgun’s attention lingered on the horizon as the wind howled outside, rattling the glass panes. Kharg’s defiance was not rebellion for the sake of rebellion. It was the conviction of a man forging his own path. Akgun had seen that fire in Kharg’s eyes, a reflection of the same determination that had driven him to build the Silverwolf Trading Company from a modest enterprise to a sprawling empire.

  “Dargaard’s blood runs strong,” Akgun murmured to himself, recalling his own father’s words. He could see the echoes of his own youthful ambitions in Kharg, ambitions that had once clashed with Dargaard’s vision for their family. But now, standing where his father had once stood, Akgun began to understand the delicate balance between guiding a legacy and allowing the next generation to shape it.

  His eyes drifted to the maps on his desk, the intricate web of trade routes that bound their family’s fortunes together. Kharg’s words stayed with him. “This isn’t an end, Father. It’s a beginning.” He realized that his son’s vision extended beyond the immediate concerns of wind summoning and trade. Kharg sought to broaden their family’s horizons, to bring new knowledge and connections that could strengthen their empire in ways Akgun hadn’t yet imagined.

  Turning away from the window, Akgun lit a small lantern on his desk and sat back in his chair, lost in thought. The full force of the waves below seemed to mirror his inner conflict, turbulent yet cleansing. For all his misgivings, Akgun knew deep down that Kharg’s strength of will was a testament to his character, a quality that would serve him well in the challenges ahead.

  “Go then, my son,” Akgun whispered, as though Kharg could still hear him. “Forge your path. The Silverwolf will be waiting when you return.”

  * * *

  Kharg returned to his chambers and eased the door shut behind him. The air inside was still, faintly scented with the dry lavender bundles tucked into the linens. With a sigh, he crossed to the tall window, unlatched it, and pushed it open. Cool sea air drifted in, carrying with it the brine of the harbor and the distant cry of gulls.

  He stood by the open window, letting the wind tug at the folds of his shirt as he reached out with his thoughts. For a few moments, there was nothing but the distant hum of city life, the caw of gulls over the harbor, and the sigh of wind through stone.

  A faint reply stirred in his mind from somewhere far off. He stepped back and waited.

  A few minutes later, claws tapped lightly against the window frame. Fafne slipped through the open pane with a lazy flutter, his silver wings folding close as he settled on the windowsill. His scales shimmered a little in the lamplight, violet eyes blinking once in deliberate judgment, then cocked his head as if to ask how it went.

  “I survived it,” Kharg murmured, brushing some specks of dust from his sleeves. “Barely.”

  They spent the next half-hour in peace. Kharg lay on the bed, eyes closed, letting the tension ease from his limbs while Fafne stretched along the curve of his side like a warm, living scarf. The quiet was broken only by the occasional flutter of wings or the creak of timber as the old house settled into dusk.

  A soft knock came at the door.

  “My lord,” came a servant’s voice, muffled through the wood. “Dinner will be served shortly.”

  Kharg sat up and roused himself. He changed into a dark silken shirt and comfortable trousers, then chose a pair of soft, polished shoes. Fafne perched on his shoulder again without being asked, his claws light and sure.

  As they moved through the halls, reactions were immediate. A maid carrying a tray stumbled to a halt, her eyes going wide. A young footman gasped audibly, backing up against the wall. One older steward bowed quickly but kept his gaze fixed on Fafne with open suspicion. No one spoke, but every head turned as Kharg passed.

  The dining hall looked just as he remembered, with a long table covered in white linen and chandeliers lit by steady candlelight. Silverware gleamed against porcelain. At the far end sat his father, Akgun, flanked by Samira on his right. His mother’s hair was tied in a soft braid over one shoulder, and her hands were folded neatly on the table. Jendal and Anneth were already seated nearby, talking in low tones that faded as the door opened.

  “Kharg!” Anneth called, smiling as she rose slightly from her seat. “You finally…”

  She stopped short.

  Jendal’s eyes narrowed as her words caught in her throat.

  Samira’s smile shifted, and Kharg thought he could see a flash of gentle wonder in her eyes. Her gaze lingered on the faerie dragon with quiet curiosity. She lowered her hand, slow and calm, as if greeting a skittish bird.

  Fafne tilted his head, then gave a soft chirp. Not his mocking one, but the delicate, inquisitive sound Kharg had heard only a few times before. Through their bond, Kharg felt a ripple of something rare, approval. He likes her.

  And Akgun? He did not move. But his gaze, sharp and assessing, settled not on his son but on the silver-scaled creature poised so casually on his shoulder.

  “What in Eldrana’s name is that?” Jendal asked flatly.

  Anneth blinked, then leaned forward, voice full of wonder. “Is that... real?”

  Fafne tilted his head and gave a regal blink, as if addressing a gathering of dull-wits.

  Kharg paused just inside the dining hall and offered a smile, somewhere between pride and apology. “This is Fafne,” he said, his voice steady. “He came to me during a shamanic rite, near the end of my time in the North. We’re bonded now.”

  Fafne shifted slightly on his shoulder, wings giving a soft rustle as he blinked at the table’s occupants with unhurried interest. Samira’s eyes softened immediately, her smile returning as she leaned slightly forward, her curiosity piqued rather than alarmed.

  Jendal, on the other hand, frowned. “Bonded?” she echoed, a skeptical note in her voice. “What does that even mean?”

  Kharg met her gaze, still calm. “It means we’re linked. We can sense each other, even across distance. Thoughts. Emotions. Not full conversations, but… presence. And trust.” He looked to Fafne, who tilted his head with a contented hum. “We’ve become companions. Friends.”

  Fafne let out a quiet trill, then fluttered down from Kharg’s shoulder to land lightly on the edge of the table. His tail curled neatly beside him, and his eyes sparkled with amusement as he regarded the silverware and polished plates.

  Samira chuckled under her breath, the tension visibly leaving her shoulders. “Well, he has more grace than your brothers’ hunting dogs ever did.” She extended a hand halfway, letting it rest palm-up near the table’s edge. “May I?”

  Fafne hesitated only a moment before padding forward. His nose touched her fingers, then he bumped his head gently into her hand. A pleased flick of his tail followed.

  Kharg, sensing the contentment through their bond, relaxed further. “He likes you,” he said quietly. “Not many people make that list right away.”

  The rest of the dinner passed pleasantly, the earlier tension melting away like steam from the platters. Conversation flowed more easily as dishes were passed—honey-glazed turnips, slow-roasted lamb, and stewed root vegetables rich with smoked paprika and garlic. Fafne, having claimed a perch on the back of Kharg’s chair, became the unexpected center of attention.

  He accepted bits of meat from Samira’s hand with dainty precision, chirped quietly at Anneth when she giggled at his glittering scales, and even coaxed a rare laugh from Jendal by curling his tail around a wineglass and tilting his head in mock scrutiny. Akgun said little, but his watchfulness had cooled into wary interest, his eyes straying toward the faerie dragon more than once.

  Kharg, for his part, found himself genuinely at ease. The weight of travel, duty, and confrontation lifted for a while. Surrounded by family and good food, with Fafne basking in soft praise and stolen morsels, he allowed himself to simply enjoy the evening. It was the first time in weeks that he truly felt at peace.

  After the dishes had been cleared and the servants dismissed, Akgun gestured toward the parlor with a slight incline of his head. Kharg followed in silence, Fafne trailing a few steps behind, his wings fluttering once before he settled again on Kharg’s shoulder. The parlor was just as he remembered it with rich wood paneling, the scent of old books and tobacco, and a decanter already set out on the side table beside two crystal tumblers.

  They took their seats near the hearth, where a low fire crackled quietly. Akgun poured for them both, handing Kharg a glass without a word. For a time, they drank in silence.

  Then Akgun turned to him, voice low but direct. “Why didn’t you mention the creature before now?”

  Kharg met his gaze without hesitation. “Not ‘creature’. He’s a faerie dragon. Or simply—Fafne.”

  He let the correction hang a moment before continuing, voice calm. “I needed to speak with you first. Just the two of us.”

  Akgun gave a small nod, neither approving nor challenging the response. He took another sip, eyes drifting back to the fire. Fafne, silent, blinked once before curling up along the back of the chair, his silver scales catching the firelight as the quiet settled in again.