Summer, year 566 of the Varakarian Cycle

  The vibrant life of Varakar surged around Kharg as he disembarked from the Howling Wolf, a stark contrast to the quiet expanse of the sea. He tucked Fafne under the brim of his wide-brimmed hat and felt a surge of determination mixed with awe as he adjusted his cloak, a cobalt-blue garment embellished with silver trim that glimmered softly in the harbor’s filtered light. It had been a gift from Samira, his mother, given with quiet pride on the morning of his departure. The memory of her hands smoothing the fabric across his shoulders lent the moment a weight he could not ignore. The fabric was heavy and expensive, lending him an air of nobility and as he walked the flowing material caught the cool breeze coming off the water.

  The harbor was loud, chaotic, and thick with smells. Metal rang against wood as crates were loaded, fishermen yelled from boat to boat, and the distant cries of hawkers vying for attention. Kharg walked down Dock Street with easy steps, trying to keep his composure as the bustling activity drew his attention in every direction. Some vendors waved fish by the tail, others shoved baskets of fruit toward passersby or proclaimed their meat skewers the finest. The breeze carried salt, rot, and fresh-cut timber in overlapping gusts. Every few paces, something unexpected caught his eye.

  Further down Dock Street, he focused on maintaining his calm, though the sights around him were mesmerizing. Along the wide road and open quays, market stalls bulged with produce, bright fruit, strips of dried meat, and stalks of something green and bitter-looking. A fishmonger slapped a silver-scaled catch onto his board and shouted over the crowd. On the other side, warm bread steamed in open baskets, and a few people actually stopped to smell it.

  When he reached Trade Street, the mood shifted. The wide thoroughfare hummed with the pulse of commerce. To his right, fancy shops of a wide variety of goods showed the edge of the Merchant District. On his left, the Craftsmens’ Quarters took over—signs hand-carved and tools proudly displayed. A cobbler’s window showcased leatherwork too fine for a road-worn traveler, while the breeze carried the scent of crushed herbs from an open apothecary door. The street was crowded, merchants in embroidered finery strolled past side by side with goodwives and workers. Once, he passed a small patrol of city guards, in gleaming chainmail shirts and belted shortswords.

  The buildings lining the street, with their colorful facades and swaying signs, gave the area a lively charm. Kharg took it all in while trying to project indifference, though the thrill of discovery simmered beneath his controlled exterior. His deep-blue velvet coat with elaborate silver trim, the wide-brimmed plumed hat, and the ornate rapier at his side lent him the unmistakable air of a young noble or affluent mage. Silver rings gleamed on his fingers, and an opal pendant shifted at his chest, catching the sunlight with every step. As he moved through the crowd, people gave him space without quite realizing it. Merchants stepped aside, and passersby veered slightly from their paths, drawn by a mixture of curiosity and caution. Though he walked like someone used to attention, the sense of being observed clung to him, feeding a mix of excitement and unease beneath the polish of his composure.

  A deep gong sounded somewhere in the distance, followed by two more, each resonant beat seeming to linger in the air. Kharg felt the faint vibration in his chest as the sound rolled through the busy street, a reminder of how far he was from the quieter life of Sitch Nar.

  He noticed people’s eyes on him as he rounded a corner. Some looked admiring while others seemed to assess him. One old woman gave him a small, knowing smile as she passed. Two children stopped in their tracks, staring at Fafne with wide-eyed wonder. Too shy to approach, they whispered to each other. The faerie dragon, perched under the brim of Kharg’s hat, nestled closer. His silvery scales shimmered faintly, a hidden marvel for those observant enough to notice. Time blurred as he navigated the cacophony of life. At last he spotted what he had been searching for, John Aren’s Street.

  Kharg turned down the alleyway, his steps quickening. A surge of anticipation rose in his chest. Ahead, fixed above a solid, two-story building, hung the sign of the Silverwolf Trading Company—the emblem of his family’s legacy.

  The entry hall was warm and finely appointed, with polished wood paneling, deep-colored rugs, and furniture that spoke of wealth without ostentation. Behind a carved counter stood a man in a dark, tailored coat, his posture crisp. He gave Kharg a brief, appraising look before speaking, his voice sounding a bit formal.

  “Good day, sir. How may I assist you?”

  “I am Kharg, son of Akgun from the Silverwolf house,” Kharg replied, trying to project assurance despite the flurry of emotions swirling inside him. “I seek to meet with the manager, Farad.”

  The attendant’s expression shifted and a spark of recognition lit up in his eyes. “Of course, my lord.” He motioned for Kharg to wait, stepping away to fetch Farad. As he waited, Kharg examined the room, taking in the meticulously organized interior filled with scrolls and ledgers that spoke of trade and opulence.

  A moment later, a stout man with a bushy mustache and the keen eyes of a businessman entered. He wore a well-tailored coat adorned with the silver insignia of the Silverwolf Trading Company.

  “Ah, Kharg! Welcome!” Farad exclaimed, extending a firm hand.

  After they had exchanged pleasantries, Kharg presented the letter of introduction from his father. Farad took a moment to read it, his expression thoughtful. Then he looked up and offered a warm, respectful smile.

  “It’s an honor to have you here in Varakar, young master Kharg. Come, let me show you to your quarters.”

  Kharg gave a subtle nod of acknowledgment, carefully schooling his features to betray none of the anxiety twisting in his chest. His thoughts hovered between relief, curiosity, and the unease of what still lay ahead. He followed Farad through the trading house, noting the polished floors, fine woodwork, and walls lined with maps and trade agreements that reflected its long-standing influence.

  Kharg’s heart pounded as they ascended the stairs to the second floor. The prospect of settling into this vibrant city filled him with both excitement and trepidation. Farad led Kharg to a door that opened into a modest yet comfortable room. Sunlight streamed through a large window facing John Aren’s Street and lit the room’s simple furnishings—a wooden bed, a writing desk, and a wardrobe. Just enough for a traveler. “This will be your quarters during your stay. I hope you find it satisfactory,” Farad said as he gestured toward the window.

  “It’s perfect, thank you,” Kharg replied, but he could feel the tug of exploration pulling him. He yearned to step back into the lively streets below.

  “Is this your first visit to Varakar?” Farad inquired, leaning lightly against the doorframe.

  “Yes,” Kharg answered, trying to suppress an urge to fidget. “It’s overwhelming, to be honest.”

  “Indeed, it can be,” Farad replied and his tone shifted slightly, taking on a more serious note. “Allow me to inform you about the neighborhood. This city holds wonders and dangers in equal measure. You’ll want to be careful as you explore. There are various taverns that can offer delight or trouble, depending on the hour.”

  Kharg listened intently as he began to pace the room, absorbing the information.

  Farad flashed a quick smile at Kharg and continued, “I’d recommend the Gilded Cup for an evening drink. Favored by merchants and travelers alike, it’s safe and pleasant. You should avoid the Raucous Anchor—it’s known for its rowdy patrons and brawls. And if you find yourself near the Revelry District, tread carefully. Many pickpockets lurk in those shadows, and the affluent rarely walk those streets without a guard after sundown.”

  The mention of shadowy figures beyond the safe confines of the trading house piqued Kharg’s interest, though he concealed his apprehension. “What about the Poor Quarters?” he asked, curiosity spilling forth.

  A shadow passed over Farad’s features at the mention. “Best not to venture there at all, unless under the supervision of someone experienced. The gentry rarely set foot inside those limits after dark and hope to escape unscathed. It’s a perilous part of the city, filled with desperation, and it changes when the sun dips low. You might find everything you need in these nearby blocks—there are plenty of fine establishments to enjoy, even in the Merchant District.”

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  Kharg mulled over the warning, noting how far removed he felt from the comfortable life he had known. He had marveled at the city’s vibrancy, but he obviously needed to be observant of the darker corners hidden beneath its bustling surface.

  As Farad shifted the conversation, he continued, “I understand that you intend to apply at the magic academy?”

  “Yes,” Kharg replied, eager to discuss his aspirations.

  “That’s good,” Farad said with a thoughtful nod while stroking his chin. “There are esteemed mages there, and they may very well accept you. But tell me—do you plan to stay here with us or will you take lodging at the academy?”

  Kharg paused, caught off guard by the question. “I hadn’t thought about it. Is there a difference?”

  “Certainly,” Farad explained. “If you stay here you will have the comforts of a home and a bed that is your own. It’s a mere half-hour walk to the academy early in the morning when the streets are still empty. But an hour later you may find that it takes three times that long due to the hustle and bustle of the throngs flocking in and out of the district.”

  He paused, gauging Kharg’s reaction. “However, the student accommodations at the academy are… well, let’s just say they leave much to be desired. Students often complain of cramped quarters and little privacy.”

  Kharg weighed the options presented. He wanted the comfort of the Silverwolf home but also the opportunity to immerse himself fully in the academy’s environment. “I’m not sure yet,” he admitted, his brow furrowing with thought. “I suppose I should explore both options before deciding.”

  “A wise choice,” Farad said with a nod of approval. “Take your time, no need to rush. For now, rest easy and use this time to explore the delights of Varakar.”

  Later, Kharg marveled at the diversity of shops and hawkers he passed as he walked through the crowded district. The sun cast a warm glow over the city, shining down on cobblestone streets filled with activity. Kharg wandered past colorful market stalls where vendors enthusiastically hawked their wares, everything from fresh fruits and vegetables to handcrafted trinkets. He couldn't resist sampling the offerings from street vendors, enjoying the sweet aroma of honeyed pastries and the savory scents wafting from skewers of spiced meat sizzling over open flames.

  His first stop was an alchemist's shop that caught his eye, its window displaying an array of dazzling potions in fantastical colors. The sign above read “Kaldor's Elixirs.” Kharg stepped inside and almost choked on air thick with the sharp scent of herbs and exotic ingredients. Shelves lined with various glass vials sparkled in the sunlight, each labeled with enticing names like “Elysian Essence” and “Nectar of Insight.”

  A hunchbacked man with a long white beard and sharp blue eyes greeted Kharg with a knowing smile. “Looking for something special, young mage?” he said while dry-washing his hands. Kharg felt a rush of pride at being addressed as “mage,” even though he knew he was far from mastering anything resembling true magical power.

  “I’m just browsing for now,” Kharg replied, his gaze shifting to a vial filled with glowing liquid. But when he glanced at the price tag his heart sank. It was far more than he could afford. “I’ll come back when I have more coin.”

  The alchemist inclined his head, still regarding him with respect. “You’re always welcome, young lord. Knowledge is precious, don’t forget that.”

  After he had left the alchemist's shop, Kharg wandered to another nearby establishment, this one a herbalist specializing in rare herbs, called “The Green Thumb.” The interior was filled with potted plants of all shapes and sizes and bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, their earthy scents mingling in the air. The herbalist was a woman with wild hair and a warm smile who introduced him to a variety of magical herbs and explained their uses with an enthusiasm that made Kharg lean in closer.

  Pulling out a glass bowl with white flowers, she smiled at him, “Here you have something called Fetherfew, you make a brew of these flowers and all sense of vertigo will disappear.” When he showed scant interest she put it away and glanced back at the shelf.

  “Oh, but these,” she said, pointing at a small jar filled with round white balls, “are called Moonwort. They can enhance one’s dreams, allowing you to walk the world of dreams if you drink the tea of a single one of these flower-like bulbs. But alas, they come with a hefty price.”

  Kharg's heart sank once more as he glanced at the price. He ducked his head slightly, trying to hide his disappointment but feeling a sense of resolve. “Perhaps another time,” he said politely.

  As Kharg stepped back onto the bustling street, the scent of crushed herbs still clinging to his senses, he let out a slow breath and adjusted the strap of his satchel. But something felt… wrong. A vague unease tugged at him, even before his hand dropped instinctively to his belt.

  The pouch was gone.

  His breath caught in his throat. He spun around, panic already rising, just in time to catch the ragged backside of a youth disappearing into the crowd. The thief was fast, little more than a blur of elbows and patched linen, already slipping between bodies before Kharg’s mind caught up with what had happened.

  No. Not now. Not that.

  He shoved into the throng, heart hammering, eyes straining to follow the thief through the press of bodies. Kharg cursed himself for his carelessness. He should’ve been more alert. The pouch was all he had for now, except for the letter of credit meant for his studies. The thief’s small size made it easy for him to slip through the throng of people, already half a dozen paces ahead. Kharg cursed aloud, nearly tripping over a vegetable cart as he pushed through.

  Then a glint of silver above, Fafne.

  Kharg hadn’t even seen the faerie dragon leap into the air, but now he spotted him darting ahead like a hunting falcon. A flash of connection surged through the back of Kharg’s mind—urgency, direction, a sudden pull. The alley.

  He veered off and darted between two buildings, breath short, chest tight. Ahead, in the shadowed passageway, he caught sight of movement.

  The thief was cornered, backed against a grimy wall. Fafne hovered inches from his face, wings flared, claws swiping in darting arcs. The boy shielded himself with both arms, scratches already marring his cheeks and forearms, but his hand fumbled to pull the belt knife.

  Kharg’s pulse spiked.

  Without thinking, he raised his hand and sent a sharp, whistling spike of air toward the boy’s arm. The blade clattered from the thief’s fingers. Kharg closed the distance in five strides, drew his rapier, and pressed the tip to the thief’s chest, breathing hard. The boy froze, eyes wide and wet with pain, chest rising in panicked gasps.

  “Return it,” he growled, his voice low.

  The boy, eyes wide and rimmed with tears, fumbled in his tunic and held out the pouch with trembling hands.

  Kharg snatched it back and stepped away, but didn’t sheath his weapon immediately. The boy was clutching his upper arm, where a thin line of blood now welled around the torn fabric. His cheek was streaked with fresh claw marks, and his eyes darted wildly between the blade at his chest and the circling faerie dragon above. He looked no older than twelve.

  Fafne landed softly on Kharg’s shoulder, his wings still bristling.

  Kharg stared down, his anger already cooling as he saw the boy’s fear and the desperation behind it. He hesitated. The boy had tried to rob him, but there was no malice in his eyes. Only fear and the raw ache of hunger. A thief, yes, but still a child caught in the cracks of the world.

  He slowly lowered the rapier, then reached into his belt pouch and drew out the elk-horn plaque.

  “Hold still,” he said quietly.

  Crouching, Kharg let the healing spell flow through him. The magic gathered, light and steady, and passed first into the boy’s arm, closing the wound with a soft warmth. Then he reached up toward the cheek where Fafne’s claws had struck. Another pulse of healing followed, sealing the scratches.

  Only thin red lines remained.

  The boy gasped. “You’re a mage.”

  Kharg gave a lopsided smile. “You catch on fast. Thought the spike to the arm might’ve been a clue.”

  The boy stared at him, still gripping his arm, eyes wide with a mix of awe and confusion.

  “I…” the boy began, but Kharg cut him off with a sharp glance.

  “Don’t thank me. Just don’t try that again. Not on me. Not on anyone.”

  The boy gave a jerky nod, eyes wide, then bolted down the alley, vanishing around a bend.

  Kharg let out a breath, more tired than angry. Fafne snorted and gave an audible flick of his wings, unimpressed. “I know,” Kharg murmured. “But he was just a boy.”

  He tucked the pouch back beneath his coat, now tied tighter to his belt, and stepped out into the street again, blending once more into the crowd.

  He spent the next few hours sampling street food, thoroughly enjoying every bite. Each vendor seemed happier than the last to serve him and offered tastes from their specialties. He relished the warm, spiced meat pastries and the sweet, sticky confections rolled in some exotic spice, sweet bursts of flavor that complemented the salty tang of the sea air.

  In the afternoon, he found himself in the heart of the Craftsmen’s Quarter where he was mesmerized by artisans showcasing their skills. He paused at a blacksmith’s forge and watched in awe as the blacksmith hammered red-hot metal, sparks flying like fireflies in the dim light. The rhythmic clang of metal on metal created a surprising melody against the backdrop of chatter and laughter.

  When he ventured deeper he encountered tailors carefully stitching garments, the vibrant fabrics swaying gently in the breeze. One tailor, noticing Kharg’s interest, held up a beautifully embroidered cloak, its colors reminiscent of a sunset, catching the light with a gentle glow. “What do you think, young sir? A fine garment for a man of stature, perhaps?”

  Kharg chuckled, appreciating the effort but shaking his head. “It doesn’t match the rest of my colors.” Then he hurried on before the man could drag him inside to showcase others. He felt quite pleased with his current wardrobe, thank you.

  The interactions and the vibrant sights all around him filled Kharg with an infectious energy. He felt connected to the life pulsating through the streets. As afternoon faded toward evening, the golden sunlight began to give way to hues of orange and pink, casting a warm glow on the city. Kharg’s thoughts turned to Farad and the evening meal they had planned, a chance to delve into more of the city’s secrets. With a heart buoyed by the wonders of the day and the prospect of what lay ahead, Kharg made his way back to the trading house, anticipation lighting his steps. The warmth of Varakar wrapped around him like a comforting cloak, and he felt ready to dive deeper into the adventures that awaited him in the splendid but complicated tapestry of this new city.