Summer, year 568 of the Varakarian Cycle

  Kharg’s proposal to return to the Adventurers’ Guild was met with a quick nod from Ivar. The crowded lanes of the Food District was no place for discussing a rescue. To avoid the worst of the press, they headed north to the Royal Road, where the traffic flowed in a more orderly fashion. From there, they turned onto the Southern Road near the Academy and followed it past shops, taverns, and grand townhouses until the Adventurers’ Guild came into view. Its high walls and sprawling grounds still managed to stand out amid the district’s opulence. The guards at the gate greeted them and stepped aside to let them through. Kharg led the way straight to the dining hall. The spacious room was abuzz with activity, adventurers exchanging stories of their exploits over hearty meals. He picked a table in the corner, away from prying ears, and spread out the map he’d secured earlier. Leaning in, they began planning in earnest.

  Leaning forward, his voice low but urgent, Kharg said, “The best way in is through the sewers. If we’re careful, we can avoid most of the guards. We’ll find the entrance that links up with the house’s lower basement and get in quietly. Ideally, we only need to take out one guard, grab Caspian, and escape before anyone knows we’re there.”

  Ivar gave a small, acknowledging motion, but his expression was strained. As they strategized further, drawing lines and marking routes on the map, Kharg noticed Ivar’s hands trembling slightly. His apprehension grew more evident with every passing minute.

  “Ivar,” Kharg said softly, his piercing blue eyes locking onto his friend’s. “What’s bothering you?”

  Ivar hesitated before exhaling a weary sigh, his shoulders slumping. “Kharg, I’m no fighter. I’ve never held a blade in my life, let alone used one. I thought I could help with this, but I’m afraid I’ll just slow you down.”

  Kharg regarded his friend for a long moment, processing this confession. “Your honesty is appreciated,” he said finally. “We’ll need to adjust our plans accordingly. You can still help in other ways, keeping watch, maybe distracting someone if needed.”

  They returned to the map, determined to find solutions. So engrossed were they in their plotting, that neither noticed the figure standing nearby until a shadow fell across their table. Kharg and Ivar looked up, startled, to see an impressive man watching them with a wry grin. His loose brown hair framed a face lined by experience and set with a well-groomed, imposing beard. Dressed in an immaculate black mage’s robe adorned with glowing, red runes and with a slender blade at his waist, the man exuded an air of authority and power.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing,” the man began, his voice smooth and self-assured. “You seem to have quite the situation on your hands.”

  Stiffening, Kharg quickly composed himself. “And who might you be?”

  The man’s grin widened slightly. “Lord Halidor,” he said, inclining his head. “I am... an associate of the Guild. And, I must say, your predicament intrigues me. Allow me to be of assistance.”

  Kharg exchanged a quick glance with Ivar, who seemed just as taken aback. The imposing figure before him wasn’t just any mage. It was Lord Halidor himself, the legendary head of the Church of Thoth and a man steeped in awe and mystery. Kharg blinked, his composure slipping as the weight of recognition sank in. He stammered slightly, “You... you’re Lord Halidor?”

  Halidor’s deep laughter resonated through the hall, rich and hearty, diffusing some of Kharg’s tension. “At your service,” he said with a slight bow, his tone good-natured. “I seem to have caught you off guard.”

  Ivar, who was equally wide-eyed but more amused, chuckled at Kharg’s flustered state. Kharg, still processing, muttered an apology, which only made Halidor laugh harder.

  “Relax, my young friend,” Halidor said, a warm smile softening his features. “Formality is best left to temples and councils, wouldn’t you agree? Now, about your plan… the sewers of Varakar are no place to stumble blindly, especially for those unfamiliar with their maze-like passages. I fear your strategy, while daring, might hit a few… obstacles.”

  Leaning forward, Kharg hung onto every word. “You mean to say you’re familiar with them?”

  Halidor’s expression turned wry, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Let’s just say I have certain… companions who are well-acquainted with such places. And perhaps we can leave it at that.”

  Kharg gave a subtle motion of acknowledgment, not daring to press further, though his curiosity simmered. Halidor had a way of commanding attention, his tone and demeanor effortlessly authoritative.

  “Here’s my suggestion,” Halidor continued, his voice taking on a practical edge. “First, we need to make preparations. Kharg, your attire, while impressive, isn’t exactly suited for navigating damp tunnels and the grit of Varakar’s underbelly. Speak to the quartermaster here at the Guild. He’ll set you up with garb better suited to the task. Just mention my name, and he’ll understand.”

  Halidor then turned his attention to Ivar. “And you, young merchant,” he said kindly but firmly, “perhaps it’s best you sit this one out. Kharg and I can handle the situation efficiently, and there’s no need to place you in harm’s way.”

  Ivar, who had been silently hoping to avoid the mission, didn’t argue but cast a wary glance at Kharg. “If you’re certain…”

  “I am,” Halidor affirmed and rose from his seat with an air of finality. “Kharg, prepare yourself swiftly and meet me in the yard when you’re ready. Time is of the essence.”

  Still overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events, Kharg offered a quiet, nonverbal confirmation, but his body was slow to respond. He watched as Halidor returned to his table across the room, his black mage robe trailing behind him in a swirl of glowing red and gold runes.

  “Looks like you’re in capable hands,” Ivar remarked with a grin, his tone a mix of relief and admiration. “Better get moving before he changes his mind.”

  As Kharg went to see the quartermaster, the man glanced up, his sharp gaze following the young man’s retreating figure. An amused smile curved his lips as he leaned back in his chair and sipped the exquisite pear brandy that had recently arrived, and let his mind wander.

  Kharg. A newcomer to the Guild, barely more than a boy by the standards of the hardened adventurers who roamed these halls. And yet… something about him stood out. A spark. Halidor had seen it in the way Kharg spoke, the fire in his piercing blue eyes when he outlined his daring, if na?ve, plan. That spark was rare, the kind that promised greatness if properly nurtured. And yet, it was equally prone to being snuffed out by the unrelenting trials of life.

  Halidor’s smile faded slightly, his thoughts turning inward. He remembered a younger version of himself, full of ambition and eager to carve his place in the world. The son of a prosperous trader, he had been groomed for a life of commerce, his days filled with lessons in negotiation and his nights spent studying arcane tomes. His uncle had been a man of some influence, and he had taken great pains to prepare Halidor for the dangers of their homeland, dangers he had only come to understand in hindsight.

  On the western side of the continent lay his homeland—a place of striking contrasts. There, beauty walked hand in hand with brutality, and wealth rose beside poverty, all beneath a creed the church had long upheld—might makes right. It was a doctrine that had seemed natural to him as a boy, an unshakable truth enforced by the priests and their supposed god and angels. It wasn’t until years later, after witnessing unspeakable suffering and betrayal, that Halidor had learned the dark truth. The prayers and faith of his people had been feeding not a god, but a Devil Prince. Perhaps even an Arch-Devil. He was not sure, even now. The guiding light of the church had been nothing but a fa?ade, a web of lies spun by infernal powers.

  Halidor sighed, the ghosts of the past stirring in his chest like an old wound reopening. He had needed every ounce of courage, every shred of cunning, and the loyalty of a few steadfast friends to escape that cursed land. They had fled east, leaving behind all they had known, and eventually found sanctuary in Varakar. Here, Halidor had built a new life, climbing to prominence in the Adventurers’ Guild and founding the Church of Thoth to stand as a beacon of truth and knowledge.

  He looked at the now-empty chair where Kharg had been seated moments ago. The boy reminded him of himself in the early days, full of eagerness, untouched by failure, and unaware of the risks that waited just beyond the next step. But Kharg could have something Halidor never did, a guiding hand, Halidor’s hand. The mage felt a pang of regret as he thought of how much simpler his own path might have been if someone with experience and power had offered him help when he needed it most.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The thought stirred something deep within the mage. Kharg’s willingness to dive headlong into danger, even into the filth of the sewers, spoke volumes about his character. Most who carried themselves with Kharg’s refinement, who adorned themselves with fine coats and jeweled-encrusted rings, would balk at the mere suggestion of navigating such a vile place. Yet Kharg had not even hesitated. He had accepted the plan with no sign of reluctance despite his clear fondness for the trappings of wealth and comfort. His only focus was the goal of rescuing his friend. That resolve, that willingness to endure hardship for the sake of another, marked him as someone of uncommon strength. Halidor’s eyes softened as he shifted his focus to Ivar, who still sat at the table, fidgeting nervously. That spark ignites others, he thought. It calls to those who have yet to see their own strength.

  Half to himself, Halidor said softly—almost too quietly to be overheard, “Kharg carries more than his plans, more than his determination. He carries the hopes of those around him, whether he realizes it or not. That is the burden of the spark.”

  Ivar gave him a strange look, but Halidor never noticed. His thoughts returned to Kharg. The young man had chosen his path. It was bold, daring, and fraught with peril. It was a path of immense potential, but not something to be undertaken lightly. If Kharg could withstand the trials ahead, if he could channel his spark and let it forge him rather than consume him, then Halidor had no doubt the boy would become a force to be reckoned with. But there was another truth Halidor had learned over the years—no one, no matter how strong their spark, could endure alone. The young man would need allies, wisdom, and a guiding hand, at least for now.

  Rising from his seat, Halidor straightened his robe, the crimson glow of its runes catching the light. “There is much to do,” he murmured. “And I would see this spark given every chance to burn bright.”

  And then there was the matter of his familiar. A soft chuckle escaped Halidor’s lips as he thought of Fafne, the silvery faerie dragon that perched so comfortably on Kharg’s shoulder. Such creatures were virtually unheard of, more so as familiars. That Kharg had bonded with one spoke volumes about the young man’s potential. Fafne was a symbol of wonder, a reminder that even in the darkest places, magic and beauty could thrive. The novelty of it wasn’t lost on Halidor. Many of the hardened guild veterans had already rolled their eyes at the sight of the whimsical creature, only to be secretly charmed by its antics.

  “Perhaps it’s not just the boy who’s destined for greatness,” Halidor mused with a wry smile. “Even his companions seem touched by the extraordinary.”

  The thought filled him with a quiet sense of satisfaction. He had chosen well to step in, to lend his aid to this promising newcomer. It was a small price to pay for the chance to see that spark grow into a flame.

  * * *

  Kharg tried to make sense of what had just happened as he made his way to the Guild’s quartermaster. His mind was still reeling from the unexpected turn of events when he entered the armory at the back of the yard. The quartermaster was a grizzled man with a no-nonsense demeanor who looked up from his ledger when the door opened.

  “Lord Halidor sent me,” Kharg began, feeling slightly awkward under the man’s scrutinizing stare.

  The quartermaster’s expression softened into a knowing grin. “Ah, say no more. Dark leathers, sturdy boots, and a practical belt to carry your essentials, I presume. Follow me.”

  Before he knew it, Kharg wore practical gear—black leather with reinforced stitching, supple boots made for long treks and a belt fitted with pouches for tools and supplies. He felt unaccustomed to the lack of his usual finery, but acknowledged the necessity.

  When he stepped into the Guild’s yard, he found Halidor waiting. The mage’s confident stance and calm demeanor were a reassurance in themselves.

  “Ready?” Halidor asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

  Kharg gave a small, resolute gesture. The nerves from earlier began to give way to determination. “Ready.”

  * * *

  The pair left the guild compound and waded into the lively throng of people in the Craftsmens’ District. Fafne, perched on Kharg’s shoulder, cast frequent sidelong glances at Halidor, his tiny reptilian face set in a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. Halidor, for his part, seemed unconcerned by the faerie dragon’s mistrust, though he occasionally tossed a quick grin in its direction. As the walk continued, Fafne seemed to relax, his silver tail curling lazily around Kharg’s neck as if conceding that perhaps this stranger was tolerable after all.

  The Craftsmens’ District was a bustling network of narrow streets and slightly crooked alleyways, far less organized than the broad roads of the Merchants’ District. It was made up of unadorned residential buildings and workshops, their tiled roofs sloping unevenly under the weight of age and use. Laundry fluttered from upper windows, and the smell of smoke and metal hung low in the air.

  Here and there, open workshops spilled into the streets, their owners engaged in the meticulous labor that defined the district. A cobbler bent over his workbench, threading a needle through tough leather and cursing when he pricked himself. Nearby, the roar of a furnace marked a glass-blower’s stall, where glowing blobs of molten glass became elegant spirals under a steady breath and spinning rod. A rope maker turned coarse fibers between calloused palms while farther down, a carpenter’s mallet struck wood in steady rhythm. The district was alive with motion and scent. Sawdust, resin, hot metal, and fresh-cut leather mingled into something raw and unmistakably human.

  Halidor led them through the district’s winding streets until they came to a nondescript house tucked between two larger structures. As they walked, a few residents glanced up from doorways and shaded windows, their expressions guarded. Some froze mid-conversation, eyes narrowing at the sight of Halidor’s robe, its glowing red runes pulsing softly like embers in the dusk. Others gave Kharg a wide berth, wary of the black leather armor that clung to him like shadows. Whispers stirred in their wake, but no one spoke openly.

  The house itself had its shutters closed, and the wooden door bore no markings, giving it the appearance of a place long forgotten. Halidor unlocked the door with a key retrieved from his robe and gestured for Kharg to follow him inside.

  The interior was just as unassuming, its floorboards coated with a fine layer of dust. The sparse furniture, a few rough chairs and a simple table, suggested the house had been abandoned for some time. Halidor moved without hesitation, leading Kharg to a stairwell at the back of the house. They descended into a dimly lit basement, where Halidor pushed aside a heavy curtain to reveal a solid wooden door. The door, unlike the rest of the house, was well-maintained, its iron fittings gleaming ominously in the lantern light.

  Halidor turned to Kharg, his expression suddenly serious. “Your boots and pants should be impregnated, but I still recommend walking along the sides of the tunnels as much as possible. Many of the sewer tunnels are circular, so there’s usually a narrow ledge you can use. Sometimes you'll find proper walkways, but not always.”

  Kharg gave a small, thoughtful motion, absorbing the advice.

  “And one more thing,” Halidor added with a chuckle. “I hope you’re not afraid of rats. The sewers are full of them. Most of them are harmless, but, well, let’s just say some of the bigger ones might not be.” His tone turned graver. “Keep your eyes open, Kharg. It’s called the Thieves’ Domain for a reason. If we were closer to the Poor Quarters, I’d also warn you about the Assassins’ Guild. It’s said to have its base down there somewhere.”

  Halidor handed over a small pouch containing four vials filled with liquids of varying colors. “These are for you. One will increase your reaction speed, another will enhance your precision—both with your spells and your rapier. This one,” he pointed to a vibrant red potion, “will invigorate you, filling you with courage and stamina. And the last one grants perfect darkvision.”

  Kharg stared at the potions in awe, overwhelmed by the sheer value of what he held. “I... I don’t know what to say. These must be worth a fortune.”

  Halidor waved the sentiment away with a casual flick of his hand. “I know a skilled alchemist,” he said lightly. “Besides, I see something of myself in you, when I first set out on the road of adventure. I only wish I’d had someone to assist me back then. Consider this a gift, Kharg, and use it well.”

  Kharg tightened his grip on the pouch, nodding solemnly. “Thank you, Lord Halidor.”

  Halidor’s grin returned, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “Now,” he said, his voice tinged with excitement, “are you ready to brave the sewers? I must admit, this sort of thing brings back memories.”

  Kharg uncorked the potions one by one and gulped them down. The first two were almost tasteless, and the effect was hard to quantify but he felt something, felt more keen and alert while also in control of himself. The third one had a tangy yet rich metallic flavor that lingered on his tongue and its effect was far more noticeable. His heart began to pound and he felt suffused with energy and a sense of invincibility. The final potion felt a bit oily with a taste that was subtle and hard to define, rich yet bland. He had long since gotten used to the extreme level of nightvision he got when Fafne was nearby, but this potion was far beyond that. The darkness in the sewer faded away completely and he even started to see colors again instead of the grayscale vision he normally had in the darkest of nights. Grinning with satisfaction, Kharg looked at Halidor and gave a slight dip of his chin, his resolve clear. “I’m ready.”

  A ladder, encrusted with rust, clung precariously to one wall, leading down to a slightly cleaner walkway that ran alongside the water. The ladder groaned softly under Kharg’s weight as he climbed down, his boots splashing lightly onto the narrow stone ledge. As they descended into the sewers, the oppressive stench struck Kharg like a fist to the gut. The air reeked of rot and waste, damp and choking, making his eyes water and his stomach churn. He almost gagged, but forced himself to think of how it felt, standing on the quarter-deck during a fine summer day with a brisk breeze filling the sails. His stomach calmed and he forced himself to continue. Around them, the low gurgle of water echoed between the curved stone walls, broken now and then by the scurry of unseen vermin.

  Black flies clung to the damp stone in loose clusters, lifting in slow, buzzing spirals as they passed. A few mosquitoes drifted near the waterline, thin and persistent, already drawn to warmth and breath. Not swarms, but enough to be noticed.

  Kharg closed his eyes for a brief moment and reached inward, calling on the old shamanic pacts with the crawling things. The ward formed softly around him, like ripples spreading across still water, hovering just beyond his skin. The flies lost interest almost at once, settling elsewhere along the stone. The mosquitoes veered aside, not panicked, not fleeing, simply choosing other paths through the air. The hum thinned until it faded into the background noise of the tunnels. Somewhere in the walls came a faint, dry skittering sound, quickly stilled when the light shifted. Kharg caught a glimpse of movement near a drain slot—dark, glossy shapes vanishing into cracks before he could focus on them.