The morning sun rose over the savanna, casting light upon the expedition gathered behind the large, angled rock where they had made camp. Sixteen graves lay open in the earth, the soil dug from them during the night piled neatly beside each hole. They held the last shadows of night, refusing—for just a moment longer—to surrender to the day. Beside each grave, a body wrapped in white canvas waited in silence. Sixteen slabs of brownish-red bedrock lay nearby, ready to seal the dead beneath soil and stone.

Tybour stepped forward and spoke for the fallen. He named their strengths, praised their courage, and honored their loyalty—to duty, to each other—even unto death. His words brought comfort to some, and that was enough. Most of the company stood in quiet respect. A few whispered personal farewells to those they'd called friend or brother or sister. The ceremony was brief. Before the sun had fully cleared the horizon, the bodies were lowered into the ground, and magic raised the earth and stone to bury them.

Torg moved from grave to grave once the slabs were in place. At each one, he extended an arm and sprayed a thin stream of liquid onto the stone. The surface hissed and smoked, and where the acid touched, it burned a symbol into the rock. Each sigil echoed the others in form, but no two were exactly alike.

"A gift from the Goddess Denisisie," Torg said softly. "Each sigil records the name of the one buried, the time and date of their death, and a blessing from the Goddess—to guide them in the afterlife."

Tybour found Haningway after the ceremony, his expression tight with concern.

“What do we know about Evenara and Haster?” he asked. “They should’ve been nowhere near the battle. Do we know how they died?”

“Yes,” Haningway replied, his face grim. “I asked Captain Falmott to investigate last night. He reported this morning that their injuries don’t match the creature’s attack.”

“Oh?” Tybour’s voice was quiet, unsurprised.

“Evenara's neck was broken,” Haningway said. “Clean break. Doesn’t look like something the beast did. Haster bled out from a single, precise blade wound.”

“I could have guessed as much,” Tybour said. His brow furrowed, worry deepening the lines in his face. “More work from our unknown assassin—or assassins.”

“Damn it,” he muttered. “Keep on it, Able. We have to find whoever’s responsible.”

Major Able Haningway saluted. “Agreed.”

Haningway and three accomplished Wizards remained behind as the caravan began to pull away. Standing beside the narrow creek, they raised their hands in unison, their magic surging. Earth shifted beneath their feet. The path of the water bent, redirected until the stream flowed directly over the shallow graves where the demon-spawned creatures had been buried.

With practiced coordination, the Wizards summoned more power. The flow of the creek swelled, water rushing in a torrent over the battlefield until it was thoroughly flooded. Haningway knelt, pressing his hand to the ground. Thin cracks spread outward from his touch, veins in the soil opening to receive the water. The land drank deeply, swallowing the remains and sealing them in wet silence.

Moments later, the flow of the creek twisted back to its natural course. The four Wizards exchanged no words—they simply turned and began to jog up the road, their forms shrinking in the distance as they pursued the fading caravan.

Unseen beneath the tilted rock slab, four members of the expedition remained behind. Silent. Waiting. Hidden in the shadows.

The expedition marched a mile up the road until it curved around a towering granite edifice that jutted fifty feet above the savanna. Carved from the natural bedrock, its steep sides offered little grip for soil or roots. Only near its wide base did narrow crevasses between stone peaks gather enough dirt to support a few tufts of native grass and two small, wind-twisted trees.

The rock rose to a single broad summit, standing like a sentinel above the flat grassland. Near the top, a smooth, circular hole—several feet in diameter—pierced the granite from east to west. The precision of the opening made it instantly clear: this was no natural formation.

Just east of the edifice lay a vast, perfect square of hard, rock-like material—an ancient platform. Set into its surface were several slate-grey tiles, each three feet to a side, arranged evenly along a sweeping arc. If one stood on any of the tiles and looked upward, they would see the sky framed perfectly through the hole in the stone spire above. The view was narrow but precise—a celestial window aimed at the heavens. Ancient script, long forgotten by modern tongues, curled along the arc and around each square, inscribed deep into the stone.

Only one phrase remained readable to living mortals, carved boldly into the face of the edifice itself: "Advent of the Terraform Satellite."

Legend held that this site predated even the arrival of the Gods and Demons from the immortal realm. Built by ancient mortals, it was said to be a place of preparation—an instrument designed to witness the coming of the Gods. Through this window, they tracked the Changebringer, the celestial body that circled above Rit, returning every five or ten turns to renew the magic of the world.

From one of the marked squares, a viewer could watch the Changebringer’s journey through the night sky, and know the moment it would pass closest to Rit—when it would bathe the world below in fresh, potent magic.

The expedition had no interest in the ancient site itself. Its secrets could wait. Tybour had chosen this place for one purpose: to open a portal that would carry the caravan fifty miles further down the road, cutting days off their journey to the Glittergreen Mines. The concentration of ambient magic here was unusually strong—dense and resonant—and would allow him to more easily form a portal large and stable enough to move the wagons, horses, and all their people safely through.

The caravan came to a halt just before the road bent westward around the towering stone edifice. Tybour stepped ahead, veering slightly off the path to the left. Haningway and Lieutenant Norft followed close behind, and Rishmond trailed a few steps back.

Torg followed as well—silent and steady. He kept to Rishmond’s right, just behind him, like a shadow that refused to be left behind. The golem's heavy steps made no sound on the packed earth, but his presence pressed on the senses, a quiet weight that never quite left Rishmond’s awareness.

Tybour stopped and turned to Rishmond, his expression both serious and faintly amused.

“Watch closely. You need to learn how to properly shape a portal. Your efforts so far have been impressive—given what they were—but this will become indispensable to your craft in the years ahead.”

He winked, and Rishmond caught the glint of shared mischief behind his mentor’s calm façade. The secret of Rishmond’s accidental discovery—the strange transport spell he’d invented while failing to open a proper portal—was still between the two of them. Tybour hadn’t told a soul. Not yet.

In truth, Tybour had since learned how to replicate the technique. But it meant something to him that Rishmond had shown him the way. It wasn’t often a First Mage learned from a student. Rishmond’s pride in that moment had been quiet but unmistakable.

Behind him, Torg stood like a sentry of stone and silence—unmoving, watchful, and waiting.

Tybour turned to face north and drew a deep breath, steadying himself. Then he began to gather the lotrar—the deep magic of Rit.

At once, the air shifted. Rishmond could feel it, not just in the breeze but in his bones. The lotrar stirred beneath the surface of the world, drawn up through stone and soil in slow, resonant waves. It answered Tybour's call with quiet force, ancient and immense.

Ribbons of luminous energy began to coil around the First Mage, glowing faintly at first, then brighter, tightening into a dense spiral. The resonance of it throbbed in the space between thoughts, as if the land itself were humming.

Then, without sound, a swirl of light snapped into being several yards ahead. It expanded rapidly, opening into a square-shaped rift that sat directly on the road. Through the shimmering frame, a blue sky greeted them—but the landscape beyond was subtly different: a slope bent the wrong way, the dust a slightly deeper hue. Close, but not here.

A small rock—no larger than a man’s hand—rested in the center of the road where the portal had opened. As the magic stabilized, the rock tipped sideways and fell in two perfect halves. Sliced cleanly by the edge of the portal, the interior glistened momentarily in the light before the pieces settled into the dust.

Rishmond stared at it, eyes wide. There was no sound, no surge, no flash. Just precision. The quiet violence of deep magic.

Tybour remained still, watching the portal with practiced eyes. After a moment, he nodded—four stone markers on the far side confirming the precise destination.

Norft and Haningway stepped through without hesitation. The mounted scout followed, hooves clattering softly. A squad of soldiers moved in next, jogging through in tight formation.

A few minutes passed. The portal held steady, its glowing edges humming softly in the air, the scene beyond as still and quiet as the one they’d left.

Then Norft reappeared in the shimmering window.

He raised one hand in a series of precise, silent gestures. Military signals—clear and practiced.

All clear. No threats. Safe to proceed.

Tybour waved at the caravan master.

The rest of the caravan began to stir—creaking wheels, quiet murmurs. The fifty-mile journey would take less than a minute.

Behind Rishmond, Torg stood like a statue come to life. He didn’t speak. He never did unless he had reason—but his eyes glowed with a faint, unreadable awareness. Rishmond could feel it too. The lotrar still shimmered in the air, and Torg’s presence seemed to resonate with it. Not as a user, but as something shaped by that same deep force.

Rishmond inhaled, catching the familiar scent of portal magic: evergreen and ozone, sun-heated stone and dry grass. It filled his head, grounding and exhilarating at once. The power here wasn't ambient, not the everyday magic of lotret—this was the pulse of the world itself.

Rishmond watched as the group began to pass through the portal—soldiers first, then the wagons creaking forward in slow procession. Part of his attention was anchored to the portal itself. The deep magic of it hummed in the back of his mind like a pressure behind his eyes. He could feel the lotrar in the air, heavy and ancient, resonating through the road beneath his feet.

The scent that came with it caught in his throat and stung his eyes, but not unpleasantly. It was overwhelming in the way that power often was.

The rest of his attention drifted to Tybour, and then to Cantor and Illiar, who walked past him mid-conversation, voices lost in the magic-charged air. They were laughing about something—Cantor’s eyes wide with amusement, Illiar gesturing animatedly. Both looked up as they passed him, grinning, and gave him a wave before stepping into the glowing frame and through it.

Behind Rishmond, Torg stood silent and squat, not much taller than his waist, but steady as stone. The golem hadn’t moved or spoken since the ritual began, but his golden eyes flicked gently in Rishmond’s direction, as if to say: I’m still here.

As the last of the expedition crossed, Bantor approached with two Phoenix Company Wizards and gave a sharp nod. Rishmond and Tybour stepped through together.

Tybour turned once on the far side, scanning the length of the road. When he was satisfied, he closed the portal with a thought and a flick of his fingers. The rift folded in on itself and vanished with barely a whisper.

The caravan continued, stretching forward along the road toward the distant mountains. A full day’s march still lay ahead.

Rishmond stayed near Tybour, watching him closely. The First Mage’s breathing was controlled, but the strain of the spell showed in the set of his shoulders and the faint weariness behind his eyes. Rishmond marveled at his strength. That much lotrar would have left most Wizards too exhausted to move.

Ueet stood over the bound figure with two Phoenix Company soldiers flanking him. The woman—heavyset, naked, gagged, and lashed hand and foot to iron stakes driven deep into the rocky ground—lay still beneath the morning sun. Her eyes tracked Ueet’s every movement with unsettling calm as he tipped a small wooden trunk upside down.

Pots and pans clattered onto the stones, followed by a few folded garments and two daggers in ornate sheaths. That was all.

No kreleit blade.

Ueet grunted and nudged the pile with his boot, scattering the contents. Nothing.

He set the trunk upright and crouched, inspecting it carefully. The inside was lined in dark red felt, the lid slightly concave. Two felt-lined pockets on the back wall hung open, their buttons undone, empty.

The old Qoitiken warrior turned to his pack and pulled out a pair of thick, elbow-length gloves—tough and stiff, made from the hide of an ulbanto. Too inflexible for combat, but perfect for handling hidden blades, thorned traps, or—more likely today—poisons. He tugged them on, then lowered his goggles from his brow over his eyes.

Cautiously, he reached inside the trunk, fingers methodically feeling for any hidden compartments or false seams. After a minute of deliberate probing, his head tilted slightly. He’d found it.

He shifted his weight, then pressed a small catch with the side of his gloved hand.

Click.

Three thin metal needles snapped outward from the sides of the trunk, striking his gloves with sharp, precise impacts. Tiny beads of oily liquid seeped from the needle tips, glistening against the leather. A contact poison—fast-acting, and familiar.

Ueet narrowed his eyes behind the goggles. Haanth cactus. From the Quouribi Desert. Expensive, rare, and deadly. This was no amateur's trap.

The assassin was well prepared—and well funded.

Ueet carefully lifted the released panel, revealing a cloth-wrapped bundle nestled in the hidden space beneath. Every movement was deliberate. With practiced caution, he lifted the bundle free and set it gently on the ground before him.

He unwrapped the thick cloth layer by layer, revealing what they had feared—and expected—to find.

A forward-curved blade of dull grey metal lay within, its edge wickedly simple. The hilt was silver, polished and plain, and below it sat a handle of smooth ivory, worn with use. The kreleit blade.

The two Wizards standing nearby took a sharp, involuntary step back. Even wrapped, the weapon radiated a quiet threat. Uncovered, it was something worse entirely. They knew well what would happen if they touched that metal. Kreleit didn’t just kill—it devoured magic. One brush of skin against that edge, and their connection to Rit’s power would be stripped away like a torn cloak, and their lives with it.

Ueet turned his head toward the bound woman.

Her eyes met his without fear or surprise. The fight in her had burned out hours ago—at least the visible kind. Now she watched him with calm resignation, her expression unreadable. Not broken, not pleading. Just... waiting.

He nodded slightly, as if acknowledging her unspoken challenge, then turned back to the blade.

With slow precision, he re-wrapped the knife in its thick grey cloth. For someone like Ueet—lacking jzirittiah—the weapon was no more dangerous than any other knife. But he treated it with the same respect a soldier might give to a loaded crossbow pointed at a friend’s back.

He placed it next to his pack. He’d make room for it. It needed to be carried back to Retinor—and destroyed.

Ueet looked up at the wiry, scarred Wizard standing nearby.

Semptor.

The man was a snake—thin, quick, and mean. A soldier of fortune through and through. Mercenary to the bone, and not one to let morals get in the way of a job. Ueet didn’t like him. Few did. But Semptor got results when the situation called for methods most others wouldn't stomach. So long as Tybour kept the coin flowing, Semptor would do what was asked.

And this assassin?

This one would likely need the worst of what Semptor could do.

Ueet was certain the figure bound to the ground wasn’t what it appeared to be. The illusion was good—very good—but not perfect. The eyes told the truth. Beneath that heavyset, gagged woman lay a man. And they’d know soon enough.

He gave a small nod, chin jutting toward the bound figure.

Semptor moved at once—no hesitation, no questions. As he stepped forward, Ueet stood and backed away, gesturing for the second Wizard to follow. They put several paces between themselves and the prisoner, giving Semptor room to work in isolation.

Neither Ueet nor the other Wizard looked back. They turned their eyes outward, scanning the landscape beyond the shallow alcove, watching for movement, listening for danger.

They had their job.

Semptor had his.

Semptor stood over the bound figure, head tilted slightly, his shifty eyes scanning every inch. He crouched beside the captive and set a rolled leather kit on the ground. With a flick of his fingers, he unrolled it—revealing a precise array of tools, each one tucked into its own stitched pocket, held in place by leather straps and toggles of wood.

He selected a long, thin copper instrument shaped like a four-tined fork. A silver wire coiled around its handle and split along each tine, which ended in fine, needle-sharp points.

Without a word, Semptor jabbed the tool into the captive’s shoulder. Tiny beads of blood welled up. He watched closely, studying the way the blood moved, the pace of its drip toward the dusty ground. His face betrayed nothing.

His attention shifted.

He studied her torso next, pausing briefly at her chest, then trailing his fingers across her belly—lightly, slowly, as though reading a map hidden beneath the skin. Something caught his attention just below the ribs.

He began dragging the fork slowly across her abdomen. Thin red lines followed each pass, blood rising in delicate threads. The fat beneath her skin trembled unnaturally, as though responding to an unseen current. The illusion was starting to falter.

Line by line, he worked downward.

When he neared her navel, the blood stopped. The fork cut—but no red came. He paused, probing the unresponsive patch with calculated jabs. The tines sank into the flesh, but the skin gave no reaction, no flow of blood.

He had found it.

Semptor carefully traced the border of the bloodless area, marking out a rough oval about the size of a duck egg. The woman did not move. Her breath remained steady.

Reaching back to the kit, he selected a short, rounded copper knife. A single silver wire ran up its center to the tip. He placed the blade against the edge of the untouched skin and applied pressure. The woman twitched, just slightly. Not pain. Reflex.

Then, with practiced hands, he slid the copper fork beneath the opposite edge. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed both tools deeper, working them under the surface.

The illusion shimmered.

For a moment, her form wavered—like heat on stone—and Semptor caught a glimpse of the truth beneath the glamour.

With a wet pop, the patch of skin peeled up. Blood surged, splashing outward in a red arc. What emerged was not flesh, but a jagged, uneven stone, half-buried in the man’s belly. Five small metal spikes jutted from it, each coated in fresh blood.

The illusion collapsed entirely.

The woman was gone. In her place lay a short, stocky man—bald, scarred, thick across the chest and arms. His face was square, his nose crooked and flattened from more breaks than one could count.

He didn’t flinch.

His black, beady eyes met Semptor’s with a gaze of measured calculation. There was no fear in them. No anger.

Just control.

This was a man who had lived with pain. A man who had made peace with it.

Semptor studied his face for a long moment, then slowly smiled.

“Not a face I recognize, Ueet,” Semptor said, setting the illusion stone aside with care. He’d examine it later—perhaps it held a trace of its maker. “Skilled, no doubt. I’d wager he’s working for The Arrangement. Or the Church. Someone with deep pockets.”

He glanced up at Ueet, who was squatting a few feet above the assassin’s head, his eyes cold and watchful.

“It’ll take time to get anything useful out of him.”

Ueet shifted slightly, pressing a fingertip into the dust, one knee sliding forward. “Then let’s get started. We’ve got three hours, maybe less.” He jerked his chin toward the boggy stretch of ground where they'd buried the demon-spawned monsters the night before. “We’ve got the blade. This one’s no longer a threat. We just need answers. If he’s got a partner still inside the expedition, I want to know who.”

Semptor gave a curt nod and turned back to the prisoner.

“It’ll be a quick death if you just tell us what we want,” he said, lifting a steel triangular knife from the leather kit. The blade caught the sunlight, sharp edges gleaming.

He held it where the assassin could see, tilting it slightly so the light flashed across the surface.

“Pain,” Semptor said calmly, “is just the beginning if you refuse.”

The assassin’s voice was smooth, almost amused.

“You insult me, Semptor. I know what you will do. I’m prepared to endure it all.” His black eyes met Semptor’s without flinching. “I will tell you nothing.”

Semptor listened without expression. The assassin’s defiance was expected.

He continued working, moving with quiet precision. He braced the man's right leg against the taut rope bindings and the rocky ground, bending the knee just enough to stretch the patella ligament. With the triangular blade in hand, he placed the tip just below the kneecap, angled slightly upward.

He pierced the skin—just enough to draw a bead of blood.

Then, in one swift motion, he drove the blade upward.

The metal slid beneath the kneecap, severing the major ligament in a clean, practiced cut. Blood poured from the wound, but the assassin didn’t scream. His face went still, the muscles along his jaw twitching. His lips tightened over his teeth, but he made no sound.

He swallowed hard.

Ueet stepped closer, his expression unchanged. He squatted near the assassin’s shoulder and studied his face.

“What is your name?” he asked quietly. “Who hired you? What do they know?”

To his right, Semptor was already at work again, using a touch of magic to heat a flat, hand-sized plate of metal until it glowed cherry red. Ueet held up a hand, signaling him to wait.

The assassin met Ueet’s gaze with calm defiance. His eyes were dark, flat, and unwavering.

He said nothing.

Ueet gave a small nod.

Semptor stepped forward, metal glowing.

Semptor pressed the red-hot metal plate to the assassin’s lower abdomen. The skin hissed and blistered on contact, the smell of burning flesh curling into the air.

The assassin groaned—a deep, guttural sound that grew into a ragged, throat-tearing howl as Semptor dragged the glowing plate slowly across his skin, carving a path of agony.

Tied tightly to the stakes, the man writhed, muscles straining, body twisting in a futile attempt to escape the fire biting into his flesh.

Finally, Semptor pulled the plate away and set it aside on a flat stone, its surface still glowing faintly with heat. The assassin sagged, panting, quivering.

Without hesitation, Semptor uncorked a small glass vial and poured a stream of blue-green liquid onto the raw, scorched skin.

The man screamed again—sharp and high and broken—as the alchemical wash soaked into the fresh burns. The scent in the air turned thick and acrid, an eye-watering mix of seared meat and brine.

Moments later, the assassin stilled. His breath slowed. His face returned to its mask of calm, pain shoved back into some deep inner chamber.

Semptor crouched and peered into the man’s face.

“Who hired you?” he asked, voice flat.

No response.

Semptor sighed and rose, stepping over the prisoner’s legs to his right side—

—and froze.

A sound—barely heard—came from across the road. A pulse of light flared.

The plasma bolt hit him before he could even process what was happening.

The impact blew a hole five inches wide clean through his chest. Bone and blood sprayed outward, and the blast knocked his body backward into the dust. The sound of it came a breath later—a crackling thunderclap that echoed across the plain.

Semptor didn’t make a sound as he died.

He was dead before his body hit the ground.

Ueet dove sideways without waiting to see where the attack had come from. Instinct, not thought, moved him. He hit the ground, rolled, and came up in a low crouch, already turning to locate the source of the magic.

Across the road, a lone figure stood with one hand raised—firing another bolt of deadly magic straight at him.

The bolt struck something invisible a few feet in front of Ueet with a sharp crackle, splashing energy outward like water against glass.

A shield.

The old Wizard Tybour had insisted accompany him and Semptor had summoned it just in time. Ueet hadn't caught the man's name. Now he wished he had.

Even as the air buzzed with dissipating energy, the old Wizard retaliated—three bolts of lightning lanced across the road toward the attacker. Fast. Precise. Controlled.

The Warlock was strong, but this one—this old man—was quick.

Without a word, the Wizard grabbed Ueet under one arm and hauled him to his feet.

“Come,” he said. “We’re not really a match for this one.”

They sprinted toward a cluster of large rocks at the edge of the shallow rise. Behind them, the Warlock loosed another blast—dark and howling with power. The Wizard kept his shield raised, the glowing barrier flexing as the spell struck it and dispersed. They ducked behind the boulders as more lightning erupted from the Wizard’s hands, forcing the Warlock to dodge.

The Warlock countered—shards of sharp rock exploded from the road, propelled like arrows. The shield caught most of it, but some made it through. Ueet grunted as slivers sliced across his arm and jaw, stinging and sharp.

They rounded the boulders, momentarily shielded from view. The Wizard didn’t hesitate. He thrust one hand forward and ripped a hole in the air—a narrow, jagged-edged portal that shimmered with barely contained magic.

“Go!” he barked.

Ueet leapt through the opening, not bothering to look back. The Wizard followed half a heartbeat later.

Ueet stumbled out of the portal and fell—headfirst—into several inches of soft, wet mud. He hit hard, skidding slightly before scrambling to his feet, spinning around to face the still-glowing rift behind him.

The portal hovered just above the ground, already narrowing. Through the shrinking window, he could still see the rocky patch they'd just escaped.

A flash of light burst through.

A bolt of plasma ripped across the air, streaking overhead with a violent hiss before vanishing into the sky beyond.

The portal sealed with a faint pop, and was gone.

“Well,” came a voice behind him, calm and dry, “that was unpleasant.”

Ueet turned. The old Wizard—his unexpected savior—sat in the mud, completely soaked and speckled with debris. It appeared he’d landed just as clumsily.

“Not the mud,” the Wizard added, pushing himself upright, “or the fall. I’ve learned to live with those. It’s the Warlock. I don’t know why anything surprises me anymore, serving with the First Mage.”

He grunted and stood, brushing at his pants in vain.

“The fall was intentional, by the way—in case you were wondering.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the sky, in the direction the plasma bolt had gone. “Didn’t want the portal aiming directly at us. Good call, too. That one nearly clipped your head.”

He looked up at the now-quiet air and shrugged.

“Unlikely he’ll be able to follow. But I’ve never been much for gambling.”

He turned back to Ueet, expression steady.

“Shall we?”

Ueet nodded once. “Yes.”

The Wizard turned from Ueet and raised a hand, conjuring another portal just a few feet away. The air shimmered, split, and bent inward.

Ueet took a moment to look around. The savanna stretched endlessly in all directions—golden, flat, and quiet. He scanned the horizon. To the south, his sharp eyes picked out the faint line of a road. Familiar.

“Coming?” the Wizard asked, already stepping toward the portal. “Ah yes, a drying-up watering hole we passed yesterday. The only place I could call to mind quickly enough. Not the safest, but safe enough—for now.”

He gave a tired smile. “We’ll need to make a couple of jumps to catch up to the caravan. The sooner we start, the better.”

Ueet cocked his head slightly, reassessing the man. His estimation of the old Wizard rose considerably.

“Yes,” he said. “My thanks. I owe you a life-debt.”

They stepped through the portal together.

They emerged at the top of a small rise, wind tugging at their cloaks. A single twisted, wind-bent tree stood at the summit, its limbs creaking softly. Ueet took a deep breath of the dry air. “I’m Ueet,” he said. “You are?”

“Gregor. Gregor Tranto,” the Wizard replied. “Master Sergeant Tranto to some, but you can just call me Gregor.”

The portal behind them collapsed with a gentle ripple. Gregor raised his hand again, casting a new one in a different direction. Ueet was fairly certain portal direction didn’t matter—magic led where it led—but he’d noticed most Wizards liked to face their destination anyway. Perhaps it was habit. Perhaps belief.

This one opened smaller than the last—tight and narrow. Ueet ducked his head and shoulders to pass through, careful not to brush the glowing edges.

He stepped out onto a dusty road atop another rise. He moved aside quickly, making space for Gregor to follow.

Gregor stumbled through the portal, breathing heavily, his face pale and drawn. Ueet caught him before he could fall, bracing the Wizard's weight against his side.

“That took more out of me than I expected,” Gregor said between breaths. “Didn’t plan on dueling a Warlock before jumping across half the savanna.”

He leaned on Ueet, catching his breath.

“But look,” he added, nodding toward the road ahead. “We made it. There they are.”

Ueet looked down the hill along the road toward the caravan he’d already spotted—moving slowly in the distance, a faint trail of dust rising and hanging in the still air behind it. Far to the west, just above the horizon, the peaks of the Glittergreen Mountains loomed—distant, pale blue and sunlit. Even with portals, they were still a full day’s travel away.

“C’mon, Gregor,” Ueet said, adjusting his grip. “You’ll get a proper rest when the caravan stops for the night. We need to get to Tybour. He needs to hear about the Warlock—and Semptor.”

He wrapped his arm around the old Wizard’s waist, supporting most of his weight.

“I’m all right,” Gregor said, catching his breath. “Just give me a second.”

He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small bronze-colored flask, palm-sized and worn smooth. He unscrewed the silver cap and took a short swig. His eyes narrowed, face tightening briefly before he exhaled and returned the cap.

Then he tucked the flask away, stepped slightly out of Ueet's support, and gave him a tired smile. Some of the color had returned to his cheeks. The lines around his eyes softened.

“All right,” he said. “I won’t be as fast as you, but let’s make as much haste as we can.”

With that, Gregor squared his shoulders and began walking steadily down the road, his boots crunching softly on the sun-baked dirt. Ueet followed a step behind, both of them moving toward the distant figures and wagons—toward the caravan, and the First Mage.

The Warlock called Stanch ran after his disappearing quarry, fury and frustration boiling beneath his skin.

He hadn’t expected that damn Wizard to be so strong—or so clever.

He should have known better.

From a distance, it had been hard to read the old man. His age had made Stanch dismissive, assuming frailty. A mistake. The Wizard he’d killed had seemed the more dangerous of the two—but now, that assumption lay smoking in the dust with Semptor’s corpse.

Stanch clenched his fists. He wanted that old Wizard. Wanted to carve him apart and offer him to his Demon as tribute. The man’s soul would burn beautifully.

As for the other one—the magicless one?

He didn’t deserve a sacrifice. He didn’t deserve anything but death.

The magicless were worthless. Pathetic. Fit only for servitude or extermination. Lower than beastmen. Lower even than the snake-men abominations slithering through the southern jungles. Humans—unaltered and pure—were the only true children of Rit. As the Demons had intended. All others were filth. Offshoots. Mistakes.

The magicless weren’t truly human. Not even the divine-bastardizations shaped by the Gods were as foul. The magicless were less than everything.

And Stanch hated them most of all.

Stanch caused a flurry of small rocks and pebbles to shoot towards the fleeing duo, hoping to injure them enough to cause them to make a mistake and allow him to capture them. The Wizard's shield held and almost none of the projectiles made it through. He watched as they pair slipped behind some standing rocks at the edge of the shallow cave. He continued running, changing his angle to try and keep the two fleeing individuals in site. The old Wizard had a portal open already.  He was quick. A flurry of lighting struck down at Stanch, a quick shield deflected it all away. He dodged again to the right for a better view and shot a bolt of plasma at the back of the Wizard as he stepped through his new portal. The portal snapped shut well before Stanch could get anywhere near it. The little bit of view he saw through the closing portal was nothing but blue, cloudless sky. No way to know where the Wizard had gone.They must have fled to where the rest of the caravan was. They couldn't be more than a couple of miles up the road. He considered jumping north down the road a bit, to see if he could catch them. He fantasized for just a moment about catching up with the pair of them, killing the magicless one and disabling the old Wizard, he must be tired by now. He'd toy with him a bit before summoning the demon portal to send him to his patron, just to watch the despair on his face, watch the fear grow in his eyes.

Stanch shook himself from his daydream. He had no way of knowing where they were, or if his attempt to catch them would put him in direct conflict with the number of Wizards traveling in that caravan, besides he had a job to do.

He turned back to the two bodies laying on the rocky ground in front of the large shallow cave by the side of the road. The Wizard he knew to be called Semptor lay dead, the hole through his chest still smoking slightly, his face forever frozen in slight surprise. Nothing to be done there. Dead was dead.

The other body was still alive. The assassin he'd been told about. Stanch had seen his chance when these four stayed behind as the rest of the group left this morning. The plan had been just to observe the expedition, stay hidden and out of the way, reporting what he saw back to his patron, but the plan had changed when he saw this opportunity. The man was bleeding but not so badly that his life was in any immediate danger. Stanch stood to one side of the man bound and tied to the ground. He wouldn't be able to walk with that injury to his left knee. His other injuries were superficial. Stanch peered down at the man's face. The assassin was calm and even looked a bit curious. He said nothing and gazed back at Stanch without visible fear. 

Stanch sniffed the air, the smell of the man's blood was strong in the still warm air. The smell made his lip curl and his eyes squint. This was not the smell of a human's blood despite the apparent look of him. Stanch had been given a special gift by his Demon when he'd sworn loyalty, he'd been given the ability to smell those of impure blood. Any small bit of non-human was clear to Stanch just by the smell of the person. This man reeked of nasty snake-man blood. It angered and sickened him to think of some human breeding with one of those grotesque half-snakes. What would drive a person to do such a thing.

Stanch frowned down at the man, unable at first to understand how he could look like a human but smell so obviously Alteman. It didn't appear to be a work of any magic Stanch knew of. Alteman and magicless, nothing worse in the world. An abomination of the worst sort. Stanch considered just killing him here and now and being done with him. He did not consider long as the dark little worm in his mind that was his connection with his Demon squirmed and practically shouted in his mind the things that would be done to him should he disobey his Demon's wishes. For some reason the Demon wanted this man alive and wanted Stanch to work with him to accomplish his mission. Stanch's lip curled at the thought of having to tolerate being around this obscenity.

Stanch glanced at the leather wrapped kreleit blade on the ground a few feet away. Someone would have to wield that, he supposed, and it would not be Stanch, that was certain. Nothing for it then. He'd have to heal this thing and work with it. Once the work was done though, Stanch would end its pitiful life and destroy its cursed body. 

A gesture and a small bit of fire magic stopped the bleeding from the still open wound on the man's knee. He watched the face and eyes of the assassin carefully as the fire magic cauterized the wound. The creature tolerated the pain quite well. He left the man bound as he turned to the kreleit blade. He knew it couldn't hurt him as long as he didn't touch the exposed metal, but the thing gave him pause anyway. Death was one thing, but having his magic stripped from him like so much colored paper from a wrapped gift actually scared him. Not a feeling he was used to.

Stanch removed his pack and opened it, picked up the wrapped kreleit knife carefully and slipped it inside. He was careful to place it as far to the outside of the pack as he could. 

He stood and shrugged into his pack's straps, turning back to the creature still bound to the ground. "I'm going to release you now. One false move and you will die. We will be working together for a while. We have a mutual goal and I have been told I will need you to accomplish this goal. I will hold on to your knife. You work for me now and your payment is your life. Serve me well and you will live. Questions?"

The pitiful creature narrowed his eyes a bit and seemed to consider Stanch's words for a moment before replying. "It seems I have little choice. What is our goal then?"

"Sending Tybour Insuritor to my patron as a sacrifice."

The assassin was sure there was more to it than that, but at the moment he had little choice but to agree. "Very well then. I will serve well until that goal is achieved."

Stanch turned away from the man, searching the nearby area, reaching out with a bit of magic to locate some living thing nearby. It took only a few moments before he sensed a fairly large lizard not far away, crouching in its hole in the ground, hiding from the noise and commotion of the earlier fight. It was a simple thing for Stanch to grab it with magical wraps of air and force and yank it from its hole. He levitated the squirming lizard to his hands, gripping it carefully and immobilizing it with a small shock of lightning. He turned back to the man lying on the ground. Stepping close, he held the still living lizard out above the man's knee. The lizard squirmed and jerked as it was transformed, melting into a greenish, grey ooze that dripped heavily onto the man's knee, gelling there and forming a bubble of moving, thickening ooze wrapping around the knee. In moments the knee was wrapped in a hardening bubble of grey-green. "You should be able to walk now. The wrap will break up and fall off when the healing is complete. Come, we needs must go." A small bit of magic sliced through the bonds holding the man to the ground. Stanch turned and began to stride back across the road from whence he came, leaving the assassin to gather himself and follow. 

It took almost an hour for Ueet and Gregor to catch up to the caravan. Gregor had begun strong at first but his energy waned quickly as he and Ueet made their way down the hill.

When they finally reached the expedition Ueet had a soldier run forward to notify Tybour of their arrival. Gregor was guided to the rear wagon and room was made for him to sit in a shaded bit of the bed in a place cleared of boxes. "Seriously, I am fine," he protested as he gulped water. Ueet noted that despite his protests, he did not force his way out of the wagon and back to walking.

Tybour and Haningway joined Ueet and Gregor a short while later. Gregor sat up straight and made as if to dismount from the wagon. "Stay there," Tybour ordered. "No need to stand on ceremony and we may well need your full strength shortly I fear, the way things have been going."

"Yes, sir." Gregor responded, settling back on the tents he'd arranged to recline upon.

"Semptor is dead." Ueet stated flatly. "A Warlock attacked us. We were lucky we survived. Thanks to Gregor here. He did well." High praise from Ueet, thought Tybour. 

"We got nothing from the assassin. We did find the kreleit weapon but we left it when we were attacked." Ueet's voice was dispassionate and matter of fact. "He must have been watching us, waiting for an opportunity."

"That is unfortunate. Semptor's death and the loss of that weapon. At least we know it won't be any help to the Warlock. It's good the two of you survived."

Tybour's thoughts raced. It was highly unlikely the appearance of this Warlock was random. It was likely he was sent to follow the expedition. To what end was the real question. Were the Warlock and the assassin working together? Working for the same person or persons? Warlocks worked for themselves and their Demons but it wasn't unheard of them to be hired by some unscrupulous person for nefarious deeds. What other hazards would be thrown their way? Was the demon-spawn they'd fought just yesterday under the control of this Warlock? This wasn't enough to stop the expedition, so what was the goal here? 

"Haningway. Increase the security and put all the soldiers at full alert. Let the civilians know that there was an encounter with a Warlock and that the rear guard drove him off. Tell them we do not expect him to return but that we should all be alert to anything out of the ordinary. Reassure them that the Phoenix company is more than capable of fending off a single Warlock." Tybour considered for a moment. "Tell them also that we found the person responsible for the sinking of The Porpoise and that they were killed when we attempted to take them into custody."

Tybour frowned and stopped walking, Haningway stopped with him. "We will stay with the garrison when we get to the mines. Send a message ahead." Tybour glanced toward the sky in the west where the Glittergreen mountains were just visible. "We'll continue on to the second campsite this evening, just in case. We'll also leave before sunrise tomorrow. The sooner we get to the garrison at the mines the better I will feel. Put out the beacons tonight. Four should cover us and we have all the Wizards we need to man them. At least that will mitigate the threat of the Warlock."

"Yes sir. Consider it done," Haningway replied as he hurried off to carry out his orders.

The sun had set behind the distant mountains to the west over an hour before the caravan arrived at the campsite just off the side of the road. Camp setup was completed quickly. No welcoming shelter here, just a wide, flat section of packed dirt free of vegetation. There would be no refilling of water skins this evening as there was no water source nearby. Tents were packed close together even though there was plenty of room on the packed-dirt platform for them to spread out.

Four Phoenix Company Wizards carried tripod mounted objects to four equidistant points a few feet outside the perimeter of the camp. A glowing rod about two feet long and a couple of inches thick rose from the top of each tripod. A Wizard sat cross-legged in front of each device, facing outward, directing a small but constant stream of magic into the glowing rod. Any Warlock attempting to approach or cross the barrier made by these rods would quickly be discovered.

The night passed without event and well before the sun rose in the east the camp was struck and the caravan resumed its trek westward along the road. A bit more than a mile up the road, as the sun began to peak over the horizon, Tybour opened another portal to a new point 50 miles up the road and the caravan poured through quickly. They emerged onto a long straight stretch of road climbing to the foothills of a sizable mountain range. Hills rose to the north and south of the road and a small village lay ahead, nestled at the end of a long, wide valley.

The expedition had finally arrived at the Glittergreen Mountains and the entrance to the Glittergreen Mines.

And Rishmond could already hear the whispers.