A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

Two days later, we were nearly at the border.

I say "we," but I hadn't exactly participated in the journey. Unless breathing and strategic loafing counted as participation. In that case, I was contributing more than anyone had ever contributed to anything.

We were maybe a few hours out, judging by the shifting smell of the air and the way the woman kept glancing.

She was talking again. She always was.

Something about guard rotations. About the kind of paperwork you could technically bribe your way through if you pretended to be someone else's problem. I nodded from my cot and chewed the bread she handed me.

I hadn't stood up since yesterday. Didn't see a reason to.

She sat by the crate that was used as a table, poking at a map with a bit of dried meat like it was a pointer.

"We'll reach the inner gate before noon," she said, "assuming no one's tried to reroute traffic to avoid us."

I grunted.

She nodded.

"They'll have guards waiting for you. Standard escort detail. At least one senior officer. Maybe a mage too after what happened."

Another grunt. Saltier this time.

She kept going. "The higher clergy made it pretty clear I wasn't the only one reporting in. They didn't say it out loud, but it was obvious."

She paused. Smirked.

"I heard you launched yourself through the Grand Vicar's window."

I paused mid-chew.

She looked at me again, voice dropping just slightly. "They're not sure what to do with you now that you're here. That's what's bothering them."

I met her gaze.

Didn't blink.

She didn't press.

Just folded the map. Took a breath.

Then she stood, poured a bit of warm broth into a chipped bowl, and slid it next to me.

I lapped it up without a word—because it was tasty and because I wasn't going to pretend my pride had a stomach.

We sat like that for a while.

She with her maps. Me with my bowl. The railcar rocking gently beneath us like a cradle.

Eventually, she stretched, stood, and stepped into the next car to talk to the train operator.

I didn't move.

Didn't need to.

I had time to think. About the border. About Rinvara. And about how I don't know what I'm doing.

And then the train slowed.

The brakes hissed and the wheels groaned. The car rocked forward and settled with a final, juddering breath.

The woman came back from the front cabin. She didn't say anything at first. Just adjusted her pouch strap after putting her communicator in, nudged the door open with her boot, and hopped down.

We stepped into heat, dust, and the kind of organized noise you only got from tired people doing something for the fiftieth time.

This wasn't a public station. No polished tile. No coin counters. Just a hard-packed freight lot surrounded by crates, ropes, and the slow churn of military logistics. Supply handlers shouted at each other over crate manifests. A weird-looking forklift designed using steam and runes groaned somewhere to the left. The air smelled like sun-warmed steel, old oil, and damp rope.

Five people waited near the loading ramp.

Four wore armor—standard issue, with that sunmire-etched trim they loved so much. One had the kind of posture that said he'd rather be anywhere else. The other three looked like they took their jobs too seriously.

Then there was the mage.

You could spot him instantly. Long coat. Clean boots. One of those floating sun-discs hovering at his shoulder. His eyes were already on me. So were everyone else's.

They had my description.

The woman gave a short wave, like she was clocking out of a shift.

"He's yours."

One of the guards glanced at me, then at her. "This is the—?"

"Yeah." She didn't let him finish. "Don't get clever about it."

She turned to me, pulled her coat tighter across her chest, and jerked her chin toward the open gate in the distance.

"You'll be heading into the inner district. Lord Velin wants a look at you. They'll take it from there."

Since I hadn't sat up yet, I looked up at her.

She didn't crouch. Didn't smile. Just shifted her weight and gave me a wry smile.

"Don't eat anything from a vendor cart unless you see them eat it first. And if anyone tries to talk down to you, just keep walking."

I grunted.

She nodded. "Right. Then that's it. See ya, you big pup."

And that really was it.

She turned and climbed back onto the train without another word. No other farewell. No "stay safe." Just footsteps on metal and the sound of ropes creaking as the crates started to move.

The guards stepped in. The one in front gave a nod, mostly to be polite.

"Lord Velin's expecting you. Let's go."

I didn't argue.

We moved.

Kareth's Gate wasn't what I expected.

It wasn't a border city. It was a border machine.

Every road looked like it had been paved to move cargo faster. Half the buildings had reinforced beams, the kind you only bothered with if you expected explosions or unpaid mercenaries. The first few blocks were all warehouses, contract offices, and staging yards. Nothing decorative. Just steel, stone, and places to tie things down.

I'd read about this place. A merchant-mercenary city right on the edge of Sunmire's reach. Not fully under anyone's flag. Technically loyal. Practically independent. Strict vetting at the gates, loose morals inside them.

Everyone here was either making money, guarding money, or trying to steal it.

Mercenaries passed us while wearing mismatched gear. They carried weapons like groceries. One group looked like they hadn't slept in two days. Another cheered, saying that they were going to the pub to drink; it looked like they'd just been paid.

We passed through a district without stopping. The patrolling police gave me a weird look and then wisely decided I wasn't worth asking questions about because of who I was with.

Shops lined the main corridor now; some brick, some just heavy tents anchored with sandbags. Most had signs in multiple languages. I counted at least three I recognized: old Sunmire, Zorthari dialect, something eastern.

Traders shouted from behind counters. Buyers argued over weight. Somewhere to my left, someone was advertising homemade pest control they had just synthesized.

This wasn't a place built for beauty. It was built for transactions.

My escorts kept a tight formation. I didn't say anything, which probably made them more nervous than if I had.

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Eventually, the streets thinned. Fewer tents, more uniforms. The city keep came into view; compact, angled like a bunker with guards stationed at every corner.

We reached the outer stairs. One of the escorts stepped ahead and exchanged words with the sentry.

He turned back to me.

"You'll wait inside. Lord Velin is in session."

I didn't answer.

They opened the door.

Inside, the air changed. Cooler, heavier. Stone hallways. Tall windows. Too many corners.

They led me through two turns, past a long table full of empty seats and a wall lined with flags from nations I've only read about. Then into a small side chamber with a plain rug, a padded bench, and nothing else but a closed door at the far end.

"This is it," the guard said. "Someone'll call you in."

I didn't move from the bench. The stone floor was warm from foot traffic.

The entire escort detail waited inside with me.

They took positions near the door, along the wall, one near the window. All alert. All pretending not to look at me.

They weren't subtle.

Helm shifts. Side glances. The mage cleared his throat three times in two minutes like he was trying to dislodge a question from his windpipe.

I let it go for a while. Then sighed, loud enough to make a few of them twitch.

"I've read about this place," I said. "Kareth's Gate. But the book was old. Probably didn't cover the last decade. I wouldn't mind hearing what's changed."

The mage spoke up.

"Well. As you probably know, we're right on the edge of Sunmire reach. Officially still part of the territory."

"Unofficially?" I asked.

He hesitated. Then said, "Let's just say we've been managing ourselves awhile. Lord Velin's a former clergy officer. Stayed behind after his post. Since the locals trust him, the Capital lets him run things as long as they get their due."

That tracked.

It was the kind of arrangement that worked just long enough for someone important to be satisfied with.

I nodded, just once.

Another guard stepped in, older, with the kind of voice that sounded sanded down by years of giving bad news. "It's stable. Or close enough."

I looked at him. "Because of Fort Kessan?"

He didn't answer right away. Just shifted his stance.

"There haven't been a lot of volunteers lately," he said. "No one wants to be assigned there."

I already knew why. But I let him say it.

"It's Ferron," he continued.

I'd heard of them. Everyone had.

A nation that didn't kneel to anything. They knelt to form. To weight. Muscle over myth. Doctrine etched into forged plates. Their sermons came in hammer strikes, not words.

"They've been getting more active since word spread about the Mother Matron's death," he continued. "With the pressure on the outposts and Bishop Severan on the eastern border…

"Half the brass is sitting on the eastern border like it's still the old war. Bishop Serevan, his whole detachment, even that sibling of yours—Gorran? They've all been stationed out there for months."

I flicked an ear.

East. That wasn't where Ferron was.

"They're still bracing for a Zorthar resurgence," the escort continued. "Even though Zorthar hasn't done anything in years."

"Excuses," another escort shot back. "Ferron's moving. You can already see what's happening in the city. Hell, even the vendors are packing lighter after she disappeared."

"She?" I snapped.

The room shifted.

The escort who'd spoken didn't look at me right away. He scratched the side of his jaw, then gave a short nod.

"Your sister," he said. "Rinvara."

I didn't respond. Just stared.

"She was frequently posted here for the past three years," another guard said. "Rotated between here and Fort Kessan. Not a long time, but… long enough."

"She helped a lot of people," the first one added. "Didn't matter if you were Church or not. Soldiers. Mercs. Supply crew. Anyone who came in injured, she would help them. Heard them out."

Then the older one near the window spoke.

"She made people start believing again."

He didn't say it with reverence. Just fact.

"In Sunmire; the idea of it. The good parts."

The door opened.

No knock. No announcement. Just the creak of old hinges and a shift in posture from the escorts-guards around me.

A woman stood in the doorway. Clean uniform, crisp collar, and a cold expression. Gray streaks at her temples. The kind of face that probably hadn't smiled during working hours since the last administration.

"He'll see you now," she said.

Nothing else. No bow. No gesture. Just the flat delivery of a message she had delivered a hundred times before, and would deliver again for the next visitor after I was gone.

Two of the escorts moved right away and entered. The others waited for me.

I didn't move at first.

The bench groaned softly as I finally stood. It always did. My bones did too. I stretched once—slowly.

Then came the doorway.

Not wide.

Not high.

Just… normal.

Which meant: not made for things like me.

I turned sideways and nudged my way in, shoulder first. My back leg caught on the trim. One paw scraped the base. The frame gave a tired creak as I pressed through.

These kinds of buildings weren't built for godbeasts. And when godbeasts visited villages and cities like this: Sunmire's outposts, church-run capitals, normal houses, etc, they usually didn't visit as themselves. They polymorphed. Shrunk down. Used magic to shift bones and fur into something more manageable. Humanoid and often elegant.

It was etiquette. Tradition. A way of saying 'I understand the hassles of you little creatures, so I'll go along with it.'

Some were graceful about it. Others came off like actors in a borrowed suit.

But I couldn't do that.

No magic. No alternate form. No button to press that would make me more comfortable to be around.

Just a too-large pug wedging his way through a doorway that disagreed with his existence.

The wood cracked slightly. A long, shallow split near the base. One of the escorts winced behind me like it was his fault.

I made it through.

The remaining three guards followed, careful not to make eye contact with either me or the dent in the frame. The mage ducked slightly as he entered. He didn't need to.

The room itself was bare; stone walls, minimal filing cabinets, a wide desk that had seen more paperwork than diplomacy. Light came in through a thin vertical window, the kind you couldn't escape from and couldn't really see out of either.

Behind the desk sat a man who looked like he'd been poured into the chair at some point in the last century and hadn't left since.

Old.

But not in a fragile way. Not brittle.

Just… worn.

Everything about him was precise. Uniform pressed, though it didn't fit like it used to. Buttons properly aligned. Thin glasses sat low on his nose. Every movement he made looked like it had been timed against a clock that only he could hear.

He was writing.

Didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge us yet.

Just kept writing.

"Your venerableness," he said, pen still moving, "we did not request support."

His tone was dry. Not disrespectful, just economical. Like he didn't want to waste syllables on the unexpected.

"I'm not here on official notice," I said.

That earned a pause. Brief.

He finished the line he was working on. Blotted the page. Set the pen aside with care. Then reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a pocket watch—silver, slightly tarnished, the chain looped neatly around a button.

He clicked it open. Checked the time.

Then he looked at me.

Really looked.

Not in awe. Not confusion. Just a tired, exacting sort of attention. Like he was mentally filing me under a new category he hadn't wanted to create, but would.

He didn't sigh.

Didn't adjust his posture.

He just gave a single nod.

"Proceed."

"I need to go to Fort Kessan," I told him.

"Your reason?" he asked.

No edge to it. Just the question laid out plainly like he was adding it to a ledger.

I could already tell what kind of man he was. The kind who didn't waste time on posturing. No ceremony. No prodding for confession. Just cause, effect, and whatever had to happen in between.

"I'm looking for Rinvara," I said. "And if she's already gone, then I want to know who did it. And make sure they pay their dues."

After hearing what I said, he opened the top drawer of his desk.

The first letter came out folded and worn at the edges. Pale paper. Deep red wax seal stamped with the Sunmire sigil. The kind of seal they only used when they wanted everyone in the room to remember who was giving the order.

"This one came first," he said. "From the Grand Vicar. Asking me to provide you with the courtesy of support."

He placed it on the desk.

Then he pulled out a second envelope. Same seal. Sharper edges.

"And this one," he said, "is from Quarroth. Direct order to apprehend you and arrange for your return to the capital."

He placed it beside the first one. Then folded his hands and looked at me over both.

"Convince me which one I should follow."

I didn't speak right away.

Quarroth was ruthless, but he didn't want me dead.

He wanted me gone.

Removed from the field. Kept off the board. He was trying to carve a clean path forward with something presentable, something politically digestible. And that didn't include me.

He had his pick already. Vaelric. Polished. Devout. Easy to frame as Aurelith's next successor.

Not the pug. Not the beast who grunted through clerical briefings and broke stained glass windows on his way to the train. I didn't fit the robes. I didn't perform the rituals. I didn't inspire the right kind of awe.

And that terrified him.

Because I didn't need to campaign to be a possibility. I didn't need to be chosen by anyone.

I was born into it.

Divine blood. Direct line.

One of the Six.

Quarroth wanted control of the narrative. Not letting an inconvenient heir stumble into a battlefield and get people thinking.

Because if I showed up in Kessan and managed to do something—it would be enough.

Enough to matter.

Enough to complicate things.

Enough to remind the Church that some things weren't theirs to curate.

I looked at the old man behind the desk. He hadn't moved. Just sat there, hunched into his uniform, looking like the only thing keeping him from falling over was the structure of his discipline.

"I'm not here to convince you," I said.

He didn't blink.

I let the silence rest a moment, then added, "One of the six heirs gave an order. That should be enough."