Vadi

The crest weighed heavy in Reid's pocket, but not half as much as the headache brewing behind his eyes. The moment they stepped out of the rank office, Tarron insisted they head somewhere "worthy of a Marchios" for lunch.

To celebrate.

He practically dragged Reid through the city streets, babbling the entire way, while the elk—now a thumb-sized bundle curled inside Reid's pouch—rested in smug silence. They settled into a decent place lined with velvet cushions and quiet conversation, where clean cutlery didn't raise eyebrows and the water arrived before you asked.

Reid slumped in his seat, fatigue sinking into his bones. He hadn't planned any of it—but something was off. With no memory to guide him, he moved on instinct and rage alone.

He was angry—furious, even. Something in this world was hiding from him, a truth so close it felt like it was woven into everything, yet always just out of sight.

He closed his eyes, silently reigning in the storm that was wrecking him up from inside. But, Tarron, of course, wasn't about to let silence win.

"You're a mage," he said, jabbing a finger across the table. "A proper one. With wrist-flicking and furniture-tossing and everything. And you didn't tell me?"

Reid didn't even look up. "Didn't know myself."

Tarron blinked. "How's that even possible?"

"Order the damn food."

Sulking like a child denied sweets, Tarron flagged down the waiter and rattled off a few items. Reid didn't care what it was. Whatever quiet he could steal between bites was good enough.

"I'm just saying," Tarron grumbled after the waiter left, "A mage doesn't have to buy a rank. That's for commoners. You could've entered the Arena tournament, won in half a round, and bam, Marchios crest for free. We'd still have our coins. Even more coins. I was already planning how to spend them."

Reid didn't respond. His hands lay folded on the table, calm on the surface but flexing slightly now and then.

He wasn't chasing gold or titles. Not really. He was chasing.... Hell, only if he knew!

Tarron kept prattling. Something about mage orders and tournaments and city politics—Reid was halfway tuned out—until he heard it:

"…that's in Thanes."

Reid's head snapped up. "What's in Thanes?"

He had read this name before. A destination marked on that dark abandened trail.

Tarron paused, mouth open. "You weren't listening, were you?"

"Obviously not."

"The gathering, man!"

Tarron was getting pretty comfortable with him, Reid noted.

"In Thanes. The King appointed a new head of the Order of the Mage—Valdah. And now he has called for a gathering. Probably to kiss babies, wave staves around, or reshuffle the Order. Who knows?"

"Order of the Mage?"

"A really complicated and powerful organization that deals in law concerned with Mages." Tarron said through a mouthful of food. "All you should know for now is that - " He swallowed loudly. "They are not to be messed with."

Reid shrugged and Tarron pulled out a rolled-up news sheet and slid it over the table. "It's all over the news. And you—you're definitely making the next headline."

Reid raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, come on," Tarron said, grinning. "You threw a pillar through a public building, threatened an official, and left with a crest like a warlord claiming territory. You think no one noticed?"

Reid tilted his head. "So what? Finally they'll send a summons?" He said it as if it was the most ridiculous thing in the world.

"As if." Tarron scoffed. "People here worship power. They'll trip over themselves to recruit you. You could probably get yourself a little army if you glared hard enough."

Reid wasn't so sure about armies, but he did believe that. The noble he'd threatened earlier hadn't dared name him in his complaint about Tarron. Basic survival instinct. Even cowards knew when not to provoke a storm.

Tarron leaned in, excited. "So. I'll start looking into ways we can reach Dales—"

"We?" Reid cut in, dry and unimpressed.

Tarron blinked. "Yes. We. Come on. You need a guide, right?"

"No."

Tarron's heart sank a little at this outright rejection.

He began scrambling for arguments. "Okay, but think about it—I know Anguth. You don't. You avoid talking about anything personal—fine, I respect that. But if we run into nosy types on the road, I can smooth things out. Besides, I'll never ask you anything you don't want to share. You have your secrets, I have my charm. Match made in heaven. ."

Tarron said, gesturing toward them.

Reid snorted. "I know enough about this place. It's built on violence. And I have plenty to offer in that department."

"That won't be enough forever." Tarron countered, defiantly raising his head. "Besides, I don't want to go back to my Dad's smithy. I'll never leave Grinholt again after my adventure with that Ravios. Please, please, pretty please take me with you" He said, almost begging. "Let me come with you. At least to Thanes. It would be on your way. Then you can ditch me if I annoy you."

"You already annoy me."

"But you haven't ditched me yet."

Reid opened his mouth for a retort—but paused. The pouch at his side twitched.

The elk had slipped free, stretching its small form along the tabletop, eyes clicking toward the mention of Thanes. A hum echoed in Reid's skull.

"To Dales. Hurry."

The words rang in his mind, crisp and urgent. Reid met the elk's gaze—and nodded.

"To Dales," he said quietly, the words barely louder than a breath. Then—just maybe—he saw it: a shadow gliding across the table, smooth and deliberate, though there was no one there.

The table had long been cleared. Nothing remained but the broadsheet, its yellowing paper catching the dim light, the inked image stark against it—a man in a hooded cloak, faceless, holding a long staff that seemed more like a weapon than an accessory. The figure's outline seemed to waver, as if it, too, were watching.

A slow dread uncoiled in his chest, tightening with each heartbeat. The air thickened; a chill brushed the back of his neck like a whisper with teeth. He didn't move. Couldn't. Something was here.

The candle beside the broadsheet flickered once—then blew out.

In the darkness, he heard it: the soft crunch of paper, and the unmistakable sound of breath not his own.

A blink, and the warmth of the tavern returned.

As if he had been here all along. He had been.

There were no candles, just the broadsheet inked with that ominous image. Reid's eyes scanned the crowd with practiced precision. The nobles were easy to spot—plush and painted, dressed in gaudy bursts of crimson, sapphire, and gold. They laughed too loudly, drank too quickly, and moved like they expected the world to part before them. He dismissed them almost instantly.

But then—there. A group near the edge of the gathering, half in shadow. Cloaked, uniformed, their garments bearing identical crests. Hired muscle? he wondered, but the thought didn't sit right.

They held themselves with a poised arrogance that whispered discipline, not desperation. Their eyes scanned the room, not for coin, but for opportunity.

As if reading his thoughts, Tarron answered,

"Mages - of the same House. Not of the same rank, if you were assuming. That is another thing that distinguishes the wielders of magic from the commoners. Once ranked a Torrik, Mages were granted titles that then served as the name of their House. With the title, there would come an estate. As they climb ranks, the size of the estate would keep getting bigger and once big enough, they would have a seat on the council. That's where the real power lies."

Reid hummed, silently taking in this new bit of information which seemed as useless to him as the rest of their crap. 

He had been awakened here nonetheless. He had to bear with that. 

At this point, he arrived at a decision.

He hadn't said a word yet, but Tarron must've caught it in his expression—damn kid was perceptive.

Tarron grinned. "So we're going?"

Reid pushed the sheet aside and rose.

"We are."