Chapter 1
Peela climbed down from the caravan's wagon, her boots landing with a soft thud on the dusty, uneven street. She turned back and waved to the caravanner, a wiry old man with skin like tanned leather who raised a hand in return before snapping the reins and urging his horses forward. The creaking of the wagon blended into the cacophony of Bordertown, a chaotic symphony of voices, footsteps, and the clamor of trade. For her first time in the empire, this wasn’t what she expected. It was far more disorderly than she had envisioned.
She paused for a moment, taking in the sights and sounds of the bustling border settlement. Humans made up the majority of the populace, their Raakonian accents barking out orders, bartering fiercely, or laughing boisterously. A few nomadic elves wove through the crowd, graceful even amid the chaos. Here and there, a high elf stood out with their immaculate clothing and haughty demeanor, looking as though they belonged anywhere but this place. Goblins darted between larger figures, some peddling wares from sloppily assembled carts, others slipping unseen into alleys, or covered in the soot of forges.
The streets were packed with vendors and their wares, colorful fabrics and shimmering trinkets displayed beside crates of produce and barrels of salt fish. The air was thick with the mingling scents of roasted meat, stale ale, and too many bodies pressed too close together. Above it all rose the ever-present hum of commerce—the lifeblood of Bordertown.
Peela adjusted her ruddy red robe and tightened the knot of her leather belt, the intricate knotwork adorning it a reminder of the lands to the south. Her soft brown eyes scanned the bustling street, lighting up as she saw the life around her. While her relaxed demeanor gave the impression of someone simply enjoying the sights, her mind was focused on the task ahead. Somewhere in this thrumming chaos was her destination: Bawld’s Pledges, a pawnshop owned by Tarlan Bawld, her first lead in what promised to be a long journey.
As she walked, weaving through the crowd merchants called out to her, and everyone else, and no in particular:
“Fresh bread, warm from the oven!” “Steel from Libertan! Finest blades you’ll find this side of the empire!” “Spices from the high elven kingdom! Add magic to your meals!”
Peela offered a polite smile when warranted but kept moving, her attention darting between the signs hanging above shop doors and the occasional whispered exchange in darkened corners. She spotted a pair of Raakonian legionnaires lounging outside a tavern, their lamellar armor dusty but well-maintained, which caused her to crinkle her nose out of habit. Across the street, a goblin tugged on the sleeve of a distracted merchant, slipping a coin purse from his belt with sublime skill before disappearing into the throng.
Finally, she caught sight of a faded wooden sign swinging above a narrow doorway, its paint chipped and letters uneven. “Bawld’s Pledges” was scrawled in blocky text beneath an image of a pair of crossed hands, one missing its left. Peela’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. The directions she’d been told were correct. It hadn’t been hard, and she’d found it. The door to the pawnshop was slightly ajar, and the faint scent of old wood and metal wafted out. Peela hesitated for a moment, her hand brushing against the small satchel at her side. This was the first step of many, and she intended to make it count. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The door creaked as Peela pushed it open, and a soft chime from a dangling brass bell announced her arrival. The smell of old wood, dust, and a faint tang of rust greeted her, mingling with the lingering scent of pipe smoke. It was dim inside compared to the sunlit chaos of Bordertown's streets, the only light filtering through two grimy windows and a pair of lamps hanging from iron hooks on the ceiling.
Peela paused just inside the threshold, letting her eyes adjust. The shop was a treasure trove of forgotten things, every inch of it cluttered and chaotic. Shelves lined the walls, sagging under the weight of mismatched curiosities and oddities: a cracked vase decorated with high elven glyphs, a tarnished Raakonian soldier’s helm with an unmistakable dent from a war hammer, and a delicate silver music box with a single note eternally stuck, echoing faintly as she passed. The wooden floor creaked beneath her boots as she moved deeper into the shop, her steps careful as if she were walking through a dragon’s hoard.
On one shelf, a mummified goblin hand was displayed under a glass dome, its shriveled fingers curled as if clutching an invisible treasure. Next to it sat a brass compass, its needle spinning aimlessly as though enchanted—or broken. A pile of ancient coins, each from a different kingdom, was heaped in a wooden bowl, their faded engravings whispering tales of long-forgotten places. Peela picked one up briefly, rolling it between her fingers, before setting it back down.
Her eyes wandered to a tall rack of weapons near the counter. Spears, swords, and daggers leaned haphazardly against each other. One blade, a slim Raakonian longsword, gleamed unnaturally in the dim light, as if it had been polished just this morning. It seemed out of place among the other battered and rusty weapons, its fine craftsmanship at odds with the pawnshop’s rough character.
A low grunt from the counter drew her attention.
Behind the counter sat Tarlan Bawld. The man looked up from the ledger he was scrawling in, his single hand moving with surprising dexterity as he scrawled thick, confident lines across the page. He didn’t bother standing to greet her, but his sharp brown eyes assessed her in a glance, lingering on her belt and boots as though calculating her worth.
Tarlan was in his late forties, with the heavyset build of a man who once worked hard but had since traded labor for scheming. His face was unpleasant—a bulbous nose, pockmarked cheeks, and lips that seemed perpetually curled into a faint sneer, whether out of disdain or amusement, it was hard to tell. His skin was rough, slightly yellowed, and tanned, the product of years under Raakonian suns, and a scar ran from the corner of his left eye to his jawline, pale against the darker tone of his face.
Despite his appearance, Tarlan carried himself with an undeniable air of confidence, the kind that said he wasn’t a man to be trifled with. His simple, loose-fitting shirt and trousers were practical rather than fine, but Peela noticed the stout boarding axe strapped to his hip. The weapon was clean, well-cared-for, and positioned in such a way that it could be drawn with speed despite his missing left hand. His right sleeve was pinned neatly at the elbow, a concession to the fact that his left arm ended in a rounded stump just below the joint. He caught her looking and leaned back in his chair with a creak, his expression unchanged.
"Can I help you, or are you just here to gawk?" he said, his voice a gruff rasp.
Peela smiled faintly and stepped forward, her eyes briefly meeting his. "I hear you’re a man who knows things, Tarlan Bawld."
His sneer deepened, one brow arching as he leaned his elbow on the counter. "I know plenty, lass. Anything in particular you’re asking about?”
She took another step forward, fingers brushing against the edge of the counter. " How much is the truth worth these days?"
Tarlan’s chuckle was low and humorless. "More than most can afford.”
Peela leaned her elbows on the counter, giving Tarlan a measured smile. "I’ve been told you know a thing or two about... a few things."
Tarlan’s eyes didn’t waver from her, but his lips curled slightly at the edges, that faint sneer deepening. "People say a lot of things. Most of it nonsense."
She opened her mouth to respond but hesitated as the door behind her creaked open, and the brass bell above it gave a cheerful chime. She glanced over her shoulder. A pair of Raakonian traders shuffled in, one tall and wiry, the other stocky, both draped in dusty cloaks. Their voices were low as they muttered to each other, but the sound carried in the confined space of the pawnshop. They began browsing the nearest shelf, occasionally exchanging a grunt or laugh as they inspected the wares.
Peela’s eyes flicked back to Tarlan, who was watching her with mild impatience, his single hand still resting near the open ledger. Lowering her voice, she said, "I’ll make it worth your while for a conversation... but not with prying ears."
Tarlan tilted his head slightly, letting out a long, exaggerated yawn. "Lass, I don’t have all day for riddles. Get to the point before I lose interest."
Without a word, Peela reached into the folds of her robe and drew out a small object, sliding it across the counter with the faint scrape of metal on wood. The rupae ingot caught the dim light of the shop, its faintly swirling mother of pearl patterns gleaming softly. Tarlan’s sneer faded, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the ingot. For a moment, he said nothing, and the air between them seemed to tighten.
Finally, he nodded once, his fingers drumming lightly on the counter. "That," he said, his voice quieter but no less gruff, "got my attention."
Peela’s tone was steady as she asked, "When do you close?"
"Sundown," Tarlan replied, his gaze darting briefly to the traders behind her before returning to her face. "This place’ll clear out by then."
She straightened, brushing imaginary dust from her robe as if to signal she was done here—for now. "I’ll be back then."
Tarlan nodded, a faint glint of amusement in his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. "See you then," he said, his voice carrying the kind of calm confidence that made it clear he wasn’t worried about her changing her mind. Peela gave him one last look, then turned toward the door. As she stepped out into the noise and bustle of Bordertown’s streets, the faint ring of the brass bell following her.
The streets seemed even more alive now, pulsing with noise, movement, and the ceaseless rhythm of commerce. The wagon-churned mud of some paths mixed with the clatter of hooves and boots on others, their cobblestones worn smooth by years of use. Horses jostled for space with carts laden with goods, and street vendors shouted to be heard over it all. The air was thick with a mingling dozen of scents, the most dominant of which was unwashed people. She kept her pace steady, sidestepping a particularly deep patch of mud as a cart rumbled past, its wheels caked in grime. The press of bodies eased briefly as the street widened, and before her stood a structure that commanded attention: a Temple of Order.
The building was made of pale stone, its clean, symmetrical lines a stark contrast to the haphazard chaos of the streets around it. The architecture was precise, every block fitted perfectly, the angles sharp and unmarred. The temple was tall but not imposing, its design exuding an air of balance rather than dominance. Above its arched entrance hung the sigil of the Order—a perfect circle carved into a polished marble plaque, catching the light like a beacon of clarity in the disorder of Bordertown.
Peela slowed her steps as she passed, her soft brown eyes lingering briefly on the sigil. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she shook her head, sighing quietly. “Order,” she muttered under her breath, the word thick with irony. “You’ve picked the wrong place for that.”
She didn’t stop. The temple receded behind her as the chaos of the city swallowed her once more. A few steps later, the street funneled into a vibrant open-air market. Stalls lined both sides, their colorful canopies rippling in the breeze. Merchants shouted over each other, hawking goods ranging from bolts of finely woven fabric to crates overflowing with exotic fruits. A goblin stood on a wooden crate, waving a gleaming knife and yelling about its supposed enchantment, while a Raakonian woman haggled furiously with a vendor over the price of a jug of wine. The scent of spiced meats wafted toward her from a grill at the far end of the market, mixing with the sharper smells of vinegar and pickled vegetables.
Peela weaved through the throng, her hand instinctively checking her belt pouch. Another market appeared further along, this one quieter but no less bustling. Farmers sold fresh produce in neat rows of baskets, and fishmongers called out their catch of the day, their wares glistening on beds of shaved ice. She paused briefly at a stall displaying intricate wooden carvings—animals, deities, and mythical beasts, most of them Raakonian, but she did see at least one representation of Reevas; all skillfully rendered and polished to a fine sheen.
As the markets thinned, the road turned slightly, revealing a looming structure behind high stone walls. The manor house was unmistakably a seat of power, its twelve-foot walls topped with jagged iron spikes. Guards stood at the gates, their faces impassive beneath the visors of their grey-black plate mail. The sigil of House Vacul—hammers crossed over a skull—was emblazoned on their breastplates, catching the light like a silent warning. One of the guards shifted slightly as Peela passed, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword, though his eyes never left the street. Peela’s eyes lingered on the sigil for a moment before she moved on, blending back into the flow of pedestrians. She passed a row of smaller shops, their windows displaying goods ranging from dried herbs to secondhand books. A tailor’s shop boasted a mannequin dressed in a fine silk gown, and an apothecary had jars of preserved creatures floating in murky liquid on display.
Eventually, she came upon an inn that caught her eye. It was larger than most of the others she’d passed, its exterior clean and well-maintained. The sign above the door read The Silver Lantern, painted in elegant script. The wooden frame was polished, and the windows were uncommonly clear, offering a view of the warm, well-lit common room inside. A pair of travelers sat on the porch, their boots freshly cleaned, chatting over mugs of ale. Peela slowed her steps, eyeing the place. It was more expensive than most, but it seemed worth the price if it meant avoiding the rowdier, dirtier establishments she’d seen along the way. With a satisfied nod to herself, she decided this would do for the night—after her meeting with Tarlan.
Peela pushed open the door to The Silver Lantern, and the muted chaos of the street gave way to a space of quiet refinement. The common room was spacious and clean, with polished wooden floors and sturdy beams that gleamed in the soft glow of lanterns hanging from wrought iron hooks. A large hearth crackled in one corner, its warmth casting flickering shadows over a handful of patrons seated at tables with freshly scrubbed surfaces. The faint scent of roasted herbs and baked bread lingered in the air, mingling with the aroma of ale.
She let the door close softly behind her and stepped toward the long counter at the back of the room. Behind it stood the innkeeper, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his fifties. His apron was spotless, and his graying hair was neatly combed, but his sharp, sunken eyes carried the weight of someone who had seen more than his fair share of hard days. As she approached, his gaze flicked up from the ledger he was scribbling in, raking over her from head to toe with a practiced scrutiny that carried more judgment than curiosity.
Peela stopped in front of the counter, offering a polite smile. "I’d like a room for the night."
The man didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back slightly, crossing his thick arms over his chest as he took in her robe, her boots, and the sun-kissed tan of her skin. His lip curled faintly, and the sneer that followed made it clear he didn’t much care for what he saw.
"You from the south?" he asked, his tone sharp and pointed.
Peela’s smile faltered. She caught the edge in his voice but answered honestly. "Yes, I am."
The man snorted, shaking his head as if she’d confirmed something unpleasant. "We don’t serve savages here," he said flatly.
Peela blinked, stunned by the bluntness of the insult. "Savages?" she repeated, her voice calm but laced with irritation. "I’m just looking for a room. I’ll pay—"
"You’ll pay nothing here," the innkeeper interrupted, his voice rising slightly, drawing a few curious glances from the tables nearby. "I lost a brother fighting your kind. Good men. Real men. And for what? To let you lot wander into our towns like you belong here?"
She sighed, her shoulders dropping slightly as she tried again, softer this time. "I’m not here to cause trouble. I just need a place to stay."
"Don’t care what you need," the man snapped. He jabbed a finger toward the door. "You can git. I don’t want your kind under my roof. Take your coin elsewhere."
Peela stood there for a moment, her jaw tightening as she fought back the sharp retort on the tip of her tongue. The weight of his words settled heavily between them, and she felt the quiet sting of unwelcome familiarity. It wasn’t the first time she’d been dismissed as less than human, and it likely wouldn’t be the last.
With a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and stepped back from the counter. "Fine," she said simply, her tone weary but measured. "I’ll go."
The innkeeper huffed and returned to his ledger as if she’d already ceased to exist. Peela turned and made her way to the door, her steps deliberate and quiet. As she pushed it open, the chill of the street air hit her like a slap, a stark reminder of how cold Bordertown could be in more ways than one. She stepped out into the fading light, letting the door swing shut behind her, and stood for a moment on the porch, gathering her thoughts. This wasn’t the first door slammed in her face, and she doubted it would be the last. With a resigned sigh, she pulled her robe tighter around her and descended the steps, the noise of the street swallowing her as she melted back into the chaos of Bordertown.
The streets of Bordertown seemed even busier as the day wore on, the crowd growing denser as more merchants, soldiers, and travelers filled the avenues. Peela walked with no particular direction, her keen eyes taking in every detail, every corner, as if she were mapping the city in her mind. It was a habit born of years on the road—always knowing the lay of the land could mean the difference between safety and danger.
She turned a corner and paused. Ahead of her stood the guard hall, a wide, fortress-like structure with thick stone walls and iron-barred windows. Outside the main entrance, a cluster of Raakonian legionaries lounged about, their polished armor catching the waning sunlight. There were at least forty of them, all dressed in the Empire’s signature purple and gray uniforms. Some were sharpening blades or adjusting armor, while others leaned casually against the wall, joking and laughing in low voices.
Peela’s steps quickened. She lowered her face, careful not to draw attention to herself as she passed the hall. Her robe, her boots, her very presence marked her as someone from the south, and she had no intention of being stopped or questioned by men who might still harbor resentment for the Val-E-Naa. The ‘conflict’ as they called it was in its second decade. To her people, it was only called war. She held her breath until she was well beyond the hall, finally exhaling when the clamor of the guards faded into the background.
Further down the road, her attention was caught by a figure approaching from the opposite direction. The man was unmistakably a magus—his flowing noble’s outfit, made of deep blue velvet and trimmed with silver thread, stood out starkly among the more practical attire of the common folk. His presence seemed to part the crowd as he strode purposefully, his chin held high and his stride confident.
Peela’s eyes lingered on his left hand, where the tattoos marked him as something specific: a twilight magus. The tips of four of his fingers were inked entirely black, the lines so dark and precise they seemed to drink in the light around them. With four marks, he wasn’t likely more than a practiced apprentice, but nonetheless she suppressed a shiver. If he marked her a magus, he would likely stop to sneer at her. The Raakonian magi were arrogant and looked down upon the Val E Naa witches and shaman. They were right to. He was likely a mage first, and everything else came a distant second. She was everything else first, and magic for her was a distant third, or fourth. She stepped to the side, allowing him to pass, and continued on her way.
The next street brought her a small moment of joy. Nestled between a leatherworker’s shop and an apothecary was a quaint bookshop. Its painted sign read Asteria’s Pages, and the display window was lined with books of all sizes and colors, their spines neatly arranged to entice passing readers. Peela paused to take it in, a faint smile tugging at her lips. There were no bookshops in the wastes, no shelves filled with words waiting to be explored. It was a luxury she rarely encountered. She debated stepping inside but decided against it for now. There were other matters to attend to, and nightfall was fast approaching.
Her stomach growled, pulling her attention to a nearby food cart. The vendor, a middle-aged goblin with a chef’s hat comically too large for his head, was busy assembling wraps stuffed with grilled meats and fresh vegetables. The smells wafting from the cart were irresistible—spices, charred edges of meat, and the earthy warmth of flatbread.
"One wrap," Peela said, fishing a few coins from her belt pouch.
The goblin handed her the wrap with a sharp-toothed grin. "Extra Breen sauce—on the house," he said with a wink.
Peela chuckled softly, nodding her thanks before finding a spot to sit near a public fountain. The fountain was a modest but beautiful piece, its stone basin carved with images of Raakonian knights and noble figures. Water spilled gracefully from the top, shimmering in the fading light.
She perched on the edge of the basin, unwrapping her food as she watched the steady stream of townsfolk passing by. The wrap was warm in her hands, the first bite sending a wave of flavor through her. It wasn’t anything like the simple meals of the Val-E-Naa, and for a moment, she allowed herself to savor the indulgence.
The noise of the city swirled around her—shouts of merchants, the clinking of coins, the distant neigh of horses—but here, by the fountain, she found a rare moment of stillness. She chewed thoughtfully, her mind drifting to her meeting with Tarlan later that evening. There was no telling what the man would reveal—or what price he might demand for his answers—but she was no stranger to bargaining. As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, the shadows of the buildings stretched across the streets. Peela finished the last bite of her wrap, brushing crumbs from her robe. Nightfall was drawing near, and with it, her appointment with the pawnbroker.