*Date: 33,480 Third Quarter — Chalice Theocracy* - A month ago
Aris was packing his meager belongings while poking Fox to wake up.
"Come on, why are you packing?" Fox mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "We haven't even found a caravan yet."
"We need to go to Karakol Inn. The innkeeper can find us a caravan. Get up."
He forcefully roused the fox, who grumbled but complied. Then he went downstairs, paid his last tab to the innkeeper, and stepped out into the morning light with only seventeen copper to his name.
The streets were already busy. Merchants setting up stalls. Children running errands for their masters. Guards patrolling with disinterested eyes. Aris moved through them like a ghost, his mind already turning over the problems ahead.
A tournament. A Locke. A golem's heart.
And somewhere at the end of it all, a way home.
---
At the Karakol Inn, Firgo was still at his corner table, making deals with someone. Apparently, he used the establishment as his unofficial office. When he saw Aris enter, he gestured for him to wait.
Aris nodded and stood by the bar. Mustafa poured him a mug of water without being asked and winked.
When Firgo's customer finally left, Aris walked over and sat across from him. Fox settled at his side, alert and watchful.
"So." Firgo leaned back in his chair. "You talked with the Master." He produced a knife and began picking his teeth with its tip. "I'm a little offended not being asked to arrange the meeting. Also..." He let the words hang. "I was never compensated for my efforts."
Aris did not want to give in to his bullying or let Firgo scam him of his remaining coins. But he was desperate and alone.
"I... I don't have much..."
"Two silver is acceptable." Firgo smiled like a cat that had cornered a mouse.
"I don't even have that." Aris kept his voice steady. "Look, I'll be back in a month or so. I might need your talents. And god knows I need help from players I can trust."
"Oh, so so so." Firgo's eyebrows rose. "You want to increase the tab." He leaned back further. "Operating in this player-hating city will cost you, though."
"Master is sending me to the tournament. If I win..." Aris paused. "Well, I need to win. I'll come back with gold, I believe."
"If you win." Firgo rolled his eyes dramatically. "Look, kid, I know that since death is real, tournament contestants are fewer. But winning?" He smirked. "A teenager like you winning is near zero. How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen? Did you enter the game at fifteen?"
"Thirteen." Aris met his gaze. "I'm seventeen, I think."
"How many levels could you possibly have gained at that age?" Firgo laughed. "Don't make me laugh. Even with the below-fifty tournament, you will be crushed."
"Don't worry about that. I'm a student of the Master. Trust in that."
Firgo's eyes glinted at the mention of Marduk. "Can you make tier threes...?" His expression shifted from mockery to greed. "Tier fours, maybe?"
"For now, tier three." Aris kept his face neutral. "But all my ingredients have been confiscated. Do you have any?"
"Now you really want to increase your debt." Firgo tapped his knife on the table. "If you really can make tier threes, cook me some, and I'll give you ingredients."
"I can cook for you until I leave with a suitable caravan."
"You will be working hard today, then." Firgo grinned. "Because tomorrow there's one leaving the city. Go ask Mustafa."
---
Aris learned about the caravan and their whereabouts from the innkeeper. They were camped at the northern edge of the city, preparing for the long journey to Parthanon.
When he arrived, most of the traders were packing their portable shops onto their animals. Mules brayed. Horses stamped. Carts creaked under the weight of goods. The air smelled of hay and sweat and the faint spice of exotic wares.
Aris found the head of the caravan easily enough. He stood apart from the others, overseeing the organized chaos with a practiced eye.
Gront was an Orc. Tall. His body covered in dark green scales that caught the light. Even though his frame was that of a warrior, thick with muscle and scarred from old battles, his presence oozed something else entirely. A salesman's confidence. A merchant's calculation.
He had one elven guard at his left and one dwarven guard at his right. The elf was slender with pale hair and a longbow across her back. The dwarf was built like a barrel, his red beard braided with silver rings.
"Sir." Aris approached with his shoulders back. "My name is Aris. I'm seeking safe passage to the capital."
Gront looked Aris up and down. Then his gaze dropped to Fox and lingered there before he rolled his eyes.
"You don't seem to have coin for our safe travel." His voice was surprisingly cultured, not suiting his brutish appearance at all.
Aris fought to keep himself from laughing at the contrast. "Sir..."
"Master Gront is enough."
"Master Gront. Like you said, I have little coin."
"You will eat our rations and sleep in our tents, perfectly protected by my men." He placed his massive hands on the shoulders of his guards. "And you want free passage?"
Aris hesitated only a moment. "I'm a healer."
Gront's eye ridge rose. "What else?"
"I'm not a master, but I can also make useful potions."
"Do they have any worth?"
"Uh..." Aris felt his confidence faltering. "I can make them, but I don't have ingredients. Or a cauldron. Or vials to bottle them."
"What do you have?" Gront mocked, and he and his guards laughed heartily.
"What he has is his brain and his brave heart." Fox's voice cut through their laughter like a blade.
The laughter stopped.
Gront bent down slowly, his eyes fixed on Fox. "Oh. This is not an ordinary pet." He looked around, suddenly cautious. "You have the favor of the Creators, I see." He straightened and lowered his voice. "Are you a player?"
Aris tensed. "Is that a problem?"
"No... not really." Gront waved a hand. "I don't care." He clapped his hands together with a sound like thunder. "Okay, you can come. We have a dried herb seller and a glass merchant. You can brew for them on the road, and they can pay for your journey. You will also help our healer when we have wounded or ill."
Relief flooded through Aris. "Thank you, sir."
"Tomorrow morning. Be ready at the north gates. We're leaving with first light."
Aris thanked him again and hurried back to Karakol Inn.
---
He spent the rest of the day in Firgo's makeshift workshop, brewing potions with borrowed ingredients and a cracked cauldron. His hands moved from memory. Grinding herbs. Measuring liquids. Channeling the barest whisper of magic into the mixture.
By nightfall, he had produced three tier-three vials. Firgo examined them with barely concealed excitement, turning them over in the candlelight.
"Not bad, kid." He pocketed the vials. "Not bad at all."
"We're even?"
"For now." Firgo smiled. "But if you win that tournament, you're coming back here. We could make real money together."
Aris nodded and left without another word.
Tomorrow, the road to Parthanon. Tomorrow, the next step on a path he couldn't turn back from.