*Date: 33,480 Third Quarter — Chalice Theocracy to Kingdom of Satar* - A month ago
The caravan departed at first light, just as Master Gront had promised.
Aris stood at the back of the procession, watching the city walls shrink behind them. The Chalice Theocracy. Ivory Gate Academy. Lyra. All of it fading into the distance like a dream he could not quite hold onto.
*I'll come back for you*, he thought. *I promise.*
The caravan was larger than Aris had expected. Forty-three people in total, not counting the animals. Twenty-seven merchants and traders, each with their own specialty. Eight guards, including the elven archer and the dwarven warrior who flanked Master Gront. Three healers, though Aris was the youngest by far. Two cooks who doubled as wagon drivers. And a handful of others whose roles Aris had not yet figured out.
The animals numbered even more. Sixteen mules carried the heaviest loads. Eight horses pulled the larger wagons. Four oxen dragged a massive cart filled with glass wares, their movements slow and deliberate. And then there were the stranger creatures. A pair of horned lizards the size of ponies. A creature that looked like a cross between a bear and a badger. And one cage on wheels, pulled by a dedicated mule, that held shadows Aris could not quite see.
Fox trotted beside him, his black fur catching the morning light.
"This is a lot of people," the fox observed.
"Safety in numbers." Aris shifted his pack on his shoulders. "The roads aren't safe anymore. Bandits. Monsters. The usual."
"And us? Where do we fit?"
Aris looked at the long line of wagons and walkers ahead of them. "At the back, apparently."
---
They walked for six hours before Master Gront called for the midday rest. The sun hung directly overhead, hot and merciless. Aris found a spot of shade beneath one of the wagons and collapsed onto the grass.
His feet ached. His shoulders burned from the pack. But his mind was elsewhere, running through potions he could make and strategies for the tournament.
"You are the healer boy, yes?"
Aris looked up. A woman stood over him, middle-aged with weathered skin and kind eyes. Her dress was practical but stained with the residue of countless herbs.
"That's me."
"I am Helda. The herb merchant." She sat down beside him without waiting for an invitation. "Master Gront says you can brew potions."
"I can."
"Good. Because I have herbs and no buyer for them in Parthanon. Too much competition in the capital." She smiled. "But if you can turn them into potions, we both profit."
"What kind of herbs do you have?"
They spent the rest of the break discussing inventory. Helda had dried moonpetal, silverroot, and bitter ember. All common ingredients, but useful for basic healing drafts and energy tonics. Nothing that would let Aris make tier-three blood potions, but enough to keep him busy and fed.
---
The caravan moved again when the heat began to fade. This time, Aris walked beside Helda's wagon, listening to her stories about the trade routes and the changes since the gates closed.
"Used to be players everywhere," she said, her voice tinged with something between nostalgia and bitterness. "Coming through with gold and magic items. Buying everything. Selling nothing useful." She spat on the ground. "Now they hide. Pretend to be locals. Or they die."
"Not all players are bad."
Helda gave him a long look. "No. I suppose not."
---
As the artificial sun began its descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, Master Gront called for the evening camp. The caravan circled into a defensive formation, wagons forming a rough barrier against the darkness beyond.
Fires were lit. Tents erected. The smell of cooking meat drifted through the air.
Aris found himself summoned to Master Gront's fire along with Helda and another merchant. This one was a Fae man with delicate features and hands that moved with precise grace. He wore a vest covered in tiny pockets, each holding a glass vial or tool.
"Aris, this is Silvan," Gront said. "Our glass merchant."
Silvan inclined his head. "I have heard you are an alchemist."
"I know enough to be useful."
"Good." Silvan reached into his vest and produced three empty vials of exceptional quality. The glass was thin but strong, with stoppers that fit perfectly. "I can provide you with containers. In exchange for a portion of your work."
"How much of a portion?"
"One in four."
Aris considered. "One in five."
Silvan smiled. "Done."
They shook hands over the fire, and Aris felt something settle in his chest. For the first time since leaving the academy, he had a plan. A path forward.
---
He was halfway through his first batch of healing tonics when one of Gront's guards approached. The man was human, broad-shouldered with a scar across his chin.
"You're the healer?" he asked.
"One of them."
"Vorn needs you. The beastmaster." The guard jerked his thumb toward the edge of camp. "He's got a wound that won't close."
Aris packed his supplies and followed the guard through the maze of tents and wagons. They stopped at the cage on wheels, the one Aris had noticed earlier. Up close, he could see what was inside. A dire wolf, muzzled and chained. A pair of serpents coiled in a glass box. A creature that looked like a miniature griffin, no larger than a cat.
And standing beside the cage, clutching his arm, was the beastmaster.
Vorn was a halfling, but large for his kind. Nearly four feet tall. His face was round and weathered, with a thick beard that reached his chest. His eyes were sharp despite the pain that creased his features.
"You're the healer?" he grunted.
"Yes sir." Aris knelt beside him. "Let me see."
Vorn unwrapped the bandage around his forearm. The wound beneath was ugly. Bite marks, deep and ragged. The flesh around them was swollen and discolored, tinged with green.
"What bit you?"
"New acquisition." Vorn nodded toward the cage. "Shadow viper. Didn't know they could strike through the bars."
Aris examined the wound more closely. The infection was spreading, dark tendrils creeping up toward the elbow. Standard healing magic would not be enough.
"This is poisoned."
"I know that, boy. Can you fix it?"
Aris reached for his supplies. He had limited antivenom ingredients, but bitter ember could draw out toxins if combined with silverroot. It would hurt. A lot. Curing Touch then he thought.
"I can try. Wound will close but painful will be there."
"Pain I can handle." Vorn's eyes were hard. "Just make sure I keep the arm."
Aris worked quickly. He ground the herbs into a paste, then pressed it into the wound. Vorn hissed through his teeth but did not cry out. Then Aris channeled healing magic into the mixture, guiding it to target the poison rather than simply close the flesh.
It took nearly an hour. By the end, Aris was drenched in sweat, and Vorn was pale but breathing easier.
"Not bad." The beastmaster flexed his fingers experimentally. "Not bad at all."
"Keep it clean. I'll check on it tomorrow."
Aris was packing his supplies when Vorn spoke again.
"That's an interesting companion you have."
Aris froze. Fox had been sitting quietly beside him throughout the procedure, watching with those intelligent dark eyes.
"He's just a fox."
"Just a fox that happens to understand every word we say." Vorn smiled, revealing teeth filed to points. "I've been in this business forty years, boy. I know when an animal is more than it seems."
Fox's tail twitched but he said nothing.
"What do you want?" Aris asked carefully.
"I work for an establishment in the capital. Tartarus. We deal in rare and exotic beasts." Vorn leaned closer. "A talking fox would fetch a considerable price. Would you consider selling?"
"No."
"I could make it worth your while. Five gold. Ten, maybe."
"He's not for sale."
Vorn held up his hands in surrender. "Just asking. No harm in asking." But his eyes lingered on Fox as Aris walked away.