Temeria and Redania had shared a long, tangled friendship—plenty of stories where they loved each other one day and tried to gut each other the next. But this wasn't a history lesson. The point was the border itself: the Pontar River, a natural river that never froze over.
The border checkpoint was built on a small island in the middle of the river—a large stockade-fort raised from hardwood and jointly administered by both kingdoms. It could house over a thousand soldiers, and wooden bridges connected it to both banks.
Tonight, the Phantom Troupe's two-horse covered wagon was parked inside the checkpoint compound for the night. In peacetime, there wasn't much traffic through the post, which only made Victor's four-person crew stand out even more.
The southern bridge entrance was under Temerian authority. The toll had already been paid when they entered the fort, which meant they'd effectively left Temeria's jurisdiction—but until they crossed the northern bridge exit, they still couldn't be considered to have entered Redania.
A bonfire crackled in the camping area. Angoulême, Yoana, and Fergus warmed their hands by the flames, chatting about their grand plans for Novigrad—how they'd build something big there, like people heading for the great city with dreams stuffed in their pockets.
Victor lay on the wagon's roof, staring up at the stars, letting old memories drift through his mind.
The bright Pegasus constellation he remembered watching in another life had long since slipped away. Now that autumn had come, the night belonged to Orion. Different world or not, hunters were among the oldest professions there were—so it made sense they'd end up immortalized in the sky.
Of course, Victor's stubbornly antisocial habit of staring at the stars instead of joining the group didn't go unpunished.
"Hey, Vic! Thinking about Vishi again?" Angoulême called up with a grin. "Stop daydreaming—she's married!"
The three by the fire burst into laughter.
Vishi was the farmwife they'd met a few days ago in Mulbrydale when they stayed with a rural family. A mother of three, she made pancakes and roast chicken so good that Victor had practically fallen in love with her cooking. Before leaving, he'd even invited her whole family to head north with them to Novigrad, saying he was willing to add a food service department.
Sadly, the offer was politely refused. Vishi's husband was the village veterinarian, and their life in Mulbrydale was comfortable.
Victor didn't have any other intentions—he simply thought her food was excellent, and with rumors and predictions that Velen might turn into a wasteland once war arrived, he'd made the invitation out of plain goodwill.
As for Angoulême's teasing, she didn't mean anything by it either. She knew perfectly well there was nothing there… but when you got a chance to smear the boss a little, letting it pass would've been a shame.
While the group was laughing, someone walked toward the Phantom Troupe's camp.
"Evening, you lot!" The newcomer wore Redanian armor, and the decorations suggested he was at least a captain—probably higher.
The laughter by the fire died instantly, and all three of them naturally looked up at the wagon roof. A pair of boots appeared first over the edge, then Victor's face—already hidden behind his sunglasses.
That reaction alone was enough for the checkpoint officer, Patrick, to understand that the young man in shades was the leader.
"Long night," Patrick said with an easy grin. "Care for a chat?"
"My pleasure." Victor hopped down from the roof in a single smooth motion.
…
Before long, the fire was loud with laughter again. People who'd only just met were already acting like old friends, and a beer that had sold like wildfire in Temeria for thirty years—the Viziman Champion—was just as well-known in Redania.
As the saying went: Make a new friend, run into an old one—Viziman Champion, the drink you deserve.
After quick introductions, Patrick spoke again, already a little drunk.
"Ah… so you're heading into Redania to open a shop in Novigrad…" He squinted solemnly into his empty mug. "…Then you need to know who really rules that city: the one superpower and the Big Four."
He lifted the empty cup with exaggerated seriousness.
"Oh?" Victor raised the bottle and filled it for him. "Tell me everything."
Pleased at having an audience, Patrick smacked his lips and launched in.
"Novigrad is the holy city of the Eternal Fire. Most of the people inside those walls worship the Eternal Fire, and the church spreads from there across the north. That's the 'one superpower'—them."
He took a long drink, savoring the attention.
"Temple Isle has its own council, and beneath it there's the Temple Guard—an armed force with independent authority to enforce the law. Their reach covers every corner of the city. No other faith has room to breathe. Novigrad can't be separated from the Eternal Fire."
He paused, enjoyed the looks on their faces, then swallowed another mouthful of beer.
"And besides that one superpower, the 'Big Four' are Sigi Reuven, Whoreson—Cyprian Wiley, the King of Beggars Francis Bedlam, and Cleaver. Those four crime bosses each hold an economic artery in their hands."
Angoulême blinked, honestly surprised. "Wow. How does it end up being crime bosses who control the city's lifeblood?"
Patrick swayed his head as if the answer was obvious. "That's got history behind it. The story's long, so we'll skip it. Just remember this: the gangs and the Eternal Fire are the true owners of Novigrad."
He snorted.
"Hmph. And even if it calls itself a free city, Novigrad still pays taxes. If they ever decide not to, Philippa will make them regret it."
"Philippa?" Fergus perked up at the sound of a woman's name. "Who's that?"
"Philippa Eilhart. Royal adviser. Court sorceress." Patrick's tone turned impatient the moment he said it. "Before the king married, she had a hand in ruling the kingdom."
Fergus pressed, curious. "You don't sound like you like her much."
Patrick's expression soured. "Any patriot hates that damned whore. Can't deny she's got talent, though…" He waved his hand sharply. "Enough about her."
Yoana smoothly changed the topic. "So Novigrad's power structure is that complicated…" Since she'd be the master smith once their shop opened, she couldn't help asking, "Then where should we set up?"
"That depends," Patrick said, "on how much budget your boss has, and what kind of environment you want." As he spoke, his eyes slid to Victor.
Victor glanced at Yoana and Fergus. "Safety. Safety first. Business can be bad—hell, it can be terrible—but it has to be safe."
He continued, matter-of-fact. "Angoulême and I are often away on work, so safety matters more than anything."
Patrick chuckled. "Then I'd recommend you set up on Whoreson's turf. He's a cultured man, likes poetry. A lot of the city's brothels are on his side, plus casinos—and the fighting pits are his business too."
"Whoreson?" Victor's voice turned flat. "No. Our shop cannot be on Whoreson's turf."
Patrick shrugged and didn't ask why. He simply moved on.
"Then maybe try Cleaver. He's a hard-fighting dwarf, but he keeps his word. Hot temper, strict rules. Pay your protection fee and he'll guard you to the bitter end."
"Being under a dwarf's thumb isn't ideal either," Victor said. "Recommend someone else."
Patrick scratched his cheek. "'Bathhouse' Sigi Reuven and the King of Beggars in Putrid Grove—those two are similar. Both humans with power and brains."
"Forget it. Sigi Reuven isn't an option." Victor decided fast. "The alchemy workshop will probably be opened under Francis's sphere."
"The King of Beggars?" Patrick looked doubtful. "His territory's commerce is usually a mess."
"Bad business doesn't matter." Victor's tone was steady, confident. "Safety is what matters. And I never worry about demand for what I sell."
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