Salt-stained windows trembled as Rowan's fist struck the glass. "Einar!" Rowan’s voice shattered the cabin's stillness, breath fogging the pane as he pressed his face against it. "Pack your damned things. We are here. I see the port lights."

  The steady thrum of the ship beneath us shifted, a subtle lurch rippling through its timbers as the sails eased down with a sound like the snapping of great wings. Evening’s muted glow spilled over the edges of the horizon, bleeding into the darkening waves. Two nights at sea, and the ocean had already carried us far from everything familiar. Far from the cold winds of the north.

  “Pray we find a decent inn for the night,” I murmured, snapping the leather-bound notebook shut. My suitcase waited at the edge of the table, barely heavy enough to warrant the effort.

  Rowan threw himself onto the bed with a groan, sprawling like a man unused to long journeys. "There’ll be plenty of rooms. Don’t worry about that. Most’ve already taken the assessments by now. They would probably be on their way back to whatever hole they crawled out of."

  The lid of my suitcase creaked as I opened it, the faint smell of herbs rising from within. Sparse belongings greeted me: a folded tunic, a pouch of coins, a sidebag at the bottom, a leather-strapped notebook with ink and quill tucked in the corner, and my mother’s wand.

  Rowan leaned up, curiosity lighting his face. His grin widened, as though he were staring at the spoils of a king’s hoard. “So that’s the wand your mother used. Gods, I have been meaning to look at it again.”

  I lifted it from the resting place, feeling its familiar weight. The wood bit into my palm like some living creature that seemed to run from my grip. "She used it sparingly. I've seen her cast spells without breaking a sweat. Her mastery was..." I paused, searching for words. "Absolute."

  Rowan edged closer, fingers twitching as though tempted to touch it. "It’s rejecting your touch, doesn’t it? That’s firewood for you. Suited to flames, but fickle in the wrong hands. Add a core material, and it becomes a vessel for destruction. And these runes...” His voice softened, reverent. “Lux. Sol. Yol. Three runes of power on one stick. That's masterwork, that is. Only sorcerers who've tasted true power can have such things carved for refined use.”

  "You seem to know your way around a wand for someone who’s never held one."

  "You spend years studying what you never had, and you pick things up. Those runes are paths, Einar. Roads carved through the chaos of magic itself. With those etched deep, casting becomes as natural as breathing.”

  "And without them?"

  “You’d be fumbling with patterns and perfect incantations and focused essence. Imagine that, in the middle of a life-threatening duel, you’ll have to focus on your opponent while maintaining focus on the essence in nature for a spell.” His lips twisted into a lopsided grin. "It’s why most of them end up casting slowly or mastering that basic spell first. Not that it’s a bad thing. In a real battle... a heartbeat's the difference between living and dying."

  I slid the wand back into its place, closing the suitcase with care. "The school will teach us more of these runes of power."

  "Will this wand ever choose someone again?" His question echoed, filled with wistful longing. He pushed to his feet, stretching. "Come, let’s not linger."

  The ship's bells tolled above us as we stepped onto the deck, the crisp bite of salt-laden air filling my lungs. Around us, the crew moved like shadows, preparing the vessel to anchor. Several of us gathered at the rail, a ragtag mix of would-be students, travellers, and dreamers.

  Zenith rose from the island’s heart like a great castle, its five spires clawing at the darkening sky. Ancient walls wrapped around the central keep, while bridges stretched from the town to the island, their lanterns flickering like fallen stars. Dark forests pressed against the shores, endless and hungry.

  "Look at it," Rowan breathed as we walked the gangplank. "The first school of sorcery. Wonder how many secrets lie buried in those stones."

  I stared at the towering fortress, its silhouette cutting against the dying light. "Secrets. Perhaps answers."

  Etheril sprawled along the shore of the ancient school. Its streets curving in deliberate arcs. Every building seemed placed with care, from the stout stone inns to the sprawling taverns and even the brothels tucked into discreet corners. The cobblestones beneath our boots were clean and polished.

  Yet for all its order, the town itself felt empty. Taverns echoed with distant laughter, but the streets themselves grew quieter as the oil lamps flared to life. Shadows stretched long between the alleys, and an odd stillness clung to the air.

  "No rooms available," declared another innkeeper, his hands raised in apology.

  "Bastards," he growled as we walked away. "You'd think a town built around a bloody center of knowledge would have more than a handful of beds."

  “Most of these places cater to the rich,” I muttered. "Or the ones who’ve planned better than us."

  After scrambling for half an hour, we finally stumbled upon ‘Frosty Mead.’ We found it by accident. Its weathered sign swayed in the faint breeze, the iron chains creaking softly. The inn crouched at the edge of the street, its slanted roof and leaning walls giving it the appearance of a drunkard swaying after too many tankards.

  “That?” Rowan eyed it with open suspicion, crossing his arms. “It looks like it would collapse any minute.”

  “Do we have another choice?” I stepped forward, fingers brushing the iron door handle.

  He groaned, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "If there were rats in the room, I’ll make you catch them."

  I shoved the door open, the hinges groaning in protest. “Let’s hope they have a bed first.”

  The inn’s interior reeked of old stones and neglect. The air clung damp and heavy, laced with the faint tang of mildew and spices. A sickly orange glow flickered from a hearth by the side, its fire gasping against the weight of the shadows.

  “This place feels...” Rowan’s voice lowered as his eyes darted to the darker corners, where the flickering light refused to go. “Cursed.”

  I stepped further in, boots creaking against the floorboards. “I would say ’Forgotten’,” I murmured, my gaze sweeping the empty common room.

  Rowan adjusted the grip on his suitcase, his knuckles pale against the leather handle. “Bet we’re the first fools to step in here in days. Maybe weeks.” His eyes flicked to the rafters above, following a faint skittering sound. “This place must be filled with rats. We’ve already had plenty on the ship.”

  I ignored him, my focus drawn to the figure behind the counter. A stocky dwarf stood behind the counter with his immaculately groomed beard. Bottles lined the shelves behind his back, their contents too murky to identify, while tarnished tankards hung on hooks. He polished one absentmindedly, the cup already gleaming as though the act were more habit than necessity.

  His sharp eyes flicked up, pinning us in place with a glance as precise as a dagger’s edge. The silence stretched, broken only by the occasional pop of the dying fire.

  “Any rooms?” My voice cut through the stillness, even and measured.

  “Plenty,” he grunted. His words were clipped, every syllable blunt. “How long?”

  “One night. One room with two beds,” I answered.

  The dwarf held out a calloused hand without looking up. “Four copper pieces.”

  “Does that come with a meal, Sir?” Rowan shifted next to me, rummaging through the inside pockets of his coat. He counted the coins quickly and placed them into the dwarf’s waiting palm, but the man didn’t move to pocket them right away. His eyes flicked between us again, assessing and weighing, before he finally turned and stuffed the coins into a small iron box beside the keg on the counter.

  “Durin will be fine. And aye, two meals each,” he said, voice flat. “Sylvia!”

  The name seemed to stir the very air. A shimmer appeared beside us, faint as morning mist but growing brighter. The edges rippled like water disturbed by stones. Our breaths caught as the light solidified into a doorway torn from reality itself.

  From it stepped a creature that made my blood sing with recognition. She was slight, no taller than my chest, wrapped in an aura that bent firelight into dancing rainbows. Auburn hair floated as though underwater, each strand glowing like embers. Her eyes were green as spring forests, bright as cut emeralds. Transparent wings spread from her back, their edges traced with flame-light.

  “Yes, Father?” Her voice was melodic, but it lacked warmth.

  Rowan’s whisper was barely audible. “Einar... am I seeing this right? Is that... a fairy?”

  “It seems like it.” I nodded slowly, not taking my eyes off her. “Perhaps one of the few of her kind. Heard stories about them, they have long been extinct for ages.”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "She's..." Rowan's words died in his throat. “Incredible. Just look at her enchanting eyes and that otherworldly beauty. Shit, man. How can there be anyone so perfect like her?”

  “Careful,” I muttered, keeping my voice low. “That ‘incredible’ might turn you into ash if you gawk too long.”

  Durin grunted from behind the counter, his tone carrying the weariness of a man accustomed to her presence. “Sylvia, show them the room with two beds. And try not to scare them to death while you’re at it.”

  Her eyes lingered on Rowan for a moment longer, unblinking and cold, before she turned to the stairs. “Follow me,” she commanded, the single word carrying an authority that left no room for argument.

  She glided toward the stairs, wings shimmering with each step. Rowan nudged me as we followed, his expression torn between awe and nervous excitement.

  “Did you see that? Her wings, her hair, her figure. She’s like something out of a storybook.”

  "Watch the stairs before you trip," I muttered, though my own focus remained fixed on her. Something about her presence made me reach for her.

  The upper floor was darker, the hearth's glow barely reaching the narrow corridor. Sylvia stopped at the furthest door, her hand rising in a sharp gesture. Light surrounded the iron lock as she snapped her fingers, opening it with a soft click.

  "Your room," she said, voice cold as winter wind. Another gesture, and waves of power pulsed over the door. “Food will be served shortly. If you need anything else...” Her lips curled faintly, though the expression lacked humor. “...don’t bother.”

  She turned and descended, wings fluttering like dying butterflies.

  "Mother's mercy," Rowan breathed once she was gone. “I think I’m in love. I will take my chance with her.”

  "You're a fool," I replied, pushing the door open. "That's the first woman we've seen here, and whatever you're feeling comes from her enchanted nature."

  The room was sparse with two narrow beds, a small table, and a single window that let in the faint glow of the moonlight. The floor creaked as I stepped inside, the air carrying the faint scent of old wood and rats mixed with the faint scent of resin. Rowan dropped his suitcase onto the nearest bed, flopping down with a sigh.

  “It’s not much,” he muttered, bouncing the mattress slightly to test it out. “But it’s better than the cold floors of other inns, and a lot better than that sick cabin bed on the ship. There was that smell of fish everywhere...”

  I placed my sword and suitcase down, feeling the weight of the journey settle on my shoulders. “Let’s hope the meal is much better than the ship's food, too. The dry fish they served us wasn’t worth the coins we paid for.”

  The rich scent of stew hit us like a hammer as we trudged down the narrow corridor. The aroma swirled with spices sharp enough to awaken my old memories. My stomach knotted with a hunger that I hadn't felt in days, perhaps even weeks.

  Rowan walked beside me, stretching his neck as though shaking off the weariness of the road. “If that tastes even half as good as it smells, I’ll count it as a blessing,” he muttered, his voice low but hopeful. “Feels like I’ve been gnawing on salted meat for days.”

  The common room greeted us again, warmer now, though still dim. The fireplace burned with more purpose, though the flames clung to life like a wounded beast, casting jittering shadows across the stone walls. Wooden tables stretched out before us, their surfaces marred with the evidence of years filled with scars, gouges, and the faint sticky sheen of spilled drink long since dried. Most of the benches sat empty, save for two figures by the fire.

  One of them was Sylvia. Her expression was as frosty as ever, though for a fleeting moment, I thought I caught the hint of a smile on her lips. Beside her sat a girl I hadn’t seen before, with dirt-blonde hair that fell in loose waves and sharp hazel eyes that seemed to assess the room effortlessly. The way she spoke exuded confidence, and her every movement was elegant and precise as she ate stew from a wooden spoon, a tankard sitting beside her.

  Rowan was drawn to them like a moth to flame. He picked up his pace, shoulders rolling back, the faintest trace of his practised charm slipping into his posture. I sighed and kept my stride measured, trailing after him at a slower pace.

  Before joining Rowan's theatrics, I approached the counter. Durin still stood there, stocky frame braced against worn wood as he polished that damned tankard. His eyes flicked to me, nodded, then returned to his task.

  “Is the meal ready?”

  “Been waiting for you both. Sit beside the others.” He gestured toward the long table near the only presence in the room. “I’ll bring it over.”

  Rowan, oblivious to the quiet exchange, was already hovering by their table. “Uh, excuse me,” he began, voice unusually tentative. “I, uh... I wanted to apologize. For earlier. If I came off... rude. I’ve never seen a fairy before. And you’re, uh...” He hesitated, the words tripping over themselves. “Beautiful.”

  Sylvia's expression shifted like a blade catching light, a faint smile vanishing into a cold mask. Green eyes bored into him, unblinking and sharp. "First time seeing my kind?" She nods at me. "That one managed to keep his mouth shut. Unlike his companion, talking about my eyes, my wings… my figure?"

  Rowan flinched as his gaze darted to me for support. I raised an eyebrow, offering no reprieve.

  The blonde girl chuckled with amusement. "Go easy on him, Sylvia. He looks sincere, even if he's got the subtlety of a club."

  Sylvia’s wings gave the faintest twitch as she let out a resigned huff, crossing her arms. “Fine,” she muttered, her tone clipped. “You’re forgiven. But don’t make a habit of it. Our kind may find compliments pleasing, but not me.”

  Relief washed over Rowan's face like sunrise. "Thank you."

  I took my seat as Durin appeared with steaming bowls. He placed them without ceremony, but his eyes lingered on me longer than was comfortable before returning to his post.

  The stew was a revelation. One cautious bite unleashed a flood of warmth and flavour of soft potatoes and tender chunks of meat mixed with a blend of spices that hit like the memory of home. The heat spread through my chest, chasing away the fatigue of the day. For a moment, I sat at my mother's table, her humming filling the air, ladle's rhythm against the pot. The memory cut deep, and tears blurred my vision.

  "Einar... are you weeping over stew?" Rowan's voice held wonder.

  I wiped my eyes hastily, setting the spoon down. "It... reminds me of home. Of her."

  Behind the counter, Durin's lips twitched, stoic mask cracking to reveal pride's flicker. Even Sylvia glanced my way, hard edges softening before she turned aside.

  "Einar doesn't cry easily," Rowan declared, lifting his spoon like toast. "Durin, you've outdone yourself."

  Durin let out a gruff chuckle, but his sharp eyes never strayed far from me. “Credits not mine to take. Need an ale, boy?” His tone was light, almost teasing.

  I nodded. "Yes. Bring it quick."

  As he moved to pour, the blonde girl leaned forward, sharp eyes fixed on me. "You're strange," she said, curiosity colouring her tone. "Never seen men weep over supper."

  Rowan snorted, but I ignored the bait, focusing on my bowl. Small talk felt like an unnecessary effort. But Rowan, ever the diplomat, leapt in.

  “I’m Rowan, and that’s Einar,” he said, ever the diplomat. “We’re here for the school assessment.”

  She leans forward to the table, her smile easy. “Alina Eveline. And it’s the same for me.” The way she carried herself indicated that she was no ordinary student; she likely hailed from a well-established noble house. Yet, there was a quiet certainty about her that exuded humility rather than arrogance.

  Durin returned with two tankards of ale, setting it down with a heavy hand. But instead of stepping away, he sat beside me and leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I’ve a question for you, boy.”

  I tilted my head, meeting his gaze. “Go on.”

  He nodded toward the wolf-head statue mounted above the counter, its glass eyes catching the flicker of the firelight. “You see those eyes over there? That’s an artifact, it detects corrupted people and dark sources. When you walked in, it nearly flared. Doesn't happen often with humans. Only beings like elves, with their vast essence, can make it stutter. But it nearly flared for you. Either you've essence larger than elves, or..." He paused. "A tainted source. The latter's impossible for a human of your age."

  A chill settled over me with a question in my mind. Was it from my drekon heart and the untamed essence present in my body? I took a measured sip of the ale while keeping a neutral expression. The sharp yet sweet honey flavour grounded me, while its later bitterness was a welcome distraction.

  “I’m just an ordinary boy from the village, a human with common origins. Just a mere peasant.”

  “Ordinary, huh? Let’s say your essence feels... old. It doesn’t match up with your age, not many have this type of essence and can still walk freely among men. Sylvia has the same, but she is a fairy.”

  “Don’t you think your artifact may be faulty? There’s nothing unusual about me and my essence.”

  “I’ve seen a lot in my years. It carries a touch of corruption, much from another source. Tell me, have you been near death? Let's say, undead.”

  “My village was attacked by undead, lots of them. But it has been weeks since then. Can that cause it?”

  “Hmm? That can be the reason. Your essence may have absorbed the dark energy from that source, leaving a malicious touch to it. You should be careful, boy. That could cause problems if left untreated.”

  “Let’s say, there's something wrong with my essence, like you said. How do I tame it? Control it?”

  “Interesting... I’m not an expert on this, but you should consult the masters in the school. You would find many books on controlling your magic, but finding what your true essence is would be the most important part.”

  Rowan called out, breaking our muttering conversation. “What are you two whispering about over there?”

  Durin straightened, his jovial mask returning. “Just giving him tips for the trails.”

  He gets up from the table holding the empty tankard. But as he walked back toward the counter, his voice reached me one last time. “Don’t use magic without control unless you’re ready for the consequences.”

  I drained my ale in one pull, bitter taste grounding me. Standing abruptly, I said, "I'm for bed."

  Rowan blinked, spoon halfway to his mouth. "Right. I'll be up soon."

  I climbed the narrow stairs quickly, each step creaking under my boots, the warning heavy in my mind. Behind me, Rowan and Alina's laughter mixed with the crackling hearth, but it was the feeling of piercing green eyes on my back that made me quicken my pace.

  Coarse wool scratched my skin as I settled into the bed's embrace. The mattress felt firm yet welcoming, and warmth enveloped me like a long-lost lover. It eased the stiffness in my limbs, drawing me toward deep slumber's promise.

  But sleep, when it came, brought no peace.