By the time they returned to Ivar’s family home, the mood had turned somber but resolute. They laid out the map on a table and marked the areas of the city to prioritize in their search.

  “That seneschal was hiding something,” Ivar said bitterly.

  “Without a doubt,” Kharg agreed. “But whatever he’s hiding, it won’t stop us. We’ll find Caspian another way.”

  The plan was simple yet methodical. They would use the map to divide the city into manageable sections. At each location, Kharg would perform his ritual to enter the dreamworld, extending the range of his search.

  Ivar began to perk up as they mapped out their search plan. With the map spread across the table, they marked the city with rough circles centered on a strategic location. Kharg quickly divided the city into manageable zones, his sharp mind assessing each district with precision.

  “We’ll start here,” Kharg said, pointing to their current location. “That gives us a baseline. Then we’ll move to the Stag and the Wolf at the crossroads between the Merchants’ and Noble districts. From there, the Enchanter’s Rest next to the Academy, and finally, the Adventurers’ Guild. That coverage extended over nearly half the city, including sections of the harbor and the ships moored there.”

  Ivar gave a thoughtful gesture, his brow furrowed in concentration. “And if that doesn’t work?”

  Kharg traced his finger along the map, marking additional potential locations. “We’ll look for an inn in the middle of the Revelry District, another in the Craftsmens’ Quarters by the harbor, and failing those, a few inns along the Harbor Road that separates the Revelry District from the Poor Quarters in the western part of the city. I’d rather avoid those areas. We’d stand out as targets for any unsavory types. Even the Food Markets have a slightly bad reputation, but luckily the circle around the Adventurers’ Guild will let us cover almost half of the Food Markets as well.”

  Satisfied with the plan, they cleared the table, moving it to the side of the room to create a workspace for Kharg’s ritual. From his satchel, Kharg produced a leather string knotted at carefully measured intervals. He handed his dagger to Ivar. “Hold the tip steady against the floor, just here,” he instructed, pointing to a spot in the center of the cleared space.

  Ivar obeyed, gripping the dagger firmly as Kharg looped the string around its hilt. Selecting the knot at three and a half feet, a length steeped in the old numerology where threes, sevens, and their combinations were said to hold greater power. With the chalk fastened to the knot, he began to draw. The leather string guided his hand in an arc, forming a perfect circle. Inside the circle, he sketched a five-pointed star where he carefully inscribed mystical runes and symbols along its edges. Each line was precise, each symbol etched with purpose. When the protective circle was complete, Kharg knelt beside it and gently placed the tips of his fingers on the line that made up the outer circle. Closing his eyes, he began to channel his mana into the chalk markings. A pale glow emanated from the circle as the protective energies activated and the symbols pulsed with a steady rhythm.

  Ivar watched in silence, his unease evident. “Is that really necessary?”

  When he was done, Kharg opened his eyes and gave Ivar a grave look. “It isn’t just a place of visions. It’s inhabited by spirits and entities that can be dangerous, even for the experienced. This protection circle is my safeguard. I wouldn’t risk entering unless it is absolutely needed without it.”

  He didn’t mention how much he still felt like a novice in this realm. Hrafun had been thorough in teaching him the basics of Spiritism, but Kharg was painfully aware of his limitations. The land of dreams, while a valuable tool, was a realm where you did not venture forth lightly unless you were reckless.

  The room grew heavy with anticipation as Kharg methodically arranged the items for his ritual. Ivar was slightly skeptical but his confidence in Kharg ultimately won out as he watched with a mix of curiosity and unease. Kharg carefully withdrew ten small bowls from his pouch and set them on the floor outside the chalk-drawn protective circle.

  “I’ll fill these with earth and water,” Kharg explained, his tone steady but not without a hint of excitement. With an incantation that rose and fell in pitch as if echoing the swell of waves, he summoned droplets of moisture from the air and condensed them into five of the bowls. The other five bowls he filled with soil, the pouch of earth he had earlier collected serving its purpose.

  “The elements will help me amplify my shamanic powers a little and increase the range of the location spell,” he said, alternating the bowls around the circle. Between the bowls, he placed candles and quartz crystals, their soft gleam adding to the atmosphere of mystical preparation.

  Finally, Kharg positioned a small bronze brazier near the circle’s edge, lighting it with a flick of his fingers. The flame crackled to life, its flickering glow casting long shadows on the walls. He sprinkled a handful of incense over the embers, and the air quickly filled with a heady, calming aroma.

  Ivar, his practicality unyielding even amidst such arcane proceedings, summoned a page to bring food. “If we’re going to be here for hours, we’d best not do it on an empty stomach,” he quipped. The page returned swiftly with a tray laden with bread, cheese, and slices of smoked ham. The two friends made quick work of the meal, though Ivar couldn’t help but cast glances at the increasingly arcane scene around them. Fafne, perched gracefully on the back of a sofa, observed everything with unnervingly keen eyes, his silvery scales catching the light of the brazier. The faerie dragon tilted his head as though considering the arrangement before him, occasionally puffing small clouds of harmless mist in apparent approval.

  When the meal was finished, Kharg carefully stepped into the ritual circle. His movements were deliberate and slow to avoid disturbing the intricate lines of chalk and runes. He lowered himself onto the floor, crossed his legs and straightened his posture before he let out a long, slow breath. Fafne watched him intently, the dragon unusually still, as if he was sensing the potential danger of the endeavor.

  He reached for his belt and unsheathed the dagger. After a momentary hesitation he pressed the blade against his lower arm and drew a shallow but deliberate cut. A thin crimson line welled up. Alongside it surged something deeper than magic, drawn from his own life-force, willingly offered. A single drop of blood fell onto the runes and vanished the instant it touched the chalk, absorbed into the weave of the ritual.

  Ivar watched with a pale, drawn face.

  Kharg began to chant in a rhythmic cadence as his voice took on a low deep timbre.

  Ivar could feel how the air thickened with stirring magic but even this close he could not discern what it was. He had learned to discern the difference between Earth, Air and Water and also learned to identify several of the intangible ones. But this Spiritism, as Kharg had called it, resembled nothing he had ever sensed before. But it held power, that much he could tell.

  The flames in the brazier flickered and began to move in sync with Kharg’s incantation, while the air grew heavy with a tangible, pulsing energy. The candles flared, their light merging with the glow of the quartz crystals, amplifying the unseen flow of magic.

  To Ivar, the words felt strangely familiar—not in sound but in meaning. He could almost grasp them, as though a part of him recognized the language but refused to fully understand. The power of Spiritism teased at comprehension, slipping just beyond reach, neither foreign nor fully known.

  For Kharg, the transition was slow, like stepping into deep water, each breath sinking him further into the plane of mist and echoes. The mists grew around him, a hazy mirage of the physical realm with edges that shimmered in translucent unreality.

  The room was still there, yet different. Shadows stretched too long, light glowed from no source, and the very air pulsed with the faint, drifting whispers of spirits. Near him, the spectral echoes of Fafne and Ivar took form. Fafne’s spiritual presence radiated, playful and fluid, bound to Kharg by a thread of energy that could not be seen, yet was felt as surely as a tug on the mind. Ivar’s form, though solid, was vague and dimmed as if far away.

  His breathing was slow and steady as he took some time to center himself, then he ensured that he was fully anchored inside the circle. Hrafun had taught that the danger of spirits was always present but he saw no flaws in the circle reflected over here. A quick, confident smile flashed across his face as he looked at its softly glowing outer circle that served as a reassuring barrier against unwelcome entities.

  Sitting cross-legged even here, he wove spiritual energy into questing tendrils that stretched out like invisible threads in all directions. The tendrils felt their way through the mists, searching for an echo of the marker he had placed on Caspian.

  The dreamworld pulsed with its own eerie rhythm, yet the marker remained elusive. Kharg let more power flow into the magic, extending the threads even farther, but still, the echo eluded him. It was both a relief and a frustration. Caspian was not within range, the lack of results meant their task was far from over, and Kharg began the process of resurfacing. The mist-laden whispers receded, dissolving like fog in sunlight. His breath deepened as his senses gradually reeled back into the physical world. The protective circle’s glow dimmed, its energy dissipating as the last remnants of the spell faded.

  Kharg opened his eyes. His expression was calm, but there was a lingering weight behind his gaze, the kind that came from brushing against something far beyond mortal understanding. He flexed his fingers slowly, as if reacquainting himself with his own body. An unpleasant sting on his forearm reminded him of the blood he had given to fuel the spell.

  He released a slow breath, eyes shifting to Ivar. “Nothing,” he said simply. “He’s not within range. We’ll move to the next location.”

  Ivar nodded, but he did not move immediately. His eyes flickered down, and Kharg followed his line of sight to the thin, drying streak of blood on his arm.

  “You cut yourself,” Ivar finally said, voice carefully neutral.

  Kharg wiped the small wound with his thumb, rubbing away the dried crimson. “I did.” His tone was matter-of-fact, neither apologetic nor defensive.

  Ivar was silent for a long moment before he looked up. “You needed to, didn’t you?” There was no accusation in his voice, only the quiet demand for understanding.

  Kharg studied him, mulling over his words. “For something this strong?” He gave a slow, deliberate gesture. “Yes. The dreamworld is… vast. If I were only skimming the edges, I could rely on ambient energy. But to reach further, I needed more.” He flexed his hand. “Shamanic magic requires life-force, not mana like our normal magic. This takes the form of letting blood.”

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  Ivar let out a quiet breath, rolling his shoulders as though releasing tension he hadn’t noticed creeping in. He trusted Kharg, of that, he was certain. But watching him bleed for his magic, seeing power pulled from something so raw and unfiltered… it unsettled him in a way he hadn’t expected. “I’ve seen you pull off plenty of magic without cutting yourself open,” he finally muttered, keeping his tone light but unable to fully mask his unease.

  Kharg’s lips twitched in amusement. “You’d be surprised how many spells require a cost, you just don’t always see it.”

  Ivar gave him a long, unreadable look, then sighed, shaking his head. “Let’s just find Caspian.”

  That, at least, they could agree on.

  Kharg gave a brief motion of acknowledgment, and together, they began packing up the ritual components, readying themselves for the next attempt.

  * * *

  The streets of Varakar were alive with the hustle and bustle of the late afternoon as Kharg and Ivar navigated their way to the Stag and the Wolf. This inn was a landmark of the city, a towering, half-timbered five-story structure perched prominently at the intersection of the Noble District and the Merchants’ District. Its prime location guaranteed a steady flow of patrons ranging from affluent merchants to adventurers and richer travelers passing through the city.

  The thoroughfare had been crowded today, so much so that the walk had taken thrice as long as normal. Normally his fine attire and confident stride made the press of people ease back a little, but not today. When they approached the crossroads, the pace slowed to a crawl and the cacophony of the street vendors hawking their wares was drowned out by the angry shouts and curses from a pair of guards wearing the colors of a nearby noble’s carriage. Their ire was directed at a merchant whose wagon had lost a wheel and blocked everyone. Kharg cast a glance at Ivar, who shrugged with an exasperated smile.

  “It’s always like this here,” Ivar commented, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the din.

  “Not like this,” Kharg muttered, tightening his grip on his money pouch as he forced his way through. The last fifty yards were a tangle of elbows and shoulders before they broke free at the inn. Its grand fa?ade brought an approving smile from Kharg with the polished wooden beams and carved stone accents hinting at the establishment’s well-earned reputation. The gilded sign swinging above the entrance depicted a stag and a wolf locked in a playful frolic, a whimsical image at odds with the inn’s steep pricing.

  The scent of myrrh and roasted lamb met them as they stepped into a high-ceilinged entry hall, its marble floor gleaming with polish. Beyond, the common room exuded restrained luxury—travelers in velvet and brocade sipped mulled wine or conversed in low tones near a white-stone hearth carved with hunting scenes. Soft lute music played somewhere near the far wall

  A man in gray velvet looked up from behind a polished desk as Kharg approached. “A room, sir?”

  “Small, clean, private,” Kharg said.

  “Forty pennies for the night.”

  Kharg blinked, incredulous. “Forty? For a small room?”

  “That’s the rate.” The man’s tone didn’t change. “We offer discretion and quiet.”

  Kharg grumbled but begrudgingly handed over the sum, knowing that arguing would only waste more time. “Robbery,” he muttered under his breath, pocketing the room key. Ivar smirked but said nothing, clearly amused by his friend’s indignation.

  The pair wasted no time in setting up. The room, though modest, was clean and served their purpose. By now, Ivar knew what was needed and helped to expedite the setup, positioning the bowls and lighting the candles with care. Kharg drew the protective circle, adding the five-pointed star and mystical runes with deliberate strokes of chalk. The brazier was lit, and soon the room filled with the scent of incense, blending with the lingering aroma of the inn’s common room below. Kharg channeled his power into the circle which responded with a pale glow and then took a cross-legged position in the middle and closed his eyes.

  Ivar rubbed his cheek ruefully as he looked at Kharg with his erect posture. Somehow his friend appeared to be fully relaxed but Ivar could not understand how, he would never have been able to cross his legs like that. A sudden flare from the glowing runes startled him, causing him to nervously scrutinize the glowing runes and the small brazier.

  Kharg sank into the trance again, his descent as slow and deliberate as before. The semi-translucent mists of the ethereal plane coiled around him, and the spectral echoes of the room took shape in shades of gray and silver. The dreamworld mirrored the physical space, yet an oppressive stillness hung over it, a tension that seemed to lean in and listen.

  Without warning, the mists split apart. A malignant spirit surged forth, a writhing mass of shadow shot through with hate-filled eyes. It came on fast, a wave of malice so palpable that Kharg froze where he knelt. It hurled itself at him, only to be stopped a few feet short. The runes of the protective circle flared, their light striking the spirit like unseen spears. The thing recoiled with a shriek, its form shuddering before it began to pace the boundary, hissing and howling its hatred. Clawed shapes lashed out, raking at the unseen barrier, and each touch sent it jerking back as if burned. Kharg’s breath came fast, but the circle held. He forced his shoulders to settle and his grip on fear to loosen.

  Steadier now, Kharg turned his mind back to the work as he forced himself to ignore the spirit. Calling on the locator spell, he sent tendrils of spiritual energy curling outward into the mists, seeking the faint echo of the marker he had placed on Caspian. The threads reached far into the gray distance, but they brought back nothing. Caspian was nowhere within reach. Disheartened but determined, Kharg withdrew his spiritual tendrils and began the careful process of leaving and returning to the physical realm. The spirit lingered on the edge of the circle, but Kharg ignored it, confident in his protections. As the mists faded and the physical room came back into focus, he opened his eyes to find Ivar watching him intently.

  “Anything?” Ivar asked, his voice taut with anticipation.

  Kharg shook his head. “Nothing. We’ll try again at the next location.”

  They packed up quickly, erasing all traces of their ritual from the room. Kharg was meticulous, ensuring that no runes or markings remained, and that the bowls and candles were securely stowed. Once satisfied, they left the Stag and the Wolf and headed toward the Enchanter’s Rest near the Academy, an inn known for its proximity to the Academy and its regular clientele of mages and scholars. Though Kharg had never actually been there, mainly because Dagny hated the place and found it overly gaudy and not very genuine. It was a bit smaller than the Stag and the Wolf, merely three stories tall, but aptly named. The arcane symbols that adorned the wooden sign swinging above the entrance glowed with a pale light, clearly enchanted. Though such enchantments would be costly, Kharg mused that the innkeeper might have made a deal with an enchanter for free food and lodging.

  The common room was a testament to the inn’s reputation as a haven for magic users. Shelves lined the walls, filled with arcane paraphernalia. Scroll cases, crystal orbs, and small, softly glowing gemstones decorated every surface. A tapestry depicting a swirling vortex of elemental forces dominated one side of the room, and the scent of incense mingled with the aroma of hearty stews wafting from the kitchen. Conversations in hushed tones filled the space, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter from a group of journeyman students seated near the hearth.

  The innkeeper was a middle-aged man with streaks of silver in his dark hair and a faintly glowing medallion around his neck. “A room for the evening,” Kharg sighed and slipped a dozen pennies onto the counter. The man gave him an appraising look and replied, “half again as much.” With a grumble, Kharg handed over the requested coins and the man beamed a smile at him. “Second floor, first door on the left,” he said, handing over a small iron key. “Don’t go casting anything that’ll leave scorch marks or summon unwanted guests,” he added with a wry grin.

  An hour later they stood on the street outside the Enchanter’s Rest again. The day’s efforts had been fruitless and they reviewed their options. “It’s getting late,” Kharg said, rubbing his temples. “We’ll have to continue tomorrow. There are still other parts of the city to cover.”

  Ivar’s expression softened slightly. “You’re right. We’ll regroup in the morning. Where will you stay tonight?”

  Kharg paused and frowned briefly, then he recalled the Lodging House at the Adventurers’ Guild. “I think I’ll head back to the Guild. They have rooms for members and it’s closer than the HQ.”

  “Then I’ll meet you at the Guild tomorrow, around noon.” Ivar smiled.

  “Mention my name to the guards in front and they’ll fetch me.” Kharg replied and turned down the street, his mind churning with a mixture of worry for his friend and the practicalities of the next steps. The city was vast, and the task of finding Caspian seemed daunting.

  As Kharg approached the Adventurers’ Guild beneath the darkening evening sky, the crowds on the street had thinned slightly, and the setting sun at his back stretched his shadow long across the cobblestones. The guard at the front stood tall and imposing, but parted to let Kharg inside when they saw him. Apparently, he had made an impression already since they knew him by sight. Something he figured would not be the case for everyone, like Aster and Jahram for instance. The muted sounds of laughter and the occasional clatter of equipment drifted from within, creating an atmosphere of camaraderie and purpose.

  Kharg crossed the yard and entered the main mansion. At the clerk’s desk near the entrance, a bespectacled man in simple yet neat attire looked up and smiled as Kharg approached. “Ah, Kharg, good to see you,” the clerk said, shuffling some parchments aside. “Congratulations on completing your first mission. Your status has officially been updated to full-fledged recruit.”

  Kharg made a subtle gesture of thanks. “Thank you. Are there any rooms available for tonight?”

  “There are,” the clerk confirmed, flipping through a ledger. “You’re assigned to Room 12B in the Lodging House. Nothing fancy, but it’s quiet and private.” He slid a small brass key across the desk. “If you need anything, just ask. And again, well done on the mission.”

  Kharg stepped back outside and made his way toward the Lodging House, nodding greetings to a few adventurers along the way. The building stood near the southern wall at the rear of the guild grounds, its corridors lit by softly burning oil lamps. His assigned room was modest but clean, with a simple bed, a sturdy desk, and a small chest for personal belongings. He dropped his satchel on the desk and stretched out on the bed without even removing his boots. A casually invoked shamanic spell warded him against bugs, just in case.

  He tried to relax, but his mind could not stop considering the next steps. The day’s failures had been frustrating but not fully unexpected. His location spells had not yet covered more than half of the designated area they had deemed most likely to house his friend. He was a little irritated at himself also for not covering more of the harbor with the first spell. He should have selected an inn closer to the waterfront. What if Caspian had been taken aboard a ship and was about to be shipped away? In retrospect, he felt a bit foolish. That was probably the most urgent of the risks and he had overlooked that. Then a sudden thought struck him, and he muttered a curse under his breath.

  “Of course,” he muttered. “Spirit Ward and Spirit Barrier. How could I forget?”

  These were fundamental protections in the spiritual arts. The Spirit Ward wove protective energies into the caster’s own spirit, strengthening it and shielding against spiritual attacks. The Spirit Barrier was a physical manifestation of spiritual energy, forming a ward to keep malignant entities at bay. Both were essential for safe travel in the dreamworld, and Kharg couldn’t believe he hadn’t used them earlier. He knew there were far more powerful versions of the wards he had learned, but hoped these would be enough in case his circle somehow failed.

  Kharg pushed the bed aside to make room for the circle and quickly finished his preparations. It did not take long to enter the world of dreams once more, his growing experience making the transition smoother. The swirling mists welcomed him, and he immediately wove the protective spells. Spirit Ward enveloped his ethereal form like a comforting aura, while the Spirit Barrier glowed dimly in the air, forming a translucent dome of protection around him.

  Satisfied with his precautions, Kharg turned his attention to the locator spell. Whispering the incantation, he extended his spiritual senses outward, sending threads of energy to seek the echo of the marker he had placed on Caspian. This time, the result was different. A muffled, distant resonance answered him, emanating from the direction of the Food District. It was a faint but unmistakable echo, almost at the limit of his range for the spell.

  Encouraged by the discovery, Kharg decided to test the limits of his range. Steeling himself, he left the circle and moved through the spiritual version of the Guild, pushing through the walls of his room. The sensation was strange, like wading through heavy water, but he emerged on the other side into the distorted reflection of the Guild’s yard. As he approached the outer boundary of the Guild’s premises, however, he encountered resistance. The force was subtle at first, a weak pressure against his spirit, but as he tried to pass through, it repelled him forcefully, as though he had walked into an invisible barrier.

  “A protection ward,” Kharg realized, frowning. It made sense that the Guild would protect its grounds in both the physical and spiritual planes, but the realization frustrated him. Unable to push through, he returned to his room and re-entered the prime plane.

  By now, the late hour and the day’s exertions were weighing on Kharg. Though he itched to act on his newfound lead, he knew better than to proceed without rest. As he lay down on the simple cot, Fafne curled up on a nearby shelf and gave a soft trill, as if offering reassurance.

  “We’re closer,” Kharg murmured to himself, his thoughts already planning the next day’s efforts. Closing his eyes, he let the steady rhythm of his breathing lull him into sleep, ready to face whatever challenges awaited him come morning.