Kharg swallowed the knot of tension rising in his throat and nodded, taking strength from the silent assurance. Lifting the crossbar with measured care, he eased it aside, the wood making a disturbing scrape that seemed deafening in the stillness. With a steadying breath, he pushed the door open, the hinges creaking slightly as it swung inward.

  The room beyond was dark, the air heavier than the outer chamber. Conjuring a small globe of light, Kharg cast it into the space, its soft glow illuminating the figure of Caspian lying crumpled on a bed of straw and burlap sacks. His friend’s cheeks were hollow, his face pale and drawn, with dark shadows beneath his eyes that spoke of exhaustion and deprivation. Despite his disheveled appearance, there was no sign of grievous harm.

  Kharg stepped inside, the orb of light following him like a faithful servant. He crouched beside Caspian, gently shaking his shoulder. “Caspian,” he whispered, his voice low but insistent. “It’s me, Kharg. Wake up.”

  Caspian stirred, his eyelids fluttering open. For a moment, his gaze was unfocused, his expression one of confusion. But recognition dawned quickly, and he let out a hoarse whisper. “Kharg…? You found me?”

  “Of course,” Kharg replied softly, offering a small smile. “But we need to move. Can you stand?”

  As Caspian struggled to sit up, Kharg unclasped his pouch and pulled out a plaque of polished horn. Murmuring an incantation, he invoked the spirits to lend their healing energies. A soft, golden glow enveloped Caspian, easing his breathing and restoring a fraction of his strength. The pallor in his face lessened, and he straightened slightly, though the exhaustion in his eyes remained.

  With Kharg’s steadying arm, Caspian rose shakily to his feet. He leaned heavily on Kharg at first, but managed a few uncertain steps toward the outer room. As they passed through the doorway, his eyes widened at the sight of Halidor, who stood silently, his expression one of measured calm.

  “You brought backup?” Caspian croaked, glancing nervously between Kharg and the imposing figure of Halidor.

  Kharg grinned crookedly. “Let’s just say I had help. But this is still my operation.”

  Halidor’s grin deepened, his eyes flickering with quiet amusement as he folded his arms. “Don’t mind me,” he said lightly. “I’m only here if things go south.”

  Caspian stared at the mage, clearly unsure of how to respond. Kharg gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’re in no shape to fight, and I need you to rest here while I take care of the rest.”

  “But…” Caspian began, his voice tinged with protest.

  Kharg cut him off with a firm look. “Trust me on this, Caspian. You’ll just slow me down right now, and I can’t afford that. Sit, breathe, and let me handle this.”

  Caspian hesitated, his pride warring with his clear need for rest. After a moment, he gave a reluctant nod and sank into the chair the guard had vacated earlier, only then noticing the guard who lay crumpled on the floor beneath the table.

  Steeling himself, Kharg extinguished the glowing orb of light, plunging the room into a thick gloom. Only the dim, flickering glow of an oil lantern hanging from a hook on the ceiling remained, casting long, wavering shadows across the rough-hewn walls. The air felt heavy and damp, carrying the muted acrid smell of mold and old wood.

  The sounds from Kharg’s boots were muffled, but the stairs creaked in protest as he ascended them. Kharg took mental notice that not all could be solved with his spells. At the top he paused, testing the hatch at the top with a cautious hand. To his relief, it lifted with ease, but a sharp, grating squeak pierced the silence. Wincing, Kharg froze, listening intently for any signs that the noise had been heard above. When none came, he abandoned subtlety, pushing the hatch open fully and quickly ascending the remaining steps.

  The storage room above was cramped and cluttered. Barrels and crates were stacked haphazardly along the walls, the wood damp and worn from years of use. The barest scent of dried herbs mingled with the stale air, and Kharg’s sharp eyes caught the glint of rusted nails sticking out of some planks. Two thick ropes, coiled neatly, on hooks hung from one side, alongside a second oil lantern, its flame barely alive but enough to throw dim light into the shadows.

  Thanks to the darkvision potion, Kharg’s surroundings were clear as daylight to him, every detail sharp and distinct. He scanned the room quickly, noting the wooden floorboards, warped and stained, that made the hatch blend seamlessly into the surface when closed. It would have been easy to miss from above, a clever, hidden feature that spoke to the house’s use for secret dealings.

  Kharg’s thoughts sharpened as he readied himself for what might come. He flexed his fingers briefly, channeling a small thread of mana as he prepared a distraction. He murmured a few words, and the illusion took shape—a towering knight in full plate, horned helmet gleaming, and a tabard marked with the crest of a Sarheedean house. The knight stood poised near the far end of the room, its sword raised as though ready to strike. It was a trick Kharg had used before, one that often bought him precious time in moments of danger.

  Before he finished weaving the spell, a muted creak echoed from the stairwell above. Kharg tensed, pressing himself into the shadows as the door swung open and a gruff voice called down.

  “You’re supposed to guard him, not drink the ale, Rulk,” the voice growled.

  The speaker paused, a hint of suspicion creeping into his tone. Kharg heard the shuffle of boots as the man stepped closer. Then, peering down the stairs, he spotted both Kharg and the knight. His eyes widened in alarm.

  “Intruders!” he barked, slamming the door shut with a loud bang.

  Kharg’s jaw tightened as the sounds of hurried movement and shouted orders erupted from above. The voices were agitated, a mixture of anger and confusion. He dodged behind a stack of barrels for cover and considered the next move. His conjured knight stood unmoving, a sentinel in the gloom.

  It didn’t take long for the door to crash open again, and the twang of a crossbow followed. A bolt zipped through the air, striking the illusory knight squarely in its chest. The bolt passed harmlessly through the knight and struck the wall behind with a thud. The distraction worked. Kharg seized the moment, whispering an incantation as he shifted from conjuring spikes to arrows. Precision was too hard to maintain in the chaos, and power had to take its place. A translucent arrow of air formed beside him, almost impossible to see in the gloom.

  He stepped into view just long enough to release the projectile, the air humming as the arrow struck its target. The crossbowman cried out in pain and clutched his arm where the arrow had struck. But another figure appeared in the doorway, firing a second bolt at Kharg. He deflected it effortlessly with a force-block, barely slowing his pace.

  The illusory knight charged toward the stairs, its armored boots clanging loudly in a convincing display. The courage of the two crossbowmen broke and they retreated out of sight.

  It stormed up the stairs with Kharg close behind, already weaving an aerial arrow. The thugs, sharper than expected, had seen through the illusion and held their ground. They ignored the knight and took positions on either side of the doorway, waiting for Kharg to ascend. The moment Kharg appeared, one thug lunged at him from the left with a shortsword. The other rushed in from the right with a serrated dagger flashing in the dim light.

  Kharg reacted instantly. He dove forward in a controlled roll, his reflexes honed from many hours of sparring and practice. The shortsword swung down, narrowly missing him even as he dropped the weave of the arrow and hissed a single word to force-block the blade. The spell caught the dagger too, which missed its mark and sliced only empty air as Kharg came up fluidly to his feet in the center of the room.

  He drew his rapier with a swift, fluid motion as he spun around to face the thugs who hesitated for a brief moment, taken by surprise by his evasion and use of magic. That moment of hesitation was all Kharg needed. He conjured a sharp blade of air in a hissing voice that made the thugs pause even more. With a mental nudge, he swung the conjured blade in a quick attack that caught the first thug by surprise. The blade sliced cleanly through his throat. The cut so precise his shocked expression lingered for a moment before he collapsed, clutching his neck as blood spilled across the planks.

  Simultaneously with the aerial blade’s attack, Kharg executed a long thrust straight out of the fencing manual his old master had drilled into him. His rapier extended with perfect form, driving far deeper than the second thug expected. The blade pierced the thug’s eye, the force of the strike driving it through the skull with lethal efficiency. The thug’s body crumpled instantly and sank lifeless to the ground.

  Breathing steadily, Kharg stepped back to regain his posture, his rapier poised defensively as he scanned the room for any further threats. The only sounds were the flicker of lanterns and the muted gurgling of the man on the floor. The chaos of the encounter dissipated as swiftly as it had erupted. He allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. The techniques drilled into him by his fencing master had served him well, and his quick thinking had turned a potentially disastrous ambush into a decisive victory.

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  But there was no time to revel in it. Kharg wiped his blade on the thug’s tunic and turned toward the next challenge. Distant echoes deeper in the house reminded him that the fight wasn’t over. Kharg's grip tightened on his rapier as he steadied his breath, the adrenaline beginning to ebb. Only then did he notice Halidor ascending the stairs with unhurried grace, his expression calm and composed. The older man gave Kharg an approving nod, his encouraging smile suggesting he was no stranger to moments like this.

  For Kharg, however, the reality of his actions was beginning to settle in. The heat of battle had justified the swift violence, he had acted to save Caspian, to survive. But the aftermath felt heavier than he had anticipated. A queasy sensation churned in his stomach as he glanced at the now lifeless bodies on the floor. He stood still for a moment before forcibly looking away, focusing instead on the task ahead.

  Surveying the room, Kharg noted the kitchen’s utilitarian layout, rough-hewn counters, shelves lined with mismatched pots and pans, and the pleasant scent of cooked meat lingering in the air. His sharp hearing picked up hurried footsteps from the floor above, accompanied by agitated voices calling out to one another. The fight wasn’t over yet.

  Halidor’s voice was a steadying force. “The choice to act is never easy,” he said softly, his eyes briefly meeting Kharg’s. “But we move forward. Always forward.”

  Kharg gave a curt nod, steeling himself as he prepared for the next confrontation. He then dismissed the knight with a sharp wave of his hand, the illusion dissolving into wisps of translucent air that faded into the shadows. He took a moment to breathe, centering himself as he reflected on the failure of the illusion. They must have picked up on how the bolt flew straight through the illusion. Maybe he should also begin to practice illusions of an immaterial undead.

  Turning his attention to the task at hand, Kharg stepped cautiously into the hallway. The shutters on the front windows were drawn tight, shutting out the midday sun and leaving the interior dim. An oil lantern hung from a wall bracket, its flickering flame casting wavering shadows across the uneven floorboards. Even here, much of the space lay in deep shadow, and he moved with purpose, his sharp eyes scanning the area with the enhanced clarity provided by the darkvision potion.

  Ahead, an open doorway revealed a small room. Beds with rumpled linens and poorly stuffed mattresses lined the walls, their frames made of uneven wood that looked hastily assembled. Kharg paused at the threshold, his rapier raised slightly as he leaned in to survey the room. It was empty, devoid of both occupants and further exits. Satisfied that no threats lay within, he turned his attention to the narrow corridor on his left.

  The passage stretched a short distance before bending sharply. Kharg moved forward, his steps measured and silent against the worn floorboards. The air here was heavy and stale, carrying faint traces of unwashed bodies and old meals, mingled with the earthy dampness that seeped in from the basement below. He rounded the corner and spotted a flight of stairs leading upward. The wooden steps were steep and worn with age, their surface darkened by years of use. Kharg’s grip on his rapier tightened as he approached, senses on high alert for any sign of movement above. The muted creak of a step and a muffled voice filtered down, confirming the presence of someone at the top.

  He approached carefully, his senses heightened by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. As he peered up the stairs he spotted a thug who threw a dagger at him. With a flick of his wrist and a whispered word, he summoned a force-block and deflected the weapon harmlessly to the side. The dagger clattered against the wall before falling to the floor. He rushed up the stairs and locked eyes with the attacker—a wiry man in his thirties with a scraggly beard and a deep scar that crossed his left cheek and ran over a milky, ruined eye. The thug’s ragged clothes and wild demeanor would have been intimidating to most, but Kharg’s pulse was thumping and his confidence bolstered by the invigorating effects of the third potion.

  Seeing his attack thwarted, the thug hesitated only for a moment before stumbling back until his back hit the far wall as he struggled to pull a second dagger from the belt. He cursed under his breath and lunged viciously at Kharg with desperation shining in his eyes. Kharg moved instinctively, stepping back just enough to avoid the blade’s arc. His rapier flashed as he countered with a precise thrust and drove the tip into the thug’s abdomen. The man’s eyes widened in shock and pain as he staggered backward, collapsing onto the floor with a guttural groan. Kharg didn’t lower his guard immediately. He kept his rapier poised, scanning the landing as he strained to catch any hint of movement or sound. The two doors on either side of the landing remained closed, their worn surfaces offering no indication of what lay beyond.

  Kharg stood still for a moment, his breath steady but his senses sharp. The pain-wracked wheezing of the man on the floor punctuated the silence, a morbid reminder of how close combat's brutality lingered even after the fight was done. He glanced down at the fallen thug, the man’s face twisted in agony as his hand feebly reached toward his wound. The crimson pool beneath him spread steadily, staining the rough planks. Kharg tightened his grip on his rapier. The potion coursing through his veins dulled any hesitation he might have felt, but the scene still gnawed at the edges of his resolve. This was no training exercise, this was life and death, and he was firmly on the winning side.

  Kharg remained on high alert and kept his attention on the landing and the doors, which seemed to loom, silent and foreboding. He strained to catch any sound from beyond them. A creak, a muttered voice, anything that might give away the position of the last thug, but all was still. Even the distant commotion he had heard earlier had died down, replaced by an eerie calm. Halidor had made it clear that this was his operation, but the mage’s absence was notable now. Kharg knew he was still nearby, ready to intervene if necessary, but the lack of his commanding presence reinforced that this moment was Kharg's responsibility alone.

  He took a cautious step forward, then another, his boots gliding silently over the floorboards and the lack of apparent threats only served to heighten his tension. One door had a crude lock affixed to it, while the other seemed to be a simple wooden barrier. He eyed the locked door carefully, an intentional defense, perhaps? Kharg breathed out through his nose, steadying himself. He formed a layered armor of elemental air, his voice barely more than a whisper as he wriggled his fingers in an effort to speed up the complex weave. If anything lay in wait, he would be ready. He turned his attention back to the fallen man, stepping over the crimson pool to crouch near the thug. The man’s breath was labored, but his eyes flickered open, glassy and unfocused.

  “Where is the last one?” Kharg asked, his voice low but firm.

  The man’s lips moved, but no sound emerged. He coughed weakly, a spray of blood flecking his chin. It was clear he was too far gone to provide answers. Kharg straightened, his resolve hardening. Whatever waited beyond those doors, he would find it soon enough.

  Kharg cautiously approached the first door and tested the handle with care. It was locked, as he had suspected. With a sigh, he turned to the second door. He summoned an aerial hand, which he guided to grip the handle. The spell responded fluidly to his will, and the door creaked open under its gentle pressure. Ready for anything, with his rapier poised for attack, Kharg inched closer and scanned for any hint of movement. The room was still.

  A shove from his conjured hand pushed the door fully open, revealing a modest bedchamber. When he saw an open window across the room, he strode over to take a look. A wooden plank stretched to the roof of the adjacent building, hinting at the last thug’s escape route. The room held little beyond a pair of chests at the foot of the beds, a cabinet left partially ajar, and a table with three dice from an unfinished game. The chamber felt abandoned, the air heavy with uneasy stillness.

  Still on edge, Kharg directed the spectral hand toward the cabinet and pulled it open in one swift motion. Inside, neatly folded clothes and a suit of leather armor hung limply, untouched. Keeping his guard up, Kharg stepped into the room, checking the shadows near the door. No hidden threats emerged.

  He moved to the window, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the escape route. A sturdy plank connected a ledge outside the window with a nearby roof, likely placed there in anticipation of a quick getaway. A brief scan of the room revealed nothing of immediate value, so he turned his attention to the final door.

  He found Halidor on the landing, his expression one of calm assurance which served to steady Kharg’s nerves a little. He glanced into the bedroom, and then at the other door, he flashed Kharg a quick smile as he leaned back to enjoy the show.

  Bolstered, Kharg prepared his next spell, calling upon elemental air. This time, he pushed the spell far beyond its typical strength, drawing deeply on his own reserves of mana. He pushed the mana through the cut alexandrite gemstone on his ring and felt the pure ecstasy of magic flood him as mana ripped through him and into the gem. Kharg released the spell with a swift decisive gesture. A massive club of air slammed into the door and shattered it from its hinges in a storm of splinters that flew into the room beyond. The release of mana left Kharg with a familiar surge of satisfaction and well-being, the sensation of mastery over his magic invigorating him.

  The room revealed by the spell’s destructive force was small and unassuming. A desk with drawers stood near one wall, and a crate rested in a corner. Kharg stepped inside and inspected the drawers. They contained only a few seemingly mundane documents, but beneath the stack he found a small iron key. He tested it on the crate, it matched. Inside, Kharg found a fist-sized jade dragon statuette, exquisitely crafted and cool to the touch. A pouch of coins lay beside it, jingling softly as he lifted it. He slipped both into his satchel and glanced at Halidor, who gave a nod of approval.

  They made their way toward the stairs, boots thudding softly on the warped boards. Halidor kept an easy pace, his gaze flicking to the faint shimmer clinging to Kharg’s shoulders and arms.

  “That air armor of yours,” he said casually, his voice warm with curiosity, “was it part of your plan to save it for after you’d finished with those two upstairs, or did it only come to mind once you’d caught your breath?”

  Kharg shot him a sidelong look. “I was fine without it.”

  A hint of a smile tugged at the older mage’s mouth. “Of course you were.”

  The floorboards groaned under their weight as they descended into the dim lower hall. Caspian stood near the door, rapier still in hand, with Fafne perched on his shoulder. The faerie dragon trilled in delight as Kharg approached, launching himself across the short distance to reclaim his usual perch. Caspian’s eyes swept over him quickly, searching for wounds.

  “All clear?”

  “For now,” Kharg replied, then frowned. “Why didn’t you use your magic to break free?”

  “They dosed me with tea,” Caspian said, his tone edged with distaste. “Veilroot. Every few hours.”

  Kharg gave him a puzzled look.

  Halidor’s brow lifted slightly. “It suppresses magical affinity,” he explained. “Drink enough of it and your spells won’t answer, no matter how skilled you are.”

  Kharg’s expression darkened, but he only nodded. “Then let’s get moving before someone decides to check on the mess upstairs.