The cloud collapsed back into mist.

  Sael held the vial steady as the vapor poured in, reversing its earlier expansion. What had been a flying platform large enough for four people now compressed, flowing like water in reverse, drawn back to its container by invisible threads of will.

  The last wisps curled into the glass. He corked it with a soft pop and slipped it into his inventory.

  They'd landed behind a series of sand dunes about a kilometer from Ashams' capital. The dunes rose around them in gentle waves, their crests catching the last light of day. Beyond them, Sael could see the wooden watchtowers of the city's northern gate, silhouetted against a sky that had gone from orange to deep purple.

  The journey had taken four hours, which was... acceptable. Not as fast as he'd initially hoped, but the modifications had worked well enough. The cloud had held stable even at high velocity, the barrier dome had kept the wind from tearing them apart, and the lightning framework underneath had provided consistent thrust without draining too much of his mana.

  He could still feel Aldric's presence.

  Faint. Distant. But there. The man was somewhere in this country. Somewhere south of here, probably deep in the interior.

  Finding him would be—

  Hgrblekuuurrgh.

  Sael turned around.

  Orion was bent over behind a dune, one hand braced against the sand, the other clutching his stomach. His shoulders heaved. A small puddle of sick glistened on the sand in front of him.

  Ilsa stood beside him, one hand on his back, patting in slow, rhythmic circles. Her expression was carefully neutral, the way people got when they were trying very hard not to look either sympathetic or amused.

  Robin stood a few meters away, arms crossed, watching.

  Sael sighed.

  "Sorry," he said.

  Again.

  For the seventh time today.

  Orion straightened slightly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His face had gone pale, with a faint greenish tinge around the edges that suggested the nausea hadn't fully passed.

  "It's... fine... Master," he managed.

  It was not fine.

  The boy had been sick twice since they'd landed. Once immediately after touchdown, and once about five minutes later when Sael had thought the worst was over. In between, Sael had healed him, properly healed him, settling his stomach, rebalancing his inner ear, clearing the nausea from his system with careful applications of restoration magic.

  It had worked.

  For about ten minutes.

  Then the nausea came back anyway, like his body had decided that whatever had happened during the flight was worth remembering and reacting to even after the physical cause had been removed.

  Sael had tried healing him again.

  Same result.

  The modifications had been... perhaps premature.

  He'd been thinking about the cloud's framework ever since Gatsby. Running through calculations in his head during quiet moments. Adjusting theoretical velocity curves. Considering the interplay between thrust, stability, and passenger comfort.

  But the actual implementation—the lightning framework, the increased speed, the dome reinforcement—had all been done on a whim right before they left Orlys.

  No prototype or testing phase, just theory translated directly into practice because it had seemed sound.

  And it was sound, technically speaking. The cloud had performed exactly as intended. The velocity had been consistent. The barrier had held. The stability had been nearly perfect.

  For him, Ilsa, and Robin, apparently, the increased speed and the way the cloud moved through the air had caused no problems whatsoever.

  For Orion, it had been a disaster.

  Motion sickness. Severe one, at that.

  Sael watched Orion spit into the sand, trying to clear his mouth.

  He would need to adjust the cloud's motion profile, clearly. Account for more sensitive inner ear responses. Perhaps add a stabilization layer that compensated for the micro-movements that someone like Orion would feel but someone like Sael wouldn't even notice.

  It would be good practice, actually.

  Refining the cloud to accommodate a wider range of passengers would force him to think about variables he'd been ignoring. Human physiology wasn't uniform. What worked for one person might be unbearable for another, and if he wanted the cloud to be genuinely useful rather than just functional for himself, he'd need to account for that.

  Orion straightened fully, breathing deeply through his nose. His color was improving, slowly.

  Ilsa kept her hand on his back.

  "Better?" she asked.

  Orion nodded weakly. "I think so."

  "You said that last time."

  "I mean it this time."

  Robin tilted his head, his ears twitching. "You know," he said conversationally, "I once knew a gnome who got motion sick from riding in a cart. Regular cart. Flat road. Horse walking at a leisurely pace." He paused. "He threw up for an hour afterward."

  Orion looked at him.

  "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

  Robin's tail swayed once. "I'm just saying, comparatively, you're doing quite well. The Archmage's cloud was moving considerably faster than a walking horse."

  "Robin," Ilsa said.

  "Yes?"

  "Shut up."

  Robin's ears flattened slightly, but he said nothing.

  Sael stepped closer to Orion, studying him. The boy's breathing had evened out. The greenish tinge was fading. His posture was still a bit shaky, but that might just be general exhaustion rather than active nausea.

  "How do you feel now?" Sael asked.

  Orion met his eyes. "Honestly, Master? Like I never want to fly again."

  "Understandable."

  "But I probably will anyway."

  "Also understandable."

  Orion managed a weak smile at that.

  Sael reached out and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, channeling just a touch of magic. Orion's shoulders relaxed slightly.

  "Thank you, Master."

  "You're welcome."

  Sael stepped back, glancing toward the border checkpoint in the distance. The watchtowers were more visible now, torches being lit as evening settled in properly. He could see figures moving along the walls, guards beginning their night rotations.

  They'd need to approach soon.

  But first, he should probably make sure Orion could actually walk without immediately vomiting again.

  "Can you stand?" Sael asked.

  Orion pushed himself upright, testing his balance. He swayed slightly, then steadied. "Yes. I think so."

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "Good."

  Ilsa moved to his other side, ready to catch him if he fell. Robin remained where he was, watching with that same detached interest.

  Sael looked at the three of them, standing there in the sand behind the dunes as the sky darkened overhead.

  "Right," he said. "Let's go meet the border guards."

  They walked.

  The dunes gave way to harder ground as they approached the checkpoint. Packed earth, worn smooth by countless feet and wagon wheels. The border crossing was larger than Sael had expected, sprawling outward from a central gatehouse in a loose collection of buildings, corrals, and what looked like a merchant quarter that had sprung up specifically to serve travelers.

  And there were travelers. Many travelers.

  The line to enter Ashams stretched back perhaps fifty meters from the main gate, a winding column of people, carts, and pack animals that moved forward in slow, shuffling increments. Sael could see merchants with wagons loaded high with goods, their canvas covers tied down against the evening wind.

  A group of what looked like mercenaries stood clustered together, hands resting on weapon hilts, speaking in low voices. Several families with children. A priest in pale robes. Someone leading three camels tied together in a train, their humps swaying as they walked.

  Sael's group joined the back of the line.

  One of the first thing he noticed was the smell. Not unpleasant, exactly, but different. Spices he didn't recognize. Incense burning somewhere nearby, sweet and resinous. The tang of animal musk from the camels. Something cooking—meat, heavily seasoned—wafting from one of the nearby stalls.

  The second thing was the colors.

  People here dressed differently. Not just in style, but in palette. Deep indigos and rich ochres. Saffron yellows. Rust reds. Fabrics that seemed to shift in the torchlight, embroidered with patterns that were simultaneously geometric and flowing. Many of the travelers wore head coverings: scarves wrapped in intricate folds, or caps with small ornamental pins.

  The third thing was the language.

  Sael could understand them—the translation magic he'd woven into his own comprehension years ago worked on most spoken tongues—but the sound of it was distinct. Syllables that rolled and clicked in ways that Common didn't. Phrases that seemed to contain more vowels than consonants, rising and falling in melodic cadences.

  A voice rose somewhere ahead in the line, cutting through the ambient murmur of conversation.

  "—told you, the documentation clearly states adult classification—"

  Sael's gaze drifted toward the source as they shuffled forward.

  Two merchants, standing beside their respective wagons about fifteen meters ahead. One was tall and lean, dressed in layers of deep blue fabric with gold threading at the hems. The other was shorter, stockier, wearing rust-colored robes and a white head covering pinned with a silver clasp.

  Between them sat a large cage, perhaps two meters on each side, constructed from thick iron bars that had been reinforced with what looked like additional bands of steel. A heavy canvas tarp had been thrown over the top, covering most of the interior, but even from this distance Sael could see the tarp shifting slightly, something underneath moving.

  "Your documentation is suspect," the shorter merchant said, his voice carrying. "That is a juvenile at best, and you know it. The tail alone—"

  "The tail is molting, you blind fool, any competent handler would recognize—"

  A low growl emanated from the cage, but the line moved forward.

  Sael's group advanced with it, gradually closing the distance to the gate. The argument between the merchants continued in the background, a steady drumbeat of escalating irritation, but the line itself kept its rhythm. People stepped forward, presented papers, answered questions, moved through.

  Sael watched a guard near the gate examine someone's cargo. The guard was dressed in layered cloth armor, practical rather than ceremonial, with a curved sword at his hip and a spear leaning against his shoulder. His skin was darker than most people Sael had seen in Orlys, and he wore a dark red sash around his waist that seemed to denote rank or affiliation.

  The guard said something to the merchant, who laughed and replied. They seemed... friendly. Professional, but not hostile.

  The guards were checking papers, examining cargo, asking questions; but they were doing it quickly. The line moved steadily. No one was being pulled aside for extended interrogation. No one was being harassed.

  One of the merchants near the front was waved through after a brief exchange. His cart rolled forward, and the next traveler stepped up.

  "Papers and purpose," the guard said.

  The traveler produced a document. The guard scanned it, nodded, asked a question. The traveler answered. The guard made a mark on a ledger and gestured them through.

  Behind them, the arguing merchants' voices had risen another notch.

  "—dare to question my professional integrity—"

  "—your integrity is the question, friend—"

  The cage rattled. Just once, a sharp metallic sound that made several people glance back nervously.

  The line moved forward again.

  "Master?"

  Sael blinked, refocusing. Orion was looking at him, head tilted slightly.

  "You looked... thoughtful," the boy said.

  "Just observing."

  "Anything concerning?"

  "Not yet."

  Robin's ears twitched. "The guards seem rather professional," he observed quietly. "I was expecting something more... dramatic."

  Ilsa glanced at the nearest guard, who was currently inspecting a crate of what looked like dried herbs. "Tyrants need functional borders too," she said. "Can't collect taxes on trade if you scare everyone away."

  The line shuffled forward.

  Sael watched a family ahead of them—two adults, three children—approach the gate. The guard asked them something. The father answered, gesturing to the children. The guard smiled slightly, said something that made the youngest child giggle, then waved them through.

  They moved forward again, now only three groups away from the gate.

  Behind them, the merchants' argument had taken on a sharper edge.

  "—your reputation is built on fraud and corner-cutting—"

  "You take that back—"

  The cage rattled again, harder this time. The canvas tarp slipped slightly, revealing a sliver of tawny fur and the edge of what might have been a wing.

  Sael could see the main checkpoint more clearly now. It was a solid structure, built from pale stone that seemed to glow faintly in the torchlight. The gate itself was wide enough for two wagons to pass through side by side, with a portcullis raised overhead and braziers burning on either side.

  Above the gate, carved into the stone, was a symbol: a dragon coiled around a sun, wings spread.

  The Dragon King's crest, presumably.

  Two groups away now.

  Sael could hear the guard at the gate more clearly.

  "Papers and purpose."

  "Duration of stay."

  "Goods to declare?"

  Standard border control, really.

  One group away.

  A merchant with a cart full of what looked like glass bottles completed his business and rolled forward, his wheels creaking. The guard marked something in his ledger and looked up.

  "Next."

  Sael stepped forward, his group following.

  The guard's gaze swept over them, taking in the four travelers. He held out a hand. "Papers and purpose of visit."

  Sael reached into his inventory and withdrew the document Richter had given him before they'd left Orlys. He handed it to the guard.

  The guard took it, unfolding the parchment. His eyes scanned the text, moving down the page methodically. Then they stopped.

  He looked up at Sael.

  His expression hadn't changed, exactly, but something in his eyes had shifted. "Please wait here," the guard said.

  He turned and walked toward the gatehouse, taking the document with him.

  Sael watched him go.

  Beside him, Orion shifted his weight. "Master? Is something wrong?"

  "I don't know yet."

  Behind them, the merchants' argument had reached a critical point.

  The tall merchant's voice cracked with fury. "—insult my family name one more time and see what happens—"

  "Your family name is worthless—"

  Then the sound of a fist meeting flesh.

  Sael didn't turn around, but he heard the impact clearly and the grunt of pain as well as the scuffle of boots on packed earth.

  "Uhm, sir," Robin said, his voice very quiet.

  "I know."

  Someone shouted. Multiple voices now, overlapping, the words lost in a sudden surge of noise.

  The cage slammed against something, the entire structure rattling violently.

  A deeper growl rose from inside it, no longer background rumble but active threat.

  The guard did not return from the gatehouse.

  Behind them, the scuffle had become a brawl.

  Bodies hitting the ground. Grunts of exertion. The meaty thud of fists and elbows. Someone's hired hands joining in, then someone else's, and suddenly what had been two merchants arguing had become eight or nine people locked in chaotic combat.

  The other travelers in line were backing away, creating space, some of them shouting for the guards.

  The guards at the gate were starting to move, but the brawl was twenty meters back in the line.

  The cage rattled again.

  Crack.

  The sound of metal bending.

  Sael turned his head slightly, just enough to see.

  One of the iron bars had bent. Just slightly, but visibly. The canvas tarp had fallen away completely now, revealing the creature inside.

  Adult manticore.

  The body was that of a lion, massive and muscular, covered in tawny fur that was matted and dirty from confinement. The face was wrong, too human, with intelligent eyes that gleamed with rage and a mouth full of teeth that were far too sharp. The wings were folded against its sides, leathery and dark, with visible tears in the membranes.

  And the tail was a scorpion's, segmented and armored, ending in a stinger the length of a short sword. It was currently pressed against the top of the cage, scraping against the bars with a dry, whispering sound.

  The manticore's eyes tracked the brawling merchants.

  One of them stumbled backward, crashing into the wagon.

  The wagon rocked.

  The cage slid.

  The bent bar bent further.

  Another merchant threw a wild punch, missed, and his momentum carried him into the cage as well.

  Crack.

  Another bar gave way.

  The manticore's paw shot through the gap, claws extended, swiping. One of the merchants screamed and went down, blood streaming from his shoulder.

  That ended the brawl.

  Everyone scattered.

  Everyone.

  The manticore slammed against the damaged section of the cage.

  Once, then twice. On the third impact, the entire side tore free with a shriek of tortured metal.

  The creature lunged out, its wings spreading wide as it landed on the packed earth with a heavy thud that Sael felt through his boots even from twenty meters away.

  The crowd exploded into motion.

  People scattering in every direction, abandoning wagons and cargo and common sense in their desperation to get away from the apex predator that had just been unleashed in their midst.

  The merchants who'd been fighting stopped immediately and ran.

  The guards were shouting orders, trying to organize, but their voices were lost in the chaos. The manticore's tail lashed behind it, the stinger catching the light from the braziers.

  And in that chaos, Sael saw figures moving through the shadows like they were water, five of them, flowing between the fleeing travelers.

  They weren't running from anything. They were moving toward something.

  Toward the checkpoint buildings.

  One of them slipped past a guard who was focused on the manticore, and the guard didn't even notice. The figure was there and then gone, absorbed into the shadow cast by a wagon, emerging on the other side already ten paces closer to their target.

  Another one moved along the edge of the checkpoint wall.

  Sael's eyes narrowed.

  Shadow walking.

  Advanced stealth magic, an art that required either significant skill or powerful enchantments. Generally used for infiltration.

  The manticore turned its head, scanning the panicking crowd with those too-intelligent eyes.

  And then it focused on something small that hadn't run.

  Sael followed its gaze and found a little girl. Maybe six years old, standing frozen in the middle of the scattering crowd, her eyes wide with terror, her mouth open in a silent scream.

  She was wearing a pale yellow dress that was now the only spot of bright color in a sea of fleeing bodies.

  And she was directly in the manticore's line of sight.

  The creature's lips pulled back in what might have been a smile.

  Its muscles bunched.

  It crouched, then it leaped.

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