The world was larger than most people understood.

  Kaen and Marrix were the nearest continents to each other, separated by roughly six thousand miles of the Great Monster Ocean. Most would consider that distance insurmountable. A merchant vessel, assuming favorable conditions and clement weather, could traverse the crossing in approximately five months.

  Assuming misfortune, it never completed the journey at all.

  Twelve continents comprised the known world. Kaen, which Sael had just departed. Marrix, his destination. Ten others, dispersed across a planet so immense that comprehensive cartography existed only in select royal archives and the repositories of the most ancient libraries.

  The Great Monster Ocean lived up to its name. Things moved beneath those dark waters that were older than kingdoms. Bigger than ships. Meaner than anything with teeth had a right to be.

  Trade routes persisted, maintained through a combination of exceptionally brave merchants and the handful of adventurers willing to contract themselves for maritime protection. The routes curved and twisted around documented nesting grounds, spawning sites, and territorial boundaries that shifted seasonally. A secure passage one year might transform into a graveyard the next.

  Flying overhead proved only marginally superior to sailing through it though.

  Sael had encountered three distinct wyvern packs within the initial hour. They resented objects that moved swiftly through their airspace, particularly objects that moved swiftly and emanated magic.

  He could have killed them, or at least hurt them badly enough to make them reconsider, but wyverns were like crows, extremely resentful creatures with long memories. If they couldn't get revenge on the one who'd killed their packmates, they'd attack anything that passed by.

  In this case, humans. It didn't matter that Sael was invisible, or that the next travelers through might be elves, dwarves, or merchants who had nothing to do with him. The wyverns would exact their revenge on whoever they could reach, and he wasn't interested in being responsible for some innocent crew getting torn apart three months from now because he'd been impatient. So he'd teleported around two of the packs entirely. The third he'd simply outrun, pushing his flight spell until the air around him turned white with compression and the wyverns gave up the chase.

  Additional creatures occupied the sky. Rocs. Sky serpents. A flock of something unidentifiable that resembled a hybrid between a manta ray and a thundercloud. He afforded them all substantial clearance.

  Around hour two, he'd passed over a merchant convoy. Five vessels in rigid formation, their sails bearing the azure and gold of the Telvani Trade Consortium. He could discern the shimmer of barrier spells encircling each ship. They were presumably a month into their voyage. Perhaps two.

  He surpassed them within seconds.

  Around hour three, he'd paused on a small rocky island. Not to rest—he didn't need to—but because something had caught his attention. A siren, tangled in old fishing nets near the island's base, had called out to him. Not the dangerous kind of call, the one that lured sailors to their deaths, but a genuine cry for help, a pulse of distress he'd felt even through his flight spell.

  He'd descended, cut her free with a quick application of force, and watched her disappear back into the depths with what might have been gratitude. The island itself was barely large enough for him to stand on, just a spike of black stone jutting out of the water. Bones were scattered across its surface. Massive bones. He didn't linger.

  The sky was still bright when Marrix's coastline finally materialized on the horizon. Sael enhanced his vision and distinguished details. Cliffs. Beaches. A river's mouth. Further inland, the dark blur of forest, and beyond that, mountains.

  He adjusted his trajectory marginally and maintained his flight.

  Concordia ranked among Marrix's principal nations. Sufficiently powerful to hold a seat on the continental council. Wealthy enough to sustain a standing military and fund multiple academies. The territory of Glayko occupied its northeastern region, abundant in mineral deposits and home to the Eryndor mines.

  His destination.

  He teleported twice more, consuming the remaining distance in substantial leaps, then decelerated as he approached the mining territory. No purpose in arriving like a meteor and provoking defensive wards to engage him.

  The Eryndor mines materialized into view. He could observe the operation from miles distant. Enormous excavations in the earth, scaffolding, conveyor systems powered by both magic and labor. Buildings clustered around the primary pit. Administrative facilities, worker housing, storage structures.

  And at the entrance to the entire complex, a checkpoint.

  Guards in Concordia's burgundy and silver stood at a gate. A queue of people awaited processing. Merchants with carts. Workers arriving for their shifts. Several mages, judging by their robes.

  Sael descended gradually, relinquishing his invisibility as he did.

  He landed at the queue's terminus. His boots contacted earth. His coat settled around him.

  A few individuals turned to regard the man who'd just descended from the sky, though most appeared too exhausted to care.

  Sael pulled out the pocket watch and checked the time. The Duke had given it to him after catching Sael's gaze lingering on it a moment too long before he went up the hill with little Margaret. Sael hadn't meant to ask for it—hadn't meant to ask for anything—but the Duke had insisted, and then insisted harder when Sael tried to refuse.

  So now he had a watch. A nice one, too. Dwarven-made, with intricate gears visible through a glass back and engravings so fine they might as well have been drawn with a single hair.

  He'd seen the first pocket watches appear about a century ago, during one of his rare outings to eat back when he still needed to, and to learn about the latest developments in the world. He hadn't been particularly impressed then, clunky things that barely kept time. But the new ones, especially the dwarven-made pieces, were different. Some of the best craftsmanship he'd ever seen, magical or otherwise.

  Four hours and thirty-seven minutes since leaving the duchy.

  Respectable.

  He joined the queue and awaited his turn.

  Fortunately, it all moved faster than Sael had expected.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  There were five checkpoints in total, each manned by guards in Concordia's burgundy and silver. The uniforms were crisp, the posture military, but the atmosphere was more bureaucratic than martial. People shuffled forward.

  A dwarf two spots ahead of Sael was waved through after showing a metal token. The woman directly in front of him—human, carrying what looked like survey equipment—had her papers examined for all of three seconds before receiving a nod.

  Then it was Sael's turn.

  The guard at the desk was young. Eighteen, perhaps twenty at most. His uniform still had the stiff newness of recent issue, and his face held that particular earnestness that hadn't yet been ground down by routine. He had blond hair, neatly trimmed, and eyes that looked up at Sael with something approaching friendliness.

  "Good morning, sir." The greeting came first, before anything else.

  Sael inclined his head. "Good morning."

  "Identification, please."

  Sael reached into his coat and withdrew the letter. It had the Duke's personal seal—a stag's head within a circle of oak leaves—pressed into dark blue wax at the bottom. He extended it across the desk.

  The young guard took it. Looked at it, then at Sael, then looked back at the letter. His expression went carefully, meticulously blank.

  "This is..." He trailed off.

  Sael waited.

  The guard stared at the letter like it had transformed into something incomprehensible. His mouth opened and closed. His eyes moved from the ducal seal to Sael's face and back again, and there was a familiar quality to that look that suggested... internal crisis.

  "Are you alright?" Sael felt compelled to ask.

  "Yes! Yes. Of course. I'm—" The young man's voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat. "It's just... this isn't identification, sir. This is a letter."

  "It's an official writ from Duke Richter Eryndor," Sael said, keeping his tone even. "With his seal. I'm here on official business." He gestured toward the wax stamp. "I need to speak with Captain Dernwell."

  The young guard's face, which had been pale, went paler.

  "I..." He swallowed. "Sir, I apologize, but I've been instructed to only accept standard identification. Worker permits. Merchant licenses. Guild credentials. I wasn't—no one told me about—" He was starting to sweat. "This situation, you see, wasn't covered in my briefing. I'm not authorized to—I don't know the proper protocol for... this."

  He was panicking. Sael could see it happening in real time. The young man's hands were shaking slightly as he held the letter.

  "It's fine," Sael said. "Take your time."

  "I need to—I should ask—" The guard turned in his seat, still clutching the letter. "Bulma!"

  He called the name toward the row of other checkpoints. No one responded.

  "I apologize," he said to Sael, turning back. "Just one moment."

  "Not at all."

  The guard turned again. "Bulma!"

  Still nothing.

  Behind Sael, someone shifted their weight audibly. Another person coughed. A third voice, gruff and impatient, spoke up: "What's the hold up? Some of us have shifts starting."

  "I'm very sorry!" the young guard called back, his voice climbing in pitch. He was sweating more now, a visible sheen on his forehead. "Just a moment, please. I'm—this will just take a moment."

  He turned back to Sael with an expression of profound apology.

  "I'm so sorry, sir. I'll just—"

  He spun in his chair again. "BUL—"

  A woman appeared before he could finish the name.

  She was tall. Blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun. Blue eyes that were currently fixed on the young guard with the sort of look that could strip paint off walls. Her uniform was the same burgundy and silver.

  "If you scream my name one more time," she said, her voice level and cold, "I will personally ensure you spend the next month cleaning the latrines with a toothbrush. Do I make myself clear?"

  The young guard's head snapped up. "Yes si—"

  The woman looked at him.

  Sael could see them talking without talking. Eirys used to do that, too. Conversations that happened entirely in glances and micro-expressions. They must be close, you usually did this with close people. Come to think of it, she and the young guard even shared a few of the same traits.

  The young man swallowed. "Yes, Lieutenant Farrow."

  She nodded once, satisfied, then turned her attention to Sael. Her blue eyes moved over him in a slow, deliberate assessment. Head to boots. Boots to head, which made Sael a bit self aware. Was she looking for weakness? Measuring threat? Calculating whether he was about to be a problem?

  Sael waited.

  "Morning," she said finally.

  "Good morning," Sael replied.

  She turned back to the young guard. "What's the problem, Erris?"

  "The man has no identification, Lieutenant."

  Her eyebrows rose. "What do you mean, no identification?"

  Before Erris could answer, she turned back to Sael. "You don't have anything? Not even a birth certificate?"

  "No," Sael said. "I do not have a birth certificate."

  The concept of which he found puerile, but he kept that part to himself.

  "Who doesn't have a birth certificate?" She was looking at him like he'd just told her he'd never heard of shoes.

  "Madam," Sael said, keeping his tone even, "I can assure you I was born. See for yourself, how present I am here."

  Lieutenant Bulma Farrow stared at him.

  Erris looked mortified. The line behind Sael was getting longer. Someone coughed pointedly.

  Then Bulma laughed loud enough that a few people in the neighboring checkpoints glanced over. She covered her mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking slightly, then composed herself with visible effort.

  Sael did not see what was so funny about it.

  Was this what people actually found to be funny? For always having wanted to be funny, perhaps he should just say whatever goes through his head, then.

  ...Hmm.

  This required more reflection.

  "I gave a letter to the young man," Sael said.

  Bulma's amusement vanished instantly. "Why did you not start with that?"

  She held out her hand to Erris without looking at him. "The letter."

  Erris handed it over.

  She took it. Glanced at the wax seal. Her eyes snapped back to Sael's face with an intensity that would have made most men take a step back.

  "I have a message for the Captain," Sael said.

  Bulma studied him for a moment longer, then asked, "What's your name?"

  "Sael."

  She waited. When nothing else came, she raised an eyebrow. "That's it? No family name?"

  Sael thought about it for a moment. "Hel," he said finally.

  "Sael Hel? Like the continent?"

  "Yes."

  A smile touched her lips and she turned to Erris. "I'll handle this. Return to your post."

  Erris straightened immediately. "Yes, sis—" He caught himself, face flushing. "I mean—"

  Bulma's gaze sharpened.

  The young guard swallowed. "Apologies, Lieutenant Farrow."

  She nodded once. "Back to work, Guard Farrow."

  Erris saluted properly this time and practically fled back to the checkpoint.

  So they're siblings, Sael thought.

  "Are you coming, Mister Hel?"

  Bulma was already walking away, her stride confident and unhurried. Sael followed.

  The compound sprawled outward from the checkpoint in organized chaos. Barracks buildings lined the main thoroughfare, their windows glowing with lamplight despite the afternoon sun. Soldiers drilled in a packed-dirt yard to the left, their movements were synchronized, boots striking ground in unison. To the right, workers hauled carts loaded with ore toward processing stations where the clang of hammers on metal rang out in steady rhythm.

  Everything moved with purpose. No one stood idle. No one wandered aimlessly.

  They passed a group of off-duty soldiers who immediately snapped to attention when they spotted Bulma.

  "Lieutenant!"

  "At ease," she said without breaking stride.

  The men relaxed, but their eyes tracked her as she passed. Then they noticed Sael. The looks he got ranged from curious to suspicious to outright confused.

  One of them whispered something to his companion. Sael caught the words "mage" and "inspector."

  "You look like trouble," Bulma said without turning around. "Are you trouble?"

  Sael sighed. "Yes. Quite a lot of it, too."

  "How bad are we talking?"

  "The mines might shut down for a few months."

  Bulma's stride didn't falter, but he heard the sharp breath she took. She was silent for several steps.

  Then she sighed. "The fortune teller in town said a man's arrival would cause tremors soon." She shook her head. "I'm surprised she was right for once."

  They turned down a narrower path between buildings. More workers here, miners coming off shift, their faces smudged with dust, their clothes stained dark with sweat and grime. They parted for Bulma without being asked.

  "Lieutenant," one of them muttered, nodding respectfully.

  She acknowledged him with a curt nod.

  A pair of soldiers standing guard outside what looked like an administrative building saluted as they approached.

  "Captain in?" Bulma asked.

  "Yes, Lieutenant. He's with the shift supervisors."

  "Tell him he has a visitor. Priority."

  The soldier's eyes flicked to Sael, then back to Bulma. "Understood."

  He disappeared inside.

  Bulma stopped at the base of the steps leading up to the building's entrance. She turned to face Sael properly for the first time since they'd started walking.

  "Whatever you're about to tell Captain Dernwell," she said quietly, "make it clear and make it fast. He doesn't tolerate ambiguity, and he really doesn't tolerate people wasting his time."

  Sael nodded. "Understood."

  The door opened again. The soldier reappeared.

  "Captain will see you now."