At the gates of Vaga, a cluster of Evokian soldiers waited in rigid formation, their armor catching the pale morning light like cold mirrors. As the caravan approached, the guards stepped forward and began filtering travelers through in slow, deliberate waves, their eyes sharp, their expressions unreadable. The tension of a city conquered without bloodshed still hung in the air like old smoke.

  West drew Omni and Tyrus in close, speaking low enough to be swallowed by the shuffling of feet and murmurs of the line.

  “Alright, so I imagine the Evokians have already sent scouts into Vaga to look for you two, so we’re going to have to keep a low profile.”

  He handed each of them a scarf, coarse-woven but sturdy, something common enough to pass as ordinary desert wear. They could hide their faces without attracting attention.

  “Master Omni, for now, it may be best to suppress some of our beliefs and associations with the Kesh.” West’s eyes flicked to Omni, waiting.

  “I understand, West, this is not our first time evading Evokians,” Omni replied, already cloaking himself in the scarf. Despite his calm tone, there was a flicker of memory behind his bright lavender eyes: old pursuits, old escapes, old lessons.

  West turned to Tyrus, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Tyrus. Let’s not kill anyone while we're here.”

  Tyrus didn’t answer, but the grunt he gave could have meant yes, no, or I’ll try. West took it as the closest thing to cooperation he’d get.

  The trio slipped forward with the crowd. The Evokian guards at the gate barely glanced their way, too busy scanning for bolder faces, louder threats. Vaga swallowed them whole.

  Inside, the city was already alive. It was early morning, but the streets churned with the heavy momentum of daily trade. Shopkeepers swept dust from their thresholds. Vendors arranged bright fruits, clay trinkets, and leather goods. From open windows drifted the smells of broth, fried bread, and spiced meat. The clatter of tavern shutters and the clink of coin from gambling dens traveled down the narrow alleys.

  And everywhere, in the corners of markets, leaning against pillars, marching in pairs, stood Evokian guards. Their presence was unmistakable, their authority unquestioned. Some were off duty, lounging with cups of bitter tea or dice in hand, but even then, they carried the weight of a conquering force.

  Vaga had surrendered without a fight, choosing survival over pride. Years later, the city still felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for a freedom no one believed would return.

  The trio pressed deeper into the crowd, swallowed by the restless, watchful heart of Vaga.

  “Has anyone got a plan?” West asked, weaving through the crowd with the other two close behind.

  “We will wait for night to capture an Evokian; they will provide us with answers,” Tyrus said, as if discussing the weather.

  West didn’t bother acknowledging it. He turned instead to Omni. “Master Omni?”

  “I agree with Tyrus,” Omni replied, far too calmly.

  West stopped mid-stride. “That’s a bad plan.”

  “But it may be our only way to get the information about the women,” Omni answered, his tone not defensive, merely practical.

  “And what is your plan, West?” Tyrus asked, a hint of challenge under his breath.

  West didn’t respond. He just kept walking, scanning the street until he spotted a pair of Evokian guards leaning against a stone archway, half-watching the crowd and half-bored with the morning.

  He approached one, palming down the scarf from his face with a casual flick.

  “Excuse me, my guardian,” West said with a small, deferential bow, slipping into the persona easily.

  “Do you have any idea where I may buy a woman?” He added a grin that sold the disguise.

  The guard blinked, then barked a laugh. “Buy a woman? There’s brothels and whore houses everywhere, kid. Take your pick.”

  “My apologies, sir.” West lowered his voice conspiratorially. “What I meant was, where could I buy a woman… to add to my harem. Do you know what I’m saying?”

  The man’s grin widened before exploding into laughter. He slapped the center of West’s chest with the back of his hand: friendly, crude, and careless.

  “You dog,” the guard chuckled. “The slaves are all locked up in the old king’s castle. They’re holding them there until the Supreme General’s arrival. He’s getting first pick.”

  “I hear they got some Ura women after the collapse,” West said, leaning in a little, playing the part.

  “Brother, they got plenty,” the guard said, straightening as another group of Evokians walked by. His tone snapped briefly into something more official. “Stick around for the festivities. I’m sure you’ll have a chance to get the woman of your choosing.”

  “Well, thank you, my guardian. I must be going.” West bowed again, more quickly this time, and stepped away before the man’s attention could linger.

  He went to rejoined Omni and Tyrus, the information tucked neatly behind his smile.

  Tyrus and Omni waited at a distance, both staring after West with the same confused expression. Omni’s polite, and Tyrus’s suspicious. Neither had any idea what West was attempting.

  When West returned, he leaned in. “Alright, they got some Ura women in the Old King’s castle, but they ain't letting them out until Dresdi arrives.”

  “Then we will make our way there,” Tyrus said immediately, already stepping forward, until West stopped him with a firm hand to the chest.

  “Asking that guy was my plan, so now we are doing my plan.” West held his gaze for a beat… and then sagged his shoulders. “We’re going to get some food first. I am so hungry.”

  “Do we have the coin for a meal?” Omni asked, wary.

  “I have enough. I will buy both of us a soup. Tyrus…” West gave him a grin, “I will add it to your tab.”

  He started weaving through the crowd again. “Let’s go this way, I know where we can get some food.”

  Omni followed closely, moving with the practiced familiarity of someone who had walked these streets before. He and West had visited Vaga years ago, on one of Omni’s early pilgrimages.

  Tyrus, however, trailed behind. Slower, in silence, absorbing everything.

  The city pressed in from every direction: tall clay-brick buildings leaning over the narrow roads, awnings flapping, spices burning on cookpots, voices rising and colliding. People brushed past him without looking, their pace unnervingly fast. The smells: sweet, rotting, oily, sharp, hit him in waves. The clang of metal, the bark of a vendor, a burst of laughter from a gambling table. It was a world stacked on top of itself.

  He had spent his whole life in the land of the Ura, beneath the canopy, where the forest absorbed sound and movement. Here, nothing was absorbed. Everything was announced.

  Tyrus kept glancing upward, watching banners ripple between rooflines, the sky cut into strips overhead. Even the stone beneath his feet felt wrong. Too flat, loud, and unforgiving.

  Yet he said nothing.

  After several minutes of West’s determined half-jog through the streets, the trio arrived at a narrow corner establishment with a bamboo-painted sign creaking overhead.

  The Iguana’s Chew.

  “Three spicy soups, please,” West told the vendor.

  Omni leaned toward him. “West, where did we get all this silver?”

  “I got this silver from some sleeping Evokian,” West said, though his attention had already drifted across the courtyard where a crowd was forming.

  “Stealing? West, we cannot possibly eat this food with stolen silver,” Omni whispered, horrified.

  “It wasn’t stealing. It was a wine deal gone wrong. I’m almost certain the man was trying to rape me,” West replied casually.

  Omni and Tyrus both turned fully to stare at him, utterly lost.

  “That’s why they say Evokians are backstabbers,” West joked.

  “Order ready,” the woman at the counter called, pushing the three bowls forward.

  They took their soups to a small table overlooking the open courtyard. Dawn light was just beginning to slip between the buildings, catching on dust motes and the bright red banners the Evokians had strung around the square like fresh wounds.

  The place grew louder by the minute as they ate, a group of soldiers hauled out wooden posts and rope, hammering them into a makeshift fighting ring. Vendors shouted prices. A gambler shook dice in a chipped wooden cup. The scent of hot broth, sweat, and spiced meat tangled in the air.

  Soon, fighters began to appear; some shirtless, steam rising from them even in the morning cool. Others wrapped in leather or cloth. Every stance told a different story: trained precision, raw aggression, overconfidence, under a thin layer of desperation.

  The first matches were short, brutal splashes of violence.

  A burly fighter charged straight into his opponent, only to be flipped clean over a shoulder and slammed onto the stone hard enough that the crowd hissed. Another man fought with crisp, disciplined blows; tight elbows, low kicks, each strike meant to break something. Others were wild, sloppy, swinging fists like hammers and stumbling after every miss.

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  Each clash lasted less than a minute. Dust rose with every fall. Coins clinked as bets were exchanged. Soldiers shouted odds. The energy grew louder with every match.

  West slurped his soup loudly. “You think you beat those guys?” he asked Tyrus.

  Tyrus lifted his wrapped hand, flexing his fingers to remind him. “Even with my bad hand.”

  “How is your hand feeling, Tyrus?” Omni asked, tearing his bread neatly in half.

  “Better. I may be able to wield a sword now.”

  “So you’re saying you can win some fights and potentially make us some money,” West said immediately.

  “We are not here to gamble,” Omni interjected sharply.

  “What if we can earn enough gold and silver to buy one of the Ura women…maybe even Tyrus’s sister if she is here? We can leave Vaga as quiet as we came.” West leaned in, whispering urgently.

  “And what if someone recognizes Tyrus without the scarf?” Omni asked.

  “We just gotta hide that beautiful golden hair of his,” West said, standing up behind Tyrus. He began tugging and twisting the scarf into a turban with theatrical precision, covering every visible strand until Tyrus looked like a traveler from a desert village.

  Omni hesitated, thinking, searching for a counter-plan, but nothing came.

  “And what if Tyrus gets hurt or worse?” Omni asked at last.

  “Then you owe me an apology, Master,” West said with a wide, triumphant grin.

  Tyrus barely heard them. His eyes never left the ring.

  Tyrus had been watching the ring closely, studying every sloppy punch, every telegraphed kick, every fighter who wasted breath, and every one who didn’t. By the tenth match, he knew, utterly, that he could beat every man he had seen.

  “I won’t lose,” Tyrus said, rising from the table with calm certainty. He began walking toward the ring.

  West slapped the table like a drum and shot up after him, practically vibrating with excitement. “Remember, you are not Tyrus here. You need to come up with a name,” West said as he caught up.

  “Then I shall be Meshugallah,” Tyrus answered.

  “What? No! Absolutely not!? Is that even a name? West sputtered.

  “It is the name of a legendary warrior of the Ura,” Tyrus said with full sincerity.

  “Pick another name. I ain’t calling you that. I can’t remember it…pick a more normal name.”

  Tyrus ignored him and approached the man managing the wagers, a short, wiry fellow with an overgrown beard perched on a barrel, quill in hand and satchel of coins at his hip.

  “Where do I sign up?” Tyrus asked.

  “Right here, stranger. My name is Dullah. Bets and registration go through me. Can I get a name?” Dullah looked him over, tapping the quill against his ledger.

  “My name is West,” Tyrus said with a devilish smile.

  “What!?” West choked out, baffled.

  “Alright, West, I’ll find you an opponent. You can step in the ring,” Dullah said, pointing toward the open corner.

  “Let me get three silver on him to win,” West said, slapping coins into Dullah’s hand.

  “You ain’t want to see his opponent first?” Dullah asked.

  “Sir.”

  West paused meaningfully. “You must not know about ‘the legend of West’.”

  He swaggered off toward the corner where Tyrus waited with dangerous confidence.

  “No pressure, but I’m turning you in to the Evokians for the bounty if you lose,” West joked.

  Tyrus didn’t respond. He was already inside himself; breath slow, shoulders loose, eyes tracking every movement around him. The noise of the courtyard faded as he centered his weight. His injured hand flexed once, then twice.

  Then the crowd parted with a collective grunt.

  A massive, bald, barrel-chested man stepped into the ring opposite Tyrus. His torso was covered in chalky scars and crude tattoos. He cracked his knuckles loudly; each pop itching against the stone walls. The man grinned, revealing a row of gold-capped teeth, and rolled his shoulders like a bull preparing to charge.

  The courtyard erupted with cheers, bets, and jeers.

  Tyrus didn’t flinch.

  He simply lifted his chin, exhaled once, and watched how the giant planted his feet, heavy on the heels, slow to pivot; a fatal weakness.

  West leaned in over the ropes, whispering urgently,

  “Alright, you got this… West.”

  “Gentlemen, we all know the rules: no time limit, no biting, no stepping out of the ring. Are we understood?”

  Both fighters nodded.

  “Let’s fight.”

  Tyrus and the bald man closed the distance slowly, circling, testing each other’s weight. The crowd murmured with anticipation.

  Then, a flash.

  Tyrus pivoted on the ball of his foot, torso twisting like a coiled vine snapping free. His elbow slammed into the side of the man’s skull with a crack that cut through the courtyard. The beast dropped instantly, legs folding, back hitting the dirt before the audience even registered what happened.

  Gasps. A few scattered claps. A couple of annoyed boos from gamblers who had bet poorly.

  “Winner! West!” the referee shouted, pointing to Tyrus.

  “Alright!” West exploded, nearly tripping over himself. “That was fast!” He glanced at Omni, whose expression had shifted from concern to open astonishment.

  “You want another one?” the referee asked.

  “I’m ready,” Tyrus said, gesturing calmly with one hand.

  Another fighter slipped through the ropes, bouncing on his toes. West hustled to the wagering table, Dullah waiting with Tyrus’s payout.

  West twirled both hands in a circle and mouthed, “Let it ride.”  Dullah raised a brow but nodded.

  “Let’s fight!” the referee barked.

  Tyrus didn’t wait. He launched forward as an arrow loosed from a bow, crashing into his opponent’s guard. The man fell backward with a grunt, and Tyrus mounted him in one fluid motion. His fist rose and fell; once, twice, three times. The man’s eyes rolled back. The referee didn’t even need to count.

  And it continued.

  Another fighter. And another. And another.

  Each bout unfolded differently because Tyrus read each man as he moved. Tyrus slipped them as water bends around stone, kicking legs out from beneath heavier men, turning grabs into throws, ducking under wild swings with dancer’s ease. Sometimes he struck with precision; sometimes with raw, startling power. The unpredictability kept the crowd roaring and the wagers flowing. The crowd began shouting his borrowed name, “WEST! WEST! WEST!”

  West’s grin only grew. Every few minutes, he’d glance toward Dullah, who handled the bets with shaking hands, clearly regretting ever agreeing to “let it ride.” West kept signaling for more, nearly convulsing with excitement as their winnings skyrocketed.

  Omni, however, watched in silence with growing unease, tightening his posture. The spectacle, the violence-for-profit, the crowd’s sinful cheers, dirty money changing between dirtier hands, it was not the way of the Kesh, not the path of restraint and spirit. But he said nothing. Not yet.

  Then a shout cut through the noise:

  “Somebody go get Goulakh!” a spectator shouted.

  The name rippled through the crowd, followed by a rising chorus of agreement. The energy shifted, anticipation sharpening. Whoever Goulakh was, people clearly believed he could end this streak.

  West climbed up to Tyrus’s corner.

  “How are you feeling? You think you got a few more fights in you?” West asked.

  Tyrus was breathing evenly, with a sheen of sweat across his brow, but calm and collected. Even amused.   Smiling, he answered, “I can do this all day. How much more money do we need?”

  “Uh… considering we’re saving to buy a human, you might have to do this all day, for a couple of days,” West said. “But don’t worry! We’re doing good. We got about one hundred and twenty silver coins coming our way.”

  Tyrus nodded once, rolling his shoulders, ready for whoever Goulakh was.

  And the crowd kept swelling, hungry for the next clash.

  The referee approached Tyrus, eyes wide with something between respect and disbelief. “Amazing work, son! None of these boys want to fight you anymore, and nobody wants to bet against you. So… I’m gonna have to ask you to step outta the ring.”

  “Cowards!” West barked, folding his arms like an offended rooster.

  “Calm down, boy.” The referee held up a hand. “Listen. You come back later tonight, we’ll have warriors more his grade. Bigger fights and even bigger prizes. How’s that sound?”

  “That sounds fine,” Tyrus replied, breath even, spirit steady.

  Dullah, after settling the final payout, ambled over, stroking his beard in amusement. “Make sure you return tonight. Could get you a prize match with Goulakh himself. We can all make a lot of money.” He handed West a bulging bundle of silver.

  “Thank you, sir! Thank you, saint. Thank you, ancestor, of my future children…” West opened the sack and stared at it as though it sang to him.

  Dullah snorted and handed a smaller pouch to Tyrus.  “Prize money for the warrior. I’ll see you boys tonight.”

  Tyrus and West stepped out of the ring to rejoin Omni.

  In the background, the fight caller was already riling the crowd again.  “Let’s keep the fights going!”   Two new fighters lurched in, eager for attention if not victory.

  Omni met them with pride softened by worry.  “Excellent work, Tyrus.” Omni clasped his hands, his voice warm but dignified.

  Tryus bowed, humbled.

  West leaned in close to Omni as if to deliver a conspiracy.  “Master Omni… I think I may be starting to finally catch a glimpse of what you see in Tyrus.” He raised his swollen pouch of silver and shook it like a tambourine.

  Omni did not blink. “Do not make light of these things, West. We must avoid temptation and remember why we are doing this.”

  “Of course, Master Omni. Forgive me!” West bowed, straightening. “It’s just… I’m genuinely envious! I haven’t seen what you’ve seen.”

  Tyrus stepped in. “What will we do with the rest of the day?”

  West lit up instantly. “What they do best in Vaga! Waste our money on girls, grub, and fun!” He slapped the silver pouch with a grin that could have been seen from the rooftops.

  Omni stared at him; daggers, cold and polished.

  West deflated like a dropped wineskin. “Or… we can… get some decent rest. At an inn.”

  “An excellent idea,” Omni said without a trace of irony.