He was going to die. Not in a dramatic way, not scorched by a spell or gutted in battle, but hunched over a crate near the Kentar docks, vomiting his soul into a puddle that smelled of rotting shrimp and piss.

  Gale clutched his ribs, breathing in shallow gasps. Something in his side cracked every time he exhaled too hard. His hand was swollen — not broken, probably, but damned close. The sun felt like a personal insult. His coat reeked of liquor and regret.

  He sat back against the crate, eyes shut, letting the world spin.

  He tried a charm. Just a simple one, to steady his breath or stop the world from tilting sideways. The magic guttered out halfway through — like it, too, had a hangover. Or like it was ashamed to be seen with him.

  He’d been here before. Not this dock, not this specific brand of nausea — but this pit. Once, years ago, he’d ended up half-frozen outside Candlekeep after watching Emaen fall in love with someone who wasn’t him. He’d been dramatic, of course — heartache, wine, some very bad poetry — but at least back then, his magic had come when he called. His hands had still known what to do.

  Now? Nothing. His ribs still ached. His mouth still tasted like boiled regret. And if he tried to charm away the pain again, he’d probably just throw up arcane residue and shame.

  The last thing he remembered clearly was ordering whatever passed for ‘strongest’ in the Rusted Cleat, a dockside dive that served salt-rubbed eel and potent homebrew that tasted like varnish. He’d drunk it anyway. Glass after glass, until the words stopped hurting. Until Ezaryon’s voice — “And you became the son no one missed” — blurred into a thousand others.

  He didn’t remember leaving the tavern. He must have. Unless he’d died, and this was penance.

  A market stall clanged open nearby. Fishmongers barking. Vendors arguing. Somewhere, a child screamed with laughter. Gale winced. Every noise scraped against his skull like cutlery on stone.

  He opened his eyes and managed to stand.

  Half the stalls blurred past him. Fried things. Sweet things. Spiced meat on skewers. All of it made his stomach pitch. He stopped at a fruit seller and stared dumbly at a basket of overripe pears.

  “Need something, love?” the woman asked, eyeing his state.

  “Food,” he croaked. “That doesn’t smell like… food.”

  She handed him a slice of cool melon. He ate it like it was a sacred relic. She gave him another without asking.

  By the third bite, his head had cleared just enough to think — which was a mistake.

  She always called your name.

  Not mine. Not Aethon. Yours.

  He gritted his teeth. There was no spell to unhear it. No charm to undo that kind of rot.

  What would Fran say, if she knew? He hadn’t told her much about Kentar. About his family. About why he’d never come back. He let her believe he’d outgrown it, moved on, become something better. A man of books, magic, wit. But that man had been built on sand. And when the sea came, he hadn’t stood his ground. He’d run.

  He needed a plan. The ‘Ezaryon route’ was closed — slammed in his face and locked from the inside.

  But there was someone else. Someone older, meaner, and far more dangerous than his brother.

  His former master.

  Gale swallowed the last of the melon, left a coin that was probably too much, and turned toward the city.

  It took him nearly an hour to climb the hill.

  Not because it was steep — though it was — but because every few steps his body threatened open rebellion. His head pulsed in time with his ribs. His stomach lurched at the smell of brine, garlic, or anything that so much as suggested life. Twice, he had to stop and pretend to be admiring the view just to keep from collapsing onto someone’s laundry.

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  The path from the docks to the upper city wound through half a dozen neighborhoods, each more polished and less forgiving than the last. The cobbles stopped being cracked. The awnings became canvas instead of patchwork. Vendors’ voices dropped in pitch — no more shouting, just careful, murmured offers in multiple languages. Silk replaced hemp. Perfume replaced fish guts.

  The sun, traitorous bastard, was too bright.

  Kentar gleamed like it knew. The Crescent Coast stretched out behind him in a perfect painter’s arc. Below, the market spilled into the alleys like scattered petals. Above, the upper tiers shimmered with sun-baked domes and pale towers. It was a city meant to be looked at — and Gale had the distinct feeling it was looking back.

  He made it to the arcane district by sheer force of pettiness.

  A lesser man would’ve gone back to bed, or found a fountain to die in. But Gale Dekarios had been publicly called the son no one missed. If that didn’t earn him the right to drag his half-broken body across the entire city in pursuit of a half-mad ex-mentor, nothing did.

  The Chapter of Arcanists was hidden exactly where anyone might expect it — in plain sight. At the end of a crooked lane lined with spice merchants and quiet courtyards, behind a modest facade of limestone and faded shutters. It looked like a mildly prosperous civic hall. A building you could ignore.

  He didn’t.

  The brass plaque beside the arched door read: Office of Coastal Records & Maritime Weigh Station No. 4.

  Gale snorted.

  “Kentar,” he muttered, and ran a hand along the stone.

  There. A shimmer — barely noticeable, unless you knew what to feel for. The illusion was solid but polite, the way Kentarian glamours tended to be. Not meant to scare off intruders, just to make them feel slightly ridiculous for trying the front door.

  He whispered three words in old Ishtari, then tapped the third stone from the bottom — once, twice, pause, once. The illusion hiccupped.

  Then it sighed, and vanished.

  Behind it, the real door appeared — a tall arch of burnished teak, inscribed with sigils that rearranged themselves lazily as he stepped closer. The symbols meant nothing coherent. Just noise for the uninvited.

  Gale pushed it open and entered the main hall of the Chapter.

  Cool air met his face — scented faintly with ink, old spells, and bay leaf. The room was long, shadowed, with vaulted ceilings held up by squat, mismatched columns. Sunlight filtered in through stained glass high above, casting streaks of green and violet across the tiled floor. Shelves lined the walls, filled not with tomes but with sea-glass, driftwood, and cracked hourglasses that ticked only when they felt like it.

  A single voice broke the hush.

  “I knew it was you.”

  Gale turned, and nearly smiled.

  The old man standing by the nearest column looked like a seagull that had spent too long in a tavern: wiry, sun-worn, with a big nose, bushy sea-moss eyebrows, and the kind of weathered grin that meant trouble. His robe was patched, his sandals looked older than Gale, and a faint aura of enchantment clung to him like stale wine.

  “Marven Nirello,” Gale said. “You’re still alive.”

  “I am. And you’re still dramatic. Gods, look at you — you smell like regret drowned in vinegar. What was it this time? A bet? A woman? Some cursed artifact that turned out to be a mirror?”

  “I got punched in the ribs and drank enough to pickle a shark,” Gale muttered. “How’ve you been?”

  “Watching prettier arses than yours walk in and out of this place for twenty years,” Marven said cheerfully. “You’re lucky I didn’t ward the floor against self-pity. You’d be writhing like a worm.”

  Gale gave a pained huff of laughter, then winced. “You still drinking that fortified mead from Virevale?”

  “Only on odd days. And you—still chasing things that don’t want to be caught?”

  Gale didn’t answer. He just rubbed his temple and leaned against a column that looked slightly more stable than he did.

  Marven softened. Just slightly.

  “You here for her?” he asked.

  Gale nodded.

  The caretaker whistled. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. Or brain damage. Maybe both.”

  “She still in Kentar?”

  Marven shrugged. “She never leaves Kentar. Says the city feeds her ego.”

  “Where?”

  “Scarlet Crescent.”

  Gale blinked. “The brothel?”

  “Finest in the city. Top floor, third balcony from the right. Don’t bother knocking if the curtains are drawn. You remember the rules.”

  “I thought she hated noise.”

  “She does. That’s why she lives above it. She says it makes the silence inside sweeter.”

  Gale let his head fall back against the column. “Gods.”

  “Oh, come on,” Marven said, patting his arm. “You’ve faced worse. Remember that time you tried to seduce the illusionist from Geshari House and she turned your tongue into a snake?”

  “I’m trying to forget.”

  “You screamed like a child. But Ludmilla fixed it. You begged her.”

  “I didn’t beg.”

  Marven grinned. “You whimpered. Very poetically.”

  Gale rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Marven.”

  “Go on, get out of here,” the old enchanter said. “You look like hell and smell like a bribe gone bad.”

  “I’ll send you a bottle.”

  “Send me a story instead. You always had better ones than the younglings.”

  Gale turned, coat fluttering behind him.

  “Third balcony,” he muttered. “Right.”

  “Don’t look down,” Marven called. “The last one who did ended up in love, debt, and jail. Not in that order.”

  Gale didn’t reply. He was already gone.