Mergo Hensya

Not a glimmer of hope

Alone, I turned my attention to the man on the bench, his breaths shallow and sporadic. Perhaps it was not unconsciousness that claimed him but a merciful slumber. "Will he recover?" the woman beside me asked, her voice laced with concern.

"That remains to be seen," I answered, pulling on my gloves once more. They served a dual purpose—concealing the conspicuous ring that marked my identity and granting me a semblance of anonymity. Yet, my uniform betrayed my allegiance. "We've bent the rules to their breaking point, and for that, I am truly sorry. But I must ask for one final indulgence."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "You seek my permission?"

I nodded, a gesture of respect in a world where such courtesies were often forgotten. "Please, allow me this."

A faint smile graced my lips as I imagined Stephan's ire upon learning of my defiance. Rising, I traced a line in the air, inscribing runes that glowed with an ethereal light. They coalesced into a shimmering portal, slicing through reality to reveal a distant place.

An elder clad in white emerged from the rift, unfazed by the sorcery or the distance traversed. "Take him to safety, care for him. His name is Ledon," I instructed. The man nodded, his experienced hands gently assessing Ledon before lifting him with ease. He awaited my final command. "Guard him with your life, Mr. Tuck. The Second Heir will need him. That will suffice, thank you." With a solemn nod, he disappeared into the portal, Ledon in tow.

"Where has he taken him?" the woman inquired, her composure returning.

"To Nerkam," I replied, sinking into the space Ledon had occupied moments before.

"But that's across the whole continent!" she gasped.

"Yes, I'm aware," I murmured, my hands covering my face as the room began to spin.

Depleted of power, my body yearned for a replenishing touch, a hint of the arcane to soothe the gnawing emptiness. Yet, it found scant relief.

Questions swirled in my mind, each more pressing than the last. Who was the masked man, and whom did he serve? The crystal trade's underbelly didn't dare such brazen daylight encounters. And yet, here was a new player, a worn figure etched in runes, fearless enough to challenge the Heir to a duel. I've never put much stock in coincidences; this figure was no novice to our deadly dance.

"You must drink, ma'am," her voice, gruff yet oddly tender, broke the silence like a distant echo. She extended a mug of steaming liquid towards me, the sweet scent of Azattico root wafting up. I accepted the cup, the aroma belying the bitter taste that awaited. "After all these years, it's unchanged—disgustingly familiar. My father made it often; it chased away nightmares, lulled me into sleep after... after everything." I paused, the memories threatening to spill over. The taste was a portal to a past I wished to forget, a past where coincidences were omens in disguise. "I'm not sure why I'm sharing this," I mused, wishing for a watch to measure the time slipping by.

"You need to rest," she insisted, her voice a soothing balm I almost surrendered to. But not today. Not when eternity stretched before me.

"Rest is a luxury the Immortals can't afford," I recited the ancient adage, though it wasn't mine to claim. Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Do me a favour," I requested, scribbling a note. "When they come asking about the Heirs, hand them this." With a deep bow, I began my descent.

The journey down was a solitary affair, an hour's trek made in defiance of the rules I'd shattered. Damien's note was cryptic—meet at Lord Jatter's residence, a name and place unknown to me, a puzzle wrapped in mystery.

The streets greeted me with wide eyes and hasty bows, the populace parting like the sea before me. Their fear was palpable, their reverence a shackle I neither desired nor enjoyed. Directions from them were out of the question.