Fate of the Marked

10,000 Gold

Right to his word, we arrived in Velbridge in no time.

The city stretched out before us, a bustling hub of activity nestled against the curve of a wide, slow-moving river. Velbridge wasn't as sprawling as Caerwyn, but it had a charm of its own—a smaller, tighter-knit energy that pulsed through its cobbled streets. The buildings were tall and closely packed, their red-tiled roofs glinting in the pale light of the overcast day. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, mingling with the smell of baked bread, damp stone, and the faint metallic tang of industry.

Though not as diverse as Caerwyn, Velbridge still attracted its share of travelers and residents from across the lands. Humans made up most of the population, but I spotted a few elves in the mix, their graceful strides and pointed ears standing out against the crowd. An orc, heavily armored and carrying what looked like a crate of supplies, lumbered past without so much as a glance in our direction.

But no dwarves. No halflings, either. I remembered noticing the same thing the last time I was here, though I hadn't thought much of it at the time. Maybe Velbridge didn't hold much appeal for the shorter folk, or maybe they just had better places to be.

We approached the entrance—a massive stone bridge that spanned the river with impressive grandeur. The bridge arched high, its pale gray stones intricately carved with swirling patterns and the occasional emblem of Velbridge's crest: a griffin holding a sword. It was wide enough to accommodate multiple wagons and pedestrians at once, though the flow of traffic was slowed considerably by the tight security at the far end.

Soldiers were stationed at regular intervals along the bridge, their armor polished to a dull sheen, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords or spears. At the checkpoint, a small group of guards questioned everyone attempting to enter. The line moved slowly, though no one seemed inclined to complain—not with the way the soldiers were watching every gesture, every twitch, like hawks.

Kael glanced at the line of guards ahead, then back at me, his grin widening. "Oh, don't worry about this," he said with an exaggerated wave of his hand. "Piece of cake. I know the guards."

I raised an eyebrow. "You know the guards?"

"Of course!" he said, puffing out his chest like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Velbridge and I go way back. Just leave it to me."

I crossed my arms, eyeing him skeptically. "And by 'know the guards,' you mean what, exactly? You've actually spoken to them, or they've chased you out of the city before?"

He placed a hand over his heart, feigning a wounded expression. "Thalia, please. Have some faith."

"Faith isn't exactly my strong suit," I muttered, but he didn't seem to hear me—or more likely, he pretended not to.

Kael strode forward confidently, weaving through the line with an ease that should have annoyed me but somehow didn't. He approached the nearest guard, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a face that looked like it had been carved from stone.

"Hey, Tomas!" Kael called out, raising a hand in greeting like they were old friends.

The guard turned, his eyes narrowing at the sound of Kael's voice. For a moment, I braced myself, half-expecting this to turn into yet another mess I'd have to clean up.

Then, to my surprise, Tomas's stern expression softened. "Kael?" he said, his voice tinged with mild disbelief.

"That's me," Kael said, flashing his trademark grin. "Back again! You know I can't stay away from Velbridge for too long."

The guard shook his head, letting out a gruff chuckle. "What trouble are you bringing this time?"

"No trouble at all," Kael said, gesturing back toward me with a flourish. "Just me and my traveling companion here, looking to get in. You know how it is."