Part - 1
The bargaining lasted longer than it should have. Mira leaned across the bar with the smile of a woman who had won such games a hundred times before. Lethan, pale and sweating, clutched his pouch of coins like it was the last rope keeping him from drowning.
"Thirty gold," Mira said smoothly.
"Thirty—thirty gold?!" Lethan nearly toppled from the stool. "That's robbery!"
"Thirty gold for a Warden-tier party is charity," she countered. "They won't even look at you for less."
He shook his head furiously. "No, no, I need coin left for food. For travel. For..."
She laughed. "Fine. Thirty silvers."
Lethan blinked, mouth working. "Thirty silvers? Really?"
"Yes," Mira said, eyes dancing, "and you'll even keep ten for your precious bread and bedrolls. Think of it as me being generous."
He groaned, counted out the silvers with trembling hands, and slid them across. "Generous," he muttered, clutching the lighter pouch like a child who had just survived an amputation.
Mira swept the coins away, satisfied. Then, as if it were an afterthought, she leaned in. "Oh, by the way, I've a recommendation. Might be a fine addition to your party."
Lethan hugged his pouch tighter. "No. I won't pay a single coin more. Not a copper!"
Mira chuckled, shaking her head. "Relax, boy. This much will cover all expenses. You're already bled dry."
Relief washed over him. He loosened his grip just enough to ask, "So… who is this person?"
"One of the youngest Slayer-rank adventurers in history," Mira said, her smile turning sly. "A real prodigy."
Lethan's eyes widened. "Slayer rank? And you're telling me it's already covered? Then...then yes, by all means, why not!"
Mira laughed at his eagerness, then added, "The others will be here tomorrow. But the Warden of Dust… he will take two days. I'll inform him with Whisperglass, so he'll be on the road by morning."
Lethan frowned. "Who is this Warden, anyway? I've never heard of him."
Mira's expression softened into something almost nostalgic. "Of course you haven't. You're young. There was a time when no one dared cross him he was legend, once. The sort of man who could end wars by walking into a room. Those days are past, and his rank has slipped. But respect lingers, even when fear fades. He'll be sixty-eight this year, yet he's lost none of his strength."
Her eyes fixed on Lethan, steady as stone.
"You'll see when you meet him."
Lethan nodded weakly. He didn't feel reassured so much as condemned to fate. Mira slid a key across the counter.
"Room two, upstairs, to the right. Try not to cry too loud through the night. Some of us need our sleep."
She winked. He caught the key, muttered thanks, and climbed the narrow stairs. His head swam with names and numbers Slayer rank, Warden, sixty-eight years old and his body screamed for rest.
Bath first, he thought miserably. Then sleep. Maybe in dreams the world will stop trying to kill me.
Part - 2
The desert slept. Sand stretched into the dark horizon, silvered by moonlight. At the edge of the dunes, a city glowed like a cluster of embers low sandstone houses, minarets rising like spears, lanterns swinging in the night wind. Outside its walls, camels dozed with their heads tucked low, their harness bells chiming faintly whenever they shifted.
Inside a chamber near the heart of the city, smoke curled in lazy ribbons. The scent was sharp and spiced, drifting from the long-necked water pipe that rested at the side of a broad man reclining against cushions. His shadow filled the wall, thick-shouldered, heavy with muscle though the years had etched lines into him.
A servant burst through the door, bowing quickly before speaking.
"Chief—Chief! We've received a mercenary contract. From the Drunken Boar."
The man took the mouthpiece from his lips, exhaled a dense plume of smoke, and frowned.
"Hnh. From Mira, is it? What does that woman want now? I told her I'm only doing easy jobs now. I'm old." His voice was low, gravel-edged, the kind of voice that once barked commands over battlefields. He leaned forward, dark brown hair falling loose over his shoulders, the thick braids of his beard catching the lamplight. His skin bore the warm dusk of sun and sand, and though age had claimed the quickness of youth, strength still clung to every line of him.
The servant swallowed. "It is easy, Chief. An escort mission for one man. The pay is decent, and… it's not solo. You'll be leading a party."
For a long moment, silence. Then the man laughed, deep and rough.
"Ha! So Mira sends me a gift after all. A simple escort with coin at the end. That wench still knows how to sweeten the years." He tapped ash into a brass bowl, then pushed himself up, his frame towering, broad as a gate. The long scar across his collarbone caught the glow of the oil lamp, a faint reminder of wars gone.
"Pack only what's needed," he said at last, reaching for the belt where a heavy longsword rested.
"And summon Rahim Zahad. He's green, but it'll be good to season him in something simple. No sand-wolves or raiders this time just a frightened traveler. Let him learn how to guard with steel instead of spill blood for nothing."
"Yes, Chief Orren Zahad," the servant said quickly, already moving to obey.
The man known once across kingdoms as the Warden of Dust slung a travel cloak over his shoulders. His eyes, dark and weary but still sharp, lifted toward the open shutters where the desert wind whispered through.
"Ready the teleportation circle. We'll take the gate at Drusviel by tomorrow's fall. Mira better have good ale waiting for me when I get there."
He smiled faintly, a rare thing.
After all, even an old legend deserved an easy coin.
Part - 3
The city of Zahakar did not sleep easily. Even at night, the desert air shimmered with heat, the wind carrying with it the smell of spiced wine, roasting lamb, and the faint tang of sandstorms waiting beyond the walls. Camel bells chimed drowsily from the caravan stables, while the streets glowed with dying lanterns and quiet murmurs.
Up in the Zahad household, behind carved sandstone walls, a servant hesitated before a heavy cedar door. From within came muffled laughter high, girlish, and followed by the deeper chuckle of a young man. The servant straightened his robe, exhaled sharply, and announced.
"Master Rahim," he called, careful to keep his voice even, "your father has given instruction."
A groan answered him, then the thud of something soft striking the inside of the door. "Spare me, Nadir," came Rahim Zahad's voice, lazy and slurred with wine. "The old man sends you scurrying like a jackal in the dark. Can it not wait until morning?"
The servant Nadir Sulehn, steward of the Zahad family's affairs pushed the door open a crack. His lined face, half-lit by the corridor torches, was set in patience that had long ago hardened into habit. "No, Master Rahim. The Chief has ordered your presence. You are to accompany him on an escort mission beyond Zahakar's borders."
The silk-draped figure on the bed sat up with a scowl. Rahim Zahad, dark of hair and skin, young and broad-shouldered but still lean, turned sharp brown eyes toward Nadir. Beside him, a girl with long black hair shifted, trying to cover herself with the sheets as she stifled a laugh. Rahim ignored her, twirling a dagger idly in one hand.
"Escort mission? Why in the hells would I waste my time babysitting?" He tossed the dagger so it stuck upright in the wooden bedpost. "There's enough mercenary work here to keep me entertained. Besides, Zahakar's women are far prettier than foreign ones." He smirked and pulled the girl closer, making her squeal.
Nadir's expression did not change. "Your father said, if you spoke such words and refused… he would, in his terms, 'beat the shit out of you.'"
Rahim froze for a heartbeat, then clicked his tongue. "Tch. That old bastard never takes no for an answer." He leaned back on the cushions, arms behind his head. "Where is this grand little errand, then?"
"To the north. You depart tomorrow morning for Drusviel Gate. From there, a day's travel on foot will bring you to a village called Brackenwell, where the contractor awaits. It is a protection mission.
A single man. Decent pay."
Rahim snorted. "A single man? The mighty Warden of Dust reduced to a nursemaid."
"The Warden does not go alone," Nadir reminded him. "You, myself, and two mercenaries will form the company. Five in all. And I go to ensure the reward is fair and that no one cheats the Zahad name."
Rahim rolled his eyes. "Of course you do, Nadir. Always counting coins, weighing contracts, scribbling your little numbers. One day you'll die with an abacus in your hand."
"And one day you may die because you ignored the value of preparation," Nadir replied smoothly.
Rahim barked a laugh, but there was no malice in it. He waved a dismissive hand and collapsed back against the pillows. "Fine, fine. Wake me in the morning, then."
As Nadir turned to leave, the girl emerged fully from the sheets, adjusting her dress. She flashed the steward a mischievous smile. Rahim, grinning, called after him: "Oh, and knock next time, Nadir. Not all of us are married to our ledgers."
Nadir closed the door without a word, though his sigh carried down the corridor.
Part - 4
The desert sun had not yet burned to its peak when Orren Zahad and Nadir Sulehn arrived before the Stonearch Gate.
It loomed above the sands like the bones of a dead titan two colossal pillars of weathered sandstone, carved with sigils older than Zahakar itself. Veins of blue crystal pulsed faintly in the arch's span, shimmering with restrained magic. Traders whispered prayers when passing it, for though the gate was a wonder, it carried the weight of things men did not fully understand.
Orren stood with his arms folded, his braided beard stirring in the hot wind. Beside him, Nadir adjusted the ledger strapped at his side, parchment fluttering in the desert breeze.
"Still amazes me," Orren muttered, his voice a gravelly rumble. "A week's ride across the wastes, done in seconds. All thanks to those mage-bastards." His lips twisted in disdain, then into reluctant acknowledgment. "Cocky as they come. But useful."
"Yes, chief," Nadir replied, ever patient. "The Council says there are five such gates now. Stonearch here in Zahakar, and Drusviel in the kingdom of Cindralith. The Sunspire Gate in Arcadia. The Moonwell Gate in Velmora. And the Frostvein Gate in Hailspire."
Orren snorted, rolling his broad shoulders. "Hmph. Saves a lot of time, at least. Unlike that stupid son of mine. Where in the abyss is Rahim?"
Nadir's expression stayed calm, though his tone carried the faintest edge of long-suffering familiarity. "I woke him myself, chief. He should be along soon."
As if on cue, Rahim Zahad stumbled up the sandstone steps, hair wild, shirt half-laced, eyes bloodshot from too much wine. He squinted against the light and waved lazily at the two men waiting.
"There you are," Orren growled, glaring down at him. "You smell like a tavern floor."
Rahim grinned weakly. "Good morning to you too, father."
Orren's jaw flexed, but he only turned back toward the shimmering arch. "Morning? It'll be evening by the time we get anywhere if I keep dragging you by the neck. Get your arse moving."
Rahim muttered something under his breath, but fell in line. The three men waited as the runes carved into the Stonearch lit with a dull orange glow. A low hum rose, and within the span of the arch a small dust storm began to swirl, sand whipping tight into a spinning funnel.
Rahim groaned, rubbing his temple. "Always feels like getting sand shoved up my nose…"
"Better sand than steel," Orren grunted, and without hesitation stepped forward. The storm swallowed him whole, and he vanished.
Nadir tugged his ledger tight to his chest and followed calmly, his cloak tugged into the vortex until he too was gone.
Rahim lingered, muttering curses under his breath, then sighed and stepped in after them. The dust closed around him, and the gate fell silent once more.
End of Chapter.