He could hear loud knocking on his room door even in his sleep. The sounds got louder along with a familiar voice.
"Lior wants to see you," it was Kalen's voice.
Faelan sat up, stretched, and sluggishly dragged himself from the bed.
He had been a messenger for months now, but it wasn't common for him to have been woken up this early.
Faelan opened the door and met Kalen. "Isn't it a bit early?" Faelan said as he gestured outside to the world outside steeped in predawn gloom.
"Like I said Lior's the one who asked for you, you should get answers from him," Kalen replied.
Kalen turned away, already walking. Faelan hesitated, then followed.
They got to Lior's office, Kalen knocked rather lightly in contrast to the thunderous banging from earlier. "Come in," Lior called out from inside.
Faelan entered alone whilst Kalen left seeing as he had completed his task. "You've been with us for a while now, and you've performed adequately" Lior said as he placed a small box on his desk. "I've got a package for you, it's going to Maulec, can you handle it?"
"Yes sir,"Faelan replied confidently.
Maulec was a standalone town much like Dorvel, the town he currently resided in, but he had never been asked to deliver anything over such a distance before, it suddenly made sense why he was called for so early in the day.
Faelan set out just as the sun crested over Dorvel's walls, the air crisp but already warming. The path ahead stretched like a golden ribbon through the savannah, dotted with scattered shrubs and jagged rocks.
The first few hours were manageable, though his legs burned and sweat soaked through his shirt. He adjusted his pace to conserve energy, scanning constantly for predators. The wildlife here was unpredictable—creatures with sleek, armored hides, long spindly legs, and eyes that glimmered like molten metal. A small herd of iridescent poels darted across the path ahead, and he ducked instinctively behind a rock.
Hours into the journey, the terrain began shifting—small rises and dips, patches of scorched earth, and clusters of thorny shrubs. Each step demanded focus, as the uneven ground threatened a twisted ankle or a fall. Faelan's mind churned, calculating the safest path while keeping an eye on the horizon.
By mid-afternoon, the sun was a relentless glare, and the weight of the satchel pressed heavier against his chest. The path narrowed near a shallow canyon, and he froze at the sound of snapping twigs—something was moving fast toward him. A hulking, quadrupedal predator with mottled grey and bronze scales emerged, its maw filled with sharp teeth glinting in the sunlight. Its six eyes fixed on him, analyzing, calculating, ready to strike.
Faelan's heart raced. He ducked behind a boulder, tossing a small stone to distract it. The creature's head snapped toward the noise, giving him a fraction of a second to sprint along the canyon's edge.
The predator pursued briefly, but the canyon walls constrained it. Faelan's legs pumped, lungs burning, as he pushed toward the distant tree line signaling the outskirts of Maulec. Every step counted. Every rustle of grass, every glint of light on stone, was a signal to adapt, to survive.
Finally, the town's walls rose against the horizon, and relief washed over him.
Faelan pushed through the main gate of Maulec, the worn wooden barriers groaning under the weight of their age. The streets inside were wider than Dorvel's, but no less chaotic. Merchants shouted over one another, hawking wares ranging from dried meats to patched armor. Children darted between carts, laughing, chasing a makeshift ball of cloth. The smells were overwhelming—cooked food, sweat, animals, and smoke blending into a haze that clung to his clothes and skin.
He scanned the buildings, looking for the messenger hub that had been marked on his crude map from Dorvel. Between a half-collapsed watchtower and a tavern painted in faded red, he spotted the sign: "Maulec Messenger Guild". Pushing open the door, he was met with a flurry of activity: messengers unloading satchels, stamping seals, and marking routes on large wall maps.
An older man with salt-and-pepper hair approached, eyeing Faelan critically. "You're from Dorvel?" he asked. His voice was gruff but not unkind. "We don't get many new faces out here."
Faelan nodded, adjusting the strap across his chest. "Yes. I'm here to deliver a package"
The man's eyes softened slightly. "Name's Tavrin. I run this hub," the man said as he collected the parcel from Faelan. "All looks in order," he stood up and walked to the window. "That's the messenger's dorm you can stay there for a few days to rest before you head back," Tavrin gestured to a modest looking 2 storey building a ways off.
"Thank you," Faelan said before he walked out.
The sun dipped low on the horizon, the town seemed normal at first glance—streets bustling with merchants, children darting through alleyways, and the usual clatter of carts over uneven cobblestones. But as he moved through the central square, something felt… off.
Certain people caught his eye. They didn't belong to the throng of ordinary townsfolk. One man, tall and broad-shouldered, leaned against a wall, arms crossed, scanning the crowd with eyes that flicked like a predator's. A woman in tattered, dark-colored clothing carried herself with the careful precision of someone accustomed to danger, and she made subtle gestures to those around her, unnoticed by most.
Faelan slowed his pace, observing how others reacted to them. The whispers began, barely audible at first:
"Did you see him? Came in from the north road."
"They say he carries messages no one else can."
"Keep your distance. Don't draw attention."
A messenger? , Faelan wondered
Faelan understood that the messenger network wasn't just about routes and speed. The towns themselves, the people in them, and the subtle signals between strangers. Every glance, every whisper, every movement could mean something.
Faelan moved cautiously through Maulec's crowded streets. He paid attention to the people who seemed to glide through the crowd unnoticed, or whose presence made others stiffen subtly. One such figure, the man from before and carrying a bundle of parchments tied with black string, drew Faelan's attention.
The locals whispered as he passed.
"Is that… from the north again?" one woman murmured.
"They say he's connected to someone called Raja87," another replied, her voice low.
Faelan froze. The name jolted him—the one Selira had whispered before her death. His heart raced, but the figure moved on without any indication that he'd been observed.
Curiosity prickled in his mind. He followed discreetly, staying in shadowed alleys, careful not to draw attention. The man paused at a small market stall, exchanging a parchment with a hooded woman. The exchange was brief, the paper quickly hidden in the woman's sleeve.
He noted how people subtly reacted to the man, yet no one openly acknowledged him. The patterns, the careful avoidance, and the hushed tones all mirrored the lessons Kalen and Lior had drilled into him: observation and inference were just as important as speed and stamina.
When the figure finally disappeared into a narrow alley, Faelan lingered, listening to snippets of conversations.
"They say Raja87's knowledge isn't stored in one place… it moves, always hidden," one merchant whispered.
"Best not to chase shadows," another replied.
"They say the one from the north road carries messages for… well, no one knows exactly," a stall worker whispered to another, glancing around nervously.
Hours passed, and he caught sight of movement at the edge of the square: the man, hunched, carrying what seemed to be another bundle of papers. Faelan ducked behind a cart, following cautiously. The figure paused near the outskirts, exchanging a small packet with a someone else who melted into the crowd.
Faelan weaved through Maulec's narrow streets. The hooded man had entered into a cluster of alleys, but his presence lingered, like a shadow stretched across the cobblestones. Every passerby seemed to move around him instinctively—as if they knew something Faelan didn't—and whispers drifted on the evening breeze, teasing fragments of meaning.
"North road… you've heard the rumors, yes?"
"They say the one with papers… he sees things no one should."
Faelan's pulse quickened. It wasn't certainty—far from it—but the threads tugged at him. He noted the patterns: the way merchants glanced toward the back alley when the hooded figure passed, the subtle nod exchanged between two women near the fountain, the man's deliberate pauses as he adjusted the papers in his bundle.
He followed at a careful distance, ducking behind barrels and leaning against walls, blending into the ebb and flow of the crowd. The figure stopped briefly near a narrow stairway leading to a second-floor balcony. A street urchin ran up to him, whispering something. The man's hands shifted, and he pressed a slip of parchment into the child's palm before disappearing upstairs.