The road crested a hill, and there it was. Thornhaven. It wasn't just a town; it was a city, sprawling across the valley below, a patchwork of slate roofs and stone walls nestled against the curve of a wide, glittering river. A formidable stone wall, at least thirty feet high, encircled the entire city, and from its center rose the structure that had been Astraeus's goal for days: a single, elegant tower of blue-tinted stone that seemed to pierce the sky. The Mage Guild.
He stopped, his breath catching in his throat. After days of wilderness, of sleeping on hard ground and eating dried meat, the sight of civilization was both a profound relief and a source of deep anxiety.
Impressive fortifications, Kha'Zul noted, his mental voice a low hum of professional appreciation. The walls are enchanted. See the runes? They're designed to repel large-scale magical assaults. This city has seen war before.
"It feels… overwhelming," Astraeus admitted, his gaze sweeping over the sheer scale of the place.
Good. A little fear will keep you sharp. Remember the plan: you are a traumatized student, the sole survivor of a tragic accident. You are here seeking aid from the Mage Guild. You are not a resurrected mage with a Demon King bound to your soul. Try to look pathetic, not powerful.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
Confidence gets you killed. Caution keeps you alive. Now walk.
Astraeus descended the hill, joining a small but steady stream of traffic heading toward the main gate—farmers with carts laden with produce, merchants with pack mules, travelers on foot like himself. The closer he got, the more imposing the walls became. He could see guards patrolling the battlements, their armor glinting in the late afternoon sun.
The two guards at the gate were professionals. They wore leather armor marked with the city's crest—a thornbush surrounding a rising sun—and their eyes missed nothing. They watched Astraeus approach with the practiced wariness of men who'd seen every kind of trouble walk through their gates.
Astraeus forced himself to adopt a weary, downtrodden posture, letting the genuine exhaustion in his bones show. He clutched the strap of his satchel, his knuckles white.
"State your business," the left guard said as Astraeus reached the gate. His voice was bored but firm.
"I'm seeking aid," Astraeus said, his voice raspy from disuse. "I'm a student from Valdris Academy. There was an accident during an expedition. I'm… I'm the only survivor."
The guard's expression shifted from boredom to a flicker of interest. He exchanged a look with his partner. "Valdris? That's two weeks' travel from here. You walked all that way alone?"
"I didn't have a choice," Astraeus said, letting his gaze drop to the ground.
The right guard stepped forward, his eyes taking in Astraeus's torn and stained academy robes, the haunted look in his eyes. "You look like you've been through hell, boy. What kind of accident?"
"Ruins collapsed," Astraeus said, the lie feeling smoother on his tongue this time. "We were surveying the old Valdris temple complex. There was a structural failure. I was separated from the group… I had to find my way out alone."
It was close enough to the truth. The guards seemed to accept it. "You'll want to report to the Mage Guild," the left guard said, his tone softening slightly. "They'll need to send word to your academy, arrange for your return. The Guildhall is in the merchant district. You can't miss the big blue tower."
"Thank you," Astraeus said, relief washing over him.
The guard waved him through. "Get yourself a hot meal and a soft bed. You look like you need it."
Astraeus passed under the massive gate, and the city swallowed him whole. The noise was the first thing that hit him—a cacophony of voices, cart wheels rumbling on cobblestone, blacksmiths' hammers ringing, dogs barking. The air was thick with a thousand smells: cooking food, woodsmoke, horses, unwashed humanity. After the clean silence of the forest, it was a sensory assault.
He stood for a moment, just inside the gate, feeling small and lost. People flowed around him, a river of strangers, each with their own destination, their own purpose. He was an outsider here, a ghost with a dangerous secret.
Don't just stand there like a lost calf, Kha'Zul chided. Find an inn. Get off the street. The more people who see you, the more chances there are for one of them to be a problem.
Astraeus took a deep breath and pushed himself into the current of the crowd. He kept his head down, his hand on the pouch of coins he'd taken from the bandits. He needed to find lodging, a place where he could be anonymous, a place where he could rest and plan his next move.
He followed the flow of foot traffic deeper into the city, his eyes scanning the signs hanging above the doorways. The buildings grew more prosperous as he walked—sturdy stone replacing rough-hewn wood, slate tiles instead of thatch. He was entering the merchant district.
A sign caught his eye: The Copper Bell Inn. The building was three stories of solid stone with warm light spilling from its windows. It looked clean, safe, and respectable. It also looked expensive.
He hesitated, but Kha'Zul's voice was firm in his mind. A cheap inn attracts trouble. You need a place where the innkeeper values order and discretion. Pay the extra coin. It's an investment in your survival.
Taking another breath, Astraeus pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped inside.
The common room was warm and inviting, a fire crackling in a large stone hearth. A dozen patrons were scattered around the room, their voices a low, comfortable murmur. A portly, bald man with a magnificent mustache was polishing a mug behind the bar. He looked up as Astraeus entered, his eyes taking in the boy's disheveled appearance with a practiced, non-judgmental gaze.
"Welcome to the Copper Bell," he said, his voice a warm, welcoming baritone. "What can I get for you, lad?"
"A room," Astraeus said, his voice still raspy. "And a meal. And a bath. In that order."
The innkeeper chuckled. "A man who knows his priorities. I like that. A room is three silver a night. That includes a meal and a bath. How many nights?"
"Just one, for now," Astraeus said, placing three silver coins on the bar. It was a significant portion of his newfound wealth, but Kha'Zul was right. This was an investment.
The innkeeper scooped up the coins and handed Astraeus a key. "Room seven, at the top of the stairs. The bath is down the hall. I'll have a meal sent up for you. Anything in particular you're craving?"
"Anything that isn't dried meat," Astraeus said, a small, weary smile touching his lips.
The innkeeper laughed again. "I can certainly manage that. Now go on, get yourself cleaned up. You look like you've earned it."
The bath was a revelation. The hot water soothed his aching muscles, and the soap washed away the grime and sweat of the road. He stayed in the tub until the water grew cold, then wrapped himself in a thick, soft towel and went to his room.
It was small but clean, with a comfortable-looking bed and a small window that overlooked the bustling street below. A tray with a steaming bowl of stew, a loaf of fresh bread, and a mug of ale was waiting for him on a small table.
He ate like a man starved, the simple food tasting like the most delicious meal he had ever had. He drained the mug of ale, the warm, bitter liquid a welcome comfort. Then, he collapsed onto the bed and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
He dreamed of fire and blood, of a demon's laughter and a god's cold, indifferent gaze. He dreamed of a world on the brink of collapse, and a boy who was not a boy, a boy who was a keystone, a boy who was a weapon.
He woke with a start, the dream fading like smoke, leaving behind a residue of fear and a strange, unsettling sense of purpose.