"I still don't understand why we're going to see him again," Vollen grumbled as he adjusted his armor, which creaked in protest. "Have we not already tempted fate enough for a season?"
"I've thought it through," Lord Elric said, his expression tight as a snapped bowstring. "And I believe I'm confident enough now to tell him, politely, that he should consider moving on."
Vollen turned to look behind them. "Then why do we have fifty armed soldiers following us?"
"You are my vessel," Elric snapped, "just follow the orders."
"Sire," Vollen muttered, "death is sitting in our city and showing tricks to children. I'm not sure ranks matter anymore."
Elric didn't answer. He just clutched the rolled parchment in his gloved hand—an official letter of formal diplomatic request for relocation, dressed in pleasantries. Every word had been reviewed by five scribes and a very nervous priest.
A scout intercepted them near the market road. "He was last seen at the Northern Square," the man reported, glancing at the soldiers behind Elric. "Sitting near the old bell tower."
"Sitting?" Elric raised a brow.
"Yes, my lord. Apparently sketching something. On parchment."
"Sketching?" Vollen repeated suspiciously. "Let me guess. Knives?"
"No. It looked like… circles. With strange lines."
Elric stopped in his tracks. He closed his eyes and muttered something quiet and desperate to any divine ear still willing to listen.
The Northern Square was bustling with its usual midday crowd: market stalls, pickpockets in training, and street performers of questionable skill. But today, all eyes were drawn to the crumbling bell tower where Kalem sat cross-legged on a flat stone, surrounded by a group of wide-eyed children.
Parchment spread before him, weighted by bits of broken brick. His gloved hand moved with slow precision, sketching a series of concentric circles, dotted with glyphs and intersected by strange curved lines that shimmered faintly in the sunlight.
"Do you think he's casting something?" Vollen asked.
"No idea," Elric whispered. "But I think I just wet my boot."
Their worries doubled when a loud voice cut through the square.
"You there! Black armor! I challenge you!"
A mercenary stood ten paces away, chest puffed, blade drawn in dramatic fashion. The children scattered. Kalem didn't even look up.
"Oh saints, he just challenged a hurricane," Elric moaned. "Should we run?"
"No need."
The voice came from behind them. They turned to see a mountain of a man—even in black armor, he stood broader than most warhorses, the armor crafted with brutal efficiency and no excess flourish. A giant's shoulders, a lion's stride. The helm under his arm revealed a worn but patient face.
"And you are…?" Elric asked, resisting the urge to hide behind Vollen.
"Garrick," the man replied simply. "Friend of Kalem."
Elric paled. "Then… for all that is holy, stop whatever is about to happen. I only became City Lord five years ago. I have young children. I cannot afford to die!"
Garrick gave him a look of pity and shook his head. "No one's dying. Not today."
He turned to two nearby guards and barked, "Fetch a stretcher. Kalem won't kill him, but someone should be there to keep him alive."
The guards obeyed without hesitation.
The crowd held its breath as the mercenary shouted again. "Did you not hear me?! I challenged you!"
Kalem looked up slowly, brows raised in a sort of detached amusement. Then, with a sigh, he stood.
The mercenary grinned.
Kalem took three steps forward, grabbed the man by the chestplate, and hurled him across the square like a sack of damp wheat. He hit a barrel, broke it, and then groaned softly as wine spilled everywhere.
"Why did he even try?" Vollen asked.
"Hope," Garrick said.
"Stupidity," Elric muttered.
Kalem then turned and looked directly at them. Elric swore his soul took one step toward the afterlife.
In the blink of an eye, Kalem stood before them.
Garrick smiled. "Kalem. It's good to see you."
"Garrick?" Kalem's voice lightened slightly. "When did you get here?"
"Last night. Life's been good to me since we last spoke."
Kalem studied the armor his friend wore. "You still have that thing?"
"This armor you made back at the Academy has served me well. Saved my life more times than I can count."
Kalem gave a short chuckle. "It's not that good. I made it when I was still fumbling with runes. The leg seals squeak when they heat."
"It still fits."
Kalem turned to Elric and Vollen. "These yours?"
Garrick shrugged. "They came to speak to you."
Kalem nodded once. "Let's go somewhere less crowded. The crowd smells like roasted radish and fear."
Vollen glanced at Elric. "Permission to faint, sire?"
"Granted."