The heavy oak door of the "Broken Tusk" swung shut behind Homer, cutting off the humid night air of the street and replacing it with an atmosphere so thick it felt like walking into a wall of solid sound.
The tavern was a sensory assault, a chaotic symphony of life in the new world that would have made a pre-war geneticist weep with either joy or terror. It smelled of roasted meat, stale hops, unwashed bodies, and the sharp, ozone tang that Castor identified as "spent mana residue." Bioluminescent moss globes hung from the rafters in rusted iron cages, casting a sickly, greenish-yellow pallor over the patrons, making the shadows deep and the faces hard to read.
Homer kept his hood pulled low, navigating the crowded taproom. It was a melting pot of biology. To his left, three Orcs were engaged in an arm-wrestling match that threatened to splinter the table, their massive grey muscles cording like steel cables as they roared insults in a guttural tongue. To his right, a group of Dwarves were huddled over a map, arguing about mining rights with a volume that suggested impending violence.
He saw Beastkin of all varieties—wolf, bear, even a badger-like humanoid sharpening a dagger with a whetstone—mingling with rough-looking humans who wore the scars of the road like badges of honor.
Analysis, Castor's voice cut through the din, calm and clinical in Homer's mind. Establishment threat level: Moderate. Weapon density: High. Hygiene standards: Critical failure. Suggest we acquire the target information and vacate the premises before an inevitable bar brawl initiates.
"Just stay quiet and scan for the Goblin," Homer commanded silently, stepping over a sleeping hound the size of a pony.
He made his way to the bar, a massive slab of polished hardwood that looked like it had been carved from a single, ancient tree trunk. The wood was scarred by knives, stained by centuries of spilled ale, and polished smooth by a million elbows.
The bartender was commanding the space behind it like a captain on a ship's bridge. He was a Beastkin of the Lion genus—towering, broad-shouldered, with a mane of tawny hair braided with gold rings that clinked when he moved. He wore a leather apron stained with dubious fluids, and his claws tapped a rhythmic, impatient tattoo on the wood.
Currently, he was screaming.
"I said clean, you lazy furball!" the Lion—Rhard—roared, his voice a bass rumble that rattled the glassware on the shelves. He slammed a heavy pewter tankard onto the counter with enough force to crack stone, pointing a clawed finger at a petite figure clearing a nearby table.
The serving maid was a Cat-Beastkin, lithe and quick, with calico fur patterning her cheeks and large, expressive ears that were currently flattened against her skull in irritation. She marched up to the bar, her tail twitching violently behind her like a metronome set to 'murder'.
"I did clean it, Rhard!" she hissed, her voice a sharp contrast to his rumble. She snatched the mug back, glaring at him with slit-pupiled eyes. "I licked it thoroughly! Twice! You can check your own ugly reflection in the bottom if your eyes aren't failing you, you damned oversized rug!"
Rhard threw his hands up, looking at the ceiling as if asking the gods for patience. "Licking it isn't cleaning it, Mincy! We have guests! Paying customers! Not your litter-mates! Use the rag!"
"The rag is dirty!" Mincy spat back. She looked at the mug, then at Rhard, then at Homer, who had just reached the counter.
She narrowed her eyes. With a defiant stare fixed on the Lion, she brought the mug to her face. She extended a tongue that looked like a strip of pink sandpaper and gave the inside of the tankard a slow, deliberate, rasping lick that echoed audibly in the sudden silence of the immediate area.
"There," she slammed the mug down in front of Homer, a splash of residual moisture flying out. "Sterile. What do you want, stranger?"
Homer stared at the mug. He stared at the wet sheen on the metal. He looked up at Mincy, who was daring him to complain, and then at Rhard, who looked like he was about to have an aneurysm.
"Ale," Homer said, his voice automatic, fighting the urge to back away slowly. "And information."
Rhard let out a long, suffering sigh, the fight leaving him. He grabbed the handle of a brass tap and filled the questionable mug. The amber liquid foamed to the brim, covering the evidence. He slid it across the wood.
"Information costs extra," Rhard grunted. "Ale is two coppers. And don't mind Mincy. She's clean. Mostly. She just likes to drive me insane."
Homer picked up the mug. He was thirsty. The walk from the jungle had been long, the dust of the road coating his throat, and the humidity of the city was stifling. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his human instincts screaming sanitation hazard, before the thirst won out.
He took a long, deep pull.
Halfway down his esophagus, the realization of what he was drinking hit him. He froze, the mug mid-air.
Analysis complete, Castor's voice chimed in. Liquid composition: Fermented barley, wild yeast, hops. Additive detected: Feline saliva enzymes. Bacterial count is... surprisingly low.
Homer choked, forcing the liquid down. You could have warned me BEFORE I drank it, Castor.
I prioritize toxicity warnings, Architect, the AI replied, sounding almost amused. 'Grossness' is a subjective human construct. Biologically speaking, the enzymatic properties of the Beastkin saliva appear to act as a natural antiseptic. It is technically cleaner now than if she had used the rag, which contains traces of E. coli and mold. However, I have logged your preference. Next time, I will flash a red light.
"Next time, you're getting muted," Homer grumbled internally, setting the mug down with a clatter.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to forget the texture of the 'cleaning process', and focused on business. He reached into his pouch and pulled out the small, rough nugget of gold he had transmuted in the bunker earlier that day.
He slid it across the scratched wood of the counter. It moved with a heavy scrape.
Rhard stopped wiping his hands. He looked at the gold. He picked it up, weighing it in his massive palm. Then, with the casual practice of a veteran trader, he popped the nugget into his mouth and bit down.
Clink.
The Lion-Beastkin's eyes widened slightly. He spat the nugget back into his hand and looked at Homer with new interest. Pure gold was soft; alloys were hard. This was soft.
"That's a heavy coin for a watered-down ale, stranger," Rhard rumbled, leaning in, his voice dropping to a low growl meant only for them. "You're either rich, stupid, or looking for trouble."
"Maybe a little of all three," Homer said evenly. "I'm looking for a book dealer. A Goblin named Griphook."
Rhard snorted, pocketing the gold. "I should have guessed. He's in the back. Corner booth. The one that smells like old parchment and greed. But watch your fingers, stranger. Griphook doesn't steal with his hands; he steals with his words. He charges extra for ignorance."
Homer nodded his thanks and turned away from the bar, leaving the half-finished ale behind.
He navigated through the press of bodies toward the back of the tavern. The shadows here were deeper, the noise slightly muffled by heavy velvet curtains that had seen better centuries. In the farthest booth, almost swallowed by the darkness, sat the Goblin.
Griphook was not what Homer expected. The history books—written by Elves—described Goblins as feral scavengers, little more than rats that walked on two legs. Griphook was anything but feral.
He was small, perhaps four feet tall, with skin the color of bruised olives and large, bat-like ears that twitched independently, swiveling like radar dishes. But he was dressed in a tailored vest of dark violet silk, embroidered with silver thread. Rings glittered on every long, spindly finger, and a monocle was perched over one shrewd, yellow eye.
He was currently counting a stack of silver coins, his fingers moving with the blurring speed and dexterity of a concert pianist.
"I'm not buying," Griphook said without looking up, his voice like dry leaves scraping on stone. "And if you're selling, I'm offering half of what you think it's worth. Unless it's stolen, in which case I offer a quarter."
"I'm looking for books," Homer said, sliding into the booth opposite the Goblin. "History. Economics. And a primer on modern magic theory."
Griphook stopped counting. He looked up, the monocle magnifying his left eye into a comical, giant yellow orb. He looked Homer up and down, taking in the travel-stained cloak, the cheap boots, and the face hidden in shadow.
"Books," Griphook repeated, dragging the word out. "Dangerous things, books. The Council doesn't like unregistered knowledge floating around. They prefer their sheep to only know what the Shepherd tells them. That kind of contraband... it comes at a premium."
He leaned back, interlacing his fingers. A predatory grin spread across his face, revealing rows of sharp, serrated teeth. "For a full set? Standard history, market economics, and a beginner's guide to the Arcane? Five hundred gold pieces. Or equivalent trade."
It was an absurd number. Homer knew it. The ale had cost two coppers. Five hundred gold could probably buy the tavern and the land it stood on.
Subject is attempting to exploit your perceived desperation, Castor noted. Market value is estimated at 50 gold maximum. However, we have an infinite supply, and haggling requires time we do not have.
Homer didn't blink. He didn't argue. He simply reached into his belt pouch—or rather, he reached toward it, triggering the sub-space fabricator built into his suit.
He pulled out a heavy, leather-bound sack and dropped it on the table.
It landed with a dull, heavy thud that made the sturdy oak table groan. The sound was distinct. It was the sound of density.
Griphook's ears twitched violently. The smirk vanished. He reached out with trembling fingers, undid the drawstring, and peered inside.
The glow of pure, chemically perfect gold illuminated his green face. It wasn't the stamped, debased currency of the Empire, mixed with copper and zinc. These were raw slugs of 24-karat bullion, fresh from the molecular assembler.
The Goblin choked. He looked at the gold, then at Homer, then back at the gold. He picked one up, squinting at it through his monocle, looking for the flaw, the illusion. There was none.
"I... uh..." Griphook stammered, his composure cracking wide open. He had expected the human to haggle, to offer a few silver coins, maybe beg or threaten. He hadn't expected a king's ransom to be dropped on the table like pocket lint. "This is... acceptable. Yes. Very acceptable."
"The books," Homer said calmly. "And I'm in a hurry."
"Right. Yes. Of course." Griphook cleared his throat, forcing his merchant's mask back into place, though his hands shook slightly as he tied the pouch and pulled it closer to his chest. "A pleasure doing business with a man of... substantial means."
The Goblin raised his hand. He snapped his fingers.
There was no incantation. No waving of a wand. No gathering of ambient mana.
The air beside the Goblin simply folded.
Homer watched, his silver eye whirring beneath his contact lens as it captured the phenomenon at four thousand frames per second. A ripple appeared in reality, a vertical slit of absolute darkness that widened into a circular hole about two feet across. It wasn't a shadow; it was a tear in the fabric of space-time.
Griphook reached into the void, his arm disappearing up to the shoulder. He rummaged around, the sound of shifting papers echoing strangely from the hole, before pulling out three thick, leather-bound tomes. He set them on the table.
"There," Griphook said, closing the portal with a casual wave of his hand. The air snapped back into place with a soft pop, leaving no trace that the laws of physics had just been violated.
Homer stared at the empty space where the hole had been. His interface was scrolling with data.
> SPATIAL ANOMALY DETECTED.
> TYPE: POCKET DIMENSION.
> TRIGGER MECHANISM: QUANTUM FOLDING.
> ACCESS CODE: REPLICABLE.
Homer realized with a start that he didn't need a machine to do that. He didn't need a fabricator. The nanites in his blood were capable of manipulating matter at a quantum level. If he knew the command...
Loculus, Homer thought, testing the ancient Latin word for 'compartment' that his father used to use for his secret safe.
He felt a strange tug in his chest, a microscopic realignment of energy. For a split second, he felt the space next to his hip soften, ready to open. He canceled the command immediately.
"Thank you," Homer said, taking the books and suppressing a smile. He could do it. He didn't need a machine; he was the machine.
Griphook blinked, his yellow eye narrowing. "You... you aren't impressed?"
"Should I be?" Homer asked, genuinely curious. "I saw you do it so casually, I assumed it was common magic."
"Common?" Griphook let out a sharp, hacking laugh that sounded like breaking glass. "Human, you are either from under a rock or fell from the moon. This is the 'Merchant's Gift.' It is found only in my people and a handful of Humans. The Elves? They hate it."
"Why?" Homer asked, slipping the books into his satchel.
"Envy," Griphook hissed, leaning in conspiratorially. "The Highborn Elves have mana that can sing trees into existence or call lightning from a clear sky. They are walking artillery. But they cannot carry a house in their pocket. They have to use wagons, caravans, beasts of burden like commoners. They are bound by logistics."
Griphook tapped his chest. "But a Goblin? I can carry an armory in my vest. I can move goods across borders without a single customs check. They call it a 'Demon Ability.' They say it comes from the Iron Remnant."
Homer stiffened. Demons again.
"They say the Demons of the North use this magic to hide their weapons, to move armies unseen," Griphook continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Two hundred thousand years ago, during the 'Great Purge,' the Elves tried to wipe out anyone with the Void affinity. They said we were spies for the Iron King. Nearly erased the Goblins from the face of the earth. Burned whole cities to ash."
"But you're still here," Homer noted.
"Economics saved us," Griphook grinned, patting the gold pouch. "The Council realized that without us, trade collapses. You can't run an empire if you can't move grain and steel efficiently. So, they made a truce. The 'Registration Act.' Anyone with the Gift must be registered, tagged, and monitored. Use an unauthorized portal? Execution. But... looking at you, I'd say you appreciate discretion."
"I do," Homer said.
"Good. Because if you ever need... specialized transport... I'm your Goblin." Griphook reached into his vest again—no portal this time—and pulled out a small, rectangular card.
It was made of black metal, etched with a complex glowing silver rune.
"Take it," Griphook said, sliding it across the table. "It's a Calling Card. Primitive tech, really. Infused with a sympathetic resonance spell. You tap it three times, and it heats up in my pocket. It also has a locator charm—a Pathfinder Spell, if you will. I can find you anywhere within the city limits."
Homer took the card. Castor, scan.
Scanning... Castor reported. Object is a simplistic mana-transmitter. It operates on a low-frequency radio band generated by the crystal lattice. It is essentially a pager. And yes, it is currently broadcasting your coordinates. I can jam the signal if necessary, but for now, it is a useful asset.
"Thanks," Homer slipped the card into his pocket. "I'll keep it in mind."
"You do that," Griphook grinned, clutching his gold like a lifeline. "Pleasure doing business."
Homer gathered his things, stood up, and turned to leave. He had what he came for.
He navigated the crowded tavern, head down, weaving through the drunks and the brawlers. He pushed the heavy wooden door open, stepping out into the cool night air of the street.
The contrast was jarring. The silence of the street felt sudden and heavy.
Homer adjusted his pack, turned to head toward the inn, and walked straight into a wall of white armor.
"Watch yourself, citizen," a melodic voice commanded.
Homer stumbled back, looking up.
Standing before him, bathed in the pale light of the streetlamps, was a group of five Elves. They were not the city guards. Their armor was too ornate, glowing with the soft luminescence of high-grade mana. It was the patrol from the forest.
And in the center stood Nero.
Time seemed to stop.
For Homer, looking at Nero was like looking at a ghost. He didn't remember the man—his memory files were still locked tight behind the "corrupted" error messages of his interface—but his body reacted. His pulse spiked. A deep, aching familiarity clawed at the back of his throat. He felt a phantom sensation of laughter, of shared drinks, of a brotherhood that spanned decades, but he couldn't place the face.
Alert, Castor's voice screamed in Homer's mind. Adrenaline levels critical. Subject detected. Threat assessment: High.
Castor knew exactly who Nero was. The database match was 99.9%. Subject ID: NERO. Status: Pre-War Associate. Classification: DO NOT ENGAGE. But Castor said nothing of this to Homer. The host's mind was too fragile. A forced memory recall now could cause a neural cascade failure. Castor locked the file.
Homer looked into Nero's eyes. They were ancient, filled with a sorrow so deep it looked like physical pain. But behind the sorrow, there was a flicker of recognition.
Nero froze.
The High Councilor of the Elven Empire, a being who had lived for over three hundred millennia, stopped breathing. He stared at Homer. He stared at the messy dark hair, the sharp jawline, the way Homer held his shoulders—a posture that hadn't been seen on this earth since the days of steel and fire.
Nero reached out. His hand, encased in a gauntlet of white sung-wood, trembled visibly as he grabbed Homer's shoulder.
"Wait."
Nero's voice was barely a whisper, lost to the wind, but the grip was iron-hard. He pulled Homer slightly into the light.
"Turn to the light," Nero commanded, his voice shaking. "You... you look familiar."
Homer felt the grip—tight, desperate. Stand down, Homer thought to himself, forcing his nanites to remain dormant. Do not engage.
"I think you have mistaken me for someone else, my lord," Homer said. His voice was raspy, the accent he had practiced holding firm. "I have a common face."
"No," Nero breathed, his eyes searching every inch of Homer's features, looking for a ghost from a dead world. "No, you do not. You look like... an old friend."
Homer didn't know what to say. He genuinely didn't know the man. He gently, firmly, reached up and removed Nero's hand from his shoulder.
"I am just a traveler, my lord," Homer said softly. "A nobody."
Nero stood there, his hand hovering in the empty air where Homer's shoulder had been. He searched Homer's eyes for a spark of recognition, for a sign that the man he had sentenced to sleep three hundred thousand years ago had returned.
But Homer's eyes were blank. Honest confusion.
The hope in Nero's eyes shattered, replaced by the crushing weight of reality. The light in his face died.
"A traveler..." Nero whispered. He blinked, and the ancient mask of the High Councilor slid back into place, cold and imperious. "Yes. Yes, of course. I... forgive me. The patrol was long. The shadows play tricks on tired eyes. For a moment, I thought I saw a ghost."
"High Councilor?" one of the younger Elves asked, stepping forward. He was tall, with hair like spun gold and a sneer that looked permanently etched onto his face. He glared at Homer with open disdain. "Is this human bothering you?"
"No, Valen," Nero said sharply. "It was my error. Leave him."
Nero looked at Homer one last time. There was a lingering suspicion in his gaze, but he forced himself to turn away. "Let us go. The Council awaits."
Nero walked past Homer, entering the tavern. The younger Elves followed, their noses high in the air.
Homer stood frozen. He remembered the passage in the book: When in the presence of the Highborn, the lesser races shall show deference.
It burned his pride. It burned against every instinct that told him he was the Architect, the father of their world. But survival came first.
Homer lowered his head, bowing slightly as the retinue passed.
"Yeah, that's right," Valen sneered as he passed, noticing the bow. He deliberately bumped Homer's shoulder with his pauldron. "Keep your head down, human. Know your place."
"Silence, Valen," another female Elf hissed. "Your ego will get you killed one day. Have some dignity."
"He's just a human," Valen laughed, his voice fading as they entered the tavern. "He probably can't even understand High Elvish."
The door swung shut.
Homer remained bowed for a full second longer than necessary. Then he straightened up. His face was blank, but inside, his mind was a storm of calculation.
Log that, Homer thought coldly.
Interaction logged, Castor replied. Subject 'Nero' is suspicious. We have a limited window before he investigates further. We need to disappear.
"We will," Homer said. He turned and walked quickly down the street, melting into the shadows of the alleyways.
The "Old Well" inn was a stark contrast to the violence and chaos of the "Broken Tusk." It was clean, quiet, and smelled of baking bread and dried herbs. It was a place for families and pilgrims, a sanctuary from the harshness of the road.
Homer found Mara, Jina, Tor, and Kael sitting at a large communal table near the hearth. They were halfway through a meal of roasted chicken and root vegetables.
"There he is!" Jina waved her spoon, her face lighting up. "The scholar returns! Did you find your dusty books?"
Homer forced a smile, the tension of the street fading slightly in their warm presence. "I did. Though they cost more than I expected."
He sat down next to Tor. The big man slid a plate of food toward him without a word. "Eat. You look pale. See a ghost?"
"Something like that," Homer muttered, tearing into a piece of bread.
"So," Tor asked, his eyes sharp over his mug. "Why did you really leave the fishing village? I've been to Cupang. They don't have scholars. They have fishermen. And you don't have the hands of a fisherman."
The table went quiet. Mara looked at Homer with concern. Tor wasn't being mean; he was being protective of his family.
Homer hesitated. He hadn't prepared a backstory for this specific question.
Deception protocol active, Castor interjected. Suggest the following narrative: You are a student of the world. You study to travel, not travel to study. It explains your lack of calluses and your curiosity.
"I study to travel," Homer lied, the words flowing smoothly thanks to the prompt. "I grew up reading about the world beyond the bay. The Spires, the mountains, the history. I didn't want to just read about it anymore. I wanted to see it. But to see it, I need to understand it. Hence the books."
Tor stared at him for a moment, looking for the lie. Then he grunted, nodding. "Fair enough. Better to chase a dream than rot in a boat."
"But if you want to travel," Jina piped up, leaning forward on her elbows, "you can't just wander around like this. You need a Guild Card."
"A Guild Card?" Homer asked.
"The Adventurer's Guild," Jina explained, her eyes wide with excitement. "Or the Merchant's Guild. Or the Mage's Guild. It doesn't matter which one. You register, pay the fee, and they give you a Tag."
"Like a pass?"
"Better," she said. "It's an ID. A universal identification. Without it, you have to pay the 'Stranger's Tax' at every town gate. You have to get temporary papers like we did today. But with a Guild Tag, you can go almost anywhere in the Empire. It proves you're a registered citizen who pays taxes on their earnings."
"And if you die on the road," Kael added grimly, speaking for the first time, "they use the wood to identify you."
"The wood?"
"It's special," Jina nodded. "Soul-Wood. They take a drop of your blood when you sign up. The wood binds to your... what's it called... your Life Signature."
DNA, Castor corrected silently in Homer's mind. It is a biological lock. Clever. It prevents theft and identity fraud. Only the registered user can activate the card's features.
"If you die," Jina continued, "the Guild knows. The tag goes cold. And if someone finds your Tag, they can bring it back for a reward. It's how families get closure."
Homer stopped eating. A memory flashed in his mind—not his own, but a recent one.
The satchel in the woods. The book he had stolen. The bag had been found next to a pile of old, weathered bones half-buried in the moss. And inside the bag, tucked into a side pocket, he had seen a small, polished wooden plaque. He hadn't thought much of it at the time, assuming it was a trinket.
He was a Guild Member, Homer realized, the pieces clicking together. That explains why the book was out there. He died on a mission, and his Tag is still there.
He didn't say this out loud. He couldn't tell them he was carrying stolen property from a dead man.
"So," Homer said slowly. "A Guild Card solves my travel problems."
"Exactly," Tor said. "Tomorrow, you should register. The Guild Hall is in the square. It will make your life much easier."
Homer nodded slowly. "I think I will."
It made perfect sense. He was an anomaly in this world. A ghost. He needed a cover story that stood up to scrutiny. Being a low-ranking "Adventurer" or "Scholar" in the Guild would give him a legal reason to move around, to explore ruins, to hunt monsters. It would hide his true nature in plain sight.
"To the Guild, then," Homer raised his mug of water.
"To the Guild!" Jina cheered.
Later that night, Homer sat alone in his small rented room at the inn. The window was open, letting in the sounds of the sleeping city.
On the desk in front of him lay the three books he had bought from Griphook, the mysterious Calling Card, and the forged pass he had used to enter the city.
He pushed the geography books aside and opened the one on magic theory. The first chapter was titled: The Limits of the Soul: Why We Are Bound to One Element.
He read it quickly, his enhanced brain processing the information at incredible speeds.
Summary, Castor projected into his mind. The biological limitations of the modern races prevent their nanite-infused blood from holding more than one 'frequency' of command code. A Fire Mage has blood that resonates at the thermal frequency. Attempting to cast an Ice spell causes fatal resonance failure—the blood literally boils. Highborn Elves may possess two affinities, but this is a rare mutation seen only in the royal lines.
"One element," Homer whispered. "They are locked to one channel."
He held up his left hand. He didn't chant. He didn't wave a staff. He simply accessed the command line in his mind, the language his father had taught him—Latin, the root of all scientific nomenclature.
Ignis.
A small, perfectly controlled flame danced on his index finger. It was orange and hot.
He held up his right hand. He visualized the command code for molecular deceleration.
Glacies.
A shard of ice, sharp and cold, formed instantly on his fingertip, steaming in the humid air.
He brought his hands together. Fire and Ice. Thermal dynamics existing in impossible proximity. He felt no strain. No boiling blood. No resonance failure. It was as easy as breathing.
Correct, Castor said, the voice echoing in the silent room. Your nanites are not biological. They are external machinery governed by a central processing unit—me. You are not bound by 'resonance.' You are the Administrator. You have root access to the entire command library. Fire, Ice, Gravity, Light... you can execute them all. Simultaneously. And you do not need to speak. The connection is neural.
"God mode," Homer muttered, watching the fire and ice swirl together, creating a hiss of steam. "I am walking around with admin privileges in a server full of users."
In a manner of speaking. To them, you are an impossibility. A god, or a monster. If the Council finds out you can cast Omni-elemental magic...
"They'll kill me," Homer finished, extinguishing the elements with a thought. "Or lock me back up."
He closed the book with a snap.
"Tomorrow, we register," Homer said, standing up and walking to the window. "We get that Guild Tag. We become a boring, low-level scholar who barely knows how to light a candle. We blend in."
A prudent strategy, Castor agreed, though his internal logs were already calculating the odds of a confrontation with Nero. But Architect... do not forget the Elf. He suspects.
"I know," Homer looked out the window toward the towering spire of the palace in the distance, rising like a white needle against the moons. "And that's why we need to be ready to run."
He blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. But in the dark, his silver eye glowed, wide awake and watching.