Anora pushed open the massive front doors, the hinges letting out a low creek that echoed through the grand hall. The first floor opened up before them like a carefully curated display of wealth and purpose.
Polished marble floors, high ceilings adorned with intricate carvings, and the last bits of sunlight streaming through the windows. Pheo felt a flicker of awe, but it was tempered by the sense that this place was too luxurious compared to the outside.
Anora moved confidently toward the reception desk. The clerk immediately straightened at her approach, offering a polite bow. Pheo noticed the way other guests and staff instinctively seemed to clear space for her, a subtle acknowledgement of her influence.
She handed over a bag of golden coins, instructing the clerk to distribute it among the staff, then turned back to Pheo with a small smile. "Shall we?" she said, gesturing toward the elevators.
Pheo followed, stepping into the elevator with her. "Have you always been this generous?" Anora let out a soft laugh at his question. "It's fine. I never run out of funds." Her tone carried a hint of amusement. "The weaponsmith we're going to see soon ensures that."
Pheo's curiosity spiked. "How so?"
"That," Anora said with a smile, pressing the button for their floor, "is something you'll find out soon enough." The elevator hummed quietly as it carried them upward, Pheo's mind buzzing with questions while they waited.
A soft chime played before the doors slid open to a quiet hallway. Instead of numbers, each door was marked with a name, clearly reserved for specific individuals. They walked past plaques engraved with names he couldn't recognize until they stopped at one.
ANORA VALE
Anora unlocked the door and pushed it open. Inside was a fully furnished living space, spacious, clean, and stocked with everyone one would need. There was a bed with a washroom next to it, a lounging area, some storage compartments, and a balcony hidden behind curtains.
Without hesitation, Anora crossed the room and dropped face-first onto the bed with zero decorum. Pheo stood by the door, uncertain. "Do we need to unpack?" he asked.
"There's a time for everything," she mumbled into the sheets. "Right now is the time for me to sleep." Her tone had shifted. It was less composed, less sharp, like she'd shed a layer of formality the moment the door closed.
Pheo frowned. "You're sleeping already? It's still early."
"That's the point," she said, rolling onto her back but keeping her eyes closed. "We're moving tomorrow. His place isn't in the village. It's close, but not close enough to walk there before sunrise. If we leave now, we'll get caught in the dust devils."
That was enough explanation for Pheo.
He hesitated only briefly before climbing into the bed as well. The mattress was softer than anything he'd slept on in years, maybe ever. The blankets were warm, the pillows thick, and the air didn't sting his lungs like the camps always did.
Within seconds, his eyes closed. And then he understood exactly why she had wanted to sleep right away.
Meanwhile in another part of the town, a hooded figure stood at one of the market stalls, their eyes drifting over the produce without truly seeing it. The vendor was speaking, something about prices, but the words barely registered.
He wasn't there to browse, he wanted something to eat. Something that would last, something cheap he could afford with what little he had. He reached out toward a basket of wilted greens when a voice spoke beside him.
"If you're looking to stretch your coins, go for the carrots. They're on sale today."
The hooded figure turned his head slightly. A large man stood there, his arms straining with the weight of several bags slung across his broad shoulders, cloth bundles filled with metal scraps, wood, dried herbs, tools, and wrapped produce.
His hands were calloused, but his expression was warm and untroubled, as if he carried no weight at all. The man gave a small nod toward a nearby crate where carrots, still brushed with soil, were bundled and marked down in price. "Cheaper than usual. Keep better too."
The hooded figure hesitated. His mind had been elsewhere, far from the stall, from the market, but the words eventually sank in. He turned his gaze toward the carrots, then back to the man.
"...Thank you."
The man only smiled, as though thanks weren't necessary, and adjusted the straps of his bags before heading off through the thinning crowd. By then, the sun had begun to sink, washing the western sky with deep golds and fading reds.
Shadows stretched long across the sand-worn streets as the man passed the last of the vendors shuttering their carts. Just before he left the town's boundary, one of the guards approached him.
"Midas," the guard greeted, inclining his head. The man shifted his load and paused. "Evening."
"I've been meaning to ask," the guard said, folding his arms. "Why do you keep doing it? Helping people down here. You've never gotten anything back from it, not for years at least."
Midas gave a quiet, thoughtful hum. "Not all things are meant to be repaid." The guard frowned slightly, unconvinced. Midas looked out toward the horizon as he spoke, voice steady and light.
"Even the smallest act of kindness can change someone's course. You never know what someone's carrying, or how close they are to breaking. If I can keep even one person from choosing the wrong path… then it's worth a little time."
The guard held his gaze for a moment, then slowly nodded, though the answer only deepened his curiosity. Midas stepped past him, heading out of town with the sun at his back.
The guard watched him go, expecting him to take the main road that curved along the desert's edge. But instead, the man veered toward a narrow, winding path cut into the side of a sand mound, one most people would ignore.
The slope led upward, steep and half-hidden by wind-shaped drifts. The guard had seen many pass through the town, but he could not name a single person who's walked that trail except Midas.
He frowned, shading his eyes as he watched Midas' figure grow smaller against the bright horizon.
What was up there?
The question lingered in his mind long after the man disappeared beyond the crest of the ridge.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The warm gleam of sunlight slipping through the curtains dragged Pheo out of sleep. For a moment, he lay still, adjusting to the quiet. The bed was far too comfortable, and it took effort to peel himself away from the blankets.
He glanced to the side to see Anora still asleep, sprawled across her side of the bed without a hint of her usual composure. Her hair was a mess, one arm dangling off the mattress, the rise and fall of her breathing steady.
Only then did he notice the luggage. At some point during the night or early morning, someone had brought their belongings upstairs and arranged them neatly along the wall.
Not wanting to waste time, Pheo got up and began to unpack his things. The soft rustling of fabric and faint clinks of metal were enough to stir Anora. She groaned into her pillow. "You're loud."
Pheo glanced back. "You said we're leaving today. I thought I should get ready."
"Not yet…" she muttered, dragging the blanket over her head. "If you want to look around the village, go now. It's better if we head out later." Pheo paused. "Are you going back to sleep?"
"That was the plan," she said flatly. Then, with a lazy wave of her hand in the general direction of the luggage, she added. "Take a pouch of coins from my bag. If you buy something, don't be stupid about it."
Pheo walked over to the bag she vaguely gestured at and crouched beside it. He unbuckled it and flipped it open. He raised a brow at what he saw. "Black, huh? A pretty bold color choice."
There was a sharp crack. Something whizzed past his ear and embedded itself cleanly into the wall beside him. A bullet. Anora, still lying in bed, hadn't even fully sat up. Smoke curled lazily from the small pistol in her hand. Her half-lidded gaze finally met his.
"The right bag," she said bluntly.
Pheo very slowly closed the one he had opened and slid it aside. To its right was another similar bag, this one slightly heavier and reinforced at the corners. He unfastened it carefully and found a pouch of coins near the top.
Without another word, he took it, stood up, and made his way to the door. Before stepping out, he risked one glance back. Anora had already dropped the pistol onto the bed and rolled back over, blanket reclaiming her like nothing had happened.
Pheo quietly shut the door behind him, deciding that whatever was waiting outside was safer than provoking her before she was fully awake. He took the elevator down and stepped into the lobby, only to pause at the sight before him.
The once quiet-entrance hall was now packed with people. Travelers all around hauling sacks, families were checking in, attendants scrambled around with keys and ledgers. Conversations overlapped in a dozen tones, and the soft elegance of the hotel was nearly drowned in foot traffic and noise.
He exhaled in relief.
Good thing we got in early.
If they had arrived any later, getting a room, or any peace at all, would've been near impossible. He wove his way through the crowd and pushed open the main doors. Outside, the village was alive.
Stalls were being set up with fresh fabrics and foods. Strings of lanterns were being hoisted across buildings. Workers hammered wooden frames into the ground, constructing what looked like temporary stages or walkways.
The air buzzed with conversation, laughter, and the rhythm of footsteps beating across sand and stone. To his left, he spotted the vehicle they'd arrived in. It had been parked in a walled section beside the hotel, guarded and cordoned off.
The protective enclosure was armored and reinforced, ensuring no one was getting near it without permission. He stepped forward into the flow of people. The farther he walked, the more he noticed the vibrant cloth being stretched over entrances with children helping tie ribbons to poles, vendors sourly arguing over stall placement.
Something big was coming.
Curious, he stopped a man carrying crates of fruit and asked, "What's all this for?" The local wiped sweat from his brow and shifted the weight on his shoulder. "Festival's coming up. We've got maybe two days before the opening."
"Festival?" Pheo asked. "For what?"
The man blinked at him. "You're not from around here?"
"No."
"Well, it's to honor the village hero, the one who stopped the raids years ago. Bandits came in the hundreds, some say more than a thousand. Would've burned this place to the ground if not for him. Used some kind of power no one here had ever seen."
That caught Pheo's attention immediately. "What kind of power?"
The man shrugged apologetically. "Don't really know. I only moved here a few months back. All I heard were retellings. If you're really curious though, you should ask one of the elders. They know the old stories around here."
"You know where I can find one of them?"
He thought for a moment. "I saw one of them heading toward the marketplace not long ago. An old fellow with white hair, walks with a cane." He pointed down the main street, past the denser rows of stalls.
"Head that way. You'll probably spot him before he sees you." He gave a nod and resumed hauling his crates, disappearing into the crowd. Pheo glanced down the road the man had indicated.
With the noise of the market bleeding into the streets and the sun climbing its way across the sky, he started walking. Curiosity guided his steps as he moved towards where the elders were said to be.
Pheo took in the atmosphere as he made his way. The streets were alive with the soft rumble of voices, the air carrying the scent of dust and spice, with something faintly sweet he couldn't place.
As he passed one of the buildings, curiosity tugged at him. The walls here were different from those in the upper levels. They were duller in color, cracked in places and patched over carelessly.
Wondering what they were made of, he reached out and tried to pry a small piece loose with his fingertips. To his surprise, it snapped off immediately. The material crumbled slightly in his hand. It was old and brittle, more fragile than it looked.
He glanced around, half-expecting someone to shout at him, but no one seemed to notice. He tried to press the broken piece back into place, but it wouldn't hold. After a few seconds of fumbling, he gave up and tossed it into a small ditch near the wall, hoping no one would notice.
The movement caused him to look down over the ledge beside the path. There, in a dusty open space a level below, a few children could be seen running around, chasing each other in uneven circles.
Their laughter floated faintly upward. One boy kicked a worn leather ball, another girl shrieked as she nearly tripped over a rock, and the rest burst into giggles.
It must be nice.
A dull heaviness settled in his chest. His own childhood felt like it had happened to someone else, spent in quiet rooms with shelves of books instead of playmates, silence instead of noise, and wary glances instead of invitations.
To other kids his age, he'd been strange, distant, something to avoid. He'd learned quickly that being alone hurt less than being rejected. He could still remember the dim light of his room, the rustle of pages, the hush of footsteps outside his door that never stopped to knock.
The daily life of other children were things he could only watch through a window. The games they played in the street, idle laughter, small fights and quick forgiveness, they were all something he could only read about. Those were only luxuries, things meant for other people.
His thoughts were interrupted when something small and fast collided with his side.
"Ow–" he muttered, startled.
A child, maybe seven or eight, stumbled back from him. Wide-eyed and breathless, the kid looked up at him with a mix of fear and embarrassment. "Sorry!" the child blurted out before darting away without waiting for a response.
Pheo blinked, the moment dragging him fully back into the present. He watched the boy disappear into the crowd, then let the noise of the marketplace pull him forward once more.
The boy who bumped into Pheo sprinted off, weaving between adults and market stalls. His heart hammered. Not from fear, but from urgency. He scanned the crowd, turning in quick circles until his eyes landed on a familiar figure wandering near a pottery stand.
There he is.
Ryu, his older brother, was drifting around aimlessly, poking at things he clearly wasn't supposed to touch. Without hesitation, the younger boy rushed over, reached up, and grabbed him firmly by the ear.
"Gah–! Iyu, let go!" Ryu hissed, flailing as he tried to wiggle free. But Ity dug his heels in and pulled harder. The sand beneath their feet scattered with every step as Ryu resisted, dragging streaks behind him like tiny trails of protest.
"You're not supposed to run off!" Iyu snapped, yanking him along the path. Ryu muttered something under his breath that sounded like an insult, but the younger boy ignored it.
He dragged his brother through the thinning crowd until they reached a man standing near a shaded wall, his arms crossed and gaze scanning the area. Ikra looked down at them, exhaling in relief the moment he saw Ryu.
The tension in his stance faded, replaced by the weary patience of a father used to this. "Thank you for bringing your brother back," Ikra said. Iyu straightened, releasing Ryu's ear.
"Iyu," he added quickly, almost like a reflex. Ikra gave him an acknowledging nod, then placed a firm hand on Ryu's shoulder before either of them could bolt again. He had brought his sons to the festival not just to let them enjoy themselves, but so he could keep a close eye on them.
Every moment mattered now. During that raid years ago, when his daughter had been taken right in front of him, snatched by Warhound. He had been relentlessly chasing him across towns, the dunes, and taking even rumors to get even closer. He never expected someone like him would be like hunting a ghost, always slipping away just before he could close in.
But this time was different. He had followed a trail, the freshest yet. It wasn't from some rumor, it was from a source he could trust that led him here, to Rahl. This time, there was no doubt that within the crowds of people attending the festival was Warhound.
He had recently escaped Ikra's grasp not long ago, slipping out of reach by seconds, maybe minutes. But Ikra had tracked enough of his patterns, his movements and behavior to know that he was close. Closer than he had been in years.
Since arriving in the village, he had stayed near his sons whenever he could, watching them while working through every scrap of information he'd gathered. He would not fail again. Not this time.
With Ryu in his hand and Iyu trotting at his side, Ikra started toward the inn all the agents used, the tallest building in town that served as its landmark. As they walked, he pulled a small, worn journal from his coat.
Its pages were dense with notes. Dates, sightings, drawings, and connections others might have dismissed as madness. He flipped it open with a thumb, his eyes scanning lines he already knew by heart.
He had come to Rahl to check in and prepare. The festival offered noise, enough cover and movement, it was perfect for him to watch without being watched. And when Warhound finally exposes himself, Ikra would be waiting.
He would take him down.
And he would finally be able to hold his daughter once again.