Cecilus spotted the city long before he reached it. Out in the desert, distance played tricks—what looked a stone's throw away was still hours of riding. The city, Ashkara, rose from the sand like a jagged mirage, ringed with sandstone walls that shimmered under the late-day heat.
He guided Xena forward at an easy pace. The wind carried dust across the cracked earth, and every breath tasted dry. The white devil floated at his side, its translucent tail curling lazily in the air.
"You'll need a helmsman who owns a boat," it reminded him. "The mountain we're headed to sits on an island a day's sail from the coast."
"I have enough money," Cecilus muttered. "Assuming no one tries to extort me again."
"Then maybe cover your ears better."
The devil tugged at Cecilus's scarf, pulling it down so far over his face that only the bridge of his nose showed. Cecilus blinked at Xena's vision to check for himself.
He looked ridiculous—head wrapped so thickly he resembled a misshapen gourd, ears still poking upward, eyes hovering above the fabric like a startled rodent.
"If I saw someone dressed like this," he said flatly, "I'd charge them extra out of principle."
"Yes, well, most people don't think the way you do." The devil pushed the scarf back to its original position.
Cecilus grunted and nudged Xena forward.
***
He entered the city without commotion. Ashkara bustled with life—rows of clay buildings, markets thick with shouting vendors, the smell of roasted meat mixing with incense. Children darted between adults. Demons of all shades and shapes moved along the wide street, their conversations blending into an overwhelming hum.
Some glanced at Cecilus with mild disdain.
But this city posed a new problem.
A desert city with no coastline had no natural reason to host ship captains.
He needed someone who passed through here—a traveler familiar with the sea, someone who knew where the inland routes connected with port villages. But finding that person was like sifting sand for a single grain of gold.
He inhaled, letting his perception shift.
The city's ambient noise blurred as the emotional thoughts of those near him seeped in—little bursts of irritation, market haggling anxiety, annoyance over sand in shoes, mundane frustrations. Normally he would shut them all out. Now, he needed to listen.
He wandered through the streets, filtering through the noise, waiting for something useful to surface.
Minutes stretched. The sun dipped lower, painting long shadows.
Then he heard it:
"Ugh—why is Dad making me help? I hate boats. I hate sailing. Why can't he just do his stupid business without me?"
"Exactly the thoughts I need!"
Cecilus turned sharply toward the voice and strode forward.
"Boy!" Cecilus called.
The child flinched as Cecilus approached. "Y-yes?"
"Your father owns a boat, correct?"
The boy blinked, startled. "Um… yes? Do you need to go across the ocean?"
"Something like that. Take me to him."
"Okay…"
He hesitated only a second before walking ahead. Cecilus followed.
They wove through twisting streets until a weathered tavern came into view. Its sign bore the image of a horned, red devil painted in cheap dye. The name beneath it read Devil's Rest.
Cecilus pointed at the sign. "Is that your cousin?"
The boy looked confused. "What?"
"Nothing."
The tavern's interior smelled of ale and sweat. Taverngoers murmured at the sight of an elf entering with a child, but returned quickly to their drinks.
A large, tattooed man sat at a back table. He looked up when they approached, brow furrowing.
"Uh… who might you be?"
"My name is irrelevant. I wish to purchase passage to Mournspire Isle. Your son kindly directed me to you."
The man shot his child a suspicious look.
"My son advertising for me now? Huh." He scratched his beard. "And how exactly did you know we dealt with the sea?"
"I can tell the ocean's been a big part of his life."
"That some sort of magic?"
"Intuition."
"…Right."
The man paused, considering him more seriously now. "Well, Mr. Intuition. It's a day's journey to the isle by boat. Dangerous waters, too. Twenty silver for the trip."
"That's fine."
"And I leave in four days. I assume you can wait?"
"I can."
"Good. Half upfront, then."
Cecilus studied him.
Unlike the villagers, the man's eyes didn't fill with disgust when they settled on Cecilus's ears. No hostility. No wariness. Just… matter-of-fact business.
Too normal. Suspiciously normal. Why do normal people make me uncomfortable…?
"Yes," Cecilus replied. "Four days. Same place, same time."
The man nodded. "We'll be here."
Cecilus left the tavern without another word.
***
Trey had anticipated an argument. When he'd written to Valter about retiring—marriage, settling down, laying down his sword—he had prepared for resistance.
But Valter's reply had been almost indifferent.
A polite dismissal. Nothing more.
Trey realized, bitterly, why.
I wasn't valuable because I was strong. I was valuable because I was connected. And now those connections are gone.
When he arrived at the Curteis estate—his potential future family—its luxury felt overwhelming. A sprawling garden. Marble fountains. Servants hurrying to greet him as if he were royalty.
He followed them to a lounge perfumed with flowers. A maid poured him tea. Time passed quietly until two figures entered.
An old man with a noble bearing. And beside him, a young woman with long black hair and green eyes.
"Welcome, Trey!" the old man said warmly. "I was uncertain if you'd accept my invitation, given the tragedy with your parents."
Trey smiled politely.
I killed them. And you want me for politics. But that's fine. Maybe this is what I need.
He bowed. "It's an honor, Mr. Curteis."
"This is my daughter, Oriel."
She waved shyly. "Hi."
Trey softened. "A pleasure."
She blushed when he kissed her hand, and her father encouraged them to walk the garden together.
They both stepped onto the path.
"Your father has only told me that you are past the age of eighteen. How old are you exactly?" Trey asked politely.
Oriel let out a response in almost a whisper.
"Twenty... twenty-one."
Not that big of an age gap. If she had just turned eighteen, I would've started treating her like a kid. Like...
"Do you have a favorite plant?" Trey asked.
"Those ones…" She pointed to a cluster of purple flowers.
He smiled. "I like them too."
Then something caught his eye.
A gardener.
Bent over those same flowers. Simple clothes. Brown hair. A tiny scar above his blue right eye. Ordinary. Unremarkable.
Yet—
Trey's breath caught.
"Who's that?"
Oriel blinked. "One of the gardeners. I don't really know them well."
The man stood slowly, a flower in hand.
And he smiled.
Trey froze.
Because that smile belonged to a man he knew.
A man who should have been dead.
A man Trey murdered.
Celtis—the doctor who had discovered Trey's secret, the man who wrote his dying message in blood—stood before him alive and breathing, as if nothing at all were wrong.
Trey's pulse hammered.
No…
No, that's impossible.
But the man—Celtis—just smiled back at him.
Holding a purple flower.