Wearing a round iron helmet and a disgruntled frown, one of two guards stepped past the fallen woman and into the alley. His arms folded across a padded jacket. “This the guy? Some pilgrim?”

“That’s no pilgrim.” The bushy-browed barber behind him waved a hand. “Just another charlatan peddling false cures to the impressionable. Makes me sick.”

Milli dropped her needle and the shirt it mended.

Horror clouded Idalia’s face.

All fatigue and soreness zipped from Dimitry’s body. Icy sweat oozed from cold-numbed palms as his gaze snapped between the glowing maces at the guards’ hips, gasping onlookers, a disgruntled barber-surgeon, and the ill woman rubbing a potentially injured shoulder on the trampled dirt alley floor between them.

Why did the city’s protectors harm an innocent bystander? Was it a mistake? They stared at Dimitry—was the violence a scare tactic? What words could deescalate the conflict?

Despite countless questions whizzing through Dimitry’s mind, crippling fear begged him to remain seated, to keep his mouth shut. It yelled that he would suffer if he overspoke. Death was more than a possibility. However, when a potential patient might have sustained a fall injury besides jaundice, and when silence would appear as an admission of guilt, passiveness wasn’t an option.

“Excuse me.” The precarious chair beneath Dimitry nearly overturned when he jumped to his feet. “I understand that tensions are high, but—”

“No one asked you to speak.” Gloved hand gripping around a mace, the second guard’s lip curled. “I suggest you keep silent and still.”

Taking a hint from the tense silence with the guards’ arrival, Dimitry obeyed. Dying now was pointless.

“See how he uses the ailing as mere tools to excuse his crimes?” The barber knelt beside the patient, pretending to palpate for wounds. “Much unlike a real physician.”

“We didn’t come to hear your spat,” said the round-helmeted guard. “Ingram, you told the Shire-Reeve that there’s a barber here practicing without a guild certificate. Were you talking about this pilgrim? Yes or no?”

“For the last time, he’s not a pilgrim! Yesterday he came to my office begging for an apprenticeship, but he actually only wanted to steal my client. Look!” The barber pointed to Idalia. “That’s my client. Do you think a bum like him can give a young maiden like her proper care? Do you think he can afford two golds to join the Barber Surgeons Guild?”

Was that what this was about? Dimitry helping a client that some knock-off doctor failed to treat despite multiple visits? Although his breaths became terse, and he wanted nothing more than to lunge forward and choke the bastard, Dimitry maintained a calm disposition. To lose his composure now would only support Ingram’s story.

The round-helmeted guard nudged Idalia. “Is that true?”

Hands shaking, the young girl stood from the quilt-covered examination table. “It is t-true that I came to visit the holy cleric, but he never claimed to be a barber. He’s healing me with Zera’s divine insight… I think.”

“It’s true!” Milli threw the shirt she mended to the ground. “For two years now, I felt like I was always tired and weak, you know? But Celeste has guided the holy cleric to me. I’ve never felt so strong.”

Another person, lost in a crowd of onlookers, raised their hand. “My second cousin said they don’t feel sick anymore!”

“I heard something like tha—”

The second guard pushed the crowd back. “Everyone shut the fuck up a moment.” He stepped forward and grabbed Dimitry’s shoulder. “For the last fucking time, do you have a certificate from the Barber Surgeons Guild or not?”

A single glance into the snarling man’s eyes made Dimitry step back. “N-no, but it’s like they say. I’m not a barber.”

“Then why did you pretend to know so much about it?” said the barber. He held a handful of silver coins towards the guards. “So you don’t fall prey to the faker’s tricks.”

Dimitry breathlessly watched the second guard greedily nab most of the coins.

Bribery?

Just to incarcerate a homeless man?

The round-helmeted guard sighed before taking the remaining silver. “Sorry, can’t have you breaking the law. Just get a certificate and be done with it, or else it’ll give those Tenebrae twats more excuses.”

Both grunts marched closer.

Dimitry’s heart pounded as if to escape his chest. He willed himself to run. His mind froze before the signal could register.

One of the armored grunts locked Dimitry’s arm, twisting it to his upper back, wrenching sharp pain into his shoulder.

The other grabbed his throat.

Dimitry tried to breathe but mustered only faint wheezing whimpers.

“To do that to one of Zera’s messengers!” Milli shrieked. “You demonic scum!”

Overwhelming force smashed Dimitry into the ground, and a metallic taste filled his mouth. Face against the floor, he spat to keep dirt infused blood from reentering his mouth.

A sharp ringing muffled the erratic protests erupting from an unseen abyss.

“Celeste, save… the corruption!”

“He’s just…”

“I… next in line!”

The shouting loudened as Dimitry’s eyes cracked open to discover a discombobulated world. Gradually, blurred faces materialized to match their respective voices.

“I said shut the fuck up! All of you!” The guard whose knee thrust into Dimitry’s spine stood. “Don’t make me come over there.”

The round-helmeted guard’s head madly twisted, absorbing the chaos. “No, no. We’re done here. Let’s go.”

“Don’t be that way.”

“But if he really is a cleric from The Holy Kingdom, Zera’ll never forgive us.”

“Not our fault he doesn’t have a certificate.”

“Wait,” the barber moaned. “That’s it? You’re not going to jail him or stomp his throat or anything?! He’ll just come back tomorrow!”

Grinning, the second guard strolled toward his patron. “Not unless you’ve got another, bigger coin purse in that tunic of yours. ”

“Oh, I do.”

Idalia knelt beside Dimitry. Cupped in her palms were two coppers resting on a handkerchief. “Take them and leave! Before they see!”

“For… for me?” he croaked.

“You can’t stay here, you know!” Milli dropped three more coins to the stack. “Go with my prayers, holy cleric.”

Dimitry stumbled to his feet. Intense dizziness, perhaps from a traumatic brain injury, hypotension, or reflex syncope, threw him back to the grimy alley floor.

Someone caught him mid-fall.

Attempting to stand once more, Dimitry grabbed his throbbing head. “Idalia, no matter what happens, don’t forget. One of the foods we discussed is bad for you.”

“Yes, yes, I know! Find it and avoid it, right?”

“And Milli, don’t eat too much seaweed, or else—”

Before he could give the final warning, they pushed him away.

Fear consumed Dimitry as he hobbled through Ravenfall’s gravel streets, mind struggling to piece together what happened in the alley. Those guards. They bellowed when he ran and were probably still looking for him, to kill him for being the only one to provide decent medical care! All because of a barber’s bribes!

Was the city guard really so corrupt? Why the hell was violence necessary? How many more would die preventable deaths now that Dimitry couldn’t work?

The thought of some knock-off surgeon treating every patient with leeches enraged him, culminating in sore and painful stomping whenever his emotions peaked past an uncontrollable threshold, grabbing the attention of surrounding tunic and gown-clad citizens.

Feeling piercing stares dig into his spine, Dimitry glanced back.

There were no obvious pursuers, but that meant nothing. They could be skulking in the alleyway, doorways, and rooftops, tempted by a vindictive barber’s silver coins. Or perhaps they hid among the residents.

Even as Dimitry drenched Idalia’s handkerchief with a bloody nose, two men paused their discussion to gawk at his pilgrim robes and eyes.

They were keeping tabs on him.

Dimitry’s breathing hastened as another pulse of adrenaline reinvigorated the trembling in his arms. No. No, no, he was being illogical.

Between spying citizens and word-of-mouth, cultivated by Dimitry and now unwanted, which was more likely? The latter. Definitely the latter. He prayed it was the latter, but when everyone was a potential snitch, there wasn’t a way to know for sure. Corrupt guards could coax information from the masses, track him wherever he ran.

Dimitry had to hide—conceal his identity.

He limped along unsympathetic, timber building-flanked roads until the port came into view. Many ships harbored there today. More sailors, porters, and merchants, too.

Eyes that saw all.

Numb legs struggled to rush Dimitry past them and alongside a riverbank, nearly collapsing before reaching the destination. He toppled piled rocks and unearthed the burial site beneath with chipping nails.

There they lay. The tattered brown and gray rags that enshrouded Dimitry’s robe when he arrived in this world. His ‘new’ disguise.

Unfortunately, they smelled of moist dirt, and pasting their potentially parasite-caked surfaces around his head and torso was dangerous. He swiftly laundered them in the river and wrung excess water from the fabric. Although that wouldn’t eliminate every festering microorganism nor the disgust, the trade-off was worth it. Incognito clothes now trumped future health hazards.

But it wasn’t enough. What if someone saw Dimitry change?

His solution was the port’s massive and overflowing crowd. Passive onlookers couldn’t track him as he blended amongst hundreds of others, each person stampeding in a different direction. Most people, however, seemed to have one destination in mind.

Dimitry followed them to the market.

Packed unlike two days ago, the deafening shouting of a hectic crowd dominated the atmosphere. Customers and merchants haggled and complained and argued at dozens of stalls across the football field-sized venue. One such stall featured leather armor with glowing auras. Another had tools with blue engravings, but no obvious function. A fishmonger’s counter soiled the air with the pungent seafood, melding with the fragrant stenches of nearby assorted spices.

“Fresh fent from Sundock!”

“Armor forged in Worlstock and enchanted by grand wizards!”

“Voltech!”

Merchants in flamboyant cloaks stood out amongst Ravenfall’s residents. Most worked alongside an assistant. Some were under the protection of armored guards wielding weaponry, both familiar and new, while others tugged along atrocious conga lines of shackled servants, who stumbled behind their masters with eyes devoid of purpose.

Slavery.

It seemed this world, too, assigned fates worse than death.

As the adrenaline wore off and accumulated physical and emotional exhaustion weighed heavier on Dimitry, his shaky legs crumbled under an insurmountable mass. His ass fell to the trampled ground and his spine crashed back against an uneven wall.

For the first time in years, Dimitry missed home.

But not his condominium. Rather, he thought of where his parents lived—that dilapidated building whose creaking floors were drowned out by a television blasting Russian news from morning to night.

As a boy, Dimitry always dreamt of moving out. What immigrant kid wanted to live in a house that always smelled of borscht? Roof leaks gave rise to ceiling mold, the boiler worked just enough to prevent pipes from bursting in winter, and the thin walls of his cramped bedroom prevented having girls over, especially considering his sister slept next door.

Although Dimitry had saved money to help his parents escape that shithole, now, there was no place he would rather visit. Just a breath of that warm familiarity would suffice. A moment in that attic overlooking cracked cement streets where children played, dogs barked, and cautious drivers cruised. Late-night gaming in June as a warm breeze caressed—

“Move!”

Dimitry jolted forward.

Was he discovered?

A guard shoved a hunched man towards the center of the market center. His body trembled as fresh blood dribbled from open wounds. At their destination, the guard tied him to a cart and stripped him of his clothes, revealing additional gashes from a recent beating.

“In accordance with His Majesty’s law,” the market guard announced, “bakers that fatten loaves with rocks are sentenced to 5 scaldings!” He held a short rod against the culprit’s back in one hand and a wallet-sized green rock in the other. “Incendia.”

The baker shrieked a howl that made everyone in the market stop and stare. He clenched his jaw and squirmed as the skin on his back turned red, then black. The process repeated several times. By the fifth ‘incendia’, the baker didn’t utter so much as a whimper. His body hung lifelessly over the cart’s edge, sloughing skin and burst blisters covering his back.

Dimitry grit his teeth and closed his eyes. What senseless cruelty. The baker didn’t have long to live. Third-degree burns led to sepsis, fluid loss, and electrolyte imbalance, but Dimitry could only watch as a battered and scorched man was dragged across the ground.

“Let that be a reminder to all cheats that fraud is dealt with harshly in the Amalthean Kingdom.”

Onlookers took swift glances at the stiff body. However, as if accustomed to public displays of torture, the clamoring atmosphere returned before long.

The urge to yell that that man needed urgent care welled within Dimitry, but he vented his frustration by squeezing his calf instead. Pointless death everywhere. In the market, on the streets, and soon, to those Dimitry abandoned in the alley.

Did Idalia really understand food allergies? What if multiple triggers led to inevitable anaphylaxis? And Milli. Would she overdose on iodine before her thyroid recovered? There was also Rowan, whose Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome put him at risk for aortic dissections, and somewhere in Ravenfall, a yellow-skinned woman had jaundice—a symptom of countless deadly illnesses. They and a dozen other patients Dimitry promised to help suffered from easily treatable conditions while he sat around doing nothing.

Rage lifted Dimitry’s fist into the air, but before it could slam into the ground, a merchant glanced his way.

Now wasn’t the time for tantrums.

Although cathartic, bringing stillness to his trembling hands, emotional outbursts only delayed progress and attracted attention—counter-productive tendencies that would lead Dimitry and his patients to an early grave. Only actionable plans helped. However, without a level-head, irrational impulses would thwart any scheme he concocted. Dimitry had to calm down.

He focused on pacing shaky gasps for air that pulsated through his gritting teeth. While random bursts of fury erupted to hamper relaxation, eventually the tension gripping his shoulders and neck dissipated, breaths evened, and racing thoughts slowed into workable ideas.

Without a wasted moment, Dimitry delved into the fundamental problem: money.

If the barber’s musings held truth, two gold coins could purchase the certificate Dimitry needed to practice medicine in Ravenfall. He would be immune from authoritarian persecution. Although unclear if the acquisition process resembled how American associations granted licenses through medical board examinations, the minutiae were irrelevant. Modern surgeons could handle leeches—a local anticoagulant, vasodilator, and anesthetic—as well as any barber.

Dimitry dug under his rags for the pouch Milli made, which contained seventeen copper gadots. He clicked his teeth. While the precise exchange rates were unclear, in no world did a handful of penny equivalents approach the value of precious metal coinage.

He needed money, and he needed it now.

The biting winds gnawing at his toes showed that unknown months of winter were closer than ever. If he didn’t resuscitate his business soon, he would die himself. But monetary sources were few.

Earlier job-hunting attempts were a waste of dwindling time, and asking former patients for work was equally inefficient. They were poor and fared little better than Dimitry. There was also the danger of corrupt guards discovering him as he roamed Ravenfall, revealing his identity to every potential employer.

Seeking refuge with the Church wasn’t safer. How would the immoral opportunists react to a profane cleric that treated illness instead of extorting patients with promises of salvation? What if they caught him lying? If the Catholic Church didn’t treat heretics kindly, neither would this one.

Another option was the two thugs Dimitry met upon his arrival in Ravenfall. Samuel, the elder, claimed to know how to earn money. His blood-stained clothes and disgust for the Church indicated his methods were independent of religious or governmental authority, but they also hinted at violent crime.

While a plausible moneymaker, the thought of regressing to a heinous adolescence filled Dimitry with revulsion. Years mired in regret. Harming innocents for profit would undo nearly two decades of hard-won change.

There had to be a better way. But what was it? Begging for scraps? Investing in a lousy tunic in hopes of a meager wage outside the city? How many seasons would pass before he scraped the two gold coins necessary to treat the patients he abandoned? Perhaps the day he received the certificate would never come. Food, health, and housing expenditures alone would set Dimitry back indefinitely. He considered reconnecting with Milli for a crowd-funding campaign, but the breadth necessary for the endeavor to succeed would doubtlessly attract the attention of guards and the Church. Even if Dimitry escaped prosecution once more, Milli and her few remaining friends would become accomplices. Maybe they were already.

Dimitry massaged his forehead as his eyes scrolled across a massive marketplace.

At over a hundred stalls, shoppers argued with merchants. The locals sold common goods like vegetables, eggs, and rough iron nails, while those adorned by decorated cloaks pushed everything from strange pipes to armor and people. On the counters of the rich rested up to three or four gold coins.

Half would suffice for a barber’s certificate.

What if Dimitry borrowed a few gold gadots from a slaver? How many lives could he resuscitate with funds from someone who peddled them? Asking for a loan wouldn’t work. If they didn’t laugh Dimitry away or alert the guards, they would make him their merchandise.

He had another idea in mind.

The stone the murderous market guard held—it resembled the green rock the man in the dark hall gave Dimitry. Were both substances identical? Was ‘invisall’ a spell just like the ‘incendia’ the guard used? Could Dimitry really become invisible? Magic rendering him unseen had countless possibilities, including a means of escape if vindictive guards chased him, or a vital tool in a stealthy theft.

Just one petty crime.

Robbing a slaver of their unethically conceived fortunes was the difference between starvation and a sustainable medical practice. Dimitry would never have to resort to malice again—nothing more than a brief return to his unsavory roots.

Better yet, magic could allow him to avoid crime altogether. Did the dark hall or the blue pawn on his wrist grant Dimitry access to spells that unraveled routes for rapid wealth? Transmutation, for example. Gold generation would bring a swift end to his woes.

He shook his head. An unlikely dream. Were gold production that easy, this city’s economy would have evolved to accommodate metal exchange long ago. But Arnest did say that wizards earned substantial incomes from enchanting goods.

Magic was the best investment.

Cautiously optimistic, Dimitry rocked away from the bumpy wall. Splitting pain radiating from his shins to his thighs elicited a wince, but he had already wasted much of the little time left to him and Ravenfall’s patients. After stumbling past hordes of shoppers, a stall displaying magical catalysts came into view.

Rocks shaped like ingots, pellets, and cubes lay on the counter.

Although among them were the dark green chunks Dimitry needed, he didn’t approach. Not yet. The disgusted gazes of nearby patrons told him he wasn’t welcome in the market. After all, what benefit to them was a man wearing rags?

To feign wealth despite atrocious attire, Dimitry rolled his torn head-cloth down to hide distinctive pale green eyes and briefly left the market to fill his pouch with coin-sized stones. He returned to the stall advertising dark green rocks once more.

Minding them was a merchant with a gray-tipped orange bowl cut. At first, he averted his gaze, perhaps hoping the enclosing homeless man would leave. When Dimitry didn’t, the merchant’s irreverent frown warped into frustration.

Eager to disarm presuppositions, Dimitry assumed a dignified pose. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but the products you have on display interest me.”

“You mean vol?”

So that was vol. “Yes.”

The merchant’s gaze crawled down from Dimitry’s mismatching rags to his bare feet. “I’m afraid we don’t serve your kind. Finish gawking and leave.”

Pleasantries weren’t enough to coax information from a businessman, but Dimitry couldn’t leave without results. He held out his fattened pouch, tightening his grip to muffle the distinct clanging of worthless copper against stone. “If you’re worried about me not having money, don’t be. Appearances can be deceiving.”

“An errand boy?”

Satisfied with the role, Dimitry nodded. “Very perceptive of you.”

“Hmm…” The merchant gave a cautious bow rather than a respectful one. “Usually craftsmen and mages greet me personally, and your apparel didn’t strike me as that of a noble’s servant. Be quick. What did your master send you to purchase?”

Dimitry hunched over the few ingots and many stones. Most were opaque aquamarine marbles, while others lustrous, dark green chunks. He pointed to the latter—they resembled the rocks he saw in the dark hall the most. “Can you tell me about these?”

“Pure vol is six silver for a dozen pellets.”

Twelve small shards were that much?! For a material to be worth so much silver in a society without modern ore harvesting and processing equipment told all. Vol was an expensive commodity.

However, was it too pricey for Dimitry? Experience showed that one entire pellet granted invisibility, but more were necessary to test invisall’s efficacy, explore magic’s capabilities, and fill emergency preserves. Could seventeen copper coins buy enough?

To avoid unraveling an already shaky backstory, Dimitry worded his currency concerns indirectly. “Sorry, but I have only gold and copper gadots with me. Do you accept those, too?”

The merchant licked his lips, ignorant of the encroaching disappointment. “I hope your master didn’t entrust such funds to one incapable of basic maths.” He pointed high above the market center.

On a tall pole hung a sign displaying characters carved into wooden blocks.

Month of Submitium Gadot Rates

Gold-Silver 1:9

Silver-Copper 1:12

Beware of Mark Counterfeits

Futility crushed Dimitry’s chest. He was worth less than one and a half silver gadots—barely two pure vol pellets. Would that even suffice to test invisall?

Unlikely.

The man in the dark hall saw Dimitry despite his invisibility. Whether the man had alternate methods of perception or if the spell made Dimitry unseen only to himself was unclear. He couldn’t employ invisall in hazardous situations without differentiating between both possibilities.

“Is something the matter?” the merchant asked with exaggerated concern. “If it is my imperial heritage that troubles you, rest assured. I don’t deal in Marks. Few outside the Gestalt Empire do since the war.”

Dimitry lay still his bouncing foot and acknowledged the man’s babbling with a nod. “That’s good to know because I was told to make a large purchase and to be sure I’m buying the right thing for the right price.”

“Yes, caution is always necessary.” The merchant wore a polite smile, doubtless preparing some swindle.

Using a businessman’s excitement to his advantage, Dimitry pointed to a stack of aquamarine pellets. “Can magic be used with these as well?”

“Crude vol? Are you sure your master needs that?”

“What’s the difference?”

“It’s like pure vol, except less refined. Beginners use it since the feedback is less severe. Some artisans do, too…” The merchant glared at Dimitry. “But those artisans are rarely the type to spend entire golds on magic.”

Dimitry’s understanding was that the dark green metal was vol, and the aquamarine pellets were the same substance except with impurities. The merchant’s words indicated they were cheaper, too. An alternative worth exploring. “Do crude vol pellets work as well as pure vol pellets?”

“Why do you care?”

“It’s important.”

The merchant frowned. “You’re asking all too many questions for a simple errand boy. If you’re wasting my time, then...” His eyes drifted towards a patrolling market guard.

Despite the implicated threat, Dimitry remained calm. This may have been the only chance to harness magic—his best hope for safety and getting gold for a barber’s certificate. He fabricated a bluff from Arnest’s tale about a wizard and Milli’s meandering explanations of apprenticeship to pacify the merchant’s distrust.

“I understand your frustration. Well, truth is, the reason I’m so curious… please don’t tell anyone, because it’s crazy, but I want to become a wizard’s apprentice.”

“You? A wizard’s apprentice?”

“He’s a genius,” Dimitry said. “Enchants tools and sells them on market day. Attracted to his fortune, I sold my house, my tools, my clothes, and even forewent food to save enough to follow in his footsteps. My family calls me crazy, but...”

“And that’s where your money came from? Everything you own is in that pouch?”

“Precisely. But money isn’t enough—he won’t just train anyone. I want to impress him with magic.”

The merchant’s hand ran through his gray-tipped orange hair. His contemplative frown folded into a sly smile. “So that’s why you’re so inquisitive. You said you wanted to know about crude vol?”

Relieved that his deceptive gamble succeeded despite limited knowledge, Dimitry nodded. “More than anything.”

“Both pure and crude vol pellets come from the same ore, but crude vol isn’t refined further after being poured from a blast furnace. Since it’s less concentrated, it packs less of a punch than the pure alternative, but you could use more than one pellet for equivalent strength. It’ll be perfect for you. You’ll need lots.”

Furnace? Ore? Was vol a metal? Despite burning questions, the intensity of countless stares digging into Dimitry’s spine made him look back.

People were watching him—more than before.

Although Dimitry wanted to learn more about magic fuel, a homeless man glancing at luxury products garnered excess attention. He sped the conversation along. “I want to purchase a small sample of crude vol pellets. Just to try it out first.”

“Bad move.” The merchant leaned forward. “You should buy ‘em in bulk. I’ll give you a discount.”

Obvious upselling. Not that Dimitry could fall for it. He was too poor. “A silver’s worth for now, please.”

“That’s only five crudes. You can’t do anything with that!”

Five entire aquamarine pellets for twelve copper coins? Not only was that three more units than Dimitry would get from buying pure vol, he would also have money left over to purchase electrolyte-rich foods! Perhaps the refining process was almost as expensive as vol itself.

Dimitry quietly fished twelve copper coins from his pouch, then dragged them onto the counter. “Give me five for now. If I’m impressed, I’ll be back to buy more later.”

“Look, I’ll give you forty-seven per gold.”

“Not interested.”

“Forty-eight if you buy now.”

“You’re wasting my time. I told you I’ll come back for more later.”

“Fine.” The merchant groaned before rolling five aquamarine marbles across the table. “Just don’t be angry when you flounder with so few attempts. I’ll be here waiting.”