Varin decided a change of pace was best for his scattered mind. Lately, all he could dwell on was the mirror in the attic that could capture doppelgangers through dark magic, as well as the fact that Cateline was the daughter to the most infamous family on Denzethea. Normally, with so much stress and discontentment, Varin would offer to share a drink, or two—or three—with Thaddius.

And, to top it all off, the wake of Lunarseve had fallen today, which meant the ball was in a matter of days. After finding out that Cateline could not be trusted, Varin was determined to prevent Senevia from attending. It was far too dangerous, and there was a massive growing clump of anxiety that settled in the pit of his stomach.

The tavern was in the heart of Daggernest, the largest and most populous town within Traburg. This was where most of the merchants sold their goods, and where all the farmers set up shop.

It also had two bodies of water immediately near it—a freshwater lake, and direct access to the Emerald sea through a fairly large strait. The smaller and less beloved town, Javunger, only had access to the Emerald strait. No ports or easy access to fresh water.

Varin blamed the poor access to fresh water and frequent flooding for their inferior lifestyle, but others blamed it on a curse. Although he had no doubt that curses existed, he refused to pity them under the ruse of a hex that may or may not exist. Despite this ideology, that city did have a creepy way about it, and he hoped that his errand in that forsaken town was the last time he’d pay a visit. Aiora always told him that was where the heretics made their chaos known.

“...don’t you remember that?” Thaddius asked as he slammed his glass onto the table. He was approximately three drinks away from shaking the entire tavern on its side with his chortles.

Varin returned his focus to Thaddius, nodding chastly. He, in fact, did not remember that—remembering would require listening.

“Of course I do.”

Thaddius grinned, his hair tangling around the horns that protruded from his head. They were dark brown and uneven, spiraling into haphazard helix’s.

“Good riddance to him, anywho!" Thaddius continued.

Varin blinked, hoping his bewilderment toward this memory was hidden. Luckily, Thaddius kept drinking and looking all around as he babbled. “Aye.”

“Anyways, he is Javunger’s problem now.”

Varin snickered, nodding in agreement. They both agreed to another drink before Varin continued. While most understood that the residents of Javunger were a different breed, it was always safest to keep one's voice down and conversations private. “Javunger is a town for heretics and thieves. Nobody with any sanity or morality willingly lives there.”

“I think you are underestimating a man's will and desire to experience danger,” Thaddius responded.

“That man will not only face danger—he will face cannibalism, violence and insanity.” Varin said.

Thaddius smiled, thanking the matron’s daughter as she returned with their drink, scurrying away before they could say another word. She was a young child, probably no older than fourteen, and had bouncing brown curls that fell in front of her face as it hung low. Varin looked at the rest of the bystanders, the lull in their conversation serving as distraction from his anxieties.

Most of the men were older and wild. Each of them had beards of varying lengths, sizes and densities. The younger men who helped their fathers harvest their crop had the patchier shadow of a stubble, whereas the fathers proudly wore their thick, bushy beard.

The thing about Daggernest was not the level of class each citizen possessed, but rather the skills they harnessed. Everybody in this tavern looked like they were unfit to greet the King, but each of them held artisanry skills that outmatched every merchant and craftsman on this side of Denzethea. The kingdom of Traburg, specifically the capitol of Daggernest, had a way of attracting the gifted and talented—and that extended much further than Lighthelm and their mages.

“It makes me wonder,” Varin continued, “what Leolina has to do with that good-for-nothing town.”

“You are just now questioning her ethics?”

“No, this is not a matter of ethics. This is a matter of uprooting the skeletons of her past.”

“Think they’re buried?” Thaddius grinned wildly.

Varin shook his head. “I think they’re anything but buried now.”

“Shame, Varin, but luckily for you it is not your issue. You’re about ready to return home, right?”

Varin’s eyes widened. Home. That was a place he was not sure still existed. When he left, the temples and villages within Yulia were in flames and his family was either in ruins or hiding. There was no serenity… no safe haven for his littlest sister to run away to.

And, even knowing that, he left her behind.

He had no choice. If he wanted a chance at saving his home, he had to learn what ultimately killed his father. So, approximately four and a half years ago, he traveled across the Waves of Crimson, overtaking the Lost Sea and the mysteries that slithered through those waters until eventually taking refuge in Traburg. He remembered how welcoming the headmistress was to him—as if his arrival was expected.

Trapped in this cycle of tormenting doubt that he was not ready to return, he wondered if he was simply making excuses for his cowardly fear of sailing back. The worst part of it all was that he didn’t know if his family was still alive.

“Where is your home, Thaddius?” Varin asked, ignoring his inquiry.

“This has become my home, Varin.”

The satyr’s voice wavered, the lids of his eyes growing heavy as he lowered his focus to the tabletop. Varin cleared his throat and looked around briefly before returning his attention to his friend. It wasn’t often that he showed sadness—normally, he was the one uplifting everybody’s darkest moods.

Thaddius continued. “My home was overrun with soldiers. Some harnessed their mana for purposes that would inevitably destroy them, and some mere mortals on a suicide mission. My village was one of warriors—satyrs and humans with the sole purpose to protect the red sand deserts and mountainous regions full of nomads. We fought to live on that land in harmony with the creatures and souls that already lived in peace for a millennia before us—the soldiers had a different mentality.”

“Where were the soldiers from?” Varin asked, a tickle of familiarity falling over him like a blanket. He, too, lost his village to a massacre.

“To this day, I can only assume.”

There was a moment of silence before Varin nodded, making a safe assumption that those soldiers belonged to the Axulran militia. While Axulran had a large military base, it was known that they had extremist groups who traveled to the countries far away from their home to spread their words of righteous wisdom. Oftentimes, those words turned to violence.

It was an unfortunate circumstance that Axulran housed the cruelest king who also did nothing to stop the spread of those violent militias. So many cities that were otherwise irrelevant to that cold King Airen would be subject to torturous battle due to a state of prejudice against their kind.

That was exactly what happened to Varin, and he could only assume what happened with Thaddius. Axulran had little tolerance to civilizations that embaced the elemental mana that flowed through the veins of those who were fortunate enough. With so much cynicism on the creation of our Denzethea, it was no surprise that there was tension between the King of Axulran and nearly every other civilization near and far.

The royal family of Traburg was much quieter than most. King Yusof was an old man—wiser and greater than any man he would be fortunate enough to know—and one that would never expose the innocent to the horrendous War of Mimicry. That bloodbath now existed via songs of battle and folklore told over glasses of mead, only truly haunting the families who witnessed it firsthand. Most of those had died off now, though.

Still, Varin would kill to learn more of that war.

Eventually, his eyes wandered to a woman in the far corner of the bar. She had tan skin and golden locks that fell past her chest in gentle curls, the neckline of her dress a deeply cut ‘v.’ From here, he could see a shimmering blue pair of eyes staring straight at him. She stood, walking past each man as if they did not exist. They, too, acted as if her presence was unknown.

She stood just a hand away from the two men. Thaddius drew his cup to his lips, his eyes going right through the woman.

“Can I help you?” Varin asked.

“Help who?” Thaddius chimed.

The woman grinned, drinking him in carefully—from his head, to his feet, and back up once more.

“Hello, Varin.”

Although she was right in front of him, she sounded like she was a million miles away. “Do you seriously not see her, Thad?”

“See who?”

She bowed sardonically, her smirk growing wickeder as she stood upright again. “My name is Seraphine, it is a pleasure to finally meet you. I have been watching the scholars of Lighthelm closely—but you… you are most impressive.”

She had a slight accent, every word rolling off her tongue as if it was perfectly crafted for his ears to hear. Alluring and frightening were the only words he could use to describe Seraphine. Talking with her was like dancing on the edge of a cliff that was about to fall down to the depths of the unknown.

“Are you a ghost?” A silly question, but it was all he could think to ask.

At this point, Thaddius stared at his friend wildly, eyebrows raised and head cocked. The woman shook her head firmly.

“A ghost? No. But I am not within your reach.”

With this, Seraphine reached out a hand for him and waited patiently, expecting him to take hold. He did not accept, and instead balled his hands into nervous fists. The vein in his forehead protruded and pulsated, a headache forming in the center of his forehead. It was subtle at first, but grew severely more sinister as the seconds ticked.

He lowered his head to the table and covered his ears as they rang, the world around him blurring.

“What’s happening?” he said between aching groans. “Stop it!”

Seraphine cooed, “Tsk, tsk, tsk… It is impolite to yell in such a refined establishment. Join me and become my child of the night. The chosen mage fit to fight—for our freedom, for my rightful claim to Denzethea, for the firstborn.”

At the end of her invitation, the ringing stopped and the headache vanished. Slowly, Varin lifted his head and met Thaddius’ worried stare. He asked him a million questions, but the buzzing of his mind silenced the pestering.

Although the woman was nowhere to be seen, and the tavern as silent and still as each patron stared at him with sincere bewilderment, there was a lingering whisper that encompassed his mind.

“Come Lunarseve, my children shall set out to fulfill the prophecy of the Firstborn Mage. Will you be one of us?”