Distances Are Estimated.

Land Features: Not to Scale.

On every World Map was written that same phrase, and Miles was tired of seeing those flat lines scribbled at the top left corner of the hundreds of parchments scattered on walls and boards across the city. One could generate a timeline according to the evolving handwriting of that idiom. Every few years the capitalization or spacing changed: the result of Cartographers growing old and passing on their pens to a younger generation linking an unending chain of those two monotonous sentences whose infamous words outlived even Human memory. Hundreds of years.

How long precisely? Miles inhaled deeply, the scent of seawater lingered in the summer air. Gulls squawked above: screams in wings, really, more like flying rats than birds. But nonetheless they were the hallmark of Sceindar City, hovering overhead and looking for any opportunity to snatch this morning’s catch from the horse drawn carts and market baskets. There were no shortages of battering clubs in the bazaar: every merchant had one within arm’s reach to bash the shrieking scavengers if they were tempted too close. You wouldn’t find a single thief here, but gulls never learned.

Two gentleman had been discussing today’s News Board postings, occasionally leaning towards each other to emphasize their opinions on the new Cultivation Project and dare-saying the pros of additional crops and whether or not it was worth the risk of braving the monsters beyond the city’s protective wall.

“There will be deaths, that is certain,” said the moustached gentleman.

The hatted one leaned toward his companion and subtly gestured to the Current State poster. “But look there: the population has increased by five percent, we need sustainment.” He raised his cane and pronounced, “And think of the job creation!”

The other gentleman agreed, quite so, in fact.

Miles rolled his eyes. A cane brushed his nose forcing his eyeballs to cross, and the gentleman’s stick clacked the map in front of him. It was an obtuse violation of his bodily autonomy.

“Ah, and it seems that the city’s new cartographer, ah…”

“Pilgrim,” the moustache offered. “Kechin’s boy.”

“Pilgrim has his work cut out for him. Look there, a new village has been discovered.”

That was rare. With roughly eighty percent of reliable map locations and land features being educated guesses, and ten percent being embarrassingly blank, any new known point of interest appearing was a novelty. Miles found the little circle with a house shape inside, located towards the south and at an estimated ten leagues from the coast. Impressive. The Adventurers --having to be official city contractors certainly if their discovery had made it to the embossed map-- would have needed to spend an entire night out in the monster-filled wilds. And that far south? Guts of steel only help if you have the swords and Scrolls of Power to match.

The gold-capped cane bore the hatted man’s weight as he pontificated: “Must be Team Kistador.”

“Ah yes,” the companion gasped, suddenly enlightened. “Did you see the head they brought in last month?”

“Absolutely gruesome.”

The moustache seemed to subdue his virility and simply agreed with a mumble and stiff nod.

Team Kistador had paraded the dripping pygmy dragon’s head down the streets on the point of a spear. Nothing raises the Human spirit like butchery. The entire city celebrated, and since then morale had been at an all-time high.

Miles was drawn back to the new village, Ineihelheim written above with an ant’s pen, apparently. The simple circle and childish depiction of buildings came alive, and suddenly there were people walking through imagined streets, and pretty women were reclining against the inner wall wishing for an exotic Northern man to come and love them.

The gentlemen prodded each other, guffawed, and exited behind Miles excusing themselves from a nearby onlooker.

Carriage wheels and horse hooves clopped around him, and Fruge’s bellowing voice rolled down the street as he demanded that his woodwork be fawned over. The distant toll of ship bells rang, one a higher pitched than all the others. It was the Lellium, and from its pangs came fond memories of seafaring, making a smile creep up Miles’ lips.

The hair on his neck prickled. The uncanny sense of being watched sobered his imagination and when the gazer behind him did not move, Miles quickly took action. With a fluid air he adjusted his posture, placing a knuckle beneath his lip. He furrowed his brow, as if in deep contemplation, perhaps slightly troubled, and adopted new footing. In the off event that whomever was watching him was a pretty young woman, he considered this to be one of his most handsome and enlightened poses.

There was no ahem to catch his attention, just unnerving silence to the point that Miles began to sweat. He casually turned at the waist, as if having smelled something familiar so his image wouldn’t be compromised.

Dropping his gaze, Miles centered his face on a young woman, indeed, and was perfectly pleased to find that she was fair. Not the prettiest, but just so. Having just concluded so much, her topaz-blue eye caught his attention. Then the other eye put him off guard even more, as it was citrine-yellow. Two differently colored eyes? Miles had never heard of it.

But she had to have been from the city, not some Wanderer gone mad from the dangers of travel, as she was dressed in an Adventurer’s outfit that hadn’t been broken in yet. The hardened leather vambraces on her forearms as well as her boots were pristine without a league’s worth of dirt on them. Mostly clad in costly black leather and some silver accessories, including the elaborately carved brace on her bare bicep, Miles was sure that this young woman was a lord’s daughter or some-such. Many young men and women --nobles’ brats usually-- often went through an Adventuring phase where they played dress-up, and with all the aspirations of a child dramatically running away from home, they invariably settled back down once those inexperienced kittens stepped outside the comfort of the city gates and saw precisely how estimated the world outside really was.

Then again, even though this brat’s clothing looked expensive and new, it seemed pragmatic; her vitals were covered, and the balance of cloth, leather, and metal would allow free movement while maximizing protection. Once her outfit got some wear and tear, it might prove practical in surviving the open wild and its monsters, provided it was worn by someone with a little more muscle.

The twenty-ish year old girl held up a large page comparing Miles to it with her colorful eyes. She concentrated, then smiled, and a sense of dread spread within him as her lips worked their way up exposing her canines.

He wanted run away screaming, for goddess’s sake. Was he a piece of meat to her? What was she about to do, leap at him and bite? He didn’t budge, he remained outwardly collected and even edged the line of boredom.

Turning the poster so he could see, she pointed to a portrait and its heading:

Go Leagues with Miles

It was a self-portrait, which Miles had drawn on a hundred parchments ten years ago. They were advertisements wherein he had attempted to start his own Adventuring Team when he was sixteen. No one ever responded. And who could blame them? The sketch was merely of a boy with wild hair and a dung-eating grin that would turn a prostitute away from riches.

Between seafaring, farming, metal, stone, and woodworking, and learning to rub elbows with the Upper Class, he had nearly forgotten he had even attempted Adventuring.

Miles wasn’t interested in this pretty young woman anymore. His cheeks burned.

Her eyes, intense and chilling, never broke from his. She offered the poster closer, as if he couldn’t see its shame already. “Are you Miles Albion?” she asked slyly. “The boy in this picture?”

With concealed effort, he swallowed the knot in his throat. “No,” he replied, and immediately retreated into the sea of citizens in the streets leaving the girl to questioningly recheck the poster. Jogging and pushing bodies aside, she caught up.

“But it looks just like you,” she accused, squeezing between two shoppers.

Being chased by a girl was rewarding, like rolling a sugar cube around his tongue. Despite his better instincts he kept just far enough ahead to make her struggle, but not so far as to lose her in the morning’s crowds.

“I, ah…” she said, fighting against the human tide whose waves of flesh more often than not towered over her head. “Was wanting to make an Adventurer’s Team, and just came across your poster.”

“It’s not my poster,” Miles lied again. How would she know the difference anyway? That foolish, handsome, youth could have been anyone’s son. Or made up, even.

“Well,” she started, but was interrupted by a burly sailor who grumbled and flicked her out of his way. Miles slowed so she could catch up before picking up his pace again. She panted, barely keeping her balance behind him.

Her words came in incoherent spurts, often being lost in the bustle around them. Also, pretending not to care and listen had its disadvantages, unintentionally muffling her voice in favor of the tavern’s violin and women’s laughter.

An ill master of his impulses, Miles glanced back occasionally, amused by her tenacity and disregard for her own safety as she followed him across the busy road without looking. Her eyes seemed to have locked onto his ankles.

Miles could have raised his voice at her as his last resort, as he had done with stray puppies who wanted his lunch: tell her she was unwanted, and he was not who she was looking for. Just then, the very worst happened: Brigham passed by on his way to the docks with a hearty “Mornin’ Miles!” and tipped his hat precisely in Miles’ direction. Fate can be just unfair. Cruel, even. He gave up, the farse was at its end and Miles’ secret was exposed. Not that the persistent girl had shown any signs of letting him get away in the first place.

He turned on his heel with the girl almost running smack into him. He combed his hair back with his fingers. “Look here, Miss…”

Undaunted by his attempt to leave her behind, she caught her breath and smiled up at him. “Elle,” she energetically filled in for him.

Her name fit her: short, simple, yet admittedly elegant. She had a way about her: an air that was inviting on sight. It would have been almost impossible to look her directly in the blue or yellow eye and be cruel. “Alright, Elle.” He put one hand on his hip and gestured with the other as condescendingly as he could. “I will admit that I am the boy in that picture, but that was many years ago. I don’t want to be an Adventurer anymore.”

“But, I—”

“Look here, noble-ess,” he interrupted, and she drew back with disbelief and surprise painted on her face. He had hit the mark, then: she was a rich man’s daughter. Entirely at an advantage, he rubbed-in his handy guesswork by ignoring her in place of his fingernails. “I have better things to do, now that I have grown and matured, than play make-believe with some inexperienced kitten. I see that you are a few years behind me, but I’m sure you will grow out of this drama just I did. No, I don’t care how much money your papa has; I will not be facing any dragons or behemoths for a carriage full of gold or scrolls.” He held out his hand as she took a breath for what was sure to have been fiery defense.

Her lips shut tight, and she scowled.

He wrapped up succinctly, “Thank you, Elle, but no thank you.” Turning on his heel, he left at a citizen’s pace: brisk with long strides and with all the intent to be someplace important and on time. Didn’t he have somewhere to be? Andry was supposed to have smuggled a pouch of tan tobacco from his last supply run to Lower Lacock, perhaps Miles would go see him.

Even after a friendly chat with Andry and a light, sweet smoke of top-quality tobacco, unlike other women from his past Miles couldn’t get Elle off his mind. Something didn’t add up. Miles promised Andry a carved cherrywood pipe as soon as Rogin delivered a suitable branch to his father’s house and said farewell.

From the bustling market streets to the damp and secluded apartment alleys, Miles strolled with his hands in his pockets, the Commoner way. Occasionally muttering it doesn’t make sense and biting his lower lip, he felt he was missing a piece of the puzzle.

Elle’s outfit was respectable, not just thrown together fashionably, but lacked the mars and wrinkles of experience. The silver clasp on her arm was exquisite and either an heirloom or purchased with a fortune. It couldn’t have been an Artifact, could it?

Miles laughed. Of course not.

Surely her family had money and scrolls, but he was certain he had met nearly every noble and wealthy patron of the city in the last ten years. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility a few stuck-up copper pinchers had gone unnoticed, perhaps she was just a member of some obscure family who likes to keep to themselves.

“And then those eyes,” he said aloud, thoroughly troubled. A few months studying the Sciences under Crotises had taught Miles about how human traits are passed to children, and Elle’s eyes didn’t follow biological law.

He glanced up towards the sound of childish laughter, distracted as Kilmoy’s boys ran by chasing an old wheel. Kilmoy, a good, if poor friend, raised a hand in salutation, and Miles shuffled across the slick stone four-way street to greet him beneath the weathered apartment’s overhang. Kilmoy offered the second stool to Miles.

The boys played, rolling the wheel and sword fighting with sticks. Miles nudged the tired father, a subtle gesture to check how thin the poor man was, noting that his elbow hit nothing but rib. Miles pointed. “Ben’s the monster today, eh?”

Kilmoy laughed, hoarsely, and pressed his lips. “You should have seen the temper he threw until they let him.”

A satisfied silence.

“They’re starting a new cultivation project come a few weeks,” Miles offered with a smile of hope.

Kilmoy nodded, less hopeful. Despite his gimp leg, Kilmoy had been instrumental in constructing the previous city ring, both as a laborer and as an architect. The newer generation of investors hadn’t the memory to recall that, nor the inclination to take their chances on a man past his prime and limping.

“Make sure you push for the supervisor positions, Kilmoy, you have more brains and experience than anyone else on this side of the city. Don’t sell yourself short.” Miles fished in his pockets, finding a few copper stones and a single silver. He owed this money to the stubby docksman, but he could wait.

“Here.” Of course Kilmoy wouldn’t readily accept the money, so Miles quickly slapped the coins into his hand.

Miles inserted, “Just until you get on the project roster. Pay me back then.”

Kilmoy sputtered, conflicted, loosely holding the money in his wrinkled hand. “I-I still owe you from last month.” That money had gone to a Healing Scroll, which hadn’t worked on his leg. These dinare could just supply some food and taxes until Kilmoy got some work.

Before the old father could reject the loan, Miles stood. “You had better get the supervisor job then.” With a smile and a nod as he left, Miles added, “It’s Athonasday, Kilmoy, get yourself a mug at Bouncing Brick for a copper. Like, ah, an early celebration for your new future.”

Warmth radiated from Miles’ heart as he walked away with a smile on his face. It had been an eventful day so far: Met a pretty girl, had a good smoke, helped a friend. The noon-bell was already chiming from the Eastern Cathedral; time does fly, as they say.

He came to Lightning Bearer’s Park which stood as a little sanctuary of grass and oaks near the eastern wall, and stepped up to the fountain as it glugged a thick stream up. Shielding his eyes from the high sun, he beheld the marble Lightning Bearer, Quinn the Dragon Slayer, that mythic giant who was the only man in History to bring down a full-grown drake. Black weathering had filled the waves of his hair and where his robe met his skin. A Scroll of Power, exaggerated in length, though stiff as stone replicated being blown in a high wind beside him. His other hand was dramatically extended toward his unseen foe, invoking one of the most powerful spells to have ever existed: the lightning bolt.

Miles huffed, passing the feeling of awe to the side. If I had a lightning scroll, I could bring a dragon down.

Brass chimes came echoing into the park. The noon bell has been ringing for a while.

Another bell began furiously clanging. Straining his neck, Miles gazed its direction, recalling that the District House was over there.

More bells resounded, just as violently.

Now confused and concerned at the oddity of the number and chaos of the noise, he turned to the sundial on the pedestal at the foot of fountain. It showed only 11:30 with its slender shadow.

Looking past the park and back into the living areas, women were poking their heads out of their apartment windows, and men were gazing at the sky from their doorsteps.

A shadow passed the sun, and Miles looked up. Then, with sudden realization and a cramping heart, terror sailed overhead. The bells were not for signaling the time. They were the warning alarms of a monster attack.