The bandits surrounded them in a semicircle, like an audience around a stage. But instead of a curtain, they had the tattered covers of the stagecoaches, and instead of an orchestra, they had the moans and pleas of the dying. Some of the bandits were even relieving those who had already passed of their boots and valuables.

“I’ve heard of you,” the warlock said. He reached for his sword and unsheathed it slowly. The blade glittered silver in the sun. “You’re a pirate from the Seven Seas. What brings you so far away from water?”

“The wind of change,” Vane sneered.

“Well, I fear your ship has sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Sign of the Boar!”

There was a resounding pop and the warlock appeared behind Vane. He moved with such speed that it looked like he had teleported.

“You’re strong.”

The warlock suddenly knelt down. Gasping, he collapsed into the muck and blood. A hilt of a dagger could be seen sticking out from his throat.

“Pft, another poser,” Vane spat.

“Chief,” Bloodhound said, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. “What shall we do with the captives?”

Vane turned around and saw several tied-up Ernites and Ternites, however, they seemed impossible to distinguish.

“Kill them.”

“No!”

“Wait!”

“Please!”

But the bandits didn’t know mercy.

In a couple of minutes, everyone had been eliminated. After such a massacre, Vane was sure that a hefty bounty would be placed on his head. There was no greater honor for a vagabond than a large sum promised for their capture ― a bounty was like a recognition, an unofficial sign of respect.

“Are we there yet?” someone asked.

At that moment, several poisoned needles were thrown toward the source of the voice. Turning around, Vane couldn’t believe his eyes ― a young man with a black bandana deflected all of his needles with an ordinary wooden staff.

One could say that he simply hadn’t thrown them hard enough or that he had missed, but Vane was confident in his skills. One of his men unsheathed his sword, but Vane stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“Who are you?” he asked the stranger.

“Me?” the young man replied, struggling to pull the needles out of his staff. “I’m a florist. Nice to meet you!”

A minute passed in silence, broken only but the howling of the wind and the young man’s groans as he continued to pull the needles out of the wood. The bandits suddenly burst into laughter. Many even dropped their weapons and doubled over, leaning onto their neighbors and holding their stomachs. Only Vane remained calm.

“A florist without flowers,” he said, putting his hand on the hilt of his remaining dagger. Even with only one blade, he could take anyone down.

The young man looked around, spread his arms, and shrugged.

“They were stolen.”

“What were you doing in the caravan then?”

“I was on my way to Mystria. Can I go? I’m just a poor florist, your friends will laugh at you if you beat an unarmed man. You’ll become the butt of every joke.”

Vane pondered in silence, nervously stroking the hilt of his dagger.

“What an idiot!” his men laughed, slapping each other on the shoulders and backs.

“Where did you say you were from?”

The young man shrugged again. “I’ve no home.”

“Chief,” Bloodhound said. “We’ve collected the loot and killed the witnesses. Your coat of arms has been left on the boxes and the stagecoaches. We must leave before the knights arrive... The druid had definitely sent a signal.”

“We should retreat,” said the owner of the sickles, the blades of which glittered in the sun like rubies.

But Vane was in no hurry to leave. No one dared to rush him as such a thing would be considered an act of mocking his authority, and Vane didn’t like those who thought him incompetent. He had found that a dagger to the eye worked wonders with such impudent bastards.

The childish naivety and joyful smile faded away from the florist’s face. Vane reflexively took a defensive stance and grabbed the hilt of his dagger.

“So, will you let me go?” the young man asked.

Vane, a seasoned pirate, and bandit who had walked from many an ambush and trap unscathed, knew when it was the time to retreat. Looking at the imp with the face of an angel standing in front of him, he felt his fingers tremble as he reached for his pistol. Every cell in his body was shouting that he shouldn’t fight the florist.

“Get out of here,” he growled.

The bandits froze and stared in bewilderment at their leader, surprised to see him show mercy. Vane ignored their stares: he’d survive a mutiny, but he wasn’t sure if he’d survive a fight with the stranger.

“We’ll meet again,” he said, watching the florist leave. Without looking back, the young man jumped over the collapsed tree and disappeared from sight.

Among the shocked and disapproving whispers, Vane heard a wheeze. The owner of the two sickles, throat slit open, fell to the ground, twitching and jerking like a dying insect as he desperately tried to stop the blood gushing from his wound.

“Anyone have any complaints?!” Vane growled. “Get moving or else I’ll rip your spine out through your asshole and beat you with it!”

Falling silent, the bandits rushed to their positions, not wishing to anger their leader any further. Taking a deep breath, Vane tried to calm his trembling hands. He felt like a wounded beast that had just barely managed to escape the clutches of death.

“An ordinary florist, huh?” he said to himself, wondering what kind of a monster he had just met on the usually quiet and calm road. “Perhaps the winds of change truly are blowing...”

322.A.D. Age of the Drunken Monk, 26th day of Tamir, Middle Kingdom, Mystria

A Week Later

The wonderful city of Mystria, the capital of the Middle Kingdom, a paradise on Earth for both the Ernites and the Ternites. The smell that hung in the air wasn’t that of horse dung or trash as was the case in other capitals, but of perfumes, spiced coffee or tea, brought from the far East.

As for the buildings... Oh, the buildings! A wonder to be seen! Each decorated with carvings and glass windows, housing the kind and hospitable people of Mystria.

One could always hear music echoing through the streets. There was always some festivity. There was always dance, the smell of tart wine and shouts of unbridled joy that often mixed with the ringing of the temple bells. The temples, majestic and grandiose, with towers so high that you couldn’t see their golden domes even if you leaned your head back as far as your body allowed you to.

As for the fine arts, Mystria was the home of the most famous Mystria Theather, upon the stage of which many famous actors had performed, and in the seats of which the highest of nobility sat! The king and the queen included!

And speaking of the ruling couple, it would be disrespectful not to say a couple of words about them. The king, in whose beard had only recently appeared a couple of gray hairs, was a wise ruler. Strict, but also fair, he watched over his kingdom with the love of a farmer tending to his crops. He didn’t like wars; in his fifteen years of rule, he had only once engaged in war with his eastern neighbor. After that, no one dared to raise their sword in the Middle Kingdom.

His wife, Queen Elassia, the daughter of King Edmund of the United Kingdom of Dabin, was a woman of unprecedented beauty. No artist, no matter how skilled they were, could ever catch her beauty on canvas. No poet could ever find the words to describe her. The gracious queen, even though she had long past thirty years of age, retained much of her youthful blush, forcing the ambassadors to prostrate themselves at her knees and kiss her hand in admiration.

However, despite the fact that this city was incredibly beautiful, we won’t talk about it.

Near the edge of the city was a tavern, a famous gathering place of many adventurers and mercenaries and other morally questionable members of the society.