A shadowed man stood in the middle of that sun-scorched plane, the red horizon seeming to stream wisps of dark red clouds all around him. he couldn’t see the man. Not just because of the strange shadow, which made his silhouette the only thing visible. A large sand cloud swirled around him, a miniature typhoon, which hung to him like some cape beating in the wind. Yet, a single thing shone as bright as a day’s sun. A large amber crystal, the shape of an eye shone through the shadow and the swirling sands, piercing straight through him, peering into his soul.

Kosian jumped out of his blankets, wanting to scream. He almost did too. It wasn’t his first time, seeing this nightmare. He clearly remembered how he dreamt it for the first time a few days after Pietre was taken. Yet, no matter how many times he had seen it, he couldn’t help but shiver in fear at the mere thought of it. He could still feel that strange eye of amber, gazing at him. Kosian felt as he started to breathe faster, his mind racing. ‘Need to calm down,’ he thought to himself, looking around.

Small bushes and young trees, some late-blooming because of the strange turn of spring, surrounded him, lying on his saddlebags in a low copse, which was once probably a lake. Jerod, his galfrian bulldog, lay next to him, his shaggy tail on Kosian’s stomach. It wasn’t the sort of place one would expect the son of a wealthy merchant to sleep. But Kosian liked it. It felt strangely cosy. Feeling his nerves calm, he took a quick sip from the waterskin which was next to him and lied back down, looking up at the sky. The Band, as always, shone brightly in the clear night sky. Thousands of small and big stars, each a different colour. All of these stars overlapped so perfectly they created a blue hue, which encompassed the entire Band, making it seem as if its entirety shone a bright blue. The clear colour shone brightly to Kosians eyes. He enjoyed watching the Band. It made a man feel at ease, watching those uncountable stars continue to move through the night sky, uncaring of the plights of the Seven Races. Some said it was a great lesson in humility. Kosian didn’t know anything about that, but he knew he liked watching it. And as he watched on, he felt his eyelids slowly close.

Getting up just as the sun rose, Kosian started without delay. In just a few minutes, he was once again on the road, a roasted fish with some nice char hanging from a stick he had made into a skewer, leading Jerod as he still ate his feed. The man turned to his travelling companion. Jerod was a small dog compared to most bulldogs, his white and black fur curling as it hung. Still, he didn’t know a faster dog this side of the Silver mountains. Waiting for the dog to finish his feed, Kosian patted his short but stout snout before saddling the two-meter-tall beast.

It felt strange, travelling alone on the cobblestone road, passing the rolling planes of arable land. He saw serfs, dressed in simple linen tunics and hoods, ploughing the still half-frozen ground with bulls. He passed small copses, the tree branches a mix of blooming flowers and already sprung leaves. But what he found the strangest was the lack of peddler carts, caravans and simple travellers on the road. Unlike most of Evea, Bollardia was a calm land, free of the rife and war, which currently engulfed its neighbours. As he thought that though, Kosian did remember hearing rumours of the king calling the dukes for congress. ‘Hopefully, those stuck up pricks won’t think up anything foolish’ he thought. War was bad for business. In a way, at least.

Riding on, Kosian once again checked his apparel. It never hurt to make sure. Under the dark green cape, which was held together by a silver brooch, he was dressed in a snug-fitting woollen doublet, its sleeves sewn loosely to make them look puffed out and the top buttons unbuttoned. A good leather belt was tied above his baggy breeches, which ran to his shins. The rest of the leg up to the well-made black riding shoes was covered by that dreaded white hose. Kosian felt anxious looking at the white tights. He had always hated wearing them, they felt so uncomfortable, with how tightly they wrapped around your leg. All in all, the spitting image of a civilized young man, returning home from his studies. Fixing his short black leather cap, with its sharp point and single feather plume, Kosian started whistling to himself some tune he had heard from a fellow student from Barconne. As Jerod trotted down the uneven cobblestones, Kosian also felt the short curved sword, which dangled from his right hip. ‘It also never hurt to be ready’ he thought, also checking the small steel knuckles he had hidden away in his sleeves. He had already learnt the hard way that being unprepared usually spelt the death of you.

They rode for a few more hours, passing plain hills, warming up after the sudden end of winter, larger glades, as colourful as the copses, until finally reaching a steep hill. Urging Jerod faster up it, Kosian reigned him in on its top, smiling at the sight he saw. There, sitting snuggly next to the river Vercignia, flanked by the Umenrius forest, rolling hills and the large mound of Mas, was Baye. His home. Riding forward, Kosian smiled at the sight of the chimney smoke, the high towers of the city wall, the white tile roofs, the Bridge of Triumph, opening and closing its draws for ships to cross, Biturg castle, with its white-topped towers and limestone walls. He tried to avoid looking at the large round tower of St. Thomus’s cathedral, its pointy cap towering over the surrounding buildings, even the city hall. That pronounced diamond shape, which framed the large bells made him want to remember things. And that was the last thing he wanted then.

As he rode on though, he noticed something peculiar. The Enys fortress, a stout, squat castle, which stood a few helosai away from the St. Thomus gates, seemed unusually busy. Even from this distance, Kosian could see tents being set up and dust clouds, kicked up by galloping war dogs and aigions. ‘So the rumours were true’ Kosian thought, shocked a bit. The dukes couldn’t march their forces into the city. It was forbidden by law. So, instead, they sent their hosts to one of the three smaller fortresses, which dotted the landscape around Baye. It was still strange though.

Not wanting to attract the attention of recruiters, who he had already experienced were a spirited bunch, Kosian lowered his cap and trotted past the camp as fast as he could. Strangely though, nobody paid him any mind.

Thankful he was blissfully ignored, Kosian hurried the pace, making Jerod gallop right up to the city gates. Only when he rode next to the tall city walls, round towers, some with those white tile roofs, was when he noticed the large chain of peddlers, merchant and caravan carts, all standing patiently in a line just in front of the gate. It was quite impressive really, seeing such a huge jam just in front of the gates that were usually open to anyone. ‘Probably checking for spies’ Kosian presumed, though didn’t think much of it. Passing the disgruntled traders, some of which eyed him head to toe, Kosian rode up to the small outpost meant for travellers. A grizzled old man, using his halberd more as a crook than a sign of readiness, walked up to him.

“Good morrow, fine Sir. Welcome to Baye. May I…”

The old man went dead silent as Kosian flashed the signet ring on his left-hand ring finger. Every man and woman born in Baye knew the sigil of the Woolen Guild as well as they knew to step quickly and warily in the Jerma quarter. Tipping his flat kettle helm as if it were a wide-brimmed hat, the man stepped aside.

“Welcome back home, sir Woolen.” He proclaimed in a sort of glee unfit for an old man. Kosian smiled. He remembered this man. He gave him a similar welcome after his first trip with father outside the city. Riding Jerod to the other side of the gates, Kosian quickly dismounted and pulled something from his saddlebags.

“Excuse me, guard?” he shouted for the old man, who sat down with difficulty. As the soldier turned to him, he proffered him a piece of some well-smoked sausage. Smiling as he did so.

“Fresh from Liborn!”

Not allowing the man to refuse, he threw the knotted piece of butcher’s twine onto the halberds crescent blade and rushed back to Jerod. People from Baye tended to refuse goodwill. Some called it piety. Some – modesty. Kosian just called it the fear of the other man wanting something in return. Not looking back, he waved a hand. And entered Baye in earnest.

The smell of a city immediately hit him. He took a deep breath, enjoying the smell. The small town next to St. Gaius’s university was better described as a hamlet, still smelling of that natural freshness. He enjoyed it. There was no denying that. He just enjoyed this much more. The smell of freshly baked goods, smoking meat, oil, perfume, old dust and that distinctive accent of the sewage was something he had known since he was a child. It smelled of home. Looking around, he was happy to find the same town he had left. The streets, as always, were half full. Mistresses and their maids walked with a keen purpose, carrying baskets of food or new clothes and sheets, apprentices or other workers walked with a quick step, wanting to get work done as soon as possible, small patrols of guards, with their crescent halberds and kettle helms strolled around more alert than usual, travellers in capes or other travelling garments looked around for the nearest inn, a group of peddlers riding along the cobblestone path towards the market. Kosian took his time riding among these people, rejoicing at again seeing colourfully painted limestone buildings, the small alleyways leading to communal gardens. He had grown tired of those village huts, with their cobblestone foundations and pronounced wooden frames. A good house was a house which you couldn’t tell was crooked at just a glance!

Riding at a slow trot along Kings street, Kosian thought of what to do next. He couldn’t help but want to avoid going home firstly. He didn’t even want to imagine the things he would see there. Though he could imagine it – father, passed out on his writing-table, mother, flogging herself in the small chapel on the third floor. Sometimes he wished he wasn’t the son of the city’s most famed guilds guild master. ‘No use crying over the fact stars fall’ he remembered Jon once telling him. She was right. With an audible sigh, Kosian heeded Jerod forward.

The Woolen Guild was based in a large building complex, which took up the space of six houses. Kosian didn’t bother riding to the main gate, which would’ve taken him through the storage and accounting offices. Instead, he carefully opened the small gates, which were always left open, and walked into the main courtyard. It was as it had always been – a small patch with that lone tree, the first floor full of small wooden doors, leading to either the servant’s quarters or the offices, a small stable for the houses and guest dogs, and those well-made cobblestone stairs, leading to the second floor. Kosian sighed, as he unsaddled Jerod, throwing his saddlebags over his shoulder.

“Maybe I will be pleasantly surprised.” He said, thinking out loud.

He was not.

As always, the main hall was empty, devoid of life. He could hear the sound of brooms brushing the ground somewhere, but couldn’t tell exactly. Walking a few steps, he appeared in the waiting room of his family’s house. It was a large space. Sofa’s and tables stood neatly next to a large fireplace, a curving set of stairs easily led to the upper floor and a large veranda that overlooked the room, the walls hung with things ranging from expensive tableware to even a few portraits of grandfather on canvas, a fresco of a man selling a wool pelt painted on the ceiling. Kosian scoffed at it all, as he threw his saddlebags onto one of the sofa’s and looked around. As expected, a large pitcher of aqua wine and a few goblets stood on a small stand at the corner of the room. Pouring himself the dark blue liquid, Kosian took a sip. Aqua wine wasn’t his favourite, but it was okay, given the circumstances.

“I see we’re starting to take after father, eh?”

Kosian spurted out the blue liquid, coughing and pounding his chest. Turning around, he saw the only person he did want to see. Jon looked even older than when he left. Dressed in a long black dress, a white apron tied over it, her silver hair was so white you could already see the patches where it no longer grew. Her face was wrinkled and tired, yet that strength of will still shone like a lone star among the darkness. She smiled at him, slowly walking down the stairs. A smile which said: ‘I’m happy you’re here!’

Kosian smiled back. Putting down the goblet, he went over and embraced her, even swooping her from the last few steps.

“Sorry for the mess.” He said, nodding to the wine. Jon waved it aside. Looking under his cloak, Jon covered her mouth with a hand.

“My! I never knew you had such fine taste, Kosian.” She said, looking at his doublet.

“Thanks… What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, confused.

Jon chuckled. Smoothing the doublet and buttoning up the collar, she patted his chest.

“Nothing. Just a simple jest.”

Kosian nodded. For a moment, he focused his hearing.

“Where are father and mother?” he asked, contempt in his voice.

Jon continued to smooth his cape, still smiling, though hollowly.

“The master has accompanied the rest of the guild to the Royal Palace. The mistress is currently in her rooms, painting.”

Kosian groaned audibly. Trying to avert his gaze from Jon, who gave him a questioning look, he undid the brooch, letting the cape fall into his hands. Handing it to Jon, who accepted it graciously, he started walking upstairs.

“If you could, Jon, bring my saddlebags to my room. and ask the stable boy to water and feed Jerod. Turning from the nodding head maid, Kosian walked up the stairs, frustration already taking a hold of him. He despised meeting mother. He remembered how kind she was, how gentle. That all changed after Pietre. Kosian felt a jolt of pain from the old scars on his back, made by mother when she tried to get him to flog himself for his sins. She was a broken woman, completely devoted to the feeling of guilt for bearing a cursed child. She didn’t even speak to father anymore, avoiding him like he was some plague-ridden leper.

Walking through the main hall, which led to all the main rooms of the second floor, he finally reached another set of stairs, which led him up to the third. He passed his rooms, the workshop, fathers rooms. Finally, he reached the end of the corridor. Small wooden doors, set into the stone walls stood in front of him. Kosian looked at the diamond pattern on the door, hesitating to open them. He knew he loved mother. Those warm memories of his childhood could never disappear. But the thing that was in the other room wasn’t his mother. He knew that well. He knew that his mother had died on the day she gave birth to Pietre. And the person in the other room was just her shadow of guilt, haunting him and father for their incompetence and fear of doing anything.

“Heh. I have taken up poetry quite well.” Kosian said to himself, as he tapped at the door. “Mother? It’s me! May I come in?!” he said in a loud voice, making sure his voice reached the other side of the heavy oak doors.

Silence answered. It hung in the air for a breath moment, before Kosian heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. Feeling just the stench in the room, Kosian backed off, covering his face with his hand. It was obvious mother had stayed there for a few weeks. The smell of urine and faeces was palpable. A pale, ghostly woman opened the door, her dark brown hair heavy from the sweat. Kosian could also pick out bits of coagulated blood, which stuck strands of hair together. Covered by a filthy white dress, Enriet Nocamia seemed more comparable to a spirit than the wife of a wealthy merchant. Her bones popped over her tight skin, her brown eyes hollow, her nails long and even curling. Not at all the dignified and beautiful woman, which had every suitor in Baye head over heels for her. Still, Kosian could pick out that dignity in the mess. The way mother always set her jaw, standing with her hands on her waist gave her an air of otherworldly power even while she seemed more similar to a ghost.

The woman looked Kosian up and down. While she did that, Kosian prepared himself for the wailing. Both mother and father were great supporters of traditional garb. The long coats, the simple tunics, the long pants, the robes that fell to the floor. He knew he would probably get an earful from the two of them for his apparel. Kosian looked at mother, ready. She looked him over a few more times, sniffed and gazed up at him. Her eyes seemed… empty. As if she wasn’t there. Without saying anything, she simply nodded to him and shut the door to her rooms. For a second, a single fraction, Kosian expected her to say: ‘You look well, Kosian’. He smiled sadly at that. And walked away. Jon stood at the end of the hallway, next to the doors to his rooms. He nodded to her, trying not to look back.

“When is father coming back?” he asked, trying not to think about the thing that had just occurred.

Jon gave him a worried glance. “He told us to not expect him until late in the evening.”

Kosian nodded. He compressed his lips, thinking. Scratching the small buds of a beard, he nodded to himself.

“Bring me a tub. I wish to take a bath.”

As the bells of St. Thomus’s cathedral tolled the ninth hour, Kosian fitted on his heavy riding boots, tying their knots. Tying the last knot, he sighed, letting out a small puff of cold mist. It seemed that though winter had ended suddenly, a part of it still tried to desperately hold on. Walking through the small gates out onto the street, Kosian threw on his hood, quickly walking along the cobblestone street. He had told Jon that he was going out to meet some old friends and maybe go to the academy. ‘I haven’t trained in a little while,’ he had said to her. That was a lie. He couldn’t even remember the names of those boys he used to play with or run around the city with. It was just a simple and easy excuse.

Reaching Kings street, he cut straight through it, entering the narrow alleyways, which sprawled from street to street. As he walked, Kosian could see the brightly coloured houses fade, instead of being replaced with ones whose paint had flaked. He started noticing cracks in the walls, dirty laundry hung up in between the packed together buildings, puddles of Lord knew what, combined with decomposing garbage and sewage. That was his indicator that he had reached the Jerma quarter or the Lower quarter. Walking out into one of the streets, Kosian started following it. Unlike the diligent and bustling streets in the rest of the city, Jerma’s streets were filled with drunks, prostitutes preying on naïve customers, shady looking characters eyeing every purse in sight, small children asking for a coin, with their fathers or mothers urging them to look sadder or in need of help. The guards rarely patrolled this part of the city, mainly for the fear of being overrun by an angry crowd. Yet that Bayean pragmatism and sturdiness was still noticeable here. There was a saying, which some said ran as far back as the establishment of the city, ‘Give a Bayean a fish, and he’ll find a use for even the bones’. Kosian chuckled at that. It was probably the only saying he wholeheartedly agreed with.

Expertly avoiding prostitutes who tried to entice him with their more than ample breasts and always keeping his hands on his sword hilt and coin pouch, Kosian walked until he finally saw the inn he was looking for. ‘The Jerma’s Touch’ was a small inn, located at a corner where two streets made a crossroads. The sign, hanging from rusty chains showed a scandalously dressed woman touching a skull. Taking a breath, Kosian entered. And found exactly what he expected. The small common room was half full of customers, which sat around five large tables. A group of burly men, probably merchant guards, played Mat’s Eyes, a group of older men sang some half intelligible song, burping and groping passing serving girls. A group of men who sat at the very end of the hall caught Kosian’s eye. He had made many forays into the Jerma quarter. And he knew mercenaries when he saw them. But that wasn’t what he was here for. It was time. Approaching the bar, he hit it two times, the sign of a customer wanting a drink. A bony innkeeper immediately walked up to him, placing a large pint of frothing on the countertop. As he was about to go, Kosian caught his arm. The bony innkeeper scowled, his large ears twitching. Kosian didn’t flinch. Instead, he waved for him to lean in closer while placing a two bronze laurels on the bar. The lanky man looked at the small bronze plated coins and, still scowling, leaned on the countertop next to Kosian.

“Le Lorde es meconten” Kosian whispered into one of his big ears.

The innkeeper nodded instantly and shied away from him. Taking something from under the bar, he motioned for Kosian to follow. Passing the large bar, they entered the kitchens. Quickly passing them, they came upon the door, which the innkeeper unlocked and motioned for Kosian to go in. As he entered the damp corridor, Kosian heard the doors behind him shut. Looking around, he finally noticed a faint light, which led him down a narrow staircase. Finally, he entered a small room with a single table and a barred window. A group of men in cloaks stood around, all turning to him as he entered. One of them, a broad-shouldered man, motioned for Kosian to sit as he did so himself. As he did, Kosian removed his hood. The man answered with the same, revealing a bald head, which was marred by a myriad of scars both big and small.

“How may we be of assistance, Sir Nocamius.” Asked the man in a deep Iberi accented voice, making him sound like a merchant guard trying to recite poetry. Kosian put his hands on the table, weaving his fingers.

“I would like you to tell me if everything is ready,” he said, his voice tranquil and calm.

The man looked at Kosian levelly. Then he nodded. Feeling the hairs on his arms stand, Kosian said:

“Bring…” he swallowed. His lips felt dry and his head hurt. Taking a deep breath, Kosian continued. “Bring back my brother.”