Chapter 16 - Careful.

The young boy who once fought tooth and nail against bathing is gone. In his place stands someone else entirely—a striking figure, imposing and marked. Scars map the journey across my skin, each one a memory, a lesson learned in blood.

My tribe's marking weaves between the scars, the snake tattoo dormant but ever-present. I trace a particularly jagged line across my ribs—courtesy of a bandit's curved blade outside Farron's Pass. Maya had stitched that one herself, cursing my recklessness the entire time.

Maya.

The thought hits me like a physical blow. We're in Jeolaran territory now—the Kingdom of Envy. This is where I last saw her and the company before the Academy captured me. They could still be here, perhaps taking contracts in the border towns or drinking away their earnings in some tavern.

My pulse quickens. For the first time since escaping the Academy, I feel something beyond wariness and suspicion. Hope, perhaps. Or purpose.

"Sihx must know something," I mutter to the scarred reflection. The man has connections everywhere, knows things he shouldn't. If anyone could help me find Maya and the others, it would be him.

I step away from the mirror, energy coursing through me. We need to leave this inn immediately and start asking questions in the right places. The mercenary companies have their haunts, their information networks. I could—

My thoughts screech to a halt as I look down at myself. I'm naked, clean for the first time in days, with absolutely nothing to wear except the filthy, torn clothes I arrived in. The ones currently in a sodden heap on the floor.

"Bloody brilliant," I growl, kicking the wet pile. Some tactical genius I am. All this planning and I've no clothes to wear while doing it.

I glance around the bathroom, as if proper attire might materialise from the steam-slick walls. Nothing. Sihx took his clothes with him when he finished his bath, and he's nowhere to be seen now. Probably downstairs, arranging transport or gathering information.

Then I remember—the woman. The innkeeper's wife had said something as we passed, offering fresh clothes if needed. I'd ignored her, focused only on securing the room and checking for threats.

I approach the bathroom door, hesitating with my hand on the handle. The hallway beyond leads back to the main room, but also to the stairs and the rest of the inn. Anyone could be out there.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter. I've faced down Academy enforcers, shadow mages, and enemy mercenaries. I've killed men with my bare hands. Yet here I stand, paralyzed by the prospect of walking naked down a hallway.

Maya would laugh herself sick if she could see me now.

I crack the door open slightly, peering into the empty hallway. The coast seems clear, but the innkeeper's wife could be anywhere. How am I supposed to find her without parading myself through the entire establishment?

I could wrap myself in a towel, but the only one in the bathroom is barely large enough to dry my hands. I could put on my filthy clothes, but they're soaking wet and would defeat the purpose of bathing in the first place.

There's nothing for it. I'll have to venture out and hope I find something.

Taking a deep breath, I aim to open the door fully and step into the hallway, naked as the day I was born, dignity left behind with my wet clothes.

Nothing but the distant hum of voices from downstairs and the occasional creak of the old building settling. My first thought is our room—312. Sihx may have left something there. It would be the logical thing to do, anticipating this exact situation.

The hallway stretches before me like a battlefield. Fifteen paces to our door, each one an opportunity for exposure. I calculate the risk, weighing options that don't exist. My muscles tense, ready to sprint.

A floorboard creaks somewhere down the corridor. I freeze, listening harder. Voices filter through the thin walls—a couple arguing in one room, someone humming in another. Doors that could open any second, revealing me in all my glory.

I grip the doorframe, knuckles whitening. This is absurd. I've faced death countless times, killed beasts that would make most men soil themselves. Why am I cowering behind a door because I lack clothing?

You're a warrior, Mark. Act like one.

The scars and marks on my skin aren't just decorations—they're badges of honour, proof of my strength and skill. Why should I skulk like a thief when I've nothing to hide? The scars that map my body tell the story of battles won, of survival against impossible odds.

For a moment, I consider striding confidently down the hallway, daring anyone to comment. The thought of the shock on their faces almost makes me smile. Almost.

A door handle jiggles somewhere down the corridor. Decision time.

I launch myself from the bathroom, moving with the silent precision Maya drilled into me during night raids. Fifteen paces suddenly seem like a hundred as I hear a door beginning to open. My bare feet make no sound on the worn carpet, my breathing is controlled despite the surge of adrenaline.

Ten paces.

A woman's voice, closer now, speaking to someone in one of the rooms.

Five paces.

The creak of hinges as a door starts to swing open just behind me.

I reach our door, twist the handle, and slip inside like a shadow, pulling it closed behind me with barely a sound. My heart hammers against my ribs as I lean against the solid wood, relief washing over me.

The room is empty. Sihx is still gone, but on the bed lies a neatly folded stack of clothing—simple, sturdy garments in muted colours. Practical. Unobtrusive. Perfect for blending in.

I move away from the door, the tension draining from my shoulders. The absurdity of the situation hits me, and I can't help but shake my head. I've escaped death itself, only to be undone by the prospect of being caught naked in a hallway.

Maya would never let me hear the end of it.

Footsteps pass by our door, heavy boots on creaking floorboards. I stand perfectly still, waiting until they fade before I reach for the clothes.

As I dress, I consider what this little episode reveals. I'm still thinking like a hunted animal, seeing threats in every shadow. Perhaps that's wise, given our circumstances, but it's exhausting. At some point, I'll need to stop running.

But not today. Today, we continue to Jeolara, where Sihx's mysterious associates await. Where I might finally get answers about my tribe, my tattoo, my purpose.

I finish dressing just as I hear another set of footsteps approaching. Lighter this time, more deliberate. I move to the side of the door, instinctively positioning myself for an ambush if needed.

The handle turns. I tense, ready.

The door swings open, ready to strike—but it's only Sihx. He steps inside, eyebrows rising slightly as he notices my defensive stance.

"Why so tense?" he asks, closing the door behind him. His voice is low and steady as always, betraying nothing.

I relax my posture, but only slightly. "Force of habit."

The clothes he left fit well enough—sturdy trousers, a loose, simple shirt, and a jacket with enough pockets to be useful. Practical gear for someone who might need to move quickly.

"I need to ask you something," I say, cutting straight to what's been burning in my mind. "Do you know of a mercenary company led by a woman named Maya? They operate in this region—or at least they did before I was captured."

Something flickers across Sihx's face—so brief I almost miss it. Surprise? Interest? But it's gone before I can be certain.

"I've never heard of them," he says flatly. "Why do you ask?"

The faint hope that had been building since we arrived in Jeolaran territory dims. I turn away, adjusting my jacket to hide my disappointment.

"They're my people. Or were. Before the Academy." I keep my voice neutral and matter-of-fact. "I thought you might know of them, given your... connections."

"I don't know every mercenary band in the territories," Sihx replies, checking the contents of his pack. "But if they're important to you, we can make inquiries in Jeolara. After we meet, my associates."

I nod, already forming plans of my own. The mercenary networks have their own channels of information—taverns where jobs are arranged, fences who handle their spoils, healers who patch them up without asking questions. If Maya and the others are still active, I can find them.

"We need to leave," Sihx says, slinging his pack over his shoulder. "Daylight's burning, and the people I want you to meet could skip town to the next territory if they get bored. Even though I told them to wait."

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

There's an edge to his voice I haven't heard before—urgency, perhaps even concern. Whoever these associates are, they're important enough to make Sihx hurry.

"I'm ready," I say, patting down my pockets to ensure everything is secure. Not that I have much—just the clothes on my back and the power sleeping beneath my skin.

We make our way downstairs, where the innkeeper's wife is sweeping behind the counter. Her face brightens when she sees us.

"Leaving so soon?" she asks, genuine disappointment in her voice. "I've just put a stew on that would put meat on those bones of yours, young man."

The smell of it fills the room—rich, hearty, tempting. My stomach growls in response, but Sihx is already moving toward the door.

We both ignore her, though something in me wants to thank her for the offer. It's been a long time since anyone cared whether I ate well or not—since the academy.

Outside, the industrial town of Jestwig is fully awake now. Workers trudge toward the factories, steam billows from countless chimneys, and the clang of metal on metal forms a constant backdrop. The air tastes of coal and oil.

We move through the streets quickly, Sihx setting a pace that discourages conversation. I keep my eyes moving, scanning for threats but also memorising landmarks, escape routes, anything that might be useful if I need to return here on my own.

At the eastern edge of town, the buildings thin out, replaced by storage yards and loading docks. Beyond them, a road stretches toward the horizon, cutting through rolling hills dotted with stunted trees. Jeolara lies somewhere along that road—and with it, answers about my tribe, and perhaps news of Maya.

Sihx pauses at the outskirts, surveying the road ahead. The morning sun casts long shadows behind us, pointing the way forward like accusing fingers.

"From here, we jog," he says simply. "Stay alert. This territory breeds suspicion like others breed cattle."

I nod, feeling the weight of my tattoo beneath my sleeve. Whatever waits for us in Jeolara, I'm ready for it. I have to be.

The road to Jeolara stretches before us like a winding serpent, disappearing into the rolling hills. Sihx sets a brutal pace, his long strides eating up the distance. I match him step for step, my muscles burning with a familiar ache that I almost welcome. Physical pain is simple, honest—unlike the tangle of questions writhing in my mind.

We don't speak. The rhythm of our footfalls and our measured breathing form a cadence that needs no words. The few travellers we pass give us a wide berth, eyes downcast or suspiciously narrowed. No one meets strangers' gazes in Jeolaran territory.

The sun climbs higher as we push forward, casting harsh shadows across the dusty road. Sweat soaks through my new shirt, but I don't slow down. I've endured worse with Maya's company—forced marches through desert heat, mountain passes where the air was too thin to fill your lungs properly.

Maya always set the pace at the front, never looking back to see if we followed. We always did.

By midday, the landscape changes. Farmland gives way to industrial outskirts—smoking factories, sprawling warehouses, and shanty towns where workers huddle in the shadow of the machines that own their lives. The air grows thick with coal smoke and the metallic tang of industry.

And then, rising from this mechanical sprawl, the walls of Jeolara appear—massive fortifications of dark stone and steel, bristling with gun emplacements and observation posts. Unlike Egozia's gleaming spires, Jeolara wears its power-like armour—practical, intimidating, unadorned.

Sihx finally slows as we approach a queue of travellers waiting at one of the lesser gates. Merchants with carts, labourers seeking work, and a few who could only be mercenaries or criminals—the lines blur in this city.

"Do you know how to traverse the city?" Sihx asks bluntly, his voice barely winded despite our pace. "It's a shady place."

I wipe sweat from my brow, scanning the walls and the guards who patrol them. Their uniforms are practical, and their weapons are well-maintained. Nothing for show here.

"I have an idea," I reply curtly. "Been here a few times with the mercs."

I don't elaborate, but memories surface anyway. Maya drilling rules into my head as we entered the first time: Keep your head down. Hide anything valuable. Never show skill unless you're paid to use it. Trust no one.

"The citizens here are envious of everyone and everything," I add, keeping my voice low. "They'll cut your throat for a decent pair of boots, let alone anything actually valuable."

Sihx nods once, apparently satisfied with my answer. He studies the queue ahead, his eyes calculating distances and threats with the same mechanical precision I've come to expect from him.

"We'll use the Cobbler's Gate," I say, nodding toward a smaller entrance to the east. "Less official scrutiny, more bribes. The guards there care more about coin than paperwork."

This earns me a raised eyebrow—perhaps surprise that I know such details, or approval of the strategy. With Sihx, it's impossible to tell.

We change direction, skirting the main queue and heading toward the smaller gate. Already I can feel the city's influence—the way my shoulders tighten, how my hand instinctively checks the knife that isn't there, how my eyes never rest on any one person too long.

Jeolara doesn't welcome visitors; it tolerates them, assesses their worth, then either exploits or expels them. I've seen what happens to those who forget this simple truth.

The Cobbler's Gate looms before us now—a narrow entrance flanked by watchtowers, named for the leather workers who once clustered around it. The queue here is shorter but rougher—smugglers, mercenaries, and those with something to hide.

Guards in dull green uniforms eye each person with practised suspicion, occasionally pulling someone aside for a more thorough inspection. Money changes hands frequently, quick and discreet.

Sihx and I join the line, our faces carefully blank, just two more travellers seeking whatever Jeolara has to offer. The city's massive walls tower above us, casting long shadows across the dusty ground. Beyond them lies a maze of opportunity and danger—and somewhere within, perhaps, answers about my tribe and news of Maya.

The queue shuffles forward, bringing us closer to the gates of the Kingdom of Envy.

I feel the bump from behind—deliberate, too precise to be accidental. My muscles tense instantly, years of training triggering a response before my mind fully processes the threat. Someone's testing me, gauging resistance, looking for weaknesses.

I pivot sharply, my considerable frame turning with controlled precision. The movement is fluid but intimidating—designed to startle whoever thought I'd be an easy mark.

Instead of the hardened thief or cutpurse I expected, I find myself towering over a young woman. She barely reaches my torso, with wild red hair framing a face scattered with freckles. Her clothes are surprisingly clean for someone working the queue, and there's an intelligence in her eyes that doesn't match her innocent posture.

I fix her with the same stare that made bandits reconsider their life choices—cold, unflinching, promising consequences.

She meets my gaze for a heartbeat, then bursts into laughter.

"Whoops! Sorry about that, big fella," she chirps, raising her hands in mock surrender. "Tight quarters, yeah? My fault entirely."

Her voice carries no trace of fear, only a practised lightness that doesn't reach her eyes. Those remain calculating and assessing.

I say nothing, simply holding her gaze until she looks away first. The queue shuffles forward, and I turn back around, positioning myself so my back isn't fully exposed to her again. Sihx has noticed the exchange, his expression unchanging, but his posture subtly shifting to create a better vantage point.

"Not a word of warning?" I mutter to him, keeping my voice low.

He shrugs almost imperceptibly. "You handled it. Would've intervened if necessary."

The line inches forward again. I feel her presence behind me, too close for comfort. She's moving more than necessary, shifting from foot to foot, occasionally bumping into other people with mumbled apologies. Each movement brings her hands suspiciously close to my pockets, my waistband, anywhere something valuable might be hidden.

Her technique is good—natural, casual, the movements disguised as normal fidgeting. If I hadn't been trained to spot exactly this kind of behaviour, I might not have noticed.

I catch her wrist as her fingers brush against my jacket pocket. My grip is firm but not crushing—a warning, not a threat. Yet.

"Try again," I say quietly, "and you'll lose the hand."

Her eyes widen in genuine surprise—not at being caught, but at my response. Most marks would cause a scene, call for guards, or simply move away. The direct threat, delivered with calm certainty, wasn't what she expected.

"Just being friendly," she says, her smile never faltering even as I release her wrist. "No harm meant."

"Plenty of harm meant," I counter flatly. "Find easier prey."

She rubs her wrist, studying me with renewed interest. "You're not from around here."

It's not a question, so I don't treat it as one. The queue moves again, bringing us closer to the gate. Guards are checking papers, accepting bribes, and waving people through.

I feel her shifting behind me again, but she keeps her distance now. Still watching, still calculating, but more cautious. I can practically hear her reassessing whether I'm worth the trouble.

"The city's rough for newcomers," she says, her voice lower now, meant only for me. "Especially ones that stick out like you."

My head snaps around. Her eyes flick meaningfully to my arms.

"Don't know what you mean," I say, voice deliberately neutral.

Her smile widens, revealing a chipped front tooth that somehow makes her look more genuine, not less.

"Course you don't," she agrees easily. "My mistake."

The queue shuffles forward again. Three more groups ahead of us before we reach the guards. Sihx stands impassive beside me, but I can tell he's listening to every word, evaluating the threat this slip of a girl might pose.

She leans forward slightly. "Word of advice? The guards at this gate don't just take coin. They take information too. Interesting folk get remembered."

I already know this…

The girl's warning lingers in my ears as we reach the front of the queue. Sihx steps forward, facing the two guards who stand at the Cobbler's Gate checkpoint. Their uniforms are worn but well-maintained, weapons holstered but within easy reach. One tall and lanky, the other squat with brawny arms.

The squat one's eyes flick between us, then back to where the redheaded girl stands, a knowing smirk playing on his face. He must have noticed our little confrontation.

"Papers and entry fee," he demands, holding out a meaty hand. "That'll be twenty silvers. Each."

I feel my jaw tighten. The standard rate is ten—everyone in line knows it. This is a shakedown, plain and simple.

Sihx doesn't move, doesn't reach for his coin pouch. His voice, when it comes, is low and steady.

"Ten. Standard rate."

Not a request—a statement of fact. The guards exchange glances, the taller one's hand drifting closer to his weapon.

"Big man like you," the squat guard says, nodding toward me, "doesn't look like our usual visitors. Stands out. Makes us nervous." He taps his temple. "Twenty silvers buys our peace of mind."

Behind us, I hear the redhead giggle softly. She leans forward, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Just tell them where you're from. Or who you're meeting. Information's as good as coin in Jeolara."

I don't turn to look at her, but I feel Sihx stiffen beside me. The queue has gone quiet, and everyone is suddenly very interested in our negotiation. Ears pricked, eyes averted—the classic Jeolaran pose of someone gathering valuable intelligence.

This was her play all along. Not to rob us, but to force us into revealing something in public. Information is currency here, and she's trying to make us spend it where everyone can hear.

Sihx steps closer to the guard, close enough that the man has to tilt his head up to maintain eye contact. The movement is subtle but deliberate, bringing his hand near the hilt of his concealed blade.

"Let me be clear," Sihx says, his voice dropping to a glacial whisper that somehow carries in the sudden silence. "You will take ten silvers—the standard rate—or you will take nothing at all. And if you take nothing, I will take everything."

His eyes are black pits, lifeless and cold. I've seen that look before, in men who kill without hesitation or remorse. The guard sees it too—his face pales beneath his weathered tan.

"Are we understood?" Sihx asks, the question carrying the weight of a tombstone.

The taller guard clears his throat. "Ten silvers is the standard rate," he says quickly, shooting his partner a warning glance. "We'll take that."

Sihx nods once, producing exactly twenty silvers—ten for each of us—and placing them in the guard's outstretched hand. No more, no less. The exact amount owed, not a copper extra for their trouble.

The guards step aside, waving us through with forced casualness. As we pass, I hear the redheaded girl exhale sharply behind us, frustration evident in the sound. Her scheme to extract information has failed, leaving her with nothing to sell to whoever's paying her to watch the gate.

We step through the Cobbler's Gate and into Jeolara proper, leaving her and her disappointed sigh behind us.