Wyn stares at Blintsy, jaw hanging open. Moments ago he had been all booming cadence and sweeping gestures. Now he just looks irritated, like someone who has realized they wasted effort on the wrong audience.

  “So?” he says. “You going to stand there, or are you actually buying something?”

  “I, uh, yeah.” Wyn shakes herself and straightens. “I need a new staff. And some robes.”

  Blintsy nods once, already turning back to the chaos of his stall. “Figures. What kind of mage?”

  “I don’t really—”

  “Class,” he says flatly.

  “Apprentice Spellweaver.”

  “Mm.” He pauses, then adds without looking at her, “You just hit Novice. Haven’t specialized yet.”

  Wyn blinks. “How did you—” she pauses before continuing. Whoever this guy is, she gives Wyn the distinct impression of a trickster, getting great enjoyment out of her confusion.

  “I do illusions,” she says.

  That gets his attention.

  Blintsy looks up at her properly now, one eyebrow lifting. “Illusions.”

  “Yes?”

  “Huh.” He tilts his head, studying her like she’s an item with a poorly written tooltip. “Most people don’t bother with that sort of magic. You can’t stab someone with an illusion.”

  “I didn’t exactly get a choice.”

  That earns her a longer look. His eyes narrow, not hostile, just… interested.

  “That’s new,” he mutters. Then, louder, “Lucky for you, nobody buys illusion gear. Cheaper for me to get, cheaper for you to buy.”

  He opens his inventory and starts pulling things out, laying them along the edge of the stall. He sets down a pair of staffs and a trio of robes, all radiating with essentia.

  Wyn watches for a moment, then a question slips out before she can stop herself.

  “What’s your deal?”

  Blintsy snorts. “My deal?”

  “You were doing… all of that.” She gestures vaguely. “The ancient wizard act. Then the second you figured out I was a player, you dropped it.”

  He exhales through his nose. “Because it’s a waste of time.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” He shrugs. “The real money in this town is with the natives. They don’t like buying potions from some guy who looks like he crawled out of a respawn point. They want the mystique. Tell them a story and the coin starts to flow.” He glances at her, a twinkle in his eye. “Players already know it’s just numbers. No point pretending otherwise.”

  Wyn folds her arms. “You could try being less rude.”

  He looks her up and down, eyes flicking to her threadbare robes. “You could try having more coin.”

  “That’s not—”

  “And your standing here makes the natives nervous.” He taps the edge of the stall. “I’m doing you a favor selling to you at all. So buy what you need and move along before someone decides I’m catering to the wrong crowd.”

  Wyn frowns. If anything is going to scare off customers, it’s his attitude. But he’s also the only person she’s seen selling mage equipment anywhere in the market district.

  She counts out her coins and sets them on the stall.

  “This is what I’ve got. Courtesy of the Hall Master.”

  Blintsy glances at the pile, then silently slips one of the staffs and one of the robes back into his inventory.

  “That narrows it down,” he says. “You can afford one of each. Pick.”

  Wyn nods and activates her insight ability, her gaze flicking over the remaining items.

  Item: Staff of Minor Illusions — Common

  Description: Allows the caster to use the spell Minor Illusion for free twice per day. Reduces the essentia cost of all illusion spells by a small amount.

  Item: Bolstering Robe — Common

  Description: Grants an increase to the wearer’s total essentia pool.

  Item: Robe of Magic Efficiency — Common

  Description: Allows all spells to be cast at a reduced rate. Decreases total essentia pool.

  The staff is a straightforward choice, given there’s only one option. And the choice of robe comes just as quickly.

  Her biggest problem in Eden has been her essentia pool. Illusions of the Beyond drains her far too quickly, forcing her to rely on consuming essences to continue casting. The Robe of Magic Efficiency is tempting, but losing total essentia would only make her problem worse.

  “I’ll take the staff,” she says, “and the Bolstering Robe.”

  Blintsy nods, scooping up the coins. When he’s done counting, only a pitiful handful remains.

  “Good choice,” he says. “Efficiency gear is a trap early on.”

  Wyn moves the items into her inventory and equips them, replacing her battered staff and tattered Basic Mage Robe. The new robe is deep blue, fitted close to her frame, with a brown leather strap crossing her chest and guarding her left shoulder. The staff is plain, little more than polished wood, its head split into three uneven prongs.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  She channels essentia into the staff. Energy gathers between the prongs, faint light humming as essentia coalesces.

  “Careful,” Blintsy says, “I like this stall unburned.”

  Wyn releases the spell and rolls her eyes. “Relax. You’re clearly the better mage anyway, making all this stuff.”

  He laughs. “I didn’t make any of it. I find it.”

  “So you’re not an enchanter.”

  “Gods, no. Think of me as a collector,” he smirks. “Enchanting’s rather boring.”

  Wyn rolls her eyes again. Wyn can’t quite tell if this trickster persona is yet another false portrayal like the wizened old mage, but whoever he is, it gives Wyn a distinct sense of danger. Like she’s a tiny mouse standing before a cat deciding whether it’s done playing with its food.

  As Wyn debates what to say next, Blintsy watches her for a moment. He tilts his head, fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the stall. His smile doesn’t fade, but something behind it changes, like he’s stepped into better lighting, clarifying the playful glint in his eye.

  “You’re not from around here,” he says.

  Wyn blinks. “I mean. Obviously? Neither are you”

  “No, no.” He waves a hand. “Not this place. Not Eden. But the moment.”

  She frowns. “You aren’t making sense.”

  “Oh, but it does,” Blintsy says cheerfully. “Just not to everyone.”

  Wyn shifts her weight, staff tapping once against the stone. “What do you mean?”

  He grins wider, delighted. “See? That. Most folks either laugh or walk away.”

  “And you’re thrilled I didn’t?”

  “I’m thrilled you didn’t ask me to explain.” He leans in, conspiratorial. “Explaining ruins things.”

  She studies him. “You talk like someone who enjoys being vague.”

  “I talk like someone who’s survived being specific.” He reaches under the stall and produces a small disc, dull metal etched with symbols that seem to crawl if she stares too long. He flips it across his knuckles lazily. “Things are louder lately. You feel it too, don’t you?”

  Wyn hesitates, then scowls. “I’ve only been gone a week, and so much has changed.”

  In the distance, a Gilded Legion patrol walks by, clad in heavy armor and heavier weapons. They march in formation, scanning the area for threats before moving along. Something about the way some of the inexperienced soldiers shift nervously makes Wyn frown. Perhaps this strange man has a point about things being ‘louder’, as he put it.

  “Fascinating, aren’t they?” he says, unfazed. “Like a pack of puppies with swords. Lots of noise and teeth, but you can tell most of them don’t know what they’re really biting into.”

  Her expression tightens. “You mean the Legion.”

  Blintsy rolls his eyes so hard it’s almost theatrical. “Don’t say it too loud. They get fussy when you use their name without kneeling first.”

  “So you don’t like them either.”

  “Like?” He laughs softly. “No, no. I tolerate them the way one tolerates a mold problem. You scrape, you burn, you pretend it’s gone, and somehow it always comes back worse.”

  Wyn exhales through her nose. “Sounds like a headache.”

  “Isn’t it?” He pockets the disc. “Means the world’s still making sense.”

  She narrows her eyes. “You know more than you’re letting on.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” he beams. “But look at you.” His gaze flicks down, then back up. “You’ve got the look of someone still weighing whether I’m friend or foe. I’ve got information you’d pay for but I don’t just hand it over.”

  “I paid you fairly.”

  “And I sold you good gear.” He taps the counter. “We’re both professionals here.”

  “So that’s it? You just make ominous comments for fun?”

  “For free?” He gasps, mock offended. “Never. But sometimes it’s worth meeting someone before they become expensive.”

  Wyn stiffens. “I’m not interested in whatever game you’re playing.”

  “That’s a shame,” he says. “You’d be very good at it.”

  She studies him again, really studies him now. The way he dodges, how every joke lands just a half-step from something real. He isn’t threatening her; he’s toying with her. But why?

  She adjusts the strap of her new gear and turns away. “I’ve got what I came for.”

  Blintsy hums. “Smart choice. Lethisburg’s getting crowded with bad decisions lately. Best to get out of this town while you still can.”

  She pauses, glancing back. “If things are as loud as you say, you might want to stop poking strangers.”

  He grins, delighted. “If I did that, I’d miss all the interesting ones.”

  Wyn shakes her head and walks off into the crowd.

  Blintsy watches her go, smile lingering just a bit too long.

  “Huh,” he murmurs. “Didn’t even ask for a discount.” He clicks his tongue. “That’s going to cost her later.”

  “That guy was… weird,” Wyn says.

  Psai pops into existence, his orb shivering. “Affirmative. A very odd man.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t see him again.”

  “An excellent thought. Best not to toy with strangers!”

  With her new items equipped, Wyn returns to the Lethisburg chapter of the Mages Guild. Lothran, as always, is waiting for her, scribbling away at his endless piles of notes. As she enters, the man pays her little mind, only acknowledging her presence with a slight turn of his head.

  Wyn gives him a wave, at which he sighs dramatically.

  “Do you need something?” he says.

  Wyn folds her arms. “Rude.”

  Lothran sets down his feather pen and gives his full attention to Wyn. “You've got some better equipment, I see. That’s good.”

  Wyn nods. “And upgraded to novice rank.”

  Lothran takes a moment to examine Wyn and narrows his eyes. “Spellweaver? Interesting choice.”

  Lothran’s words carry the faintest note of disapproval, suggesting that Wyn made the wrong choice in her upgraded spellweaver class.

  “You don’t sound exactly happy about that.”

  Lothran huffs. “Not at all. It’ll serve you well. But it is a very hard class to master. Most cannot master the intricacies of spellcrafting, and become far weaker than those who choose a more traditional mage class.”

  “So help me then.”

  Lothran stares at Wyn for a moment, surprised at her words. “What?”

  “Help me. You’re some sort of archmage, right? Know all there is to know about magic? So help me learn how to use my class.”

  “I am no archmage, just a hall master.” Lothran shakes his head. “Besides, I am far too busy with my current duties to assist you.”

  “Fine. Then point me in the direction of who can help me.”

  Lothran huffs and shakes his head, returning his focus back to his work. Wyn and Psai exchange a look, and a smirk grows on Wyn’s face. Wyn won’t take no for an answer, and a clever plan has brewed. Psai’s polygonal eyes widen, and he shakes his orb, encouraging Wyn not to make any rash decisions.

  But she’s already made up her mind; there’s no stopping her now.

  She uses flickerstep and appears right behind Lothran, looking over his shoulder at his notes. She scans the notes carefully, noting their subject.

  “I see, reading up on necromancy. That’s what has you so busy?”

  Lothran’s cheeks flare red as he waves his hand, shutting all the books on his desk with a dramatic thump. “That is none of your concern!”

  “That’s where you’re mistaken. See, either you’re going to help stop the Dead Queen in the mountains, or you’re trying to learn how to do necromancy yourself. Either way, the Gilded Legion will want to have a word with you.”

  Lothran stands up, reaching his full height. Frustration flickers in his eyes as sparks of electricity flash through his ionized hair. “Mind your tongue, initiate. I am still the Hall Master of this place. I have granted you membership and can easily take it away should you prove troublesome.”

  Wyn gives Lothran an apologetic look, raising her hands in mock surrender, though internally she can’t help but smirk. Lothran’s gaze softens, granting Wyn’s internal smirk even greater joy.

  Typical men, give them a smile and see how quickly they fold.

  Whatever Lothran’s interest in necromancy, Wyn doesn’t really care. But if she can use this to her advantage and force the mage to help her learn her new class, she absolutely will.

  “My apologies, Lothran. I, of course, meant no offense.” She says, hiding the growing smile on her face. “We seem to be at an impasse. In case you forgot, I visited the Dead Queen’s lair with a party of adventurers. We can help each other. You help me with my class, and I’ll help you with whatever it is you’re researching.”

  Lothran’s frustration relaxes, and he paces the room for a moment deep in thought. “What do you know of the Dead Queen?”

  “Only that she’s some sort of powerful and intelligent undead leading a tribe of goblins. And their exact location within the Arazid Mountains.”

  Lothran’s eyes widen for a moment before he regains his composure. “Fine. Follow me.”

  He turns down the hall, robes billowing behind him with a dramatic flair. Wyn follows close behind, eager to learn all she can from the talented lightning wizard.

  Lothran stops in front of a random wall near the library stairwell and begins muttering a series of arcane words. A rectangle of magical light glows along the wall, a series of circular sigils lighting along its border.

  “Arcane lock. Most Consortium Halls have them. Quite useful.”

  One by one, Lothran taps the glowing sigils in a precise rhythm, the motion closer to playing a familiar melody than casting a spell. Each rune answers in turn, its light shifting until all of them burn a steady green.

  The rectangle pulses once, shuddering in a way that makes Wyn nervous. No longer a wall, the stone within the frame deepens into murky purple. The frame folds in on itself a dozen times over, bending reality and making Wyn dizzy just looking at it. With a soft, echoing thrum, the rectangle becomes a portal doorway into the unknown.

  “Come,” Lothran says. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  He turns to face Wyn and steps backward without hesitation, falling into the portal as though gravity itself has been politely dismissed, leaving the impossible doorway waiting for her to follow.