Chapter 75: To Drink with Ghosts

  Aeor stood rooted to the sticky floorboards. The raucous music and the heavy heat of the tavern washed over him, completely unfelt. His eyes remained locked on the massive, dancing figure of the orc.

  Unbidden, the memories from Thar'Ezun surged to the forefront of his mind. He remembered the raw, agonizing sound of Gurz's voice breaking. He remembered the sight of him brought to his knees by the sudden, violent deaths of his sister Zura and her husband Barek.

  Seeing the orc like this now tore a deep and conflicting rift in Aeor's chest.

  Part of him knew he should feel relief. In this unbroken timeline, Zura and her husband were alive. Gurz had no reason to mourn. But logic did nothing to dull the sharp, bitter ache settling in his throat.

  The root of the pain went far deeper than a single changed fate. It was the crushing weight of the phantom reality itself. Aeor knew that it still existed in some fractured state, and he understood that Mayla harbored her own cryptic plans for it. Yet, standing in this crowded tavern, it all felt terrifyingly hollow.

  Aeor could not shake the suffocating thought that all the suffering he had witnessed, and all the loss he still carried inside him, had amounted to absolutely nothing.

  He let out a slow, heavy sigh, forcing his mind away from the edge of that dark spiral.

  The past was gone. The only truth he needed to hold onto right now was that the others were alive, and he had been given another chance to save them. He just had to focus on the steps ahead.

  He shifted his gaze back to the center of the tavern. Caught in the frantic, driving rhythm of the music, Gurz misjudged his next heavy, stomping step. The massive orc stumbled wildly, his sloshing tankard spilling a wide arc of ale across the floorboards. He was only saved from a complete, crashing fall when a laughing patron caught him by the arm and shoved him back upright.

  Aeor watched the messy display with a dry, exhausted expression.

  "Can he even travel in that condition?" Aeor asked, raising his voice to be heard over the noise.

  Kalvaxus did not even blink. "It seems we will be spending the night here," he replied coolly.

  Without waiting for a response, the ancient prince turned his back on the celebration and began to push his way through the sweaty crowd toward the heavy doors.

  Aeor tried to follow Kalvaxus toward the exit, but navigating the packed tavern was like walking through a storm. He barely made it three steps before a stumbling local crashed hard into his chest, sending a sloshing wave of cold ale down the front of his tunic.

  "Sol forgive me," the woman slurred. She swayed dangerously, barely managing to keep herself upright by grabbing his sleeve. "Next two rounds are on me." She punctuated the offer by waving three clumsy fingers in his face.

  "I am quite alright," Aeor replied, gently prying her hand from his arm. "I was just about to leave. You do not have to get me anything."

  "Bah!" a boisterous voice boomed over the music.

  Aeor turned just in time to see Gurz wobbling toward him. Before Aeor could react, the massive orc slung a heavy, suffocating arm across his shoulders and forcefully shoved a brimming, sticky tankard against his chest.

  "What do you mean, leaving already?" Gurz laughed, his breath thick with the smell of strong ale and roasted meat. "The night is only just starting!"

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  For a moment, Aeor could only stare up at him, paralyzed by the bizarre reality on display. He swallowed hard and finally found his voice. "No, truly, I am—"

  His words were entirely drowned out as Gurz whipped his massive head toward the counter and bellowed at the ceiling. "More ale!"

  Another drunken patron cheered in agreement, throwing a heavy arm over Aeor's open shoulder. The stranger clinked his own wooden mug against the one trapped in Aeor's hands, and together with Gurz, they began pulling him backward, deeper into the chaotic, sweating heart of the tavern.

  The current of bodies was too strong to fight. Swept away in the noise, Aeor managed one desperate glance toward the door.

  Kalvaxus had not even stopped walking. The ancient prince did not look back, merely raising a single hand over his head in a lazy, dismissive wave before his pristine form vanished entirely behind the shifting wall of drunk revelers.

  Kalthar Solenar

  Kalvaxus lounged against the thick, lowest branch of an ancient tree, perched on a gentle rise that overlooked the sprawling settlement. The cool, crisp night air was a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat of the tavern below.

  With only a few hours remaining until dawn, the vibrant festival had finally exhausted itself. The strings of amber lanterns had burned down to dim, flickering embers, and the chaotic noise of the crowds had bled into a deep, heavy quiet. The tavern had been the last holdout of the celebration, its roaring songs and stomping feet only just now fading into silence.

  From his elevated vantage point, Kalvaxus watched the heavy wooden doors of the tavern push open. A lone figure stepped out into the predawn shadows.

  It was Aeor.

  Despite being swallowed whole by the drunken crowd hours earlier, Aeor walked toward their parked wagon with a steady stride. There was no clumsy sway to his steps and no sluggishness in his movements. It was entirely clear that Aeor had merely endured the chaotic festivities, keeping his head clear and his cup mostly untouched while the rest of the town drank itself into a senseless stupor.

  Kalvaxus watched Aeor reach the heavy wooden wagon. The young man paused, his hand reaching out to gently stroke the sleeping form of the Dusktail curled on the driver's bench before he climbed into the back.

  "If anything, I thought he would be able to see you," Kalvaxus said. His voice carried its usual, detached cadence as he shifted his golden gaze to the dark base of the ancient tree.

  Standing perfectly still in the shadowed roots, his eyes fixed on the distant figure of his son, was Cyrus.

  "Why hide from your own blood?" Kalvaxus continued softly.

  Cyrus did not look up. "Why run from your father, then?" he retorted.

  The sharp question did not offend Kalvaxus. In truth, very little could anymore. He briefly wondered exactly how many cycles had passed since he had last felt a genuine sting of a personal insult, but the thought dissolved as quickly as it came.

  "Were you able to make contact with Mayla?" Kalvaxus asked, changing the subject with effortless apathy.

  "No," Cyrus replied, his voice tight with a quiet frustration. "Finding these anchors is proving far more difficult than I anticipated. However, it is only a matter of time."

  Kalvaxus redirected his vision back to the valley below. Aeor had settled into the wooden bed of the wagon, pulling a heavy fur blanket over his shoulders against the predawn chill.

  "Only a matter of time," Kalvaxus whispered to the empty air. He leaned his head back against the rough bark, closing his eyes as he let the final hours of the night slip quietly away.

  Aeor Calder

  Aeor released a long, exhausted yawn as he navigated the winding dirt paths of the settlement. Sol had breached the horizon hours ago, casting its bright, warming rays across the valley, yet the town remained trapped in a deep, collective slumber.

  The sprawling festival grounds from the night before looked entirely defeated in the harsh morning light.

  Colorful pavilions sagged on their ropes, their bright canvases stained with spilled wine and trampled mud. Here and there, merchants and locals were slumped against the stone walls or curled up beneath the market stalls, snoring loudly through their stupors. The air, which had smelled so strongly of roasting meat and sweet perfumes the night before, now carried the heavy, sour stench of stale ale and cold ash.

  The quiet was almost eerie compared to the deafening roar he had barely escaped hours earlier.

  Aeor navigated the streets until he reached the front of the settlement's lone apothecary. The heavy wooden shutters were drawn tight against the morning sun. He knocked firmly on the door just to be certain, but as expected, the building remained entirely silent.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the folded piece of parchment he had found resting on his chest when he woke. The brief, elegantly penned note from Kalvaxus confirmed this was indeed the meeting spot.

  Aeor slipped around the side of the building and stepped into the rear courtyard.

  There, tethered to a series of heavy iron rings, stood four massive avian mounts, their broad, feathered backs shifting restlessly in the morning breeze. Beside them stood Kalvaxus, looking as pristine and unbothered as ever. Next to him was Gurz, accompanied by one of the rowdy patrons from the tavern the night before. Both of the smugglers looked incredibly rough. They moved with a sluggish stiffness, their eyes squinting painfully against the bright daylight.

  Gurz rubbed his temples with a thick hand and paused as Aeor approached. The massive orc squinted down at him, a flicker of vague recognition crossing his face.

  "You look rather sober considering the night," Gurz grumbled, his booming voice reduced to a gritty, subdued rasp. "Survived the ale, did you?"

  "I managed," Aeor replied softly, not meeting Gurz's gaze.

  Gurz gave a slow, suffering grunt of approval. He shifted his heavy gaze toward Kalvaxus. "Is he the one coming along?"

  Kalvaxus simply nodded, already pulling himself smoothly into the high leather saddle of his avian.

  Gurz turned toward his companion. The two smugglers exchanged a silent, painful nod of solidarity.

  "Alright then," Gurz sighed, hauling his massive, aching frame onto his own mount with a heavy groan. He gripped the reins, adjusted his posture, and looked toward the open sky. "Thar'Ezun awaits."

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