#wildfieldz writing

[wildfieldz]

WITHIN AN INCH OF THE DREAM | CHAPTER 3

The story in the original language is available here and here.

DO NOT REPOST.

The rain didn’t let up until late the next day. During all that time — accompanied by rolls of thunder and flashes of lightning — Charles Blanc found himself trying on a role that, oddly enough, suited him rather well. Grinding roots in a mortar wasn’t much harder than mixing homemade paints. The potion, at first, didn’t even look that different from soup. Then the mage would hold his hand above the cauldron, eyes locked ahead in concentration. His gaze would flare with brilliant light — and the contents would turn thick and syrupy, its color and scent shifting all at once. By the second day, Charlie had begun to take it in stride. That was when he understood, fully, that magic wasn’t for him. The reason lay with the magician himself — or more precisely, what magic did to him. 

He murmured the spells silently, lips barely moving, cracked and dry. But were the spells really worth it? They took more than they gave. The man, though still middle-aged, moved like someone far older, leaning heavily on his staff, coughing constantly. That, ultimately, was why Charlie was useful as an apprentice: someone needed to grab, crush, pour, boil, and run remedies to Ed as quickly as possible. 

The master of the house was a magician in the truest sense — he’d only called himself a sorcerer for fun. As he explained it, people far removed from the world of magic saw no difference between the three main schools of the arcane — but feared only the sorcerers. 

“Yes, in broad strokes it’s all the same,” he said, watching Charlie deftly mix a new batch of medicine — this one for Eleanor. “And yet, an enchanter knows only the light. A sorcerer touches none of it. And wizards… we walk the path of balance.”

After everything that had happened, Charlie stayed cautious. He wasn’t about to pull an Ed and start spilling where they were going or why. The mage, for his part, didn’t pry. He was Hermit’s opposite in every way: didn’t hide his name — Dietmar, as it turned out — and instead of trying to murder the travelers, he was… actually treating them. 

Eleanor recovered quicker than Ed. The burning sensation that had plagued her vanished, something the mage explained as a result of magical sensitivity: since the Forest of Reveries had overflowed with magic since the war, it clung to those attuned to it. 

Eleanor, having learned something new about herself, didn’t seem particularly thrilled. But she did offer to help with the potions. Dietmar was against it at first, but when accused of being stuck in the Dark Ages, he allowed her to stay. 

“You’d best not stand too close to the conduit,” he said. “There’s too much magic in the air, and besides, it’s…”

“It’s what?” Eleanor, naturally, had to ask. 

“Forbidden,” Dietmar replied. 

Charlie could’ve sworn something hard edged its way into the mage’s smooth, low voice. 

“You might’ve died before the poisoning ever happened. You speak very little of your reasons for being here, and I have no reason to bare my own. But you should know this: the imperial forces didn’t get stuck here because some curse appeared out of nowhere. It was man-made. One of its inventors was my former master — he lived within these very walls and helped me…”

A harsh cough forced the mage to pause.

“…helped me with something. We were too occupied when the invasion began. Barely survived. We had to act… recklessly. Breaking rules. Everything has a cost. And those ghosts you mentioned yesterday…” he glanced briefly at Charlie, “they’re just echoes of a mistake. Not ours, but of those who failed to guard the border.”

And then, as if surfacing from deep beneath a flood of bitter memories, Dietmar went still.

“Now, where was I..? Ah, yes. Madam, I would never dream of questioning your abilities. On the contrary — they are quite real, and they can be developed. Personally, I believe a woman has every right to study the arcane arts, and I do not agree with the Academy’s doctrines. But I urge you — take care of yourself.”

Eleanor fell silent at that, a faint flush rising in her cheeks. Charlie would’ve liked to say something, too — but he had temporarily lost the ability to form words in the Common Tongue. A wave of realization had just crashed over him. How does one stand before a man who spoke of events more than seven centuries past — as if he'd witnessed them firsthand?

Had Eleanor noticed the discrepancy? Charlie had no idea. He never brought it up with anyone. Somehow, it felt as though the mage could hear every thought, see every glance. Still, if he’d meant them harm, wouldn’t he have done something by now?

Charlie, though not without effort, had learned not to lose his composure in the man’s presence. With each passing day, he noticed more oddities — so many that his brain could barely keep up. 

Take the simplest one: Dietmar never seemed to eat or drink, save for some kind of tincture he sipped when his coughing grew unbearable. None of the rooms felt lived-in, apart from the study and the vast library — its shelves crammed with perfectly preserved tomes over two centuries old. They stood in stark contrast to the rest of the house, worn and faded. And their content was hardly varied: spellbooks and magical treatises, nothing else.

But to Charlie, the strangest thing was something else entirely. The idea that had first struck him back in the royal castle — the notion of rewinding time — wasn’t fantasy. It was real.

Just look at the five slices of cheese, the piece of bread, and the bit of cured meat on that tray. Every morning, Dietmar restored those same leftovers with a spell, making them look freshly served. It was the same enchantment he used on his treasured books a few times a year. In essence, the object remained in the present — but was reverted to a previous state.

Why the mage didn’t do the same for the house, or even himself, was a question Charlie didn’t dare ask. Those little restorations already left Dietmar hacking up his lungs. Charlie started eating less because of it.

His sworn brother, on the other hand, was picky about food, grumbled constantly, and made no effort to hide how he felt. Though maybe he didn’t understand those feelings himself. Everything annoyed him — from the forced idleness to his creative block… and to the fact that Eleanor, as he put it, had ditched them for a bunch of books.

In truth, she had been avoiding them. Especially after the mage gave her several old folios — she buried herself in them completely. Edgar couldn't sit still and kept insisting he didn’t give a damn, but also muttered things like, That guy’s shady, mark my words.

If only he'd been that cautious with the Hermit, before guzzling wine with him like old friends. Charlie, at least, could see that Ed was improving — no more convulsions or shortness of breath. Only some lingering chills and weakness. The mage asked nothing in return. When the minstrel offered to cut firewood for winter as thanks, he was gently told not to bother. 

There was no sign that trouble lay ahead. Mayhap that’s exactly why Charlie asked the dumbest of all the questions that had been gnawing at him.

“Tell me, is it possible…” he began, already struggling not to laugh, “like with the cheese… to grow a tooth back?”

The mage smiled gently, without the slightest trace of mockery.

“Lady Eleanor, at every opportunity, asks whether it’s possible to learn magic without a teacher. But the matter of your friend’s tooth has never come up. I’ve slipped her the appropriate reading material, still…”

He paused for breath. 

“Still, it’s you asking, not her. She has the potential, but healing magic doesn't interest her. Did I misjudge things by assuming they were married?”

“Hardly,” the minstrel muttered, lips pursed with annoyance. “It was never going to turn into a proper family — just a downward spiral. They’re well-behaved now, sure, but back when they lived together, the whole quarter was in uproar. And that bit about the tooth — just so you know — I wasn’t being serious...”

“Had your friend lost that tooth after I first laid eyes on him...” Dietmar tapped his staff against the stone floor again, “then perhaps. I would have needed an anchor point to direct the temporal current. As it stands, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Got it,” Charlie nodded, even though he didn’t get it at all. He stood frozen, tray still in hand.

Inside him, two Charles Blancs were at odds. The first — a poet, inspired by stories told by all sorts of people. The second — a twitchy, paranoid wreck, jumping at every creak and whisper. He feared he wouldn’t be able to help his friends, that he’d fail them, lose them. And right now, he burned to know something — anything — about the mage’s past life. 

It felt like he was back in his old days, pouring over history textbooks late into the night, lost in his research. Still, he kept reminding himself: Don’t pry where you’re not invited.

“Hurry up,” Dietmar called after him. “You’re the one waking your friend. The young lady’s already up — and with quite the appetite. Too much sleep at this stage won’t help him recover. And the faster your friend heals, the faster I’m rid of the lot of you. I’m no healer, after all.”

Charlie, encouraged by that hint, rushed to the door leading to Ed’s room and was just reaching for the handle when…

“He’s not there. He’s downstairs,” came the mage’s voice behind him. “I have sense it only now. That’s… not good.”

“What’ not good?” The words didn’t make sense to Charlie, but a chill ran down his spine anyway.

“That I’m aging.” The mage’s voice was soft, like the rustling of dry leaves. “Not just in body — my gift is leaving me. I’ve lost the fight against time. Don’t look at me like that. I know my talk of curses and imperial vengeance has you wary. You’re curious, but cautious. You guess at things, but you don’t share them. You think I can read your thoughts. Sadly, that talent isn’t granted to all. But then again, why would I need it? Most people wear everything on their faces. Even those who, like you, would’ve made excellent court actors.”

What was he playing at? What was he trying to achieve with this line of talk?

Even when alone with Edgar, Charlie hadn’t uttered a word about their plan — how they would act once they reached the imperial capital. The Duke, if Louise’s words were to be believed, sought to emulate his sovereign in all things. That meant his estate likely followed courtly customs to the letter.

“Forgive me, sir, but I honestly don’t understand why you’re speaking to me like this,” Charlie said, maintaining his usual politeness — regardless of what Eleanor might’ve thought or said about it. “Life at court holds no charm for me. I’d much rather entertain villagers than noblemen.”

“No charm?” the mage glanced at the crystal orb atop his staff. “In some ways, you’re right — it can be stifling. Depends how high you’ve climbed. A court actor — or say, a jester — is often freer than a noble. Sometimes even more powerful. To survive, he must learn people, carry countless secrets not his own. But how he uses them… that’s entirely up to him.”

“I don’t think I need any secrets,” Charlie said at last, deciding he’d had enough. “If someone doesn’t want to share something, that’s their right. Your secret... well, it’d probably have my grandfather twirling a finger at his temple, and he’s seen things that — well. Sir, you helped us, asked for nothing in return, and you say strange things. Holy sm...” he almost repeated Ed’s favorite expression. “I cannot understand what you want from me right now. If it’s to tell me your secret... why me?”

Dietmar gave him a long, piercing look.

“You remind me of a... friend I once had. Another curious boy. Just like you, he thought it was his burden to carry everything. Believed no one else could manage without him. Always the peacemaker. Worried for everyone — while no one worried for him. Does your friend worry for you?”

“Of course he does!” Charlie didn’t hesitate. “It’s just... he shows it differently.”

“My friend used to justify people who didn’t care for him either. In the end, he was left completely alone.”

“Then you shouldn’t have abandoned him!” Charlie snapped — and instantly regretted it. Great, now he could start bracing for a transformation into a mule. “I mean — sorry, I meant to say...”

“He was the one who abandoned everyone,” the mage corrected him calmly. “And most likely made a mistake. Somehow, I think you would’ve done differently. I also believe you’d keep a secret, if entrusted with one. The choice is yours.”

It was a hard choice. But the sudden chill that had crept into the room from nowhere snuffed out Charlie’s curiosity like a candle. Maybe the secret was worth a thousand stories. Yet, the minstrel said:

“I don’t want to know the secret. Knowing my luck, it’ll turn out you’re some kind of special vampire who healed my friends just to make sure their blood stayed clean — and now you’re going to kill them.”

If Charlie had truly believed that, he never would’ve said it aloud in front of a mage. For a moment, Dietmar stared at him, stunned. Then he let out a silent laugh — no words, just a burst of soundless amusement. For the first time since they’d met, Charlie saw something close to genuine emotion in the man’s face.

“You...” Dietmar drew a deep breath to steady himself. “Oh... you’ve no idea how close to the truth you are. No, I’m not a vampire. And I have no reason to kill you. As for asking something in return from the... from those whose interests don’t intersect with mine, that would be pointless. But as for the blood — there, you hit the mark.”

Charlie shrugged.

“So I guessed right. You said it yourself, I’ve got no magic in me — I’m no seer. Ed would argue with that, but I really don’t care. Stranger things have happened,” he added — he thought he’d said something similar to Ed once before. “There are people who are... hundreds of years old, after all.”

Just being pale and gaunt wasn’t enough to pass for a vampire — they had fangs and couldn’t stand sunlight. They always smelled damp, and their laughter sounded like bubbling from a half-flooded cellar. Dietmar didn’t look like an elf either. Once, while casting a spell, he’d tucked his hair behind his ear — perfectly human, not pointy. Then again, they did say elves were immortal and could go without food and water for years. It was a decent theory, but probably off.

More likely, Dietmar had once been a general — or held some lofty title — before trading his fine clothes for a mage’s robes and coming here... to do something the Academy didn’t approve of. Hard to say. A likelier story was that he was the victim of a curse — one he helped place on the forest, with his master, to halt the imperial advance. That would explain why the topic seemed so painful for him. Maybe he even saw himself as a mistake. Half-man, half-ghost, who — for the first time in years — had let someone into his home, though he could’ve easily driven them away with magic alone. Of course he’d want to share his secret with someone.

And yet, Charlie suddenly didn’t want to know the secret anymore. Where had that chill come from? His hands, still clutching the tray, were slick with sweat. Maybe something else had happened here — something the wizard hadn’t mentioned when answering Eleanor’s question. Murder, perhaps. Or betrayal...

“Where are you going with this?” he scolded himself. “He reads you like an open spellbook, and this is what you’re thinking about?”

Even Ed had figured him out in near-total darkness, when Charlie had been plagued with thoughts of death among the swamps. So much for acting skills. Then again, Harding was family — and with family, there’s no need for pretenses. Ed knew him well. The man in the black robe? Not so much.

Charlie gave a little shake of his head, like trying to snap out of a spell.

“I think I should go downstairs and look for Edgar...”

“Yes, yes,” the mage nodded, his expression thoughtful — as if he too had been lost in his own mind. “Go. I’ll join you shortly. It wasn’t my intent to unsettle or frighten you. I’ve simply spent too long without proper conversation and may have forgotten how it’s done. Don’t take this the wrong way, but... I like you.” He hesitated. “You’re polite, reasonable, and you stay neutral. I respect that in people.”

He smiled again and stepped back toward the window, as if clearing the way. Charlie took off like a student finally released from a grueling exam. In truth, back in school, he’d never really shared the widespread hatred of tests — if you studied, there was nothing to fear. Although right now, he was relieved beyond words to escape this strange exchange. Whatever the mage had been steering the conversation toward, Charlie wanted to head in the opposite direction.

Dietmar was being modest. He knew how to talk like a seasoned courtier — no matter how you twisted, he’d still get the answer he wanted. The kind of man who ended up a diplomat. Any mask would suit him: general, ambassador, scholar, healer... anything but an ordinary citizen. But that didn’t matter anymore. Charlie had said no to the secret. Once he said no, he didn’t change his mind — because he never said it lightly.

He was nearly at the foot of the stairs — tray still in hand — when he heard something he hadn’t heard in two weeks: an argument. Charlie nearly tripped. Ed and Eleanor had tried to stay quiet, bless them, but when had that ever worked out?

“No, I’m telling you!” Ed snatched the pack from the girl’s hands and held it triumphantly over his head. “We’re leaving! We’re leaving today!”

It had been going on for maybe five minutes, and Charlie was already ready to climb the walls in despair. Separately, Ed and Eleanor were more than fine. His sworn brother — Charlie loved him more than any blood relative, save maybe his mother. Eleanor… well, she wasn’t the shallow, selfish person she once seemed. She could take a hit and keep going, and she wasn’t short on courage either.

“You haven’t even fully recovered, you idiot!” the girl cried, her voice full of frustration as she ran into the all-too-familiar brick wall that was Ed’s stubbornness. “Sir Dietmar promised to check on you before we go! Why are you so pigheaded?! Sir—”

But together… they were a never-ending source of shouting, bickering, broken dishes — and sometimes broken furniture, too.

“To hell with your Sir Dietmar, got it?" Ed spat. “You’re following him around like some lovestruck…”

Jealous, would you look at that. And he said he didn’t care. Why not just talk it out like normal people, without the insults?

Charlie, now sitting on the ottoman, sighed and popped a piece of cheese into his mouth — the very same one Ed had, not long ago, suggested he shove somewhere else. Harding had flatly refused to eat any of the magic counterfeit.

“He saved your life!”

“If you’ve taken a liking to that walking corpse, just say it! I don’t want anything from him, and I’m not staying here another second.”

Charlie gave up hope that the wizard hadn’t overheard that charming bit of character assessment. Thankfully, Dietmar had a sense of humor — he might just forgive it and let them leave in peace. Ed, as usual, had hit the nail on the head: they’d already spent all the time that would've taken to get there and back. With no horses, and not even a cart pulled by a single ox, they’d reach the imperial capital with only a month and a half left, instead of three.

Old Tom had been right, too — there were far more holes in this plan than any outsider might spot at first glance. The Duke could easily dismiss their talents and brush them off like gnats. Then what? No, the whole thing had been doomed from the start. The reward was suspiciously generous, the timeline far too tight, and there had been no support from His Majesty whatsoever. Only a fool would’ve gone along with it. The one real success? Eleanor hadn’t ended up a courtesan. If the gods were merciful, she’d choose another path someday. But where? Returning home in disgrace would mean either years spent hiding on the outskirts, or marching right back into town and straight to the gallows. They’d be remembered — by themselves and by all of Merenberg — as weak, cowardly, and hopelessly foolish. Honestly, disappointing yourself was always worse.

To distract himself, Charlie picked up a piece of parchment from the floor — there were dozens scattered now, thanks to Ed and Eleanor yanking the backpack between them like a tug-of-war — and began folding it into a paper boat. He’d gather the rest later and fill them with verses, even the ones hopelessly smudged. If inspiration comes back, that is.

“I don’t even want to hear his name!” Ed had reclaimed the bag and was now stuffing back everything Eleanor had unpacked. “You seriously don’t get it, do you? He’s an elf, holy smoke! You can’t trust them. We’re like slugs to them. He’s scheming, I know it!”

“Idiot...” Eleanor sighed, dragging a tired hand down her face. “What makes you so sure he’s an elf? Seen many elves in your life?”

None of them had ever met one, for obvious reasons. Everything they knew about elves came from caricatures, rumors, tall tales, and old men’s stories that Charlie, as a boy, used to listen to with great interest. At one point, he’d almost decided elves were made up — too convenient to envy, too easy to cast as villains. But whether or not people liked it, they did exist. Spotting an elf wasn’t all that hard.

“Just this one, and I’ve seen enough,” Edgar sneered. “Look at him — he doesn’t eat, doesn’t drink. Struts around like a puffed-up turkey. And that long hair of his? You think it’s just fashion? He’s hiding his ears under it! Elves pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes, and those so-called gods…” He made a face of pure disgust. “They always drew them pointy-eared — I’ve seen the images! They’re liars.”

Charlie, who had been ready to dismiss his brother’s theory with a chuckle, choked instead, sending his paper boat skimming across the floor. Wait — was Ed actually trying to learn more about the gods? Now that was unexpected. Harding the Elder never believed in afterlife. No Void, no torment. Just silence. He told anyone who’d listen that elves were liars and hailed Aloysius the Seventh, the king who’d overthrown the pantheon. On that front, father and son were in full agreement. Any mention of words like “gods” or “sin” made Ed recoil like someone had asked him to stick his hand in a sack of cockroaches. He didn’t want gods — he wanted eternity. The very thing George Harding denied.

Of course, many people on the Continent — especially the older ones — still believed in gods. They kept the images, remembered prayers by heart. Speaking the gods' names was forbidden, but even the younger generation broke that rule. Surely, some of them believed fiercely and simply kept quiet, afraid of being punished. Charlie’s mother had believed. Not in the many, but in some one god. William Blanc had called his daughter insane for it. Was her god vengeful, if years later her father went mad? Was he even real? Could he have heard that desperate prayer to find Eleanor and nudged her to the square that day? And if so… was he watching Charlie too? Could that dream have been a warning from him? Maybe He had known Charlie’s mother. Maybe that’s why he listened.

Charlie shivered and shook his head, trying to focus on the ongoing argument.

“No...” Eleanor was chewing her nail. “That can’t be… and even if it is, it doesn’t change anything. Say it, Blanc!”

“Say what? I missed that part.”

“Say that even if Sir Dietmar is an elf, he’s kind and honest, and he helped us out of the goodness of his heart!”

Recalling the things the wizard had said — about himself and to him — Charlie replied evasively:

“Maybe. I don’t think he needs anything from us. People are complicated, you know, a lot of contradictions wrapped into one,” he added with a wink at Ed. “Sometimes the kind ones act unbearable, for example.”

Ed froze, processing that, then threw his arms up, sending their battered supplies tumbling again.

"Don’t you start with that nonsense! What, are you in league with him now too?! Great, what a brother you are! And she!” he jerked his head toward Eleanor, eyes still locked on Charlie. “She thinks she’s a witch now, thanks to him. And you? What did he stick in your head, huh? To hell with elves, all of them!”

Charlie waited for Ed to run out of breath, then said calmly:

“He didn’t stick anything in my head. And he’s not an elf. All elves have pointed ears — his are normal. Human.” He added, “And you can’t say that kind of stuff about an entire nation, brother. Imagine if you were in their place...”

“Oh, I’d love to imagine,” Ed said, stepping up and placing a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “I really would. But I’ll never know what it’s like to live forever. And I’ll never understand why I’m supposed to drop dead at forty while some elf assho—”

“Why forty?” Charlie looked genuinely confused. “People live longer than that. Just stay out of trouble. It’s not guaranteed. Remember my grandfather? Made it to seventy-five, and he was a sailor.”

“Yeah, I remember your grandfather!” Ed squeezed Charlie’s shoulder harder, hard enough to make it clear he wasn’t as weak as he let on. “Why do they get everything, and we, humans, get nothing? Where’s the justice, Charlie? I mean, I get it with vampires — I've got no complaints against them. That life’s hard, brother, I get it. But those ones...” He growled. “If we had to go to war with them, I’d sign up in a heartbeat.”

"You’re hurting me, let go."

Charlie wasn’t exaggerating — there’d definitely be a bruise. But that wasn’t what truly shook him. What really got to him — what scared him — was Ed’s sudden confession. Just as Ed knew him, Charlie knew Ed. He could tell when his friend was bluffing, and this time… he wasn’t.

“So… he really is human?” Harding asked, suddenly quieter, eyes cast downward as he pulled his hand away.

At least he still trusted him. That was something. But the jealousy — sharp and creeping — had dug its claws into a kind heart. A heart that had always been full of empathy, always open. Ed had always been the one who stood up for the underdog, who would carry home an injured bird and nurse it back to health. As a teen boy, he protected the girls, loved stories of knights slaying dragons… always driven by justice. And now, that very sense of justice — noble in itself — was playing a cruel trick on him. Charlie would’ve given a lot right then just to pull that weight off his friend’s shoulders.

“Yes. He’s human.”

“And you can be certain of that.”

The mage’s voice caught them off guard again — though his steps weren’t quiet, and the tap of his staff usually echoed through the halls.

“If someone carries elven blood,” Dietmar said, now facing Ed, “others will see it.”

He tucked his black hair behind his ear.

“If I were even a quarter elf, I couldn’t hide my ears, no matter how long my hair,” the mage added, clearly enjoying the sight of Ed’s mouth opening and closing in mild embarrassment. “Come now, Master Harding, let it go. I don’t blame you for anything. I understand your point of view. Elves can live tens of thousands of years. They don’t get sick. They age so slowly that parents and children often look like siblings. Two hundred years is considered old by dwarven standards. But humans? We’re the most vulnerable race. Yes, it is unfair. We could talk more about this, but... I can see you're in a hurry.”

For the first time, Dietmar looked at Ed with something more than clinical detachment. Until now, his attention had been cursory — brief questions, like a healer addressing a patient, his gaze never lingering longer than needed. But now, he was seeing something else. Not a person — an ingredient. Something useful for a potion. 

That, at least, was the impression Charlie got as he approached them, as casually as he could. In truth, he was preparing to grab Ed by the collar and drag him out of there with a flurry of bows and apologies. Better to be useless than useful.

“Well...” Ed hesitated. “Yeah. I mean, we’ve got an important task. A mission, I guess… Still a long way to the Empire, and the King only gave us three months. It’s... complicated. There’s a princess, and an amulet, and…”

Harding, too, was now looking at the wizard with entirely different eyes. That made Charlie far more nervous than Ed’s ill-timed outburst.

“The King?” Dietmar echoed, frowning. “How long have you been on the road?”

“A long time, sir,” Charlie cut in quickly. “Close to a month. We’ve run out of supplies, out of money. And time’s running short. Edgar — he’s a philosopher, so if... if you start talking to him about elves or fate, we’re not going to make it anywhere and we’re getting executed.”

“And if I help you later,” the wizard narrowed his eyes, “would you allow me a conversation with your friend? I’ll provide you with gemstones — precious ones — you can trade them anywhere on the Continent for all you need on the road.”

Transport wouldn’t hurt. A cart and an ox… Charlie mentally slapped himself. What were they getting into?

“You didn’t even need firewood earlier,” he pointed out. “Now you’re buying us. Him, to be exact.”

“I’m offering a deal,” the mage said, his gaze returning to Ed. “Listen to my story. If you choose to help me afterwards, I’ll support your... mission.”

Charlie’s inner voice sighed: “You’re going to learn his secret after all.”

Some parts of the wizard’s tale were expected. Others made Charlie’s skin crawl. An elixir of immortality brewed from the blood of a living, disease-resistant being — yet mortal — that idea alone was hard to digest, even if he kept reminding himself vampires existed. Dietmar spoke of an elven woman as an ally, someone he’d grieved for — he even stopped pacing when he mentioned her — but if she’d died… did it mean too much blood had been taken? What if he’d tortured her, forced her into the experiment?

Half an hour ago, Charlie had been ready to justify the mage almost as fiercely as Ed had defended the old man-eater. But half an hour ago, Dietmar had seemed like a detached observer, not a mad alchemist. Alchemists used to say the same thing — that they’d turn trash into gold for everyone. 

Eternal life and a cure for disease for every race… sounded noble enough. But would the miraculous elixir be available to just anyone? There’d always be someone ready to declare themselves worthy of immortality — and everyone else unworthy.

“I spent centuries perfecting the elixir’s composition,” Dietmar said, now utterly transformed. His green eyes gleamed feverishly, and he spoke fast, with zeal. “There will be no more mistakes. The mistake was taking blood from a dead body! As you can see,” even his smile now looked wrong, feral “the price was steep. I’ve lived far beyond what the heavens allow a man. And yet I’m sick. I no longer have the strength to find an elf myself. I could use a portal to reach Vilantos, but... they’d recognize me. I visited Tiana often — her family is ancient. Elves forget nothing...”

Charlie actually felt relieved when the wizard doubled over in a fresh coughing fit — listening to this was harder than anything Lame Bill had ever raved about. The mage was obsessed. Obsessed with cheating death, with twisting the natural order. That was the big secret.

The minstrel glanced at his friends, hoping to see confusion or doubt on their faces. No such luck. Ed looked like he could light up a tunnel, glowing like a lantern. Eleanor was watching the mage with a look that mixed worry and something dangerously close to awe.

Charlie sprang toward her, grabbed her gently by the elbow and pulled her aside to the stairs, whispering:

“Am I the only one here still in my right mind?”

Eleanor was so caught off guard, she forgot to protest.

“What are you talking about? What’s gotten into you?”

“Definitely not the same thing that’s gotten into you two!” he hissed. “Okay, fine. Ed got run over by the immortality cab back in childhood. But you — you seriously think this is all right? Dietmar is the Hermit — just turned sideways.”

They say you can’t step into the same river twice — and they’re right. Eleanor wouldn’t listen to him again. Once Charlie realized that, he felt like he’d fallen into a dry well. Not drowned, not broken, just stuck with no one coming to help.

“Oh, come on, Charles!” Eleanor hurled a massive boulder straight into that well. “He can conquer death. And we — if we help him — we’ll brush against greatness!”  Another rock followed, just to smash his skull properly. “He’s a great man, someone who’ll bring happiness to everyone!”

He really was an extraordinary man. The kind that armies would march behind, the kind common folk would carry on their shoulders — if only he promised them what they longed for. Everyone at once, and each person individually.

“Right. He’s a great man. And not even old, huh?” Charlie scoffed. “Good luck with your elf hunt.” 

He grabbed his mandolin and headed for the manor’s entrance. “I’m not taking part in any killings, even for the greater good.”

In the span of a few heartbeats, he remembered all the countless times Ed had dragged him into some harebrained adventure, always with an ultimatum like, Either we do this now, or we’re pathetic cowards!

Charlie wouldn’t have called himself pathetic if he’d refused to climb into that hollow tree outside town — where, surprise, no treasure was found — or to break the windows of Frank Summers’ house, because Frank had dumped freckled Judy and left her bawling her eyes out. Or to scarf down lemons from the orchard of Aunt Hilda, who had forgotten what she planted where.

He could’ve lived without all of that. And yet Charlie had always followed, always defended his friend — in front of teachers, the city guard captain, or even Ed’s own father. But now… now they were adults. The stakes had changed. Now, they were gambling with real lives. With clean consciences.

Charlie couldn’t let Edgar become an accomplice to a madman. He was even willing to bluff — just to make his friend come to his senses. However, Ed said nothing.

“Wait, Charles!” Eleanor was the first — and only — one to react. “You’re misunderstanding all of this! It’s not a hunt... No one has to die, right?”

She turned to the mage for confirmation, and as soon as he caught his breath, Dietmar nodded eagerly.

“No one will die. I will do everything in my power to ensure that. A small deception is a necessity. Only a few are willing to sacrifice for the good of all peoples in our world. Everyone thinks only of themselves,” he said, voice once again calm and composed — but Charlie remembered all too well what Dietmar had looked like before the coughing fit. “Elves especially.”

“Good sir!” Ed exclaimed. “If all it takes is one pointy-eared guy for immortality for everyone — well, that’s... what’s the word... acceptable! Just tell me how to catch one. They’re not stupid, and I’m not great at making plans.”

Charlie turned around, cursing everything under the sun. Not only had his friend failed to stop him — he was now spouting utter nonsense.

“You’re not a monster!” Charlie wanted to scream. “You’re kind. You care about others. And you can’t go on without me!”

“Hey, brother,” he said loudly, his voice thick with frustration at himself for hesitating, “remember Louise and that amulet waiting on us? Am I supposed to drag it to the Imperials all on my own? We gave our word. You gave your word.”

Harding mumbled something unintelligible, as if hearing about the princess and their mission for the very first time.

“As for the plan,” the mage said smoothly, “you needn’t worry. Louise is the King’s daughter, yes? I’ve lost track of how many Aloysiuses have swapped places by now. Your original plan will dovetail nicely with mine, even if I don’t know all the details.”

Charlie stopped, arms folded tightly across his chest.

“And how’s that supposed to work? We’re running out of time, and you want to send us into the mountains. We’ve never been there. Don’t know the dialect, the customs!”

The mage answered like a sergeant in too good a mood to yell at a recruit for asking stupid questions:

“You’ll find yourselves near Vilantos faster than you can say your King’s name. Elves speak the Common Tongue — many of the younger ones don’t even know their ancestral language. Tiana,” he stressed the name, “wouldn’t have lied. As for customs... well, the elves will welcome you, though not too warmly. After a month, they’ll probably ask you to leave — unless you find some job.”

“Perfect!” Ed chimed in. “I wouldn’t last long among them anyway.”

Dietmar shot him a brief look of approval, then turned to Charlie. The bard nearly ground his teeth. The mage hadn’t used a single spell to sway Ed or Eleanor — he’d just found their pressure points. It was more terrifying than magic — because unlike spells, convictions and hidden desires couldn’t be banished with a few words. All those tales of old friends, actors, and secrets — they served a clear purpose. Charlie was meant to get hooked. He’d broken from the group, but Dietmar had enough. And Charlie had just revealed his weakest side — the puppy loyalty — in all its glory.

“Speaking of youth,” the wizard raised an index finger, “keep in mind: the elf must be young. Those over a thousand years old... well... they start growing brains. Half-truths won’t cut it with them.”

“Half-truths?” Ed blinked. “You mean we’ll have to tell him about the elixir?”

“Absolutely not,” Dietmar’s cheek twitched. “That knowledge stays between us. The elf won’t suspect a thing if he meets two traveling musicians who got lost on the way to help a princess. That’s the truth.”

“Right,” Harding nodded. “But why just us? What’re we supposed to do with Ellie?”

“Now we enter the realm of fiction,” the wizard said, “and I’m getting guarantees from you.”

“Guaran-what?”

“What kind of guarantees?”

The minstrels exchanged a look. Ed’s eyes asked Charlie what the unfamiliar word meant. Charlie’s eyes asked how much longer he’d be cleaning up after this mule.

“Lady Eleanor,” the wizard said meanwhile, “will remain as my guest. That way, you’ll have a solid reason not to break the deal — and to see this through to the end. No harm will come to the lady while she’s with me. As for the fiction… You three stumbled upon a sorcerer’s lair,” he placed a hand over his heart and gave a stiff little bow, “and the sorcerer took your friend captive. You weren’t able to rescue her — not yet. But your conscience torments you.”

Charlie rolled his eyes and muttered:

“My conscience is already protesting.”

“That’s no great trouble,” Dietmar cut in sharply. “Either a royal mission or the fate of a helpless lady — something should compel the elf to go with you. So look for the young and foolish — they stand out, even though age barely leaves a mark on elven faces. Oh, and yes, you can deal with the princess and... pendant first, bringing the elf along. I’ve waited this long — a couple more months won’t kill me.”

“The lady might not agree to this!” Charlie snapped, now despising the wizard almost as much as he despised himself for his spinelessness. “First of all, no one asked her. Second, aside from cheese, you’ve got nothing to feed her with.”

Ed chuckled darkly. Eleanor gave a short, derisive snort.

“The lady has no objections,” she said, practically purring as she hurled a rock straight at her ex’s pride. 

“With your dear brother’s earnings, I wasn’t exactly living in luxury. This is nothing, compared to what I stand to gain.”

“Each of you will have the chance to try the elixir for yourselves,” the mage stepped back from them a few paces. The tip of his staff began to glow turquoise. “Believe me — you’ll be pleased with the results.”

The turquoise light expanded from the crystal orb, growing larger, and the air it touched began to shimmer and shift. Before the travelers opened what looked like a round window to… well, certainly not the Forest of Reveries.

“The portal will cut down your travel time,” Dietmar said, retreating into the shadows. “No need to jump in just yet. I’ll only be gone a couple of minutes.”

Getting angry — at himself, at Ed, or at the wizard — and replaying all the mistakes in his head could wait. Charlie was simply too tired. He decided to just look around until his thoughts settled into place. And there was plenty to look at.

Sure, Merenberg had its own mountains — right by the sea. People built homes there too. But this? Charles Blanc had never seen anything like it. The elven capital sparkled in the distance brighter than emeralds and sapphires — the ones Dietmar had enchanted to look like daisy petals and which now sat tucked away in a pouch on Charlie’s belt. According to the wizard, the elves hadn’t lived here long — by their standards — and still considered themselves poor exiles.

“Poor, right,” the minstrel thought, then quickly corrected himself. “Well… exile’s still exile, I guess.”

Elves, forest-dwellers by nature, had never made their homes in the mountains before. The dwarves of the East took them in as refugees and allowed them to live above ground, while the dwarves themselves remained in their underground labyrinths. No doubt, it was the dwarves who supplied the elves with the yellow and rose marble from which most of the buildings were made.

The beauty of the city pushed Charlie onward, despite the aching in his legs and the ever-present risk of tumbling down a slope. Their route really had been shorter, just like the wizard promised — and the exhaustion was more than made up for by the thrill of taking in the local architecture. Even the tower, from which a pair of bored-looking guards glanced down at them, was a work of art. Houses, market pavilions, gazebos, fountains — everything was crafted from fine stone and adorned with carvings. Almost every building was wrapped in ivy or grapevines, and trees were everywhere. Some normal, others unimaginably tall.

Charlie didn’t feel out of place here. None of the elves looked at them with contempt. Ed kept his usual elf-jabs to himself — he did have a love for all things beautiful and refined, even if he tried to hide it. And Vilantos was a beautiful city. A little sleepy, too. Nobody seemed in a hurry here — not when you’ve got thousands of years ahead of you…

The elf guards didn’t even bother to search them, citing an invisible magical barrier at the edge of the city. If it hadn’t stopped them, then clearly they posed no threat. Charlie almost pointed out that the barrier was broken, but Ed cut him off — shouting about getting ready for their performance, that everyone was invited, and so on.

The barrier had probably been broken since the days Dietmar was paying visits to the elf woman. Maybe through a portal, or maybe through shadows — he could dissolve into them and glide through the mansion with ease. And Charlie hadn’t been brought along as an apprentice — no, Dietmar was just reliving his past, when people obeyed him without question. Yes, he’d once been someone important, someone with power. Now, he wanted the power back. No matter how hard Ed and Eleanor tried to ignore it, they had become his partners. His accomplices.

Finding the golden mean was harder than stumbling out of dwarven caves at night with your eyes blindfolded. The caves, incidentally, had to be nearby. Some dwarves sold swords, knives, and household tools, others — jewelry. Charlie’s gaze landed on a ruby necklace, and a surge of resolve filled him.

He would set things right.

“Listen, brother,” he began, “do you really want us to perform here? What if they like a totally different kind of music? They’ve got their own traditions, you can see that clear as day. I’d rather go find the princess’s amulet and wish for the sorcerer to let Eleanor go…”

“Damn, Charlie,” Ed clicked his tongue. “You sound like a kid, seriously! We’ll help the Princess, sure, but she’s not going to help us. Think, man! She said there was a legend, right? That the amulet grants wishes. A legend! Could be true, could be nonsense. But Dietmar… he tried it on himself, and bang — he’s been alive for centuries, doesn’t even need to eat. That’s more solid than stories and fairy tales!”

“Keep it down,” Charlie pleaded, casting a worried glance around. “Someone’s gonna figure you out and throw you out. And honestly, they’d be right.”

Glancing around, Harding lowered his voice, and got so carried away he practically spit on Charlie’s face:

“They won’t throw me out, don’t sweat it. I’ll be so sweet even my old man wouldn’t recognize me. Ha! Don’t give me that look. We snatch some miserable mongrel from here, and he ends up a hero. He’ll thank us later.”

Highly doubtful. Charlie didn’t believe for a second that the poor mongrel would survive that kind of mess.

Two elven girls walked past with quiet grace, and once again Charlie marveled at how smoothly they moved — like they were gliding above the ground. One of them turned to look at him. Charlie didn’t avert his eyes; the girl flushed scarlet. Her friend noticed and tugged her away toward a tree. High above, nestled among giant trees and connected by hanging bridges, were taverns and workshops — judging by the sounds, someone was shouting, someone laughing, someone loudly praising a bow to make a sale.

Elves not only had far longer ears than Charlie or Ed had imagined, but they acted almost like humans — just a bit more restrained.

“What is it?” Ed tilted his head back too, realizing Charlie had stopped listening. “Huh. Now that’s a web, holy smoke! City’s huge, and they still don’t fit in it. Gotta find their main square. Young folks like new stuff. Our songs will be brand new to them.”

“So you think some unlucky elf is gonna fall in love with our music and follow us straight into the jaws of death?” Charlie wanted to shove the truth right in Ed’s face. “All just so one guy can live forever?”

“Not just one.”

“Fine, two.”

Ed gave him such a wounded look, Charlie instantly felt like the lowest worm.

“It’s for everyone,” his voice shook with emotion. “People won’t die anymore. They’ll always be together. Children with their parents. They won’t have to say goodbye anymore — no one will leave again. How can you not get it? You should get it. You’re an orphan. All of you in that shelter were. We can’t bring our own dear people back… so let the rest be happy!”

Ed had no doubt he was putting everyone else first — not himself, not his fear of torment or of being left alone in the Void. Which, of course, was a half-truth. He was afraid of death and flirting with it at the same time.

When Ed’s mother passed away, Charlie got his first taste of what it meant to try and save someone who was determined to drown — someone aching to vanish beneath the surface for good. Ed had later apologized and tried to explain. “I just want to disappear in such a way that I never even existed. Not in the past, not now — never,” he’d said.

Now, the same Edgar — who couldn’t stomach lies or pretense — was ready to lie to some stranger without even blinking. Charlie couldn’t stay silent anymore.

“I don’t think it’s gonna fall out of the sky on us. We’ll get stuck here and won’t make it back by the end of the third month.”

“We’ll make it!” Ed clapped him on the shoulder. Pain shot down Charlie’s arm. “I’ll outrun time itself if that’s what it takes. And you’re our wiz —”

Charlie exploded. The words came rushing out like a flood, everything he’d been bottling up since the day they met at The Trace.

“Don’t call me a wizard! You hear me?! I don’t want anything to do with Dietmar! He’s not going to share a damn thing with you! He’ll wipe his feet on us and toss us aside the second he gets what he wants! He thinks he’s a god! People like that — you run from them! And us? We shouldn’t even be here! Not in the Forest of Reveries, not in the palace! You always have to stick your nose into some kind of shit, don’t you, brother? I’m done with it!”

“Well, aren’t you a poet,” Ed said, his voice chillingly calm — unnaturally so. “A poet. You should write books. Write one. You can make it about me — a fool. If you’re that sick of it, then leave. Leave, right now. Either come with me and listen, or don’t ever show your face again. I’ll have no brother, but I will finally have what I’ve always wanted.”

“So this is what despair feels like,” Charlie thought. “If we split paths now, we’ll never make up. If there’s anyone I’ll end up hating in my life, it’ll be you.”

The message was clear: stay, and lose your voice. Ed had already lost his, once — back when he lived under the thumb of his father, obeying every command until he finally snapped. And now, Harding the Younger looked like a copy of his old man — chin up, proud and sharp-eyed, with that same cold gleam in his brown eyes, same as George’s gray ones. And the patronizing smirk, like he already knew what Charlie was going to say.

The right thing, for Charlie would be to tell them all to go to hell and walk away. Yet, for some reason, he looked up at the clouds again. Kids were watching them from the bridge. Well, why not? They’d barely entered the city and were already yelling loud enough to wake the stones. The adults didn’t care. Elves seemed to view humans as unhinged by default. No one would think to drag a dwarf out of a mine and teach him to sail a ship?

“Well, hurry up, I’m not getting any younger here,” Ed reminded him.

“I’m with you, brother,” Charlie said at last, declaring the day an official day of mourning — for his trampled sense of self. “Have it your way.”

“That’s more like it!” Ed beamed, shedding all traces of George Harding. “Alright, here’s the plan. You — make sure we find the elf by sundown. I’ll go ask around, find out where folks here gather to have some fun. It’s just houses, houses, and more houses, holy smoke!”

Given that the elves from across the entire Continent had found refuge in the Eastern Mountains, the dense construction wasn’t surprising. Admiring the narrow streets and stunning architecture, the two minstrels were strolling more than walking — with no idea where they were actually headed.

“Fine,” Charlie nodded. “Still don’t call me a wizard.”

“Yeah, you’ve already said that. I’m not deaf!”

Ed stuffed his hands in his cloak pockets and began muttering under his breath, rehearsing the line he’d have to deliver as pleasantly as possible. Talking to elves, for him, was borderline torture.

Charlie clenched the gift from his mother in his palm — a symbol of the god she worshipped. Grandfather had once said his wayward daughter had joined some sect where they taught her to forgive scumbags. But Albina had always said the world was made of love.

“Mom taught me to forgive, but not how to pray,” Charlie whispered silently. “Please… please just make sure no good… no part of your creation gets hurt by evil hands. I’m not asking anything for myself. Just that. Forget justice. If you made us out of love, then… love should be stronger than justice.”

The small symbol of the nameless god bit into his skin. To Charlie, it felt like a sword stuck into the earth. A wooden sword, nearly punching a hole through his palm. Charlie unclenched his fist. There was nothing else he could do now — only believe that the god had heard him. Charles Blanc wasn’t one to beg. One request was enough.

“I’m done,” he informed his sworn brother. “Your move, captain.”

Ed dragged his feet for another minute — as if he could stockpile courage with air — and by then, the street where they’d held their “first show” had emptied. No one left to ask.

“Alright, you do the talking,” Harding announced. “Let’s head that way. More people over there.”

From around the corner came a shout — a woman’s voice, sharp and annoyed — followed by laughter. Light and chiming, like bells. Feminine, probably. But also… mischievous.

“As you wish,” Charlie adjusted his backpack strap. “I’ll be the parlimentaire.”

Naturally, Ed had no clue who a parlimentaire was. Charlie began to explain. They picked up the pace, focused more on talking to each other than watching the road ahead.

A fatal mistake.

“Are you out of your mind?!” Ed just barely kept his footing as someone slammed full-speed into him and collapsed flat on the ground. “Watch where you’re going, stupid girl!”

Elves — men and women — dressed almost identically. But Charlie could tell this wasn’t a girl. Not just because girls didn’t usually wear leather pants under their skirts. Or men’s boots, for that matter.

The stupid girl in question rolled from her side onto her back.

“Oh, damn…” Edgar freaked out. Yeah, that kind of mistake could have consequences. If the guy had any pride, he might demand a duel. “Sorry.”

The elf pushed himself up on his elbows, cracked his neck, and then…

“I’m alive.”

A second later, he was staring at the minstrels, eyes wide and brilliantly blue.

“You’re humans!”

“Nah, goblins,” Ed snorted with relief.

The joke landed. The young man burst into ringing laughter — the same laughter Charlie had heard a few minutes ago, coming from the street the elf had run out of.

“I’ve seen humans before, can’t fool me! I even know how you say hello. My name’s Gilaneris. What’s yours?”

 “Gil-a-what?” Ed grimaced as he shook the offered hand.

 “Gilaneris,” the elf repeated. “In Elvish, it means... um… right! Spring wind! Short version’s Gillis, but only parents are allowed to call us that.”

“What a load of cra —”

He’s going to ruin this! Charlie quickly grabbed the elf’s hand and gave it a firm shake. If this was the dance they were doing, it was time to start forging diplomatic ties.

“I’m Charlie. Charles Blanc. This is Edgar Harding. Just call me Charlie, yeah. We’re a bit simpler about names. Also, we’re musicians — and we’d really love to perform in your city…”

“Gilaneris, you snake!”

Standing there was an elven woman of jaw-dropping beauty, dressed in a gown so richly embroidered it could’ve bankrupted a duchy. Charlie, as an artist, couldn’t help but admit — whoever created the elves had really taken their time. He could draw them for days and never ask for a single coin.

“Finally found company that suits you,” the elf-woman approached but didn’t so much as glance at the minstrels. “I’ll be sure to tell your father how disrespectful you’ve been to me.”

The young man tossed his head, chestnut curls bouncing — a mane so luxurious it would’ve made any human lady green with envy — and said:

“Please do. But if you’re going to visit Dad, try finding a more interesting reason. Not that your imagination could manage it.”

“How dare you?!” The woman’s pale face flushed deep red. “You little —”

“Follow me, friends!” Gilaneris clapped his hands and called out with a grin. “Or the auntie’s gonna eat us alive!”

Charlie and Ed took off after him without hesitation. The elf, clutching the hem of his tunic to keep from tripping, was running so fast they only caught up when he finally stopped on his own.

“I... I’m dying...” Ed slumped against a stone fence. His body, still recovering from the poisoning, wasn’t exactly ready for sudden sprints. “This is a curse… Would’ve been better if he just ate me, brother…”

Charlie silently uncorked the water flask, and Ed drained it faster than he could’ve said “allergy” or the name of their new acquaintance.

“Guys, sorry!” the elf blurted out. “I forgot you’re humans! You tire out faster… Right!” He looked around, calculating something. “Our house is two blocks from here. We’ll rest up, then head to Dad. He loves having guests, really does. You can even stay with us if you don’t want an inn — there’s plenty of space, it’s just the two of us. You’ll stay, right? You need to rehearse, yeah? How do you rehearse in an inn? You don’t. Exactly! So, deal?”

Charlie shot Ed a look. Gilaneris stirred up mixed feelings in the minstrel: half of him wanted to be best friends forever, the other half wanted to run in the opposite direction. The elf didn’t stop talking, and his eyes sparkled like a mischievous child’s — one that definitely needed supervision. Nevertheless… Charlie sensed the childlike behavior was a mask. Gilaneris wasn’t trying to deceive anyone — he simply chose to be carefree and joyful. Still, something inside him had broken a long time ago. Why saddle himself with more trouble, in their shape?

“Listen, Gil — Gilt — ah, whatever, spring breeze,” Ed groaned, clutching his chest. His heart still hadn’t calmed down. “Why were we running again… from that lady? What’d you do to her?”

“Oh, Widow Isilwen!” Gilaneris grinned, like he’d already forgotten her. “She’s chasing after Dad. Totally wrong for him, I’m telling you. Today I saw her preaching about virtue to some girls again. So I stood behind her and started mimicking everything she said. Girls cracked up, Isilwen lost it, started yelling, and I bolted. No idea what’ll happen once I’m gone for good. Dad’s way too soft — she’ll have him wrapped around her finger. A spider!”

“Why do you need to leave?” Charlie asked. “The city’s incredible… you couldn’t see it all in a week.”

“You’re right. A week isn’t enough,” the elf said with a wistful smile. “But I’ve had seven hundred and fifty-three years. I’ve explored every inch of this place. I’m bored. I want to travel! You passed some of our other settlements on your way here, yes? I haven’t seen any of them.”

Charlie could tell the young man was hoping he’d confirm it, but he just couldn’t lie. Silence fell. Suddenly, the minstrel realized: if Gilaneris didn’t lose interest in them soon, they’d end up dragging him off like pair of wild islanders drag off a sacrificial lamb.

“Hey, are you unwell?” Gilaneris appeared beside him in a flash and laid a hand on Charlie’s forehead. “You’re overheating. And you gave all your water to Ed Harding. Wait a second!”

He spun around — his long tunic flaring like wings — and shouted up at the two-story house where they’d stopped:

“Aelira! Aelira! Aeli... Oh, hey, Cantherion!”

A tall elf stepped out onto the balcony, dressed in a silk shirt that made it very clear — unlike Gilaneris’ modest outfit — he had money.

“What do you want from my sister?” he asked in a stern tone.

“Nothing at all,” came the cheerful reply. “I called her so you would come out faster. Give us some water, Cantherion.”

“What..?” Cantherion blinked, caught off guard.

“Give the human some water. This one,” Gilaneris pointed at Charlie, “he’s about to die of sunstroke. And he can’t die, he’s a musician. His friend’s a musician too. By the way, we’re inviting you to the performance. Come!”

“When..?” Cantherion was thoroughly confused now. “Where?”

“No idea yet, we haven’t decided.”

“May the Abyss swallow you whole, Gilaneris!” Aelira’s brother threw his hands to the sky. “I’ll give you water and even some silver — just vanish already.”

He had absolutely no idea just how soon that wish would come true.

[wildfieldz]

WITHIN AN INCH OF THE DREAM | CHAPTER 2

The story in the original language is available here and here.

DO NOT REPOST.

Wizards have power over many things. They can peer into the future and the past as if looking through an open window, move objects with their will, and even fly without wings. But, if Charlie were a real wizard — not just in Ed’s eyes — he would have wanted to learn something else entirely: how to rewind time.

The guards made sure the so-called potential brave souls didn’t talk to each other. So they stood there, like three silent birch trees, surrounded by all that splendor. For a long time.

Even with His Majesty’s arrival, nothing became any clearer — except that the game of silence now had another player: the Princess. The King’s daughter was rarely spoken of among the people; most of the gossip revolved around the spoiled heir, Prince Rupert. Back when Charlie’s grandfather was still alive, the capital buzzed about the Princess’s engagement to the second prince of Sommetia. Charlie didn’t know much about these matters, but even he could see one thing: with such an arrangement, there was no chance of her becoming a queen. The engagement fell through, and the Princess faded into obscurity.

Now, however, she was clearly deep in thought, nervous — very nervous. She hardly looked at the soon-to-be adventurers, but Charlie could tell that she was a grown woman. However, with her angular frame and painfully thin figure, she could easily be mistaken for a girl of Mary’s age. One didn’t imagine Princesses looking like that.

The King, on the other hand, was bursting with health, built like a massive bull. His eyes were shrewd, set deep beneath a heavy brow. Charlie Blanc had drawn a dozen faces just like his; His Majesty looked no different from an ordinary merchant. And yet, he inspired fear. Not that he was known for rash executions or cruelty, but... Charlie cut that line of thought short. No one could read his mind, but best not to dwell on it.

His eyes drifted back to the Princess. The loose-fitting gown of expensive brocade, dyed in Merenberg’s traditional dark blue and green, only made her figure seem more awkward. Dress her in simpler clothes, and she’d pass for a commoner… And there it was!

Charlie had seen this dynamic before — many times, in the Harding household. A silent battle, a lingering dispute between a domineering parent and a stubborn child, playing out in front of an audience. Humiliating, no matter whose blood ran in your veins.

“Father, this is how I see it,” the Princess broke the silence. Charlie couldn’t help but note that the palace had excellent acoustics. “You still don’t believe me. Instead of writing to the Emperor, you’ll pretend you’ve done everything possible for me, and these people — these poor souls, forced into a foolish play — won’t even return from Atforand.” Then, with unexpected firmness, she added, “This farce disgusts me. There will be no mission, or I am no daughter of yours.”

Charlie wondered how his companions were taking this. Eleanor looked utterly bored, while Ed — biting his upper lip — watched eagerly to see what would happen next. Fishermen recognize one another from afar, as the saying goes, but it’s not every day you see a fellow unfortunate in the form of a Princess.

“Is that so?” The King didn’t seem pleased by his daughter’s outburst, but neither did he seem angered. It was as if he had expected this. Rolling a heavy ring between his fingers, he sighed. “Very well. Then I suppose we’ll have to execute them. We can’t have the people thinking there’s disorder in our family, that you disrespect your father. Heaven forbid little children start following your example, Lulu. Guards, take them to the cells. At dawn their heads will roll.”

He spoke lazily, almost gently, as if he couldn’t be bothered to put force behind his words. That made it all the harder to believe he was serious. But the guards certainly thought otherwise.

“And who’s Lulu?” Eleanor let out a hysterical giggle before suddenly shrieking, “Hey, wait! We haven’t done anything wrong!”

Ed instinctively shielded the girl with his body, while Charlie… didn’t even move. The show couldn’t end this quickly. It was too soon to beg for mercy.

“No, Father!” Her Highness — Lulu — was losing control of the situation, but she wasn’t ready to give up just yet. “Stop this! Have you even looked at them? Do you really think they can not only find out where the Duke hid my amulet but also steal it back? They’ll be killed before anyone even asks questions!”

“Precisely, Louise.” His Majesty’s mouth twisted into a smile that could make anyone’s skin crawl. “Three useless vagabonds won’t cause a diplomatic scandal. We have no reason to stir up trouble with Atforand. That’s why I won’t send anyone valuable for your little trinket.”

“As if we’re not valuable.” Ed snorted mockingly, unfazed by the sword at his throat. “We can do it, Princess. Trust me.”

For hell’s sake, why couldn’t he ever keep his mouth shut? What was this — sudden patriotism? Or… had he figured out what was really happening here? If Ed had started sympathizing with the Princess, he’d go on the mission for free.

“But…” Louise faltered at his words. “But… Father, they should at least be given weapons, proper clothing, provisions, medicine, horses, money for unforeseen expenses…” She began pacing the hall again. “Surely you’ve accounted for that?”

“Why would I?” the King asked with open mockery. “If they succeed, they’ll be rewarded with more money than they could spend in ten lifetimes. The prize is too generous as it is. Yes… You’ll leave just as you are.” He finally turned his gaze to Charlie, Ed, and Eleanor. “Take whatever you want from your own supplies. Ten thousand isn’t a bad price for testing yourselves. This is a mission, not a pleasure trip.”

“That’s right.” Ed, ever the thrill-seeker, decided to engage in conversation with His Majesty. “You promised ten thousand each, Your Majesty. But the conditions also mentioned… something about an artifact.”

“Yes, the artifact…” Eleanor peeked out from behind Ed’s shoulder.

For all that Charlie disapproved of their relationship, they were two peas in a pod. Both stubborn. Both reckless. How had neither of them put two and two together yet?

“Guys,” he said, trying not to sound like a disappointed ancient sage, “I think the artifact… I think we’re supposed to find it. Princess, we’re talking about the amulet that was stolen from you, right?”

“Yes, if I understand correctly.”

There it was — the catch. No matter how they looked at their situation, it was a complete mess. Even the guards hadn’t sheathed their swords yet.

“Look at that, my dear daughter.” The King’s condescension toward the Princess made Charlie respect him less with every passing second. He wasn’t just doing his daughter a favor — he was toying with her. “Among these brave souls, there’s even one with a brain! They’ll do just fine.”

“Father…”

“I don’t want to hear another word!” Aloysius the Ninth roared, rising from his throne. “I’ve done enough. Either they search for your amulet, or no one does.”

“Fine, Father,” the Princess’s voice trembled. “May I at least give them something for the journey?”

“Perhaps a word of advice,” the King smirked. “My men will confiscate anything unnecessary, so don’t try anything foolish. And lower your weapons already — they’re not going anywhere now! Any attempt to refuse the mission is tantamount to desertion. By tomorrow, I don’t want them anywhere near the capital.”

The alternative was the scaffold. That’s what you meant, Your Majesty? In Merenberg, deserters were treated worse than lepers. They could be dragged to court, which almost always ended in execution. Treason was no laughing matter.

And the Princess wasn’t in the mood for jokes either. As soon as the King left the throne room, Louise clutched her stomach.

“Your Highness!” Charlie started toward her but stopped himself. “Are you unwell? Someone should call your… um… what are they called…”

“Ladies-in-waiting,” Eleanor supplied, rolling her eyes. “Where are they, anyway?”

It was strange. The palace was teeming with people, and a Princess should have had an escort. It felt as if she were in disgrace.

“No, don’t call anyone!” Louise raised a hand. “This happens sometimes. Nerves. It’ll pass. And I don’t keep ladies-in-waiting.”

“Because your father doesn’t allow it,” Ed suddenly stated, utterly certain. “Why does he hate you so much, Princess?”

Charlie’s foster brother had lived under a lucky star for twenty-five years — anyone else would have long since been feeding the fish at the bottom of the sea. Speaking so casually to a King, addressing a Princess as if she were just anyone, and asking questions that could earn him a slap in the face from anyone, noble or commoner alike!

“You’re right…” The woman approached them, entirely unoffended by his familiarity. “Sir, forgive me, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Edgar Harding,” Ed reintroduced himself, not forgetting his companions. “This here is Ellie Sharp, and this is Charlie, my little brother.”

“Charles Blanc,” Charlie corrected with a polite bow. He had a surname, too, after all.

“So, cousins then.” Her Highness smiled. “Very well. Sometimes… the farther, the closer. Rupert and I share a father, yet we’re like strangers. Ahem… Now, Sir Harding, you are right. My father hates me because I resemble my mother — his late wife — whom he also hated. His parents chose his bride for him, so now he denies me the right to choose anything.”

Sheer absurdity. But if the King loathed his own daughter — who had likely never broken a single rule — so much that he enjoyed causing her pain, then Limping Bill, compared to His Majesty, was a paragon of kindness. Yes, Charlie’s grandfather had cast his mother out, but in Charlie’s memories, she had always smiled. They had never gone hungry, never wandered aimlessly. Wherever she had found shelter, it had been warm and dry. And his mother’s eyes had never looked like the Princess’s — so filled with sorrow.

“When my father realized how desperately I wanted to leave, to get far away from here,” Louise continued, “he broke off my engagement. My own fault. Had I cried and begged him not to send me to our neighbors, he would have done the opposite. Since then, no one has sought my hand. And not just because of my divine beauty,” she added, not fishing for compliments but rather mocking herself, “but because… Simply put, His Majesty decided so. There is little joy in my life, and the most precious thing I own is a gift from my mother. I lost it recently.”

“The artifact...” Eleanor exhaled.

She was really stuck on that thought.

“Yes, you could call my amulet an artifact,” the Princess nodded. “And yet, it is unlike most magical objects. It cannot be activated by a spell, and it will not obey just anyone.”

“Is it sentient?” Eleanor was now fully engaged in the conversation, stepping forward rather than hiding behind Ed. “What are its properties?”

“According to the legend...” Louise paused meaningfully. “According to the legend, it grants one's deepest wish. However, there is a condition. The one making the wish must have a pure heart… The amulet cannot be deceived. And if the wish is insincere — if it lacks true importance — then nothing will happen at all.”

“Have you ever tried making a wish, Your Highness?” Charlie asked before realizing that, in truth, this was none of their business.

“The amulet is powerless against death.”

That should have been obvious. The Princess had no one closer to her than her mother. Judging by everything, the King's first wife had passed away many years ago… A skilled necromancer might have been able to raise something from the grave, but what exactly would that have been?

Charlie’s grandfather knew all too well the horror of it — just a fragment of a soul, bound to bones. In the battle where his comrades had named Bill “Limping,” they had faced a sailing ship crewed entirely by the dead.

“Holy smoke, guys!” Ed finally lost patience, stomping his foot. “Do you want to make the Princess cry, or what? You’re terrible at this… Just get to the point!”

“I will answer… or at least try to answer any questions you have,” Her Highness caught herself, realizing she had let improper emotions slip. Her tone grew steadier. “If it will help.”

Louise was not well-versed in geography, but she knew plenty about whom she suspected of the theft. Duke Vincent Doe had accompanied the Emperor and his wife — who was particularly fond of him — on their last visit to Merenberg. To entertain his guests, the King had arranged not only a military fleet review, a knightly tournament, and a grand feast but had also put various curiosities on display. Everything included had been mysterious in appearance yet contained minimal magical power — no one in their right mind would showcase real trump cards. The Princess’s silver amulet with a purple ruby had been among the so-called “dummy artifacts,” yet unlike the others, it had looked like an ordinary piece of jewelry: it did not change color, did not pulse with energy, and did nothing else to draw attention.

Ironically, that was precisely why the Duke had taken an interest in it. Once he learned who it belonged to, he latched onto the Princess like a leech. He hadn’t dared to shower her with compliments. Instead, he lamented how lonely he was — how he had no one with whom to discuss art. And yet, he owned a gallery, a library to rival even the Emperor’s, a small observatory, and a nearly completed theater. But the most important thing! The main thing! He was collecting unusual objects from all over the world and was willing to trade half his collection for the amulet. He would agree to any terms, so long as he could obtain it! Why the Duke was so obsessed, the Princess never quite understood, nor had she bothered to dwell on it. By the end of the evening, she had returned the amulet to its box, the key to which she always kept on her person.

It remained unknown how the box had vanished from Louise’s chambers, but it had happened precisely on the day of the imperial delegation’s departure.

“The servants weren’t even interrogated…” The Princess faltered. “It’s not as if Rupert’s favorite sword was stolen. And I… I should have used my head. Now innocent people have suffered. It’s a shame that… all of this is hopeless.”

Pain twisted her features, but she clenched her teeth and refused to double over. Only a true cynic would doubt her sincerity. A person like this — someone the gods themselves would feel compelled to aid. It would almost be an act of heroism, worthy of song. Besides, it wasn’t as if anyone had truly suffered — they were merely in a difficult situation, that’s all. However, if the duke hadn’t just been distracting Louise with empty words…

“No,” Charlie said, pulling himself together. “It’s not hopeless, Your Highness. I think I have an idea. Duke Doe… he sees himself as some sort of patron of the arts, doesn’t he?”

Fortune was a fickle mistress, but the odds of getting out of this unscathed were still fairly high. Higher, at least, than when they’d considered storming the House of Pleasures — thankfully, that plan had never come to fruition.

So, the plan was simple. They would pose as wandering musicians from Sommetia, though they wouldn’t stay there long — no matter how fine the wine. That way, the Duke would be less likely to suspect them. Of course, they wouldn’t meet him right away. First, the common folk would start talking about Ed and Charlie. Songs and melodies like theirs would be unheard of. Doe would want such a novelty for himself — perhaps even for his theater! And if he was slow to take the bait, the minstrels would seek him out and force their services upon him. Eleanor would be there for appearances. Three months would be enough time to gain his trust, get their bearings, locate the amulet, and escape.

“A fire! That’s what we need!” Ed seized the initiative, eager to refine his friend’s plan — in his own way. “We’ll wheedle our way into getting a wing of his estate… or wherever the hell he lives. Maybe we’ll live in guesthouse or something. Once we get the artifact, we’ll put on a show — one with a real spark! To make it believable, I’ll start drinking like a madman a few days beforehand and picking fights with everyone.”

“Better if it’s just me you’ll be fighting with,” Charlie advised. “Otherwise, we’ll be kicked out before we get anywhere — without the amulet.”

“Sir Harding…” Louise was horrified by his enthusiasm. “It is dangerous!”

“But it’s reliable.”

“And it’ll buy us time.”

“I don’t want to live in a guesthouse.”

“You’re all fools!”

The guards knew how to talk — at least, one of them did.

“Why?” Charlie spoke first, cutting Ed off before he could respond with something cruder. “What’s wrong with my plan?”

“What’s wrong?” The guard wiped away a tear of laughter. “It’s full of holes, like a sieve! Her Highness can be forgiven; she’s probably never read something about this in her books. But you? How do you not know that our dear neighbors keep their border with Atforand shut tight? We’re proud, sure — but they? They’re proud and stupid. Trade, you say? Aye, they don’t interfere with that. And if His Majesty the King wishes, they’ll open the border — for him. But not for themselves, and certainly not for a bunch of nameless fools like you. Did His Majesty deign to grant you a special writ? No? Well then, you’ve only got one choice — to get through the woods. Or you can stand around and let the archers use you for target practice.”

That’s what he called the Forest of Reveries — the cursed land that had once belonged to Merenberg. The Imperials had taken it, along with the Ashen Valley — back when it was still a picturesque region — and left nothing but slaughter in their wake. They spared neither women nor children, took many as captives, and burned villages, towns, and cities to the ground. Historians claim it was an attempt at revenge for their defeat in the war — one that Sebastian started and won.

Sebastian, without a doubt, would have never allowed such a thing. He considered border defense his top priority. By the time the Kingdom’s best forces reached the Valley, there was nothing left but ash. The fighting had moved into the forest, where the Imperial onslaught was finally halted. Although, the southern forces stopped there as well. No one was willing to retreat, and the forest refused to let either side go. Soldiers died in the swamps, from hunger, from disease — waterborne sicknesses from the lack of drinkable supplies. The armies bled each other dry, and for a time, it seemed the war would never end. That winter, the emperor and the King finally signed a peace treaty. But no one came to collect the dead, to bury them. There were simply too many. On both sides of the forest, warriors’ families wept.

Decades later, there was no trace of the tragedy. But the superstitious swore that the Forest of Reveries was haunted — by the restless spirits of soldiers, healers, and mages. Its poetic name could mislead anyone who didn’t know its history. Both the Forest and the Ashen Valley — where more battles had been fought since, as everyone had learned from the first great war — were now neutral territories. And home to those rejected even by Merenberg’s most tolerant society.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” The guard waved a massive hand in front of Charlie’s face. “Fell asleep? Or just don’t wanna admit old Tom was right?”

“Listen, old Tom,” Ed protectively pulled his friend toward him,” quit talking nonsense. My brother is a smart one — even the King sees that. No one can do what Charlie does! Whatever he says — it happens.”

“What, is he some kind of oracle?” The guard, thrown off by the pushback, hesitated.

“Damn right!” Ed squinted his left eye. “A wizard. Besides, a straight path is faster! If you’re scared of ghosts, don’t go into the forest. But they won’t touch us.”

He spun around, still gripping Charlie, and turned to Louise.

“Don’t worry, Princess! We’ll return with your amulet, safe and sound.”

If they had lingered a moment longer, Her Highness might have fainted. The guards no longer had their weapons raised against the soon-to-be adventurers, but they followed closely. The group practically circled the entire city.

Their first stop was Uncle Clive’s. The tavern keeper supplied them with enough provisions to last about a week — then teared up, lamenting that it wasn’t nearly enough for his “dear children.” When Ed asked to borrow a map of the Continent, Clive conveniently went deaf.

Next was Charlie’s house, where they gathered backpacks and canteens — thanks to Bill, who never threw anything away — along with quills, parchment, ink, thread, needles, and other odds and ends. Eleanor contributed by retrieving Ed’s belongings from her quarters: a lute, a knife, and a flint. Charlie also brought his mandolin — an essential part of the plan.

At the market, Eleanor purchased an herbal remedy for fever, while Ed spent their last two coppers on a map. One glance at it, and you’d think he’d drawn it himself.

Merenberg was labeled Us. The Empire — Them. Sommetia — Another Lot. The North had retained its original name, but beneath a crude depiction of the eastern mountains, someone had scrawled: Pointy-Eared Bastards.

Ed cackled over it and miraculously didn’t get flicked on the forehead by his former love. Charlie, for once, agreed with her — the map was useless. And the thing about elves? That joke had long since gotten old.

By the time they reached the city gates, Tom’s head was spinning from Ed’s endless chatter. The minstrel just couldn’t calm down. The situation with the royal family had struck a nerve.

“Tell me, do you people even have hearts? The Princess is worried we’ll get hurt, she’s a kind woman!” Harding fumed. “But we’ll be fine! Who’s gonna stop her suffering? The King calls her Lulu, like she’s some lapdog! I mean, really! Has anyone ever stood up for her against that bastard?”

“Keep your voice down!” the guard nearly howled. “Talking like that about His Majesty..! Though…” He sighed. “You’re an idiot. You’re excused. And idiots get lucky. Maybe you really will survive.”

“But why?” Ed persisted. “You don’t feel sorry for her at all?!”

“Of course we do, boy,” Tom suddenly softened, speaking to the minstrel he would’ve spoken to a child. “Everyone feels sorry for her. But everyone’s gotta eat. We’ve got families to feed. And no one wants to end up in a cell.” He sighed again. “I’ve known the Princess since she was a baby. If the gods had given her more beauty and more strength, she’d have been tougher than her father. But our Princess… she gave up. She chose to suffer. And no knight, no fire-breathing dragon, no… folks like you can change that.”

There was a grain of truth in Tom’s words — you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. But circumstances weren’t the same for everyone. No one had been able to hold Ed back — when he left home, George Harding could do nothing but hurl insults at his son. The Princess? If she ran, His Majesty’s men would find her within days and drag her back in chains. Escape was not an option for her.

As for them, if not escape, then at least a quick march was in order — they needed to reach the nearest village before nightfall unless they wanted to sleep in the open field.

Charlie lived by a simple rule: Always look for the silver lining. You could find one, even if it took effort. For about a week now, he had been sleeping like the dead, with no nightmares. That alone gave him more strength, something he sorely needed.

First and foremost, he had to repay the kindness of those who gave them shelter on their way to the Kingdom’s border and the Forest of Reveries. Most villagers hadn’t asked for anything in return, but Charlie still helped where he could — pulling weeds in one person’s garden, chopping firewood for another. He wanted to leave behind a good impression. And he absolutely forbade Edgar from drinking. Unfortunately, some farmers lived for the chance to gossip over a pint of ale or something stronger. If Ed gave in to temptation, all goodwill would be ruined. And that was not an option — not if they planned to return by the same route. Ed sulked. Swore he wasn’t a drunkard. Said he knew his limits. At one point, though, it became obvious — one more drink, and he’d be past the point of no return. After all, what else was there to do in the backcountry? Luckily, after a week of arguing about the dangers of alcohol, Charlie and Ed dropped the subject. The Forest of Reveries had changed the game entirely.

As for the downsides? Charlie wasn’t worried about wild animals — though running into one was easier than tripping over a root — or ghosts, though they had been eerie at first. No, what really tested his patience was complaining.

Eleanor made up for years of keeping quiet about their antics. Charlie understood her. At the same time, he didn’t. Yes, their legs hurt. Yes, there were bugs everywhere. Yes, the trek was exhausting. And yes, the wolves howled after dark. But, for the love of all that’s holy, she wasn’t alone! Fire kept beasts at bay. Someone was always standing guard. Last night had been peaceful. They were alive. They were moving forward, staying on course — just as Tom had advised. Charlie trusted his instincts. He figured they’d covered five miles. Maybe eight. A third of the way done, if the guard hadn’t lied.

He hadn’t lied, of course. On proper maps, the Forest of Reveries looked nothing like the ancient northern forests. It resembled a thin strip of fabric—or a snake. That’s why it was the shortest route, even if one ignored the difficulties of crossing the border.

“Impossible!” Eleanor whined again. The hem of her dress had snagged on a shrub’s branch. “Damn whoever came up with this! Why did I even come with you?! I can’t…” She shoved Ed away when he tried to take her by the elbow. “Get off me! This is all your fault, you fool! If I have to sleep on damp ground one more time…

Well, not exactly on damp ground. Last night, she had slept on Harding’s cloak, while he swatted away mosquitoes and gnats for her.

“Ellie,” Ed exhaled loudly, as if forcing himself not to curse. “I promise — we’ll get through this. We’ll find the amulet, and our dreams will come true! It’s worth it, Ellie. Remember what you dream of.”

“How can you even think about that right now?!” she snapped, barely holding back her anger. "What dream, when — Gods, help us!”

A ghost was coming straight at them.

To be fair, Eleanor’s screams hadn’t drawn it in — ghosts couldn’t hear anything. And if they could, they pretended not to. They moved as if following a predetermined path, vanishing and reappearing at intervals. Some simply lay there, felled by blade or illness, while others sat by trees — likely the very spots where they had died. They paid no mind to travelers and… seemed harmless. In theory, one could probably walk through them, but neither Ed nor Charlie was willing to test that. It felt rude, for one. Besides, ghosts were barely studied—who knew what consequences such reckless behavior might bring?

Charlie wished he could figure out how they worked. These weren’t the souls of those who had died here. More like shadows. Or memories. But who could say for certain? There was no new doctrine about the afterlife. The old one, tied to the gods, had been abolished and replaced with nothing coherent. People used to believe that good souls ascended to the Celestial Realm after death, while the wicked dissolved into the Void once their own sins became too heavy to bear. Ghosts didn’t fit into that picture at all. But perhaps that’s why they were so… unfinished. The one that had silently approached them wore the robes of a battle mage. Or rather — he almost did. It was as if some careless painter had smeared his colors across the canvas. Other ghosts were missing hands, legs, even heads — these parts were replaced by swirling gray mist.

The ghost-mage looked exhausted but, at the very least, wasn’t moaning in pain. He just walked, eyes cast downward. The men watched him in thoughtful silence until he faded away, roughly ten fathoms past the bend where he had first become visible — and where he had scared Eleanor.

The girl had latched onto Ed with a death grip, but as soon as she realized the ghost wasn’t about to reappear, she sprang away.

“You seriously don’t feel anything?” Eleanor hugged herself, trying to suppress a shiver.

It wasn’t that cold. Had she caught a chill the night before?

“Alright, that’s it. Let’s make camp right here,” Charlie said with a wave of his hand. “If you’re sick, you should’ve said so sooner. Get your herbs out, their time has come. Brother, hand over the flask and the flint.”

Ed, muttering something about the holy smoke, pulled out the flint, took off his cloak, and draped it over Eleanor’s shoulders. She, once again, failed to appreciate the gesture — her face bore the sorrow of the entire world.

“Listen, Archie!” she snapped. “He’s an idiot, but you, a wizard,” she put unusual emphasis on the word, and, strangely enough, without irony “haven’t you noticed by now?”

“Noticed what?” The minstrel frowned.

If Eleanor’s composure had been hanging by a thread, the thread snapped at this very moment.

“There are worms crawling under my skin! Everywhere, everywhere!” She jolted upright, shrugging off the cloak as if that might rid her of that feeling. “The farther we go into the forest, the worse they get! They burn! And when ghosts are near, I feel like I’m being torn apart! This isn’t a fever, no potion will help me!”

Charles Blanc had never heard of such an illness in his life. He might have believed Eleanor if her limbs had started rotting and falling off. But in just a few days? That fast? And there’d be a stench — there was always a stench. Maybe she had cut herself on a poisonous plant’s thorns? But then what did ghosts have to do with it? It made no sense.

Or… maybe it was a reverie.

“Ellie, where are you going!?”

Ed vanished into the undergrowth almost at the same time as Eleanor. Charlie lagged behind, he couldn’t just leave their belongings lying in the middle of the path. And running with all that weight on his back? That was barely moving at all.

Once or twice, he thought he heard Eleanor cry out somewhere in the distance, but by now, he was doubting everything. The trees all looked exactly the same, and with nightfall approaching, they blurred together into dark, shapeless patches.

He should’ve taken better care of his eyesight instead of ruining it with books. Not that it mattered now.

Out of breath, the minstrel finally stopped to rest against a pine tree. He had just straightened his back — transforming from a pack mule into a human again — when he heard familiar footsteps nearby.

“Damn, I lost her!”

Edgar’s unshakable cheerfulness often left Charlie completely baffled. Either he wasn’t worried at all, or he was already halfway to tying a noose around his neck.

“Women! You live your life in peace, and then — bang! — suddenly you’ve ruined her entire existence. Or suddenly she’s got worms under her skin. What worms, for gods’ sake? Is that even a thing?” He gave Charlie a worried shake. “You alright, brother?”

“I’m fine,” Charlie admitted. In truth, he did feel a little better — Ed had that effect on people. “As for your lady… Remember my grandfather?”

Charlie didn’t wait for an answer.

“One time, he was convinced he’d grown a sixth finger on his hand. He wouldn’t leave me alone until I pretended to cut it off. People imagine all kinds of things.”

“Your life was shit before you met me.”

“No shittier than yours,” Charlie thought to himself.

But out loud, he only said:

“I think Eleanor’s case is different. Maybe the forest is sending reveries. Or maybe she’s just allergic to ghosts.”

“Alengri... what?” Ed shook his head, trying to filter out unnecessary information. “You always confuse me with your fancy book words! Anyway, catch your breath properly, and let’s go find her. Do that thing you did back on the square.”

“I’m not a compass!” Charlie, exhausted though he was, still managed to object.

Ed didn’t find this argument convincing in the slightest and launched into a passionate monologue about how brilliant a wizard Charlie was — it’s impossible to argue with that. So, all that was left was to wander blindly.

Maybe he should have prayed to the gods again, but the minstrel chose self-reproach instead. He had reasons. So many things he hadn’t considered, hadn’t planned for! For one — he could have brought his grandfather’s compass, but he had completely forgotten about it! And the money he was owed by Bloom? Alright, that one wasn’t entirely his fault — he wouldn’t have had time to collect his payment anyway. Really, what difference would twenty gold coins make right now? A compass wouldn’t help much either if he ended up in a swamp.

“What are you thinking about now?” Ed nudged him in the ribs, nearly dropping his share of the baggage. “You look so serious, like you’re about to die tomorrow.”

“And what should I be thinking about, then?”

Charlie knew himself that thoughts of swamps and dangers wouldn’t lead them back to the path or to Eleanor.

“Your dream, brother!” The answer was entirely predictable. “I always think about mine, and it guides me… like a guiding star or something!”

“Immortality, huh?” Charlie sighed, watching his sworn brother nod enthusiastically. “Shame you never changed your dream over the years. Because I don’t mind being mortal. Which means you’ll be spending eternity without me.”

“Ha!” Ed flashed a grin. “We’ll see about that. Who knows? You might change your dream someday.”

“Just don’t decide for me,” A pointless request, really, considering Charlie had only agreed to this mission because he was worried for Ed. He never would have left him, “besides... right now, I’m not dreaming of a masterpiece. I’m dreaming of civilization.”

“There you go again with your fancy words. No clue what you mean.”

“I mean, I simply want to warm myself by a hearth. Even if it’s in a tavern…”

“Well, congratulations, then. Your dream just came true. Not a tavern, but a decent house!”

For some reason, the sight of the clearing and the sturdy wooden house with its thatched roof filled Charlie with dread. Warm light spilled from the windows, and a shadow flickered past one of them. The house seemed to invite them inside, but Charlie felt absolutely no desire to accept that invitation.

When the royal herald showed up at Uncle Clive’s, Charlie had thought it was a coincidence. When they found Eleanor at the square, it was another coincidence. But three coincidences in a row? That was pushing it. Paired with Ed’s belief in his nonexistent magic, along with everything that had happened to William Blanc in the final days of his life… Either his brother was right, or Charlie’s worst fear had come true — he was losing his mind. If he was going insane, then it all made perfect sense: his tangled thoughts were twisting reality inside this fog, shaping every detail. And just like that, the darkness around them deepened — as dark as the feeling in his chest.

“Let's get out of here, Edgar, I don't like this place,” he managed to say. “Please. I need to get out of here. I need to wake up...”

“Oh-ho, someone's in the mood for jokes?” Ed laughed. “You're not asleep! And what's the point of leaving this place? It's about to pour! If the owner’s a good person, we can wait it out inside.”

Charlie lifted his head to the sky. Sure enough, dark clouds had gathered. A cold wind blew — the weather was turning fast.

“We should keep looking for Eleanor—” He lowered his gaze, and Ed was gone. “Bloody hell.”

Before Charlie could catch up, his friend had already knocked on the door. It swung open, revealing a sturdy figure. Charlie instinctively stepped back, then took a closer look. An old man — but clearly a powerful one in his day!

“Hello, father,” Ed bowed slightly. “Would you let a couple of weary travelers warm their bones?”

“Not that we’re freezing...”

The old man didn’t have time to respond— a woman’s voice interrupted him.

“They’re here for me, Grandpa.”

Charles Blanc had never been so happy to hear Eleanor Sharp’s voice — or to see her. She sat at a lavishly set table, biting her lip, eyes locked onto the minstrel’s. No defiance, no disdain — just worry. As if she were trying to warn him. And that unsettled Charlie more than any of her past attempts at flirting. Those memories resurfaced at the worst possible moment, making him want to bang his head against the wall.

“Well, what are you standing around for? Come in, dear guest!” The old man was as welcoming as Uncle Clive, but Charlie still shivered involuntarily. “Sit by the fire. You are cold, after all. No need to be afraid! I've got excellent spiced wine, it cures any ailment in no time.”

“No, no,” Charlie forced a smile. “I don’t drink, sir... whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

“Young folks are polite these days!" The host stroked his thick white beard. “People used to call me all sorts of things, but now they just call me the Hermit. Names don’t mean much if you’re only meeting someone once. And that, my boy, is how it always goes. I’m always happy to help travelers — I’ve got a place to sleep, food, drinks — but no one ever stays long.”

“Well, I’ll have a drink.”

Ed, already seated on a bench to Eleanor’s right, was happily chewing on something and reaching for a jug.

“Now, that’s the spirit!” The old man eagerly filled an empty mug with wine. “Exactly! Your lovely lady came running in, scared out of her wits, in tears. Still trembling, poor thing. If she had a sip, she’d forget all about those ghosts. And what’s there to fear, really?”

“Wise words, father,” Ed agreed. “Ghosts are nothing!”

It was hard to tell what was worse — that Ed had let loose, or that the Hermit had learned everything about them, from their names and life stories to the very purpose of their mission.

The Hermit, much like his guest, turned out to be quite talkative. While listening attentively, he shared tales of his own adventures. He had traveled across the entire Continent, seen much, and grown so weary of the world that he fled to the Forest of Reveries. He never felt lonely in the company of nature, and if he ever did, guests made for good evening entertainment — hence, he always kept fresh delicacies at the ready.

Charlie, meanwhile, had sampled some of them and was once again reminded of “The Troll���s Trail”. But not of Uncle Clive — rather, of how taverns typically ran their kitchens.

“Pardon me,” he set his fork aside, “if my question is... Sir!”

“What is it, lad?” The Hermit grabbed the jug. “Changed your mind?”

“No,” Charlie put on his most amiable expression. “I wanted to ask where you keep your livestock. The meat is fresh, not cured. But there’s no pigpen by your house. And, to be honest, I can’t quite tell what exactly we’re eating.”

“Don’t ruin it!” Ed hiccupped. “Why’re you so boring? Father, just forget it… does it even matter? Pork, not pork... Anyway, so we jump into the boat, right, but the rods…”

“You're a smart one, lad,” the Hermit leaned back slightly, as if trying to get a better look at Charlie. “You’re right, I don’t have any livestock. My garden is enough. As for the meat, well… Let’s just say we eat, a wild beast. The fiercest predator. The one I hunt.”

Their gracious host didn’t seem inclined to elaborate — his gaze had shifted to the second minstrel, turning noticeably colder. Charlie’s instincts rarely failed him, and right now, they were telling him not to push.

“No way, father!” Too bad Ed’s instincts were drowned in wine. “You hunt? A wild bea—” He froze, staring at his half-finished stew. “Wait, did we just eat wolf?!”

It was obvious the Hermit was a hunter — Charlie had noticed the rifle the moment they stepped inside. Along with the rifle, there was a crossbow, though it didn’t seem to be in use, placed high on one of the many shelves cluttered with what looked like souvenirs from past travels.

“Oh no! I mean the greatest beast of all — the smartest, proudest, most cunning!” The old man laughed, stroking his mustache. “A wolf? It is nearly the same as a dog. There’s one that comes to me — a friendly thing, always nuzzling up. I feed him! That’s not the point. What happened next, Edgar?”

Charlie felt like he was back in natural sciences class at the orphanage. One of those lessons he hadn’t prepared for. By all logic, only a bear was stronger than a wolf, if dragons were truly extinct. But a bear — proud? Cunning? Animals weren’t cunning. That was a human trait.

Nausea crept up his throat. He turned away before the old man could catch a glimpse of his true emotions, and suddenly felt a touch at his neck. Any other time, he would have flinched. But not now.

“Charles, we must talk. Please, play along.”

Something in the fabric of reality shifted. She didn’t just say his name correctly, she asked instead of demanding.

“Grandpa,” Eleanor said loudly now, feigning extreme confusion. “I need to... relieve myself.”

The old man stared at her for a few seconds, as if trying to figure out what she was up to, before replying:

“That can be arranged... Step outside, turn left. There’s a ditch with some planks.”

“Thank you. Charles will come with me — it's dark, and I'm scared.”

Charlie trailed after Eleanor without protest. Ed didn’t even notice them pass, still rambling about that fishing trip.

Outside, the night had fully taken hold. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the cold wind made Charlie shiver. Still, he was glad to have a door between him and the old man.

“Do you ever feel like...” Eleanor began, “like something is terribly wrong, not real? But only you can see it, and no one else?”

“Lately? All the time,” Charlie shot her a wary glance. “You too?”

She nodded.

“We shouldn't have sought shelter with that old man. He's dangerous. I don’t have proof, Charlie...”

“But you have a theory. Spill it.”

Women notice details men overlook — there was nothing shameful in asking for their insight. That was Charlie’s belief. As for what Eleanor thought of him and the rest of mankind, that was easy enough to guess. But standing there in the wind, wringing her fingers in anxiety, she looked nothing like herself.

Not that Charlie had time to dwell on the contradictions of Miss Sharp. His mind was too busy making connections. Important ones. Life-saving ones.

“So he really does plan to —”

“Rob us?” Eleanor offered, almost pleading. “Tell me he just wants to rob us. Tell me he only robbed all those people...”

“Unlikely. The stuff on his shelves isn’t worth much. There’s nothing tying it all together... And why would he keep a doll? A child’s toy. There was a doll, right?”

“There was. A ragdoll. That’s what struck me as odd.”

“Damn all these collectors,” Charlie muttered through clenched teeth. “Good thing you didn’t drink the wine. I’d bet anything it’s drugged or poisoned. He must either have an immunity or take an antidote regularly.”

Eleanor gasped, covering her mouth.

Charlie wanted to scream too. He would have gladly given in to his emotions — disgust, fear, rage. But he had to swallow them down, bury them deep. If they wanted their journey to continue, it couldn't end here.

Bill used to say calmness saves you in a storm.

“Listen and remember,” Charlie told Eleanor. “We go back inside, I say I’m freezing and wouldn’t mind a drink anymore. You drink too. Ed’s still conscious, so the poison must be slow-acting. We’ll have time to puke it out and run. Once he thinks we’re hooked, he’ll let his guard down, and you —“

“But I don’t want to drink,” Eleanor’s voice carried that familiar petulant note. “Not ever again. I hate what it does to me, and… I don’t want to be sick, Charlie. There’s poison in there!”

“Hush up..!” Charlie hissed at her. “Once we get out of here, I’ll tell you something that’ll have you running to puke. Now listen. That Hermit, he loves to brag.”

So much so that he nearly gave himself away. The thought that human bones might be buried somewhere nearby made Charlie’s stomach churn again.

“Charles? Why so quiet?”

“Thinking,” he took a deep breath. “Keep him talking. Praise him, bat your lashes. You know how. Just don’t overdo it. Meanwhile, I’ll—“

“Ugh. How do you expect me to do that? He’s old.”

Yes, women could be excellent allies. Yes, they noticed things men didn’t. Although sometimes, those details blinded them to the bigger picture. Charlie couldn’t hold back a sharp remark:

“Oh, and does the fact that he’s a murderer and hunts people not bother you?”

Too blunt. Then again, she had asked for it.

Eleanor swayed slightly, and Charlie braced himself to catch her, but she stayed on her feet, silent, staring into some unseen abyss. When she finally looked up, the dim light spilling from the house windows caught her amber eyes — dark as the void itself. For some reason, Charlie thought of warlocks, whose eyes, if the rumors were true, changed color when they cast spells.

“Even if you’re wrong,” Eleanor bit her lip, “it’s better to act first. Like the person you told me about did.”

Charlie blinked. Had he mentioned someone? Probably. Most likely Sebastian, just to steer the conversation elsewhere. But Eleanor… she had remembered.

“Y-yeah,” he scratched the back of his head, suddenly a little flustered. “He was really a wise one. Rest his soul. How’s… it? Still burning?”

“I can take it. Let’s go before he gets suspicious.”

Any awkwardness between them vanished the moment they stepped back inside. Eleanor’s improvisation was so convincing that Charlie nearly believed it himself—that he had simply teased her, that she’d run off into the woods again, that he had searched for her, and so on and so forth.

“And why does Ed call you Marquis?!” Eleanor crossed her arms. “You’ve got no manners, no noble blood, no — You know,” she turned to the Hermit now, “he’s not even polite! And I got so cold out there! A nice hot tea would be lovely. Or wine, I suppose...”

A moment ago, the old man had been watching them from beneath his brows. Now, he was all warmth and hospitality again. The jug was empty, so the Hermit went to fetch more from the pantry.

Eleanor took a seat across from his, while Charlie prodded Ed in the ribs — his friend was out cold, head resting on his arms.

Maybe a new day had begun. In the sense that midnight had passed. Without a clock, there was no way to tell. The rain had been pounding on the roof for what felt like an eternity — about as long as Eleanor had been delivering a monologue about her difficult life, giving the Hermit no chance whatsoever to interrupt her. And no chance to look at Charlie either — who was merely pretending to drink. He was grateful she hadn’t taken his advice. Alcohol made many people act loose, but who knew how the old man would react to becoming the sudden object of passion? A torrent of complaints about life, however — that was a different kind of force. Most people wouldn’t even know what to do with it right away.

“Do you think money is the most important thing to me?” Eleanor propped her cheek on her fist. “No! I wanted love, and all I got was… nonsense! Every time… I never even loved anyone. Poverty is tiresome, but you know what infuriates me more? If I were rich, with my beauty, plenty would want to be with me… Mayhap even worthy ones. But a woman is always just a man's assistant, the mother of his children, his decoration. And I… I am more than that! I want freedom. I want power. I want to accomplish something important, something great — even if it’s alongside someone else...”

“Aiming for the throne? You wanna be a queen?” the Hermit asked as Eleanor took another sip of wine. “Here, have something sweet with it.”

“What throne..? Oh, thank you. Raspberries in sugar, delicious...” Her gaze grew hazy, her movements less sharp. Sleep was creeping up on her, which was odd — in this state, she usually got rowdy. “What… what queen? I’ve seen the King. His daughter, too… I’ve s-seen her. A life in a cage, no joy, no loyal… knights, who are supposed… to protect the Princess…”

Time was running out. There was no doubt now — the Hermit had laced the wine and was waiting for every guest to fall asleep.

“Pffft!” Charlie called upon every acting skill he had. “Knights, you say! And what are we, huh?!”

He pushed himself up from the table and, mimicking Ed’s usual drunken stagger, wobbled across the room — closer and closer to a shelf where, very conveniently, a knight’s helmet stood.

“Ed loved you, and you… I apologize!” He deliberately stumbled, barely catching himself on the shelf. “Oh! What do we have here?”

After fumbling for show, he pulled the helmet down over his head. Gods, how heavy was a full suit of armor? How did anyone fight in one?

“That’s it! I am… a knight!” He puffed out his chest. “Leonora, I am too good for you!”

In truth, he felt like a complete fool. And he silently thanked his not-friend for steering the conversation toward knights.

“Gods…” Eleanor leaned forward and took the old man’s hand, drawing his attention back to her. “Grandpa, don’t listen to him. Listen to me… When I was little, I thought I’d enroll in the Academy…”

Bold. Revolting. And still bold. The gesture was intimate enough to throw the Hermit off balance. In a way, Eleanor had just gone all in.

Charlie had his own unreachable academy as a child — the invisible deck of a ship named Adelaide. And now, he remembered playing alone, pretending he was caught in a storm, dodging the tentacles of a kraken. To stay in character, the minstrel let out a foolish giggle and faked a fall — but at least the Hermit didn’t even tense up when Charlie ended up right behind him.

“Academy… just so you know…” He took off the helmet, catching his breath. “They don’t take women.”

Eleanor was about to snap back when suddenly Ed let out a rasping sound.

“Father…” He tried to sit up straight, but even breathing took immense effort. “It’s so… hard to… b-brea—” Pain forced his head back.

At that moment, Charlie stopped thinking. Doubt vanished like smoke, replaced by raw fury.

“You bastard!”

He got lucky — the Hermit had started rising from the bench, so the blow landed on his neck instead of the soft part of his skull. Otherwise, Charlie might’ve only knocked him out. The next strikes came with his eyes shut, both hands still gripping the helmet.

Eleanor, against all expectations, didn’t even scream.

“The rain stopped…” she noted in an oddly detached tone. “There’s a cellar here. I’m going to throw up.”

The Hermit was still alive and could wake up at any moment. Charlie didn’t give himself time to process what he’d done. He had to open the cellar, drag the unconscious body over — despite the old man’s age, there wasn’t an ounce of frailty in him — shove him down, close the hatch, and put something heavy on top.

It took a while. The whole time, Eleanor was making distinct noises outside, diligently emptying her stomach, while Ed, though barely aware of his condition, endured his discomfort in silence.

“Wh… what are you… doing?” Ed gasped for air like a fish stranded on the shore. “What… h-happened?”

“I’m moving a chest,” Charlie wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Heavy, but not heavy enough… And you were poisoned. We need to get it out of your system. You’ll be fine, just don’t bite my fingers off.”

Charlie had spent too many years taking care of an old, sick, and far less cooperative relative to be squeamish — but getting bitten was still unpleasant.

Ed, fortunately, didn’t bite, didn’t choke — he even went limp, letting himself be dragged outside without a fight. Eleanor was already standing by the porch, ready to make a run for it. Out of gratitude, Charlie announced that one of their backpacks, with a portion of their provisions, would remain here forever.

“We won’t be hungry for a couple of years,” he joked.

“That’s true,” Eleanor nodded gravely. “But I’d burn the house down.”

“And the whole forest with it? And us too?” Charlie whistled. “You two love setting fires. Careful — you might just end up back in his arms!”

“Spit it out, if you have something really important to tell me, instead of this.”

“We already did, so to speak. Both of us.”

“I heard. Thought you were just strumming those strings of yours. Same trouble, same answer.”

Eleanor agreed to carry the second backpack, the flasks, and the lute, while Charlie took Ed and his own instrument.

The fledgling adventurers continued forward, having no idea how to find the trail again. But that hardly worried them — the thought of the Hermit waking up and giving chase spurred them on far better than any musings of their so-called mission.

“I owe you an apology,” Eleanor said as Charlie laid Ed onto his own cloak to drag him rather than carry him on his back. “For calling you idiots. I still think you’re… not the brightest people. But I’ve no right to insult you. I’m an idiot myself.”

Charlie, whose lower back had been screaming in protest for quite some time now, looked up at her. The torch she held had been hastily put together barely fifteen minutes ago — after all, on the previous nights, they had either slept in someone else's home or by a fire, not wandered through the darkness. Still, better this than walking blind.

“Alright, you’re forgiven,” Charlie replied with a smile. “And you’re not an idiot.”

“But I knocked on the door of a murderer,” Eleanor, at that moment, reminded Charlie of himself. “I should’ve thought before acting. Thought! Do I lack a brain? I’m not Ed, damn it!”

“Sometimes you’ve got no choice but to seek shelter and trust people,” Charlie chuckled. “And, if I’m not mistaken, you just called him brainless.”

“I… maybe… am brainless, but, brother—” Ed’s breathing was still ragged, no sign of improvement. “Don’t… splash water on me… I’m not… some potted flower…”

“I’m not splashing—” Charlie cut himself off as a large raindrop landed on his head. “Oh, come on, not again!”

Neither the sky nor the gods took pity on him. The torch instantly went out, their clothes were soaked, their boots filled with water. Charlie could no longer see Eleanor ahead of him. The darkness was suffocating, and the rain poured straight into his eyes — impossible to wipe away when both hands were full. Dragging Ed one-handed was out of the question; his strength was failing.

“There are steps here!” her voice cut through the storm. “Hurry!”

If Eleanor had a tragic fate, it was this — finding hidden dwellings in the middle of nowhere. Everything pointed to the mansion being abandoned: unlocked doors, cobwebs and dust everywhere, worn-out furniture, faded carpets and tapestries. Still, decay could be deceptive. After lighting a fire, Charlie handed Eleanor Harding’s knife, just in case.

He placed Ed as close to the hearth as possible, covering him with a bear pelt — the grandest decoration in the entire hall, apparently — lit three candles in a candelabrum, and set off to find blankets.

In two of the rooms, — whether guest or bedrooms, he wasn’t sure — he found some pillows still in decent condition. Exhausted to his core, the minstrel decided that was enough and returned to his friends. Fatigue blurred the edges of his senses — he kept getting the eerie feeling that someone was watching him, only to realize, again and again, that it was nothing but a shadow or a passing draught.

Ed, still tormented by convulsions, once again asked to tell him what had happened. His request went unanswered — Charlie had fallen asleep right there on the floor, lulled by the crackling firewood.

He dreamed of a jumble of orphanage days, a ship where Princess Louise danced with a skeleton, and then, finally, the carriage. He was even glad to see it — an illusion of stability, a symbol of peaceful days in Merenberg. Of course, it wasn’t that simple. The Edgar in his dream changed his mind about speeding up the carriage. Instead, he slowed it down, pressing something underfoot, turned to face him, and spoke in Eleanor’s voice:

“Gods, you really are a fool.”

When Charlie woke, it took him several long seconds to figure out where he was. Definitely not where he should be.

“You could be kneeling under a headsman’s axe,” Eleanor, wrapped in blankets, sat on the ottoman, aggressively scratching her cheek, “and you’d still be making excuses for him. Although… the executioner is just a servant of the king. You’re still an idiot! Go on, say your convulsions are from a hangover, and the suffocation’s just your bad lungs. If not for Charlie, that old bastard would’ve eaten us.”

Another allergic reaction? But they hadn’t passed a single ghost on the way. Why was everything so damn complicated? It would be so nice if someone in their little group wasn’t like these two. One’s grand dreams of who-knows-what had collapsed, the other hovered between life and death, and Charlie? Charlie was a damned nanny.

He shut his eyes, hoping to get some more sleep.

“He was… such a kind… hospitable… old man!” Ed’s body jerked again, by the sound of it. “And you just threw him in the cellar! Without any… proof…”

“Oh, shut up!” Something flew at him — probably the knife. “I hope that cannibal breaks his neck down there.”

“Are you two going to sleep or not?” Charlie thought, stuffing his fingers in his ears and curling up tighter. Unfortunately, if Ed felt the need to prove a point, he would do it even on his deathbed. And Eleanor? She lived for an argument — found some twisted pleasure in it.

Charlie just hoped things wouldn’t get physical. First, because you don’t hit someone who’s already down. Second, Eleanor’s clothes were still drying, which meant she was wrapped in nothing but a blanket — not exactly ideal for throwing punches.

“How to check..? Check?! Sure, let’s go back and ask him why he tried to poison us!”

“It was… perfectly fine wine! You... silly woman!”

“A-and you’re… a moron!”

“You...”

“If I settle this argument, will you shut up? My head is pounding because of you.”

Charlie shot to his feet, his heart hammering in his chest — sleepiness vanished, replaced by that same raw fury he had felt back in the Hermit’s den. There was no one to protect these two but him. He clenched his fists and stepped forward — toward the stranger standing at the spiral staircase.

The stranger stepped out of the shadows, and for a moment, Charlie had the unsettling feeling that the man was simply an extension of them. A black robe, long, straight hair of the same dark hue… And his face! Harsh features, yet aristocratic.

For a split second, Charlie imagined himself painting him. He looked around forty, but leaned on his staff as though he were seventy. Yet his voice was anything but old.

“Well then, gentlemen and a lady…” the stranger said. “Shall I repeat myself, or do you grasp things the first time?”

Charlie grasped nothing — except that his jaw had dropped. The same could be said for Eleanor.

“What is wrong with you?” The man took slow, deliberate steps, stopping near the fireplace to survey the room. “You've turned my home into… a laundry. Yelling, prowling through the halls. I don't recall expecting guests. Or hiring musicians.”

“We…” Ed was the first to recover his voice. “We got… lost. Wet. And you, good sir… left your door unlocked.”

“Unlocked?” The man raised an eyebrow. “Hmph. Yes. Well then. My offer still stands. From what I’ve overheard, I gather the following…” He suddenly coughed, his body almost collapsing against his staff. “You do not believe you were poisoned. Your companion, however, insists you were. It is easy enough to verify. You need only look into my eyes.”

“What are you, some kind of conjurer?” Ed tensed.

Charlie retrieved the knife Eleanor had thrown and held it steady in front of him.

“Don’t toy with us, sir. We’re not criminals, not thieves — but we’re not victims either.”

“Rest assured, no tricks.” The stranger raised a hand in a placating gesture. “It is in my best interest to resolve this conflict while the rain keeps me from simply throwing you out.”

“Another one… with fancy words…” Ed scoffed. “Fine. Go on, then.”

The man stepped closer to Ed, seemingly unbothered by the knife in Charlie’s grip. Harding met his gaze calmly — but after a few seconds, he turned away.

“Sangferia,” the stranger declared. “Harmless, until dissolved in wine. The more wine, the better… or worse. The weak collapse into paralysis, but even a warrior will be crippled if left untreated. You were forced to vomit, so time is on your side.”

Eleanor was next.

“The same. A lower dose.” Something about the man unsettled her too. She tried to pull away, but he reached out — bony fingers lightly catching her chin, tilting her face up. “Forgive my insolence. Oh? Interesting. Very interesting…”

Charlie shifted his grip on the knife, moving it behind his back. His turn.

He nearly dropped the weapon when the man’s eyes — calm, green — suddenly flared turquoise.

“Nothing,” the stranger stepped back almost immediately, his gaze returning to its original shade. “No trace of poison in your blood. No significant sensitivity to magic, unlike... However, you—“ He exhaled, almost as if amused. “You will have to become my apprentice.”

“Apprentice..?” Charlie blinked, stunned.

“An apprentice to a sorcerer,” the stranger tested the words as though tasting them. “It has a certain ring to it. I was one myself, once. By choice, of course. But you… For the sake of your friends, you’ll do your best, won’t you?”

[wildfieldz]

WITHIN AN INCH OF THE DREAM | CHAPTER 1

The story in the original language is available here and here.

DO NOT REPOST.

Edgar was dressed in foreign clothes, as was Charlie, but he only noticed it on the eighth try — right after he gave up wrestling with the tiny steering wheel that looked more like a hoop. The carriage itself resembled a cab, if you imagined the driver’s seat was inside rather than outside.

Before him, Charlie saw the road stretching into the night. Were those lanterns or torches lighting the way? It was impossible to tell — the speed at which they were hurtling forward was too great. Where to? Why? And why the hell had he been dreaming this for two months straight?

Bill — William Blanc, before he completely lost his wits — used to teach his grandson to pay attention to the signs of fate. The problem was, not everyone had the knack for deciphering them.

Charlie wouldn’t mind puzzling it out in the morning, but dying in his sleep on a regular basis? That was a bit too much. He had no doubt that, in the end, he and Edgar crashed straight into a tree, and his soul went off to join the ancestors. No matter what he did, the dream always ended there. Best-case scenario, he’d wake up drenched in sweat. Worst-case? The first time, he’d rolled right out of bed, smacked his forehead on the nightstand, and earned himself a nice lump. Mary had noticed, asked him about it, and hadn’t believed the half-baked excuse he’d come up with on the spot.

“Charlie, you’ve lost all shame! Any decent citizen is up at the crack of dawn, and here you are, lazing about in bed! Open up, I don’t give a damn about these bohemian habits of yours!”

Yep. That’s exactly how the newly minted Mrs. Norton would say it. Anything connected to the past, the orphanage, irritated her now, as well as Charlie himself.

Wait. That was Mary’s actual voice. Not some leftover bit of the dream.

“Damn it, Bloom…”

Peeling himself off his not-so-comfortable mattress, the minstrel hurried to meet his friend.

The floorboards creaked under his bare feet, and the sound jolted Charlie fully back to reality — where, today, he was expected to deliver a revised portrait to a very picky client. Bloom had been most displeased to see all three of his extra chins staring back at him, and he had little interest in the artist’s noble commitment to the truth. Charlie, swallowing his pride, had agreed to redo the whole thing — and then some. After all, he couldn’t return the advance anymore, and losing potential clients from the jeweler’s guild wasn’t exactly a smart move.

Ed would have said he’d succumbed to the system, definitely. That is, if Ed actually cared.

The door groaned in sympathy with the floorboards. Mary wasted no time.

“Ugh, it’s stuffy in here,” she muttered, striding past Charlie and heading straight for his workspace. “Alright, where is my lord and master?”

“You mean Gaspar?” Charlie quipped, fully aware he’d regret it. “Well, he’s definitely not here. He knows exactly how I feel about him.”

The consequences were immediate. Mary rolled her eyes.

“I meant Bloom, not my husband. Bloom will have my head if something’s wrong again.”

The messenger always pays the price, even if he has nothing to do with the bad news. In Mary’s case it's the same, despite the fact she happened to be very easy on the eyes.

Charlie walked over to the easel, set aside the empty wooden canvas, and groaned as he lowered himself onto the chair. It was easier to search for Bloom’s portrait that way, among the finished works propped up against the wall. It didn’t take long.

“The very embodiment of lies,” he muttered.

Someone barely resembling Friedrich Bloom gazed back at them from the painting.

“He’s lost, what, forty kilos? No, forty-two. I got rid of the wart, shrank the nose... Life is just wonderful.”

Mary patted his shoulder the way she used to when they were kids. Or almost the same way — there was a nervous edge to her touch now.

Maybe his gut feeling was right — maybe she was miserable with Gaspar. Or maybe Bloom was working his people to the bone. No. More likely, Gaspar was just rotten to the core.

“It’s alright, Marquis,” she said. “That’s adult life for you. You’ve done well, settling down. The pay’s good — that’s what matters.”

Strange words. Someone else’s words. And the nickname — from the orphanage days.

Charlie looked up at her, as if seeing her for the first time.

“So you’re saying I’ve been acting like a child?” He frowned. “That I should ditch art and focus on this nonsense instead? Mary, there’s no vision here, no creativity. If someone’s losing weight because of me, but only on canvas, that’s not art. That’s fraud.”

A sad smile softened her face. She looked at him with sisterly affection. And then… struck again.

“I’m saying you’re, what… twenty-five? In five years, you’ll be a proper grown man. And going bald.” She widened her eyes for emphasis. “Then you’ll realize you missed your chance. By now, you could have a good house, a wife, and kids! If you’d just stop messing around.”

She cast a critical eye around the room.

Charlie followed her gaze.

Yeah. It hadn’t always been like this. Back when Edgar was around, at least there was constant cleaning to do — after his sworn brother. And before that? His grandfather.

He knew how to keep order, how to cook, how to milk cows, plow fields, whitewash walls. This whole house had stayed in shape because he held it together. Until he was left in it alone.

“What is this shack?” Mary clicked her tongue, having completed her inspection. “You could move to the central quarter, Charlie. But you’re lazy. You daydream too much. You need to work more, take orders from everyone! Then you’d have money. You could save—”

She went on for a while.

Charlie didn’t interrupt.

He should be grateful. Mary actually cared about his future. In a way, she had every right to make him pay for all his jabs at Norton. Then again, Charlie hadn’t done it out of spite. Or jealousy. He was just worried.

His feelings for Mary had changed ten years ago, when he realized she liked Bjorn. And he had stepped aside. With Bjorn, Mary had been shy. She’d sought him out, wanted his company. So why had she married Gaspar?

Probably for the same reason Bjorn had left the Continent, abandoning both her and their troupe. Hell if he knew what had gotten into them. Back then, those two never shut up about how they’d sail across the ocean together. Edgar and Charlie had laughed it off, playing their usual cards — We’re fine right here and We actually love our homeland, thanks.

But the four of them rarely fought. And they played damn well together.

Mary and her violin were often the highlight of the show. Of course, only with Ed’s permission. He had been their leader. And the truth was, people mostly came to see him, to listen to his melodies, not someone else’s.

Without Edgar, the troupe had no meaning. Without him, Charlie would have kept writing poems in secret, never realizing that anyone might actually like them. The others, as time proved, would have found something else to do regardless. Only Ed had been consumed by his craft. He had to compose. It was his nature. He’d do it non-stop, forgetting to eat, neglecting sleep.

No surprise, then, that his surroundings were always a disaster. He lived in his own head, oblivious to the mess. It had been like that even before he picked up the lute — back when they first met. Charlie had figured it out quickly: his new friend was a genius.

And really, who but a genius would wear his own tooth around his neck like a trophy?

Then again, people wore all sorts of things. Charlie was no better — he still carried the only thing he had left from his mother. Kept it tucked away, because explaining was exhausting.

At least Ed’s tooth had been easier. Like… Go ahead, laugh. Laugh at my clumsiness, at my failure. If it makes you feel better.

At some point, that wayward fang had disappeared. And their performances had stopped. Because of… Eleanor.

What if Mary was right? What if he was the only one stuck in the past and it was time to let go of his dreams? For as long as Charlie could remember, he had wanted to create a masterpiece. Not for fame or wealth, but because only masterpieces had the power to make people truly see the beauty of the world — beauty they so often overlooked. A modest dream, really. Charlie wasn’t like Ed, obsessed with the idea of true immortality, and he had always believed he could do it. And yet, at twenty-five, he had neither a poem nor a painting that captured that elusive, undeniable beauty.

A sign from fate? Charlie refused to accept such a fate — or Mary’s reasoning. He just hoped his face showed nothing more than exhaustion, rather than his true feelings about wealth and the ever-looming prospect of a future family life.

Improving one’s financial standing didn’t automatically lead to love. That wasn’t how it worked! Life was meant to be built with a person, not with their possessions. And if some girl admired Charlie’s writing, that alone wouldn’t be enough to marry her. He only had to look at his brother’s example — whoever Eleanor had believed Edgar to be at first, she was sorely disappointed. And rightly so.

“What are you smiling about?” Mary ruffled his shoulder. “I didn’t say anything funny. Honestly, why are you so unserious? And then I wonder why your money vanishes into thin air.”

“Sorry, Mouse. It just happens.”

No way was he going to tell her that for the past year and a half, he had been working himself to the bone and could have saved a decent sum if he hadn’t been secretly donating most of his earnings to the orphanage. Even Edgar didn’t know — the one person who wouldn’t have judged him or called him a fool, because Edgar himself parted with money just as easily, the moment he heard someone needed it more. So Mary certainly didn’t need to know.

“What am I going to do with you?” sighed Mrs. Norton. Then, her face shifted into concern. “Charlie, you’re not sick, are you? You’re pale as death!”

“I’m fine,” Charlie gently pulled her hand away. “Just not sleeping well. The boar, remember? Keeps coming after me every night.”

A small truth — Mary deserved at least that much, even if she hadn’t been entirely honest with him. She was hurting, something was eating away at her. That whole speech wasn’t meant for a failed minstrel but for herself — the former violinist convincing herself she’d made the right choice by becoming… serious. If she had to convince herself, then doubts were gnawing at her. But Charlie wasn’t about to untangle that mess. Edgar’s philosophical dilemmas were more than enough for him.

“Weren’t you in a hurry?”

“Oh, right…” Mary bit her lip, as if debating whether to say something else, something important. “You distracted me again, you fool! Hand over the portrait, quick! If I’m lucky, I’ll make it out alive today. Charles, wake up!”

If not for the commission, Mary wouldn’t have visited at all. They no longer spoke the same language. Well, so be it.

Charlie wrapped the slimmed-down version of Blum in a piece of cloth and solemnly handed it to her. At the door, he offered to help carry it, but Mary waved him off.

“With you, the trip will take twice as long, dreamer. Tomorrow, three o’clock sharp, I expect you to come for the payment! I really hope you will!” Then, after a pause, she added, “You should go see a witch, Charlie. Listen to me. This boar… Go. She’ll give you a cure or at least tell you what it all means.”

She believed in the boar? Well, that was something… He must really look awful. Maybe he should check the mirror? No, no time for that — not when he was busy running from the suffocating thought that he was losing his mind.

Charlie knew it was possible. He remembered how pitiful and helpless his grandfather had become — calling out for strangers every night, begging for forgiveness, failing to recognize Charlie, shooing him. He had invented a whole pirate’s past for himself, even though everyone knew he had served the King his entire life and would have kept sailing if not for age and illness.

The fear of madness hadn’t died with his grandfather. But it faded when Charlie painted.

Finishing one commission, he would immediately take on the next. And if there was no work, he sketched. Young ladies, noblewomen, distinguished gentlemen — they all lacked imagination, always wanting to see themselves in the same poses, the same predictable settings. Artists with ambition, like Charlie Blanc, grew tired of such monotony quickly. And yet, he worked diligently.

Between sketches, he prepared his own ground mixture — clay, chalk, glue — applied it to canvas, sanded it down, sanded it again. The repetitive work soothed him. Carefully mixing oil, ochre, and lapis, Charlie envisioned how he would use them to create his masterpiece, and for a moment, he felt at peace.

Unfortunately, it all took a toll on the artist himself — enough to unsettle those around him.

“Alright, Mouse, I’ll consider your suggestion.”

Diplomacy was one of his strengths — knowing just the right words to avoid getting beaten up.

Leaving the outskirts of the city, Mary hardly expected her friend to take her advice the moment she stepped out the door. Yet that was exactly what happened.

Charlie threw open the shutters, letting in the air from the yard — not particularly fresh, but, as they say, beggars can't be choosers. It took the minstrel quite some time to scrub the floors, gather all the scattered dishes, wash them, and return them neatly to the shelf. He also tidied up his workspace. And himself — since he was heading out. He put on the best clothes he owned, including a clean shirt and his favorite black vest with dark red patches.

“I'm not balding, and I never will,” he muttered, slicking back his light blond hair. “And I'm not setting foot near a witch.”

Charlie wasn’t exactly a skeptic when it came to witches and sorcerers. Many of them could, for example, turn you into a donkey, a goat, or any other hoofed creature. Some could even shapeshift into beasts themselves. But Mary had likely meant fortune-tellers. Those specialized in love charms, hexes, curses, vague weather predictions, and even vaguer prophecies about the future. Not to mention gossip. No, thank you.

The dream wasn’t really about the boar — it was too personal for that. Especially since Edgar was in it. And the last thing Charlie needed was for some busybody to start up again with jokes about him being a mother goose. That was, in fact, one of the mildest jokes he'd ever heard about himself and his brother.

A peasant, having sold his goods at the market, was hurrying home and had no intention of running into Charlie in one of the narrow alleys of Merenberg. The young man, however, showed some empathy and listened to the man’s rant about how if life was no longer worth living, it was better to drown oneself than to let a horse trample over them. When the peasant finished cursing, Charlie nodded and continued on his way, leaving the man in confusion.

He certainly didn’t want to spoil his mood today with thoughts of ending his life in any way —especially not over quarrels. What he did want was breakfast! Some people had already eaten lunch, while his stomach was still growling like a whale. The minstrel headed toward his favorite tavern, “The Troll's Trail.” The prices were reasonable, and the food was top-notch, at least in his opinion. Charlie Blanc was easy to please. He was also an artist, after all. So, naturally, he got distracted in the town square, curious to see what his fellow performers were up to.

A trio was singing a song about love with all their might. They were clearly amateurs. The song’s content wasn’t new: once again, the object of affection wouldn't even spare a glance at the unlucky lover, and once again, the fair maiden was cruel. The musical quality of the song plunged Charlie into a deep melancholy, and he joined the crowd watching a puppet show about the era of Sebastian the Unifier.

“Now, that's the sovereign,” said a man to Charlie’s left, spitting on the ground as if to underscore the truth of his words. “Decisive, strong, he cared about his people, kept the empire from eating us up! That's a real king, not like these...” He suddenly fell silent, realizing he had chosen the wrong moment and place to express such opinions. “Ah, to the elves with them all!” he added and shuffled off toward the artisan shops. Charlie couldn't help but smile as he watched him go.

People always need a fairy tale, no matter their age. A little girl will believe in the prince who will one day come for her, while an adult man will believe in a just king who can keep ministers in check, chase off enemies, and make everyone rich. Charlie understood the little girl with his whole romantic soul: he, too, was waiting for someone, not knowing how their fateful meeting would unfold. As for the man… Charlie understood him, too. After all, there was no denying that Sebastian had worked some kind of magic.

When old Bill took his grandson from the orphanage, he didn’t immediately throw his full authority and domestic duties onto the boy. At first, he did try to become a more familiar figure. He even went as far as to find out what interested Charlie and sighed with relief when he found that the son of the crazy Albina wanted nothing more than books. Books were easy enough to provide, and the sailor had plenty of tall tales to tell. However, Charlie, at that age, had grown too old for the stories about krakens and hidden treasures buried on islands. In the end, Merenberg was inhabited by more than just humans, and it became just as important to satisfy a curious mind by finding out why that was so.

Sebastian’s story was well known to everyone from childhood — Charlie had hoped to find more details in the book. Alas, there was little new to be learned. It wasn’t even clear what the king actually looked like; there were countless versions of his appearance. As if he could change his shape! But no source ever labeled him as a magician. On the contrary, that was considered slander. The current ruling dynasty carefully controlled how Sebastian was depicted. It was probably their efforts that turned him into the idealized, almost mythical figure he had become. But he was real, and he had done many truly heroic things. In difficult times for the South, he reconciled warring neighboring principalities, uniting them and pointing out the true enemy who had been eagerly anticipating an easy conquest. Sebastian did something that could easily be called madness. His preemptive strike helped preserve not only Merenberg’s independence but also that of Sommetia, while Atforand never managed to conquer the southern lands or secure another route to the sea. Bloody wars came later, but thanks to the decisions made by the first king, Merenberg managed to fend off enemy invasions time after time. One of the most crucial decisions was not to outlaw magic. On the contrary, it had been taught in the academy ever since the time of the Unifier.

Anyone stuck between life and death was to be regarded as a victim of still undiscovered magical laws, rather than as monsters. Of course, no one was eager to help vampires, goblins, or werewolves to become human again. They were already considered normal members of society, though they led secluded lives to avoid ruining the perfect image of the city. Those who required blood consumed pig’s blood — this was something a vampire acquaintance had once told Charlie, and he very much hoped it was true. Undead creatures were harshly punished for murder, regardless. Aside from rare conflicts, the peaceful coexistence of different races and life forms in Merenberg was a fact. There were even dwarves from Sommetia living here. They were solid, if taciturn, and had taught people how to mine coal, gold, silver, and precious stones.

In short, Sebastian’s teachings hadn’t been forgotten: in Merenberg, no one was oppressed, and no one was insulted behind their back, even for racial reasons. And, to be honest, many were proud of this, for in the Empire, things were different. People there had privileges, and the rest seemed to enjoy risk and humiliation, as they had not yet moved elsewhere. Merenberg and Atforand held opposing views on technology, fighting large-scale wars every few decades — or not, depending on luck. The only things they shared in common were their language and mutual disdain for elves, who had been expelled from everywhere and banished to the East.

Charlie had never seen elves, and during his obsession with the legendary king, he had greatly lamented this fact. Elves had witnessed the birth of the world; some of them might have been contemporaries of Sebastian and could have told the truth about him. But after, so to speak, the overthrow of the elves, they were not only no longer considered descendants of the gods but were also made out to be the main villains, liars, and the cause of most disasters. To go to them for answers was something beyond reason, even for a fool. So Charlie didn’t go. And where would he have gone without Ed? Ed had no interest in searching for the royal tomb... it was as useful to him as wings on a ferret. But still, if they had found the king’s burial site, they’d have made it into the history books! Scholars had clamped their mouths shut about the ruler’s death — no exact date, no exact location. Clearly, it was much more important to repeat a million times that the current monarch and all those before him — including the most incompetent and cruel — were blessed by Sebastian, and therefore their right to the throne was unquestionable. It’s easy to guess that the peculiar cult of the Unifier was supported by the authorities, not out of love or gratitude, but for more pragmatic purposes. Gradually, teen Charlie lost his resolve and stopped wanting to search for anything, though he still maintained his respect for Sebastian. Had the first king been even half as good and thrice repainted in books and plays, it wouldn’t have changed anything. It’s painful to part with childhood illusions.

“Ow! What the—?!”

Well, it wasn’t that painful, but close. Charlie hopped on his left foot, waiting for the pain in his squashed right foot to subside.

“Stop sleeping while standing, you poor thing!” came the voice of the person responsible for the incident, who was now walking away.

Right now, Mary would’ve shaken her head with a look of what did I tell you? Charlie wasn’t just daydreaming; he was doing it professionally. A crowd had already gathered around him, and he hadn’t even noticed!

When someone shoved him in the back, his stomach rebelled. Charlie took this as a final warning and, limping, shuffled toward the tavern.

“The Troll's Trail” wasn't known for luxury, but it had everything you'd expect from a good establishment. Including rooms for lodgers upstairs, a small stage, and the immediate, overpowering scents of roasting meat and beer. Charlie nearly licked his lips, feeling almost happy, but fate once again decided to test his resilience.

“Blanc, now you're doing somersaults too?” James Green's laughter rang out from seemingly everywhere while Charlie, sitting on the floor, tried to make sense of what had just happened. “Impressive, impressive! We thought you were dead!”

The minstrel finally realized what had caused him to lose his balance — a cat was hissing at him from under the table. A ginger disaster.

“Why would I?” he asked, not the least bit offended, pulling straw out of his hair. “Hello, by the way.”

James Green's companions took turns greeting him, all while continuing to chew. James himself explained:

“Well, how else? You haven't come to save him or help. We've been watching this drama for two weeks, and you're still not here! We thought you were dead, and he, poor guy, clung to the wine barrel out of sorrow!”

Charlie looked questioningly at the tavern regulars. What were they talking about? Someone had been drinking out of sorrow for two weeks. Out of sorrow. Drinking... How long had it been since Charlie had seen Ed? No, not like that.

“What about Ed?”

“Blanc, calm down,” one of James's companions raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, dropping a piece of potato back onto his plate. “You look so scary, like you’re gonna kill us,” he nervously chuckled. “We're not involved, Blanc!”

“What about him?” Charlie stood up and strode directly toward their group.

If they were scared, it was unnecessary. He himself was enveloped by a sticky fear — images from a dream flashed before his mind’s eye. A dream he had already memorized and hated, in which Ed was also in danger and which might prove to be prophetic. Charlie was scared, angry. And he didn’t care what he looked like to others, defeated by a cat.

“Charles, my dear friend!”

It’s hard to say how it would have ended if not for the tavern owner. Uncle Clive, as everyone called him, was so kind that at “The Troll’s Trail”, fights sometimes stopped the moment he entered. To upset Clive was like hurting a child. Charlie definitely wasn’t ready to fall that low.

“Good afternoon, Uncle Clive,” he said, shaking the tavernkeeper's calloused hand and offering a guilty smile. “Sorry I...”

“What’s the matter? You’ve got nothing to apologize for! I’m always glad to see you. You and him too! But right now — this is not what we need, by the gods!” The middle-aged man was shorter than Charlie, several times wider, but moved with surprising agility as he brushed straw off Charlie’s clothes and talked nonstop in a barely intelligible manner: “Charlie, my dear, I’ve been waiting for you, waiting so long. No one else can help, so help an old man out. I won’t throw him out, I respect him for his talent and... He might get offended, not come to play later, and I want him to come — the crowd’s been pouring in for him like it’s a holiday! Take him quietly, and I’ll be right behind.”

And to make sure Charlie couldn’t refuse, Uncle Clive gave an order:

“Daisy, quickly set up a table for Charles in the corner! Soup, meat stew, salted fish, cheese, all of it!” He led the guest to the bar as if afraid he might run away. “Wait here, or go take your table. I’ll bring him right now. It’s all on me, except for the wine. He’s already had enough, you know.”

The situation was becoming clearer. Charlie was on the verge of laughing. It felt as if the dream, a nightmare turning into a trivial fantasy of eating until he couldn't anymore and sitting with his brother, talking about life.

“No, no, I’ll pay...” he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. Only to find emptiness. “Or... as you please! But this is the first and last time. As for your request... I guarantee, we’ll be gone and leave no trail in an hour.”

The tavern owner, thankfully, didn’t notice Charlie’s momentary hesitation. He appreciated the rhyme joke and almost sprinted up to the second floor. So, Ed was up there — either sleeping or suffering from inner turmoil. As for signs of his activities... Yes, Charlie didn’t find any signs of damage such as broken windows, broken chairs by the bar, or any other disturbances. Whoa.

After observing everything from the designated corner for important negotiations, Charlie came to some grim conclusions: it was unlikely that Clive had gotten around to fixing anything right away — it wasn’t his style; he spent six months fixing the porch. So, there had been no ruckus. And that meant Charlie had an even tougher job ahead of him than usual.

It’s impossible prepare for such things. Even if the minstrel knew his brother like the back of his hand. Therefore, Charlie began to study everything in front of him anew: the map of the Continent, the moose’s head, the wooden panel shaped like a troll’s paw print — how could this place exist without it? — bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling beams. The tavern was a cozy place, despite the chatter and occasional brawls. Charlie loved it, both as a guest and as an artist, because it was here that they had first performed, overcoming their fear...

“For the stew you’ll have to wait,” Daisy set a bowl of soup and a plate of meat and cheese in front of him. “Wanna some beer?”

“Thanks. But let’s skip the booze.” Charlie shook his head. “I try not to drink.”

“At least someone has their head on straight. Your wife’s gonna be lucky, Blanc.”

For some reason, everyone was trying to marry him off today. Why? He would’ve thought about it if he weren’t so damn hungry. The whale inside him died, drowned in hot soup as if it were lava from a volcano, and Charlie finally relaxed: he closed his eyes in bliss, leaned back against the wall. His thoughts scattered in all directions, as did the warmth throughout his body. They say elves don’t need to eat or sleep. Must be convenient, especially on long journeys...

“Why were you looking for me?”

The low, raspy voice hit like the city’s bell. Charles jumped, almost knocking over the table, blinked several times.

“You're stupid.”

“And you...” The minstrel smiled involuntarily. “You look like crap.”

Actually... Ed looked like Ed after a drinking binge. Charlie could have started lecturing him, could have said he’d let himself go — normally, he shaved his stubble under any circumstances... and that was the extent of his neatness — that he smelled from a yard away, that he should stop hunching over, and all that. But Charlie missed him too much for typical teaching moments. And what bothered him most was the emptiness in his friend's gaze.

“You're no prince charming either,” Ed sat down across from him, theatrically tossing the worn-out cloak’s flaps aside. “Spill it, ghost of my old friend, the one who’s forgotten about me. Why the sudden interest in me?”

Charlie almost replied, “And what about you? You cut me out of your life because the truth stings?"

Daisy with the stew interrupted. Or maybe she saved the situation by giving Charlie a bit of time to come up with a better response.

“My dearest,” Ed scratched his ear. “Could I have some water?”

“Just water?” All of the serving girl’s friendliness drained away.

“Yeah, just water.”

Charlie reacted immediately, as any good friend would, following the maternal instinct jokes.

“Eat! It’s for both of us. There was more, but I just devoured the soup. Couldn't wait.”

Ed winced.

“No, I don’t want to,” the clay bowl barely stayed on the table. This was Ed, after all. “I feel sick, can’t do it. I just can’t.”

Doesn’t want, can’t, has no energy, sees no point. It all started at the age of twelve, when Ed’s father, George Harding, became a widower. Having lost the opportunity to bully his wife, the retired soldier shifted his focus to his son. Everything Ed did was wrong. His hobbies, his friends — all of it was just garbage. Charlie could still be tolerated, but Ed’s social circle was severely limited. Ed was supposed to train for the guard, not waste his time on nonsense. Nonsense is everything except the history of Merenberg and serving for the good of Merenberg. Naturally free-spirited, Ed followed all the instructions flawlessly and even considered following in his father’s footsteps — they were so alike that Ed couldn’t help but be drawn to military service. Because of this, the clash of their personalities was grand — the whole region soon heard that Harding had disowned his humpback moocher. Ed, having left home, lived wherever he could, often spending the night under a bridge or at Uncle Clive’s tavern. Later, he moved in with Charlie. For Charlie, it marked the happiest few years — they officially formed their troupe then. When your best friend is either trying to bash his head into a wall or bleed himself dry, only to then declare that he’ll live forever and achieve immortality... it’s not exactly pleasant, and quiet days were even rarer. But Charlie never complained — you can’t be angry at a clueless child. Yes, the reasons for all this turmoil lay in the past, in childhood. Having never received love, recognition, or care from his father, Ed hated himself, craved recognition from the public, but never stopped needing care, not for a second. Charlie took care of him, listened, cheered him up, asking for nothing in return, because he already had what mattered most. He was finally understood.

Ed admired his friend’s poetry, even though he didn’t consider it nonsense. He supported him, taught him to play the mandolin, and even sing a little. When Ed was just standing nearby, Charlie felt capable of moving mountains — that’s how much Ed believed in him. More, perhaps, than in himself. And Charlie couldn’t help but return the favor. They could talk for days on end or remain silent — even then, communication didn’t stop. “Those mules have only one brain between them — and it doesn’t even work!” Charlie once heard someone say about him and young Harding, and he readily agreed with the first part of the statement. The brain did work: there was never enough paper for the poetry, and music was composed with such speed and ease that one could almost suspect Ed of wizardry. Too bad it wasn’t true. Because if he had been a sorcerer, he wouldn’t have been an idiot. Therefore, he wouldn’t have fallen for Eleanor, wouldn’t have quarreled with the guys, and wouldn’t have abandoned his art.

“What the hell is going on with you?” Charlie asked as casually as possible. Ed couldn’t stand pity. “Enough with the shame, we’re not strangers. Or are we?”

“What do you mean..?” Edgar almost choked on his breath. “Wh-what do you mean, are you out of your mind?! We're family! It's just... you know, it’s kind of... I don’t know...”

It’s unpleasant when someone uses your own method against you. However, Charlie immediately felt guilty.

“Alright, fine. I’ll tell you what’s going on,” in a way, he wasn’t lying, because he’d bring up this topic sooner or later. “Ed, our industry is dying, there are no decent minstrels in the city! You should hear the nonsense they sing now! All hope is on us, we absolutely have to return, triumphantly, or everything here will drown in tears and die! You were right, brother! There’s nothing useful in those ballads, it’s all the same, and the people are just listening and getting dumber. We need to come back, or we’re done for!”

He didn’t mind love songs, nor love itself — he’d be lying if he said he found them all repulsive. But songs should also help in life. For example, they should teach you how to fight through hardships, be resourceful! Or make you laugh. Or, at the very least, scare you. But if you want to sing about pain and loneliness... is it always the women’s fault?

Charlie was ready to defend his point of view for a long time, but Ed interrupted him.

“Sit down,” he smiled for the first time, and a familiar spark appeared in his brown eyes, the one that used to appear during their joint creative moments. “Sit, will you? You’ll knock the table over, and this is my area, after all.”

Charlie sat down on the bench and immediately asked:

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s not a problem at all,”  the spark faded, as if it had never existed, “what you’re talking about. I’ve got it worse.”

“Yeah, I know all about your situation,” Charlie rolled his eyes. “If you want to die again, then even more reason to get back to a real craft. You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t want to..!” Ed slammed his fist on the table. “I mean, going back to the craft is fine, but dying... I don’t want that. Or... I don’t know, whatever. The problem’s not with me...”

“Wait, wait...”

There are things you’re better off not thinking about, so the world seems like a nicer place. If for Ed that thing was the fact that he would someday disappear forever — and you still can’t figure out if that’s good or bad — then for Charlie, the forbidden topic was the so-called House of Pleasures. It’s hard to ignore the existence of the House, since it’s located right in their neighborhood. Charlie first visited it when he was barely thirteen: he went with some other orphan kids who had saved up money to “party like adults.” Before that, he had very vague ideas about the House, thinking that parents sent their daughters there when they were still little girls, so they could at least live comfortably somewhere. How wrong he was! Everything he saw and understood afterward, he could never quite process. Charlie was furious, wandering around in a daze for two days after the trip, and even years later, he couldn’t think about it without feeling as though a bucket of filth had been poured over him. No, the girls weren’t hurt much — in fact, many of them grew up to be well-educated courtesans, skilled in dance, singing, and polite conversation. A beauty — and she had to be dazzlingly beautiful so her rank wouldn’t be lowered — was untouchable and could even become a companion for an unmarried nobleman at a royal reception. Many were bought out to be married, but what’s the use if you’re purchased like an object? It’s disgusting, no matter how you look at it. For money, a woman has to pretend she loves you! And then those same people sing songs about pure love.

Once, Charlie helped a regular prostitute — he chased off her stalker late one evening. In return, he asked for a story because, after all, he enjoyed collecting stories. Turns out, she was demoted after another high-ranking one poisoned her powder. The mark of that incident would remain on her face forever. Whether she was beautiful, Charlie couldn’t judge, but she was certainly miserable. From her, the minstrel learned a lot about the dark side of the House.

And so, with absolute certainty, he could now say that half of what Eleanor told Ed was nonsense.

“Well, first of all, to avoid...” luckily, Uncle Clive had provided a good spot to discuss such crap. “To avoid that happening to her, she would have had to be raised there from the age of five! And if she runs there now, they’ll make her... well, you know. Second, buddy, they won’t let her go in two years because all,” he lowered his voice “the prostitutes are in debt to the House, they’re in slavery. One can’t raise enough money to break free.”

“Damn..” Ed slammed his head on the table. He didn’t really care, though if this kept going, they’d definitely attract not only Green’s friends but the whole tavern’s attention. “I’m not even asking where you know this from, wise man. We need to do something, we need to talk her out of it... Maybe you could try?”

Charlie snorted.

“Why should I deal with it? You talk your wife out of it, hubby.”

His relationship with Eleanor was, to put it mildly, strained. The girl was far too arrogant, didn’t respect anyone, and... If anyone ever tricked her into becoming a courtesan, they surely had a keen eye. Eleanor wasn’t any more beautiful than Mary, but she was ready to flirt with anyone for... well, who knows why. She charmed Ed, but it was of no benefit — she kept bitching about how little money they have. Maybe she just wanted everyone to lust after her? She even tried to seduce Charlie when she was with Ed. They had a bit of a fight then, and Charlie ran off. Since then, Eleanor had been trying to convince Ed that the troupe was dragging him down. The troupe, not the alcohol.

“I won’t be able to do it alone,” Ed slumped even further. “I’m telling you, we’ve done. I’m no longer in charge of her, and I never really was. If we were married, my word would have weight...”

“Oh,” Charlie didn’t know what to say. All things considered, it wasn’t surprising. “Shit happens. But I’m not helping. She can’t stand me. Even if I tried to explain how it really works in that... establishment, she won’t listen.”

“Ellie... she’s like that, yeah,” the chair creaked under Ed when he suddenly shifted again, grabbing his hair in despair. “I won’t forgive myself if she ends up there!”

Charlie didn’t want that outcome for Eleanor either, despite his lack of any affection for her.

“Don’t yell,” he tiredly rubbed his nose. “Just tell me... Is she already there or not? Oh, you’re stuck here, so how would you know. Anyway, there are two paths. The first one works if it’s already happened. We can break into that den and rescue your girl. But after that, they’ll beat us up, and you’ll lose all your teeth.”

The joke didn’t land, judging by how Edgar puffed up.

“That’s the first path. And the second?”

“Go back to Eleanor and tell her you agree, that you’ll try to become a royal minstrel,” Charlie decided it was time for some stew and started devouring it. “The contest is in a month.”

“It won't work,” Edgar grinned crookedly. “We fought because of that damn contest.”

What they originally had were only two options, so Charlie repeated, saying it in other words:

“We go back to work, we grind away like damned fools, entertain the common folk for a penny, but with heart and soul.”

“That won’t save Ellie. Anything else?”

And there was no arguing with that.

“Anything else...” Charlie suddenly thought it would be easier to eat a cow patty than come up with a plan that would satisfy his friend. The cold meat became unappetizing. “Uh... The only other option is someone bursting in here and offering you unimaginable riches, just like that.”

They sat in silence for a while, and Charlie remembered his promise to Uncle Clive. The clock on the wall showed it was well past noon, and he had come to “The Trail” around eleven. It was time to leave quickly. But where to? He gave a grim smile at the thought. If you don’t know what to do today, how can you decide what to do with your whole life? When you’re young, it seems like everything is ahead of you, everything will work out. Then reality smacks you in the face, and you become a shadow of your former self, losing something important that you can never get back.

He used to dream of adventures, faraway shores, but now Charlie’s dreams are filled his own death in strange circumstances. And how could he not wish for someone to appear and point out the direction that definitely makes sense to follow?

Finding meaning wasn’t his responsibility, just as turning over tables wasn’t his thing, but was Ed wrong?

“You know,” the latter spoke again, “I don’t love her. Haven’t for a long time, but I can’t bring myself to leave her. Even though I’m not her husband, I should have been responsible for her.”

“Yeah, you should have,” Charlie nodded. “But you got her hooked on rum. Sorry, but when I saw you both drunk off your asses...”

“I’m a fool,” his companion furrowed his brow, evidently remembering the incident which made Charlie stop visiting them. “Or maybe a scoundrel?”

“No, just a fool.”

“So, I can still make it right,” Ed decisively stood up. “Let’s go, we need to find out where she is. We’ll act without a plan.”

They started gathering to leave. Charlie glanced over at the bar and caught the grateful look of the tavern keeper.

As they were at the door, it opened on its own. Not by magic, of course, but by the efforts of the new visitor. Has Charlie seen him somewhere before?

“Ugh...” he looked around the room with a tired gaze. “Same circus, just no fools left who’d fall for this nonsense.”

The man entered, almost elbowing Charlie, and the young man noticed a scroll with a red ribbon in his hands. Right, a herald! That’s why it felt like déjà vu.

“Hey, Oswald, quit grumbling,” someone from the center of the room suggested. “Just say what you have to and get out of here.”

“Mission from His Majesty, no doubt,” James Green seemed far more interested in the pint of beer Daisy had just brought him. “No fools here!”

“First, they dissolve the adventurers’ guild,” chimed in Green’s friend, “and then they go looking for volunteers with no experience or brains. If I were an important official, I could understand this type of logic.”

“No, it’s just a lost cause, His Majesty doesn’t want to waste his valuable people on it!”

“It seems that...”

The noise rose. Everyone was eager to voice their opinion, leaving Oswald little chance to carry out his task. However, he bellowed loudly and began reading the contents of the scroll.

“Our benevolent ruler, His Majesty Aloysius the Ninth, addresses his loyal subjects and hopes to find among them a brave soul willing to undertake a mission of great importance and high secrecy. The deadline for completion is three moons, and the reward is thirty thousand gold!”

As expected, the regulars of “The Trail” lowered their volume. The amount wasn’t exactly large. Most of them wouldn’t earn that much in ten years.

“If...” the herald, sensing the change in atmosphere, sighed disappointedly. “Well, it’s always like this. Ahem... If the brave soul is not alone, and will embark on a distant and dangerous journey with friends, each of them will also receive thirty thousand gold. Additionally, they will be allowed to use a magical artifact.”

“Brother, I have no idea how you did it, but don’t stop.”

In the next moment, Ed rushed toward the herald, hoping to extract more information. The entire tavern listened intently until it became clear: Oswald himself wasn’t aware of the details. The brave soul would only learn them at the palace, in the presence of the king—after all, that’s why it was a secret mission.

“Scam,” someone from the crowd concluded. “You can’t agree in advance, especially when you don’t know what they’ll ask of you. It’s a set-up, lad! Forget this idea, no matter how bad things seem.”

“No one goes on royal missions anymore, they’ve learned their lesson!”

“This whole story smells bad, Eddie!”

“You’re not a suicidal, minstrel, for heaven’s sake.”

What the advisers didn’t know were two things. First, Edgar hated being called Eddie. Second, the more you tried to influence him, the less likely you were to succeed.

Undoubtedly, concerned citizens probably started gossiping about them later, or someone suggested they should be preemptively mourned. Charlie didn’t care, and neither did Ed. Ed had his own way of interpreting advice.

“They're doing it on purpose! On purpose! They want to be the first to see the King,” he was full of energy, completely transformed compared to the man who hadn’t known whether he should live or not. “Charlie, holy smoke, this is a sign of fate!”

Another seeker of signs. It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so damn sad. Most likely, the people were right, and there was some trickery involved. But it felt so good to see his friend back to his old self! For that, Charlie was willing to shove his own opinions aside.

“Well, you really outdid yourself!” Ed couldn’t stop. “You mentioned wealth, and bang! Look, it’s falling right into our laps! I don’t believe in higher powers, of course, but if I did, I’d think they love me! And you, and Ellie. Ellie definitely won’t want to do any more mischief now! She doesn’t want to, it’s just that I drove the poor thing crazy. She wasted her time on me, I broke her heart, but I… I’ll fix it all… Oh, can you say something to make her come here?”

Charlie was momentarily stunned. Does he really think this is no coincidence?

“Listen, I swear I did nothing…”

“Didn't you?” Ed looked at him the way children look at their parents when asking for sweets at a fair. “You sure? Well, just try once, brother! What’s it gonna cost you?”

“It’s impossible to convince a stubborn mule. Gods, even though you’ve been banned, please help somehow!” Charlie thought. “I promise not to anger you or bother you with trivialities.”

Though this alone is already a trivial matter on the verge of absurdity.

“Well...” he took a step back and took a deep breath, then said with emphasis: “We'll meet Eleanor at the main square, though I personally doubt it.”

“Now that's more like it!” Ed, with the suddenness of a whirlwind crashing into a defenseless tree, squeezed his friend in a hug. “I know, you are the best, kindest wizard ever!”

“With just one miracle in my track record,” Charlie chuckled.

“No,” the whirlwind of a man released him and smiled broadly. The absence of the tooth became noticeable. “There were many more miracles.”

And what was he trying to say? Charles decided he could live without that information.

There were fewer people at the main square, and a man selling kites, whistles, and other clay trinkets had taken the musicians' spot. While Charlie was examining the items, Ed was scanning the square.

“Need help choosing?” the vendor asked eagerly.

“No, I’m just looking... Nice work, I’ll tell you as an artist. But the choice has already been made for me,” he sighed. “It seems like I’m off on a mission. You’ve probably heard about it.”

“Of course!” the vendor swapped his usual politeness for sincere involvement. “The royal herald’s been through every alley in town. There aren’t many volunteers. The conditions... hmm... Many years ago, a brave carpenter went on a mission, came back but refused the reward. He said the greatest reward was surviving. Soon after, he died, and we didn’t hear anything more. Sir, you should think twice.”

The minstrel, though a chill ran down his spine, was about to reply that he hadn’t thought twice even once, but he was forced to excuse himself quickly.

“Charlie, it worked!” Ed came rushing toward him, parting the crowd and holding Eleanor’s hand. “You did it, Charlie!”

Charlie barely had time to step aside so that the three of them wouldn’t block the view.

“She hasn’t gone there yet, can you believe it?!” Ed swept both his friend and his former lover into his arms. “That’s it, now she’s with us,” he looked at the girl apologetically. “Ellie, you can start a new life now. What was it you wanted, a tailor shop? You’ll have a tailor shop. I’ll give you my ten thousand.”

Eleanor winced, feeling his breath, and wriggled out of his embrace.

“This is why you’ll never get out of the dirt,” she shrugged. “Are you going to leave anything for yourself? No? You, Harding, are an idiot the world has never known.”

“We’ll split my part of the reward,” Charlie said, “don’t worry.”

“Your Archie’s an idiot too.”

“I’m Charlie.”

“Could be Andrew for all I care.”

“Guys, come on!”

Ed let go of Charlie, adjusted his cloak, and sniffled. He clearly was about to say something philosophical, judging by his expression.

“Ellie, life’s not that simple. Life... it’s... not an easy thing,” and there it was, “I won’t force you, but please, don’t go where you said you’d go. I let you down, but I don’t want anyone to hurt you. I want you to live your dream. And for him I want the same,” he nodded at Charlie, “Join us?”

Pure naivety. A woman — now, that’s difficult. You can’t expect her to forgive you, even if you spend your whole life atoning for your past sins. If respect is lost, it’s gone forever. Even with someone as unscrupulous as Eleanor. Charlie would’ve preferred to travel without her, but for his friend’s sake, he took the situation into his own hands.

“What did he tell you about the reward?”

“Ten thousand,” Eleanor replied through gritted teeth. “But I wouldn’t go with you for a hundred thousand...”

“They’re also giving us some magical artifact,” Charlie tried to hide a grin, “to use.”

Eleanor, as much as Charlie could tell, had a weakness for anything related to real magic. Women weren’t allowed into the academy, and you wouldn’t get far with fortune-telling potions or spells.

“A powerful artifact?” she raised an eyebrow.

“We’ll find out at the palace.”

“Well... more information wouldn’t hurt.”

That’s how you solve a problem by picking the right words. However, Charles Blanc doubted that he hadn’t created a new one.