“Athemore!” the driver bellowed over the whipping wind, and Grant gave a long sigh of relief, joy, exhaustion, and agony.

  It wasn’t so much the bumping. It wasn’t the jolting or the lurching, either. It was more a combination of the three over two and a half days of constant travel, with only 10-minute breaks to knuckle a fraction of the soreness in his lower back. He considered himself healthy, at least, and 16-hour workdays at the inn had toughened him up more than most, he’d wager. But before they crested a hill overlooking Athemore, he wondered if someone could die from a back cramp.

  He peered down and gasped as the city came into view.

  Athemore spread beyond the horizon like an endless mosaic. Its buildings stood almost atop each other, fighting for land within tidy blocks bordered by straight grid-like streets, and no two neighboring structures shared a color. Bright yellows, blues, reds, greens, and purples clashed in a senseless mishmash.

  The organized cityscape was only broken in its center by four looming white towers encircling a grass square the size of two cities, in the middle of which stood a colossal ivory palace. The surrounding towers were connected by thick bright walls.

  That must be where Emperor Genus lives, he thought to himself, studying the unnaturally green grass and impossibly white brick. He studied the structure, trying to gauge its scope compared to its surroundings. The palace alone was at least as large as Iori.

  The world blurred, and he found himself staring at the bottom of the cart with no recollection of the past ten seconds.

  He shook his head. What just happened? He knew he had been looking into the grounds, admiring their scale and beauty. But then, there was only confusion. He blinked it away and directed his gaze back to the palace.

  Moments later, he came back to his senses. His chin was tucked into his chest, eyes watching a hole in the bottom of his cart. What? Frustration welled, and he tried again, taking in every detail he could.

  Green grass, white palace.

  His head throbbed, his vision hazed, and then he was staring at the sky. He wanted to scream.

  Despite his best efforts, Grant could only gaze into the estate for moments before his eyes bounced off, like a flat stone skipping across a lake. When his attention was wrenched away, details he had observed were torn from his mind with it. He massaged his temples. Whatever Magic was pushing him away, it couldn’t be good for him, so he turned his focus elsewhere.

  Neighboring the grounds sat a shining gold dome-like structure, which was almost the size of the palace itself. It was surrounded by a dozen rectangular multi-story buildings. He could make out tiny shapes in the distance moving between them.

  Wait a second…

  He took a deep breath and looked back into the white-walled enclosure, only to find complete stillness. The impeccable grass and shrubs would require constant maintenance, every stone surface daily washing to keep its color, yet not a worker was in sight.

  Illusion Magic.

  His head was going foggy again, so he looked away. He had heard about Illusion Spells, but the Mana to both conceal all activity and divert unwanted attention over such a large area must be enough to fill a lake.

  Not only the scope of the Spell, but the thought process behind its design bewildered him. When nobles in Iori wanted to discourage prying eyes, they built higher walls or closed their curtains. Wouldn’t a simpler Illusion like a blanket of fog serve the same purpose, yet cost a fraction of the Mana?

  He dismissed the thought. He was closer to the most mistreated pack mule in Evenon than he was to the poorest noble. The royal family might as well be from a different world.

  The cities they had passed before seemed to rush at and disappear behind his cart in seconds. But minutes later, he felt he had barely passed even a tenth of the sprawling city before his eyes. How can anything this big even exist?

  With a sharp drop, their cart began its descent of the hill, and Grant’s view became obscured by trees. The path curved and wound for over an hour until they reached the base and emerged from the foot, entering the final stretch toward the city. Walls towered over the landscape, blanketing the sere field before the city in shadows. There was something dizzying and uncomfortable about their existence. Grant’s stomach churned at the thought of them collapsing under their own weight.

  Another hour later, the cart came to a creaking stop in front of the city gates. Grant stood up shakily and peered over the side to see the front wagons and carriages in the distance bustling with activity, as their occupants began disembarking.

  “Everybody off!” The call came down the line, relayed from one driver to the next. Grant checked his Attributes once more before stepping off the wagon for the last time.

  [Displaying Attributes.]

  Name: Grant Leeman

  Strength: 4

  Vitality: 9

  Dexterity: 16 + 2

  Agility: 8

  Intelligence: 17

  Wisdom: 9 + 2

  Perception: 22

  He allowed himself a moment of pride. Constant Identify casts had grown his Wisdom to nine over the past few days. Almost as a blessing, the wagon’s splintered wooden seat and constant bumping made sleep a distant memory, and he had not reached his maximum Mana capacity a single time.

  Your low Wisdom is going to get you killed. He remembered Mr. Nerelot’s words, and he wondered what the Blacksmith would have to say about his efforts.

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  During the hours of nonstop practice, he noticed a trend with the Spell. If he had a pen and paper, he could have counted casts for a more reliable calculation, but he would wager that each level in Wisdom past the base of five took about 50% more casts than the previous. He would similarly wager that past 10, and again at 15, the number of required casts would increase again.

  He jumped off the cart, bending his sore knees to absorb the impact.

  “This is ridiculous!” hissed a voice. A man stood at the back of the cart in front of Grant’s, an outraged glare in his eye, stabbing a finger at the city gates. He wore the body and clothes of a merchant, a bronze-yellow silken tunic tucked into blue pants. His sweat-soaked shirt stuck to his skin, revealing a bulbous stomach and sagging chest.

  “I am a known man! I will not walk like a peasant!” To punctuate his demand with a demonstration, he sat on the hatch of his cart, crossing his arms over his round belly. He pointed at the coachman. “Retrieve your commanding officer!”

  The coachman stared for a moment, then nodded and stood up, limping up the line.

  Minutes later, a thin, wiry man walked down the line, led by the coachman. His bald head accentuated his harsh features and sharp jawline. He wore a navy blue vest over his long-sleeved white shirt, and his long strides made him seem to float more than walk. Grant took a mental note of his uniform, which was remarkably different from Captain Nickel and Rott’s.

  The coachman pointed out the merchant, who muttered to himself loudly. The officer approached him.

  “What seems to be the problem?” He spoke in a soothing voice, as if he were a servant at the man’s disposal.

  Grant grimaced and took a step back. He knew that tone.

  The merchant, however, hadn’t caught the strain in the man’s voice. “Here’s the problem!” he bellowed, making Grant clench his jaw. “I spend hours in the sopping rain, then days in the wet heat!” He raised one finger on his left hand and gestured at his clothes with his right. The officer examined them. “I sit on a hard bench,” he continued, raising a second finger while pointing at the cart. The officer’s eyes followed. “And my driver insists on hitting every bump and hole in the road.”

  He raised a third finger. “After which you expect me to walk across Athemore?” The man pointed at the city. “I am the youngest district head of the Merchant Guild in Iori, and I will be treated appropriately for a man of my station!”

  Grant cringed, feeling a hot pang of embarrassment for sharing a home city with the man.

  The officer paused, performatively paying the man’s words consideration with a thoughtful frown. “I see. So, your three primary complaints are the rain, the seat in your wagon, and the lack of suitable carriage into the city center.”

  His icy expression was like that of a slaughterer about to stick a pig. Grant took another step back.

  “Well,” the officer continued. “I assure you that none of us would be here if it weren’t our duty. I, for example, would love nothing more than to tie a noose and hang you for interrupting my morning with this insipid performance.”

  The merchant began growing a deep shade of red, chins trembling.

  “But I doubt we would be able to find a wooden board strong enough to support your weight, let alone a rope long enough to reach all the way around your disgusting neck.”

  The merchant slid off his seat. “Fine. I’ll walk—”

  The officer waved a hand, and the merchant’s voice broke. His lips continued moving, but no sound came out. He clutched at his neck, his eyes bulging, trying to force the words out.

  “Your breath reeks, and I would rather you stopped blowing that rotten air in my direction.”

  The merchant’s mouth snapped shut.

  Grant stared in shock. What was that Spell?

  “Allow me to continue. We all must make sacrifices. For reasons beyond my wildest comprehension, the Goddess chose you to fight as one of her champions, and therefore one of the sacrifices I must make is to deliver you to the capital in one piece. It is not my place to call into question Her judgment.”

  The officer turned away from the merchant and clasped his hands behind his back. “Even a man of your… fitness should be able to walk the distance required, especially if he doesn’t waste precious energy barking like dog through a fence.”

  The merchant’s face was pure horror. Grant hid a smile behind his hand, imagining him being more terrified by the prospect of a little exercise than being hanged.

  “To assist you in this endeavor, I shall remove your temptation to speak, saving you precious energy. You may nod for ‘yes,’ and you may shake your head for ‘no.’” He looked over his shoulder. “Do you understand?”

  The merchant’s jowls shook as he bounced his head.

  “Excellent! I hope that I have made my expectations clear. You are dismissed.”

  Onlookers gave the officer a wide berth as his feet padded softly across the pavement.

  Is that going to last forever? Grant thought idly. He almost felt sorry for the man. A merchant without a voice was about as useful as a tailor without fingers.

  More than that, it was the first time he had seen an offensive Spell used against another person. It wasn’t a simple Identify or Shield Spell, but one that the man had probably bought from the Store with the intent to use it on other living beings. Grant had been in the presence of Campaigners before, but the officer was a combat Mage of some sort.

  With the knowledge of a man who could take away a man’s voice with a short wave of his hand, the world became a lot more terrifying. He’d have to see if he could find the Spell on the Store later.

  “Boy, come here.”

  Grant jumped, searching for the source of the words, hoping he hadn’t done anything to upset someone. His coachman beckoned him, and he jogged over. He hadn’t gotten a great look at his face before, but the man was almost as old as Mr. Fletcher. Not nearly as exhausted looking, though. Grant was unsure if he had even slept over the past few days, since that caravan had moved nonstop, but the man looked fine despite the journey. Lira stood nearby, acting like she wasn’t listening in.

  “You’ve never been to Athemore.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Grant nodded anyway.

  “Not all dangers are going to be past the Portal,” he said, turning his face toward the city gates but flicking his eyes toward the officer. “You keep that dagger of yours safe and close, and hidden a bit better. It’s Bound, but some people may get the wrong idea about how that works.”

  “You think…” Grant mumbled, letting his head fall to the side as he followed the driver’s gaze. “You think someone would take it?”

  “Ain’t no thinking about something like that,” the driver grunted. “People have killed for lots less. That sailor who wants your blood on his knuckles won’t be the only fool walking through those gates today. I don’t mean to tell you your business, but don’t be waving around things that make no sense for you to be having.”

  “I…” Granted started, and then stopped. He scratched his head. “Thank you. You’re right.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Yes?” Grant asked, eager for more, and the coachman leaned in.

  “Get yourself some people. Doesn’t have to be a lot. She’s a good place to start,” he said, nodding toward Lira, who was leaning against the dirty carriage, picking at her fingernails. “You’ve got a good gut and a good head. Trust ‘em.”

  “I will,” Grant said. The driver pulled out a flask and took a long draw. “Never drank with passengers on board. Seemed a bad habit to get into.” He gave Grant a toothy smile. “No passengers now.”

  The horses in front of him began to canter, and without another word, the driver clicked his teeth, sending his horses after those in front of them.

  After waving goodbye to the man, Grant followed the rest of the pack towards the front of the line.

  It had been hard to tell the scale of the caravan during short breaks, but now over a thousand recruits gawked eagerly the city’s gates. Grant’s neck strained trying to see the top rim.

  Those around him varied in all ways imaginable, between skin and hair color, height, weight, clothing, and accent. Some stood slumped over, and others stood tall, chins raised high. Some chatted with excitement, and others remained as silent as ghosts.

  The chained and manacled men and women brought up the rear, about 50 in all. They were shackled at the feet and wrists, eyes forward and unflinching.

  With a loud groan, the gates moved. Everyone from commoner to noble stood in wonder. There were no chains or ropes, no pulleys or winches, and no cranks in eyesight. Even to Grant’s untrained eyes, it was clearly not a feat of engineering, but of Magic. With a loud latching sound, they stopped, revealing the city within.

  Captain Nickel stood in front of the crowd of recruits.

  “Welcome to Athemore. You will follow me to the city barracks and academy, which have graciously cleared their halls. You will receive further instructions upon arrival. I assume most of you have never been here, and therefore I strongly suggest you do not fall behind.”