Their first priority was to find an inn before the city fully swallowed them. Port Adwini, as it turned out, was more crowded than expected. The upcoming festival had drawn in travelers from across the coast. Merchants, pilgrims, performers, and opportunists alike. The streets pulsed with noise and bodies, and every half-decent inn had a line trailing from its doors.
After much wandering and more than a few rejections, they found a place on a crooked side street. The Salted Heron, a sagging wooden building that leaned like it had grown tired of standing straight. The sign above the entrance swung on rusted chains, its paint faded and flaking. It looked like it might collapse in a stiff breeze.
"I suppose it has charm," Celeste offered, already pushing through the door.
The interior was marginally better. Warm, cramped, and thick with the scent of sweat, old wood, and sizzling meat. The tavern at the front was packed with locals, fishermen and laborers hunched over tankards, a bard in the corner plucking a broken-tuned lute, a wench weaving through tables with a tray of drinks balanced on her shoulder.
Yvain and Celeste slipped into a narrow table near the back. They ordered food and leaned into the wooden booth as if trying not to be noticed.
As they waited, the conversation at the neighboring table drifted into their ears.
"Adwini won't be so safe in a few weeks," muttered a man with a scar across his nose, hunched over his ale. "This festival draws all sorts. The good, the bad, and the worse. I heard a caravan was torn apart by some beast in the woods."
A second man nodded, wide-eyed. "Aye. And then there's the fog at the harbor. Came outta nowhere, I'll say. I reckon the Sanctuary will send an inquisitor. Or a mage, at least."
Yvain's ears sharpened at the word inquisitor.
In his father's day, there had been three knightly orders bound to the Dehmohseni throne. The Errant, the Herald, and the Chevalier. Each served the empire and enforced its will. But after the fall, when both allies and foes, rose in rebellion and slew his father, the Sanctuary established a new order as well.
The Inquisition. It hunted things, sorcerers who crossed the line, cursed bloodlines, rogue spirits, and anything deemed unnatural.
But that was not the only change imposed.
They had formed the Magisterium, a council of mages to oversee magical conduct, and placed it beneath the thrones of mortal kings. Sorcerers were no longer rulers. They were advisors.
A more stable world, perhaps. Wiser, even.
His ancestors wouldn't think so.
The inn's door creaked open again, drawing a few cursory glances from the packed tavern crowd. A cloaked figure stepped through, pausing just past the threshold. She lingered a moment, eyes scanning the room, searching, perhaps for a friendly face, or simply for space.
Yvain and Celeste watched her from their corner. Her cloak was damp from the sea air, the hem frayed from travel, yet she carried herself with an trained poise.
Eventually, the stranger approached their table with careful steps, weaving through bodies and benches.
"May I sit here?" she asked, voice soft, uncertain. She gestured toward the vacant bench opposite them. "There's no room anywhere else."
"Of course," Celeste answered before Yvain could speak, a playful glint in her eyes that never boded well. "We'd be honored."
The girl gave a grateful nod and slid onto the bench. She removed her hood, revealing a cascade of vivid red hair that caught the lamplight like polished copper. Her face was striking, not in the classical sense, but in a way that was uniquely unforgettable. There was something about her eyes too, bright and watchful, like they missed nothing.
"Thank you, friend," she said, brushing her hair behind one ear. "I didn't expect the city to be this crowded. I thought to find a room, maybe a quiet corner..."
"You and us both," Celeste replied, leaning forward with a grin. "I'm Celeste, and this brooding slab of stone is Yvain."
Yvain gave a short nod in greeting.
"I'm Minerva," the girl said, smiling warmly at both of them. "You two don't sound local. Not from Adwini, I take it?"
"We're from Salem," Yvain said, cutting in before Celeste could concoct one of her more chaotic tales. He saw the flicker of disappointment in her eyes and ignored it.
Minerva's brows rose with interest. "Salem? I've heard of it. An old city of scholars and towers, yes? Must be beautiful."
"Must be," Celeste muttered under her breath, smirking into her mug. Then she asked. "Are you here for the festival?"
Minerva didn't seem to notice, or chose not to. "I wish," she said, then hesitated, biting her lower lip before continuing. "But I suppose it's no great secret. I'm here on orders from my master. He serves on the king's court. I was sent to deliver a message."
"A messenger?" Celeste arched an eyebrow. "You don't look the type."
Minerva smiled again, sheepish this time. "Not exactly. More of an apprentice. He said it was a simple task. Deliver a sealed scroll to Brother Lome of the Tenth Mind."
Yvain's eye's raised slightly at the name. "Who?"
Minerva tilted her head. "Right, I forget, you're not local. Brother Lome is the most powerful mage in Adwini. A recluse enchanter. Lives in a tower near the sea cliffs."
Celeste gave a low whistle. "Sounds like a character."
"Maybe," Minerva allowed, chuckling. "But his followers guard him like a relic. I wasn't even allowed to see him tonight. Said I'd have to come back tomorrow, and that I couldn't stay within the grounds."
"Convenient," Celeste said, swirling her drink. "So now you're stuck sharing tables with strangers in a half-rotted inn."
Minerva shrugged. "I've had worse."
"So," Celeste began, resting her chin on one hand and peering across the table, "what's your discipline, apprentice?"
Minerva blinked, clearly surprised by the question. Her fingers toyed with the rim of her cup. "You know about the disciplines?"
Celeste answered with a sly grin.
Minerva hesitated a moment, her eyes flicking between them, as if reappraising what she had assumed were just another pair of weary travelers. "My master is an alchemist," she said cautiously, still gauging their reactions. "And that's my path too. It's early still, I haven't undergone my rites."
Yvain gave a noncommittal nod while Celeste leaned back with a huff, amused.
"An alchemist," she mused aloud. "You must smell like sulfur half the time."
Minerva grinned despite herself. "Only on the bad days."
"Are you apprentices too?" she asked, more hopeful now, her earlier wariness slipping away. "It's rare to meet other practitioners on the road."
"Something like that," Yvain said evenly, the lie sliding off his tongue with the ease of habit.
In truth, neither of them had been apprentices for years. Celeste had mastered vitalism before she was sixteen, and enchantment not long after. And Yvain. Well, Yvain had gone further than most dared dream.
Minerva's smile brightened. She looked at them now as peers. "What discipline?"
"Vitalism," Celeste said casually, swirling the remnants of her drink. She saw no reason to flaunt the full extent of her capabilities.
Minerva nodded slowly, clearly impressed.
She had no way of knowing that Celeste's bloodline had been steeped in sorcery for generations, nor that Yvain's gifts far eclipsed hers. Most mages would spend a lifetime mastering one of the six disciplines. Fewer still achieved fluency in two, as Celeste had.
But Yvain... he was a trinist.
He had touched three disciplines and in all three, he held command few could rival. Even among the storied Dehmohseni line, those who achieved that kind of breadth could be counted on one hand.
Minerva turned her bright, curious gaze to Yvain, clearly expecting his answer now.
He met her eyes without flinching. "Augury," he said simply, his voice calm, as if naming something mundane.
But the effect was immediate.
Minerva's eyes widened, almost comically, and her lips parted as if to ask a dozen questions all at once. Instead, she leaned in, whispering like someone sharing a ghost story. "Real augury? Not the charlatan stuff with bird bones and tea leaves?"
Yvain allowed himself the smallest of smiles. "Real augury."
Celeste leaned back with a smirk. "You've impressed her, cousin. Careful, or she might start writing poems about you."
Minerva laughed nervously, brushing a lock of red hair behind her ear. "No poems. I'll leave that to the bards."
Yvain rose from his seat, and for a moment, Minerva seemed taken aback by his height, he cast a long shadow in the lamplight, taller than she'd expected.
"We should retire for the night," he said to Celeste, his voice low, already distant in tone.
Celeste stretched languidly, then stood beside him with a half-smile. "Goodnight, Minerva," she said breezily, her tone warm but inscrutable.
Without another word, the two turned and ascended the narrow stairs to the second floor, their steps quiet against the worn wood. Minerva watched them go, her thoughts already stirring with questions.