The Thorn Iron Mercenary Band had its headquarters near Roll City's North Gate. It wasn't grand – a simple two-story building made of sturdy timber, its sign bearing the crossed sword, shield, and thorn vine emblem. Inside, the atmosphere was one of controlled chaos. Maps, weapons racks, and cluttered tables filled the space. Half a dozen men, their armor bearing the Thorn Iron crest, lounged around, chatting or tending to equipment.
Garth ushered Evan inside. "Captain! We've got a problem!" he called out.
A man seated at a central table looked up. He appeared older than Garth, perhaps fifty, with streaks of gray in his dark hair and a face etched with experience. His eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned Evan instantly. "Garth? What's happened? Where are the lizards?"
"The lizards are secured outside, Captain," Garth replied quickly. "This young man, Evan Young, was robbed at the market entrance. Lost his Spatial Ring – everything he owned was inside."
The Captain stood, his presence commanding despite his average height. He approached Evan. "Evan Young? I'm Martino, leader of the Thorn Iron Band. Robbed, you say? By whom?"
"A beggar boy," Evan explained, the frustration clear in his voice. "He sat near the pens, pleading for coins. I gave him all I had... but he stole my ring when I helped him stand."
Martino frowned, exchanging a knowing glance with Garth. "Street urchins... clever little vipers. They target newcomers, especially kind-hearted ones. Your Spatial Ring... what color was its band? Any distinctive markings?"
"Silver," Evan said, recalling the intricate design. "With a faint spiral pattern etched into the metal."
Martino stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Silver band with spirals... likely high-grade. Thieves fence those quickly, but not usually within the city. They'll head for bigger markets – Polis or perhaps even the coastal cities." He sighed. "I'm sorry, lad. Chances of recovering it here are slim. The City Guard won't bother for a lost ring, especially with no witnesses."
Evan's shoulders slumped. The reality of his situation pressed down on him: penniless, instrumentless, alone in a foreign land, his path to the Milan Institute seemingly blocked. The five Sovereigns – Cry of the Phoenix, Withered Wood Dragon's Chant, Sage's Legacy Tone, Nine Heavens Jade Pendant, and Spring Thunder – were irreplaceable treasures. Losing them felt like losing a part of himself. Quentin's letter of introduction was also gone.
Garth clapped a supportive hand on Evan's shoulder. "Don't despair completely, Evan. You mentioned needing to reach the Milan Institute? That's a long journey north."
Evan nodded mutely.
Martino studied Evan's face – the lingering innocence mixed with newfound despair. "The Milan Institute... a place for the gifted and the well-connected. What path were you to follow there?"
"Zither Magic," Evan answered softly. "I am a Lute Magus." He didn't mention his Crimson Rank, nor the unique nature of his cultivation.
Martino's eyebrows shot up. A Lute Magus? Rare indeed, especially one traveling alone. The boy's bearing, the unconscious grace, suddenly made sense. "A Lute Magus without his instrument... is like a warrior without his sword." He paused, making a decision. "Garth, you bought twenty lizards? We only need sixteen for the Sandstone Escort mission to Polis. We leave at dawn tomorrow."
Garth caught his captain's meaning. "Aye, Captain. We have spares." He turned to Evan. "Evan, we're heading north to Polis tomorrow. It's a solid ten days' ride, but it cuts deep into Poland's territory. From Polis, the main trade road leads straight towards Milan. You're welcome to ride with us. We'll get you to Polis safely. Once there, you can seek passage further north or find work to earn your fare. Better than wandering Roll City."
Hope flickered weakly in Evan's eyes. A path forward, however uncertain. "Thank you, Captain Martino. Thank you, Garth. I accept your offer."
Martino nodded curtly. "Good. Garth, get Evan settled in the bunk room. Find him a spare bedroll. Evan, rest. We depart at first light."
That night, lying on a simple cot in the Thorn Iron barracks, Evan stared at the rough-hewn ceiling. The sounds of snoring mercenaries filled the air. He touched the soft, cool material of the mask Zander had given him. Zander... where are you? Why did you leave? What did those Beastmen mean to you? The questions swirled, but no answers came. He missed the Emerald Canopy's quiet serenity, Quentin's melodies, his parents' presence, even his grandfather Yale's gruff affection. He missed Zander's silent, steadfast companionship. Loneliness, sharper than any blade, pierced him. Yet, beneath it, a spark ignited – a determination kindled by hardship. He would reach the Milan Institute. He would become a true Lute Magus. He would recover the Sovereigns. And Zander... he would find him again.
Sleep, when it finally came, was restless, filled with dreams of haunting melodies and a towering figure with piercing violet eyes.