The night air burned electric, charged with the scent of ozone and spellfire. Over the twisting rooftops of Mirrakar, a large city in the east of the Drao Szann Confederacy, Aravior Dynaton ran like a comet loosed from the firmament. His crimson hair whipped behind him in the wind, wild and unbound, a streak of fire against the deep indigo sky. His azure eyes shimmered with delight. Gods, this was fun.

  A bolt of arcane energy shrieked past his ear, searing the air. Aravior laughed and vaulted over a gap between buildings, twisting midair with a flick of his wrist. A thin wand of obsidian and sunwood snapped up in his fingers, tracing a sigil that coalesced in an instant. A gust of wind roared beneath him, catching his fall and hurling him forward like an arrow loosed from a bow. He landed in a roll atop a gilded dome, boots skidding across enchanted bronze that pulsed with runes of reinforcement. Below him, the streets of Mirrakar unfurled like veins of molten light, glowing with spell-lamps and leyline conduits that pulsed beneath cobblestone streets.

  “Dynaton!” A voice bellowed from behind. “Surrender at once!”

  Aravior smirked. Not a chance.

  The Bureau of Magical Enforcement was relentless, their officers clad in robes of woven sigil-thread, marked with the golden hexagonal insignia of the Arcane Authority. They moved with trained precision, their boots flashing with bursts of propulsion magick as they soared after him. Spells howled through the air. Bolts of concussive force, ensnaring vines of liquid mana, shimmering glyphs meant to paralyze.

  Aravior wove through them like a dancer in a storm. A downward flick of his wand and a tongue of flame curled beneath his feet, launching him skyward just as an arresting sigil burst where he had stood. He somersaulted midair and lashed out, causing his wand to trace a cutting arc, sending a crescent of blue-white fire whipping toward his pursuers. One officer swerved, his protective glyphs holding against the strike. Another wasn’t so lucky. He yelped as the spell clipped his shoulder, sending him spiraling downward before a levitation charm snapped him upright.

  “Watch your flames, lad!” one of the senior officers snarled. “Resisting arrest only makes it worse!”

  Aravior rolled his eyes. Resisting? No, this was more of a performance. He reached the edge of a sprawling skybridge, its archways sculpted from fused amethyst and silverweave, glowing softly with imbued stasis magick. The bridge spanned the Grand Bazaar far below, a chaotic wonder of floating market-stalls, illusion-crafted billboards, and merchant automata hawking wares in twenty different tongues. The air shimmered with protective sigils designed to deter thieves and rogue sorcery.

  Naturally, Aravior ignored them.

  He vaulted off the skybridge, plunging toward the chaos below. An instant before hitting the ground, his wand flared. A vortex of air cushioned his descent, and he landed light as a feather atop a merchant’s floating platform. The elderly gnome tending the stall yelped in alarm, sending crystal vials of alchemical tinctures scattering. Aravior shot him a disarming grin before springing off the edge, hitting the ground running, his boots barely making a sound against the shimmering mosaic tiles as he began to weave through the throng of spellbound crowds.

  Above, the officers hesitated. No reckless spells in the Bazaar. Too many witnesses, too many important people. Aravior could feel their frustration, their unspoken curses. And he felt alive.

  Around him, the market pulsed with light and movement. Floating lanterns of bottled stardust, enchanted carpets drifting between stalls, street magicians performing cantrips for coin. The scent of spiced fruit, burning incense, and smoldering mana filled the air, thick as the murmur of a hundred different languages overlapping in a symphony.

  Gotta blend in. Gotta move fast.

  He yanked up the hood of his ash-gray cloak, ruffling his wild hair and tucking it away from sight. His wand slipped back into the inner folds of his sleeve. Out of sight, but always at the ready. Aravior slouched his shoulders, adjusted his gait, and slipped into the flow of bodies with practiced ease.

  Behind him, the officers of the BME landed on the outskirts of the Bazaar, their expressions sharp beneath their sigil-threaded hoods. Aravior didn’t have to look back to know they were scanning the crowd, eyes burning with divinatory sight, searching for traces of his magic.

  He dipped his hands into his pockets, keeping his breathing even. No sudden movements. No obvious spellwork.

  A merchant, a thick-bellied minotaur draped in violet silks, gestured toward him with a hand of solid brass, his other fingers adorned with rings that flickered with arcane runes. “Aha! Young master! You have the look of a man in need of a disguise, yes? A new face? A shadow-cloak, perhaps? Special discount for sorcerers on the run.”

  Aravior flashed him a sharp grin. “Tempting, but I’ll pass.”

  The minotaur chuckled, tapping his metallic fingers together. “Your loss, lad. But mind your step. The Consortium’s eyes are everywhere tonight.”

  Aravior stiffened slightly. The Basilisk Consortium. He could feel their presence now, small and subtle. Glimmers of divination magick curled through the air, barely noticeable unless you knew what to look for. They weren’t there for him. Not yet, at least. But the moment the Bureau made too much noise, that would change.

  He weaved through the Bazaar, slipping between a troupe of veiled dancers weaving illusions into the air, past a group of merchants from the Republic haggling over a crate of floating gemstones, and under the gaze of a six-armed automaton scribbling magickal contracts onto floating parchment.

  A side alley caught his eye. A narrow passage between a potion shop carved into the ribs of a long-dead beast and a tattoo parlor whose ink pulsed with bottled starlight.

  Perfect.

  With one last glance toward the officers now questioning a bewildered vendor, Aravior ducked into the alley.

  But as he did, he hesitated, one foot already in the shadows.

  The merchants words lingered in his mind—“The Consortium’s eyes are everywhere tonight.” He knew better than to ignore a warning like that, especially from someone savvy enough to recognize a sorcerer on the run.

  With a sharp breath, he turned back towards the heavy stall. The minotaur grinned wide, showing teeth like polished ivory. “Ah! Changed your mind, have you?”

  “Maybe,” Aravior admitted, lowering his hood just enough to meet the merchant’s gaze. “Depends on what you’re offering.”

  The minotaur chuckled, shifting his bulk as he waved him closer. Around them, the Bazaar swirled in an endless current of voices and light, but something about this space, this little pocket of shadow between reality and trickery, felt strangely still. The minotaur extended his brass hand in a sweeping gesture toward his wares.

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  “You run fast, boy, but you seem to burn bright.” His fingers tapped against the edge of his stall, setting off a faint ripple of magick. “And bright flames catch many eyes. You want something to dim that glow, yes?”

  Aravior crossed his arms. “You tell me.”

  The minotaur snorted, then reached under his counter, producing a small lacquered box bound in strands of silver wire. He flicked a claw against the latch, and the threads unraveled, releasing a faint pulse. Inside, three items rested on a bed of soft velvet.

  A pendant of blackened glass, its surface rippling like liquid night. “Swallow the light around you,” the minotaur murmured. “A shadowcloak in truth, woven from the void itself. Not invisibility, but close enough.”

  A small vial of shifting mist, sealed with a sigil that whispered against the mind. “The breath of a forgotten god,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Drink, and your presence becomes a half-truth. Harder to track, harder to pin down. The Bureau’s seers will find only a blur.”

  A ring of tarnished gold, almost unremarkable, save for the faint flicker of a rune etched within. “Old sorcery. Worn by a man who walked where he pleased, unseen and unremembered. A thief’s charm, a liar’s boon.”

  Aravior studied them, resisting the urge to reach out just yet. He was a sorcerer, not a fool. “And how much?”

  The minotaur’s grin widened. “Ah, now that is the question, isn’t it? Coin is fine, but a favor is better.”

  Aravior’s lips curled into a smirk. “A favor, huh? You don’t even know my name.”

  The minotaur leaned in slightly, brass fingers glinting under the lantern light. “Boy, I don’t need your name to know trouble when I see it. And trouble is always worth investing in.”

  Aravior tapped his fingers against his arm, thinking fast. He could feel the Bureau closing in. Not yet here, but close enough to make his skin prickle. He needed to move.

  “Fine,” he said, tilting his head. “Let’s talk business.”

  Aravior’s eyes hovered over the ring, its tarnished gold dull beneath the lantern light. The rune, though faint, seemed to shift as if aware of his gaze.

  "This one," he said, picking it up between thumb and forefinger. The metal was warm, almost alive. "What's the story?"

  The minotaur chuckled, low and rumbling. "Ah, a fine eye you have, young magus. As I mentioned, that little bauble belonged to a man who walked through locked doors and past watchful guards without a single soul noticing." He tapped the counter. "Not true invisibility, mind you. But memories slip like water when you're wearing it. Faces turn, names falter. A ghost among the living."

  Aravior turned the ring over, feeling the weight of its promise. He was good, damn good, but even he had his limits. A charm like this? It could tip the balance.

  He slipped it onto his finger. The moment it settled, a strange lightness washed over him. The sounds of the market felt a touch more distant, like he was one step removed from reality.

  The minotaur grinned. "Ah, it likes you. That’s rare."

  Aravior smirked, slipping the ring back off. "And now we discuss the price. I assume you’re not about to let me walk off with it out of generosity."

  The minotaur snorted. "Generosity? Hah! No, no, my friend. I am Tavorok, son of the Beliminorgath Clan, and in Khazadur, nothing worth having is given freely."

  Aravior leaned on the counter. "Then let’s hear what a favor means to you."

  Tavorok raised three thick fingers. "Three choices. One favor, your pick."

  "One. There is a vault beneath this city, locked away from prying eyes. A collector of…unusual artifacts keeps something that once belonged to my people. I would see it returned." His brass fingers tapped the counter. "No one will weep for its loss."

  "Two. A courier bound for the Taraxian border carries a letter of great importance. I need it intercepted. Whether you read it or deliver it to a different hand is up to you, I do not care."

  Tavorok’s grin widened as he began the third potential favor. "Sometimes, my business benefits when the watch is distracted. If, say, the Bureau of Magical Enforcement were to be preoccupied elsewhere for a few hours, I’d consider our debt settled."

  Aravior rolled the ring around his palm, considering. Each favor had its risks, but also its advantages.

  "Well?" Tavorok leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Which will it be, sorcerer?"

  Aravior smirked, turning the ring around his palm again. He let the silence stretch, meeting Tavorok’s gaze with amused scrutiny. The minotaur did not fidget, a merchant of his caliber never did, but there was a flicker of anticipation in his dark, bovine eyes.

  "Am I allowed to ask questions before I pick?"

  Tavorok’s grin widened, flashing a gold-capped tooth Aravior hadn't noticed before. "Ah! Now that is the sign of a man who values his own skin. Yes, young magus, ask freely. I delight in a well-placed question."

  Aravior gave a slow nod. "Alright then. The vault. What exactly am I stealing, and who does it belong to?"

  Tavorok’s thick fingers drummed against the counter. "A trinket of great sentimental value to my kin. A stone-carved medallion, etched with the sigil of the Beliminorgath Clan. It was taken during the last war by a man who no longer has need of it." He chuckled. "He resides in the vault as well, though not by choice."

  Aravior’s brows rose. "A corpse vault?"

  "A collector’s tomb, more like. The man was wealthy, and his resting place is guarded, but he hoarded things that did not belong to him. I only ask you return what is ours."

  Aravior hummed in thought. "Noted."

  He leaned forward on the counter, watching the way Tavorok’s large hands moved as he spoke. "The courier job. What’s in the letter, and who does it need to go to instead?"

  Tavorok’s grin did not falter, but something in his posture shifted. Just slightly, a hair’s breadth of caution.

  "The letter contains information that…affects business across several nations. Its intended recipient is a high-ranking official in the Taraxian Empire. Who it should go to instead? That depends on your ambitions, my friend." He folded his arms. "Deliver it to me, and you can consider your debt paid. Deliver it to someone else, and we may negotiate further opportunities."

  Aravior exhaled through his nose, considering the implications. "Dangerous game."

  Tavorok nodded, clearly pleased.

  "And the third?" Aravior asked. "If I’m causing a distraction for the Bureau of Magical Enforcement, how much chaos are we talking? Broken noses or full-scale riots?"

  Tavorok let out a deep, amused laugh. "Ah, a fine question!" He gestured with a flourish. "No riots, bad for business. No killing, draws too much heat. But a series of unfortunate events in the right places? A little fire, a little misdirection, and suddenly the Bureau is too busy chasing shadows to worry about people like you and me."

  Aravior smirked. "You sound like you’ve done this before."

  "My friend," Tavorok said, bowing his great horned head. "You don’t survive in this world without learning how to make the right mess at the right time."

  Aravior exhaled, glancing around the market. The officers of the Arcane Authority were still out there, likely scouring the streets for him. The ring was his, but the cost was yet to be chosen.

  Aravior rolled the ring between his fingers, feeling its weight. “The chaos would be easy,” he said with a lazy smirk. “That’s barely a favor, more of a pastime. If I wanted to waste my talents, I’d just keep playing hide-and-seek with the Bureau.” He leaned in slightly. “But the vault? Now that sounds like a real test.”

  Tavorok let out a low chuckle, his massive shoulders shifting with amusement. “I thought you might say that.”

  Aravior tapped his chin, his blue eyes glinting with curiosity. “Do you care about anything else in there? Or is the medallion the only thing you want?”

  The minotaur grinned, a slow and measured thing. “You think like a true seeker of opportunity.” He folded his thick arms over his chest. “The medallion is my price, non-negotiable. Everything else?” He spread his hands. “Finders, keepers.”

  Aravior’s smirk deepened. “Now that,” he said, slipping the golden ring onto his finger, “is the kind of deal I like.”