Morning began with me finding Elvindor and Riza in a quiet conversation. The elf, apparently inspired, was explaining how human kingdoms were structured—and how one was supposed to greet high-ranking nobles properly.

  “Zenhald, you sleep way too much!” Riza exclaimed the moment I pried my eyes open. “We’ve been awake for, like, a hundred years already!”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I grumbled, stretching until my spine cracked. “I’m human—I’m allowed. This body gets dragged into sleep like crazy, especially after yesterday’s ‘delicacy’ boar.”

  We set off. As soon as the village vanished around the bend, Riza looked at me questioningly. I nodded, and she sighed in relief and slipped the cloak off, returning it to Elvindor.

  “Thank you,” she said politely.

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? So you taught her that?”

  Elvindor only nodded smugly. “Someone has to give her culture, considering her official guardian prefers sleeping until noon.”

  “You’re really earning your age, old man,” I smirked.

  “Yes, and you, Zenhald, apparently learn nothing at all,” he shot back over his shoulder and sped up.

  Soon, the walls of the first truly large city appeared on the horizon. We “sealed” Riza back into the cloak and entered through the main gates. The girl’s eyes worked like scanners—she spun her head a full three-sixty, trying to memorize every stall, every guard, and every ornate balcony.

  I could already smell the city. Looks like they’d forgotten to build sewers in some places—parts of it stank horribly.

  Elvindor led us straight to a tall building with columns. “The library,” he announced solemnly. “The knowledge of generations is kept here.”

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  Riza stepped inside with reverent awe. “So… the thoughts of those who have already gone… live here?”

  Elvindor beamed and began methodically roaming the shelves. He picked five thick volumes—took three for himself, and shoved two into Riza’s arms: one on geography and one on the basics of magic. Then he pulled out another book bound in thin leather and offered it to me.

  “Uh, thanks, no,” I pushed it away. “I hate reading, and I’ve got nothing to learn from them anyway. Everything written here I either already know—or it’s nonsense.”

  Elvindor looked at me with deep sympathy. “See, Riza? Right now Zenhald is an empty glass that thinks it’s full. When you try to pour clean water of knowledge into it, it just spills onto the floor—because the glass is tightly sealed with a lid of pride.”

  “What the—?!” I snatched the book from him. “Give me that. What could possibly be written in there that I don’t know?”

  I looked at the cover: “The Art of Manners and High Society Etiquette.”

  “You’re serious?” I stared at the elf like he’d lost his mind. “‘The art of manners’?”

  “Exactly,” Elvindor cut in. “You’re rude, Zenhald. You acting like an unpolished mercenary is only half the problem. You eat like a barbarian and you don’t know basic etiquette at all. If we go to your sister, you’ll shame her just by standing there.”

  I glowered at him, then glanced at Riza. She was quietly giggling behind her geography book.

  “Fine,” I muttered, stuffing the etiquette book under my arm. “I’ll read it later. Just so I can laugh at all the stupid things humans came up with.”

  Then we headed to the bazaar. Noise, shouting vendors, the smell of spices and heated iron—Riza was thrilled. She darted from stall to stall until we reached a weaponsmith.

  There she froze. She picked up every sword, every dagger, tested weight and balance, ran a finger along the fuller. She took her time—probably a full hour of me and Elvindor just standing there waiting while she found “hers.”

  In the end she stopped in front of a long spear tipped with blued steel. It was light, flexible, and deadly.

  “This,” she said firmly.

  “Yeah… twenty silver,” I sighed, counting out coins from my purse. “My savings are melting faster than snow in hell. Soon I’ll have to find another little job for an undertrained mage.”

  But when I saw the joy and grace with which Riza started spinning that spear right in the middle of the street—scaring off pedestrians—I realized it was worth it. In her hands it wasn’t just a stick with iron. It was an extension of her will.

  “Zen, look! It’s like lightning!” she shouted, thrusting.

  “Careful, maestro,” I smirked. “Let’s find a place to sleep before you skewer some distracted merchant.”