A Guest in the Summer Kingdom, pt. 2
A Guest in the Summer Kingdom
The deal was done. Garrick said little during the exchange, letting Asir handle the subtleties of negotiation. That was what the fixer was for, after all. Garrick had no patience for the endless back-and-forth, the unspoken barbs, and the veiled threats that passed between men in these lands. His world was simpler. More direct.
Now, as he wandered the narrow streets of R'asha alone, his thoughts drifted to the task that had brought him here. The evening sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the sandstone buildings. The crowds in the market had begun to thin, but the heat still clung to the air, like it had forgotten how to leave.
He could feel the weight of the city pressing in on him - the clamor of voices, the scent of spices, sweat, and smoke. But more than that, something else lingered here, something unseen. A disturbance in the very air itself. Garrick’s hand brushed the hilt of his sword beneath his robe, a familiar weight he hadn’t had to use since entering the Summer Kingdom.
Magic, he thought. The word alone curdled his blood. The mere idea that it had returned to this place - the very kingdom that had once prided itself on being "cleansed" - was an insult to everything the Second Order stood for. Magic was a plague. A stain that had nearly destroyed the world once. And the Second Order was the cure.
Garrick was a believer. He had no doubts about the righteousness of his mission, about the sanctity of his cause. But belief alone didn’t cloud his judgment. No, he was a man of careful, measured actions. He tempered his fervor with pragmatism, always knowing that restraint was often more powerful than blind force. He would not burn the city down just to root out a single mage. Not yet, at least.
As he walked, his mind drifted back to the meeting. The contact had been nervous, darting eyes, jittery hands. The type who knew too much but said too little. But what he had whispered in that dark alley was enough to confirm Garrick’s suspicions: magic had returned to R’asha. Not a whisper, not a rumor - no. It was here, festering beneath the surface.
But magic was patient. It seeped into the cracks of society, biding its time. It waited, like the heat that clung to the air, until the moment was right to strike.
Garrick stopped in front of a crumbling stone wall, its surface covered in the faded remnants of old murals. He pressed his back to the wall, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the city wash over him. Asir had done his part, for now. But Garrick knew that the man’s loyalty was only as good as his payment. He couldn’t trust the fixer, not entirely. Men driven by gold always had their price. But for now, their goals aligned.
His thoughts turned inward once more, to the nature of what he hunted. Magic. It wasn’t as obvious as a sword in the hand or a rebellion in the streets. It was insidious, creeping into places where it wasn’t meant to be. The Second Order had taught him to look for the signs: the strange coincidences, the unnatural occurrences, the whispers of the impossible. It was subtle, like a disease that spread through a body before the symptoms showed.
But here, in the Summer Kingdom, the unseen plague had already infested the land. He had seen it in the eyes of the merchants, in the nervous twitch of the innkeeper who had served them earlier that day. They knew something. They were afraid of something. And fear, Garrick knew, was often a sign that something far greater was at play.
There was no time for doubt, no time for hesitation. Magic was here, and it was his duty to snuff it out before it could spread. He had heard what it could do, the way it twisted minds and bent wills to its power. He would not let that happen here. Not in R’asha. Not while he still drew breath.
His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, and he turned, walking purposefully down the street, the weight of his mission heavy on his shoulders. The hunt had begun.