Artholan, Mage of the Seventh Circle (a distinction his master, Archmage Falazar, consistently and deliberately overlooked), stalked the cobbled streets of Alkaer’s merchant quarter with an air of stoic, simmering indignation. Sixty years he’d dedicated to the rigorous study of the magic arts, mastering the intricate threads of Elementalism, the subtle currents of Divination, and even a respectable smattering of Transmutative Theory. And for what? To be dispatched like some pimply-faced apprentice on a glorified street-sweeping mission.

  "Find a 'remarkably tall girl' with a merchant," Falazar had instructed him, his eyes twinkling with that infuriating blend of esoteric wisdom and what Artholan privately considered senile whimsy. "Observe. Report. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary, and with the utmost discretion, you peevish young sprout."

  Young sprout! Artholan, whose neatly trimmed beard was already generously streaked with distinguished silver, seethed inwardly. The old crone still treated him as if he were the gangly youth who’d first nervously presented himself at the Citadel gates half a century ago. This "errand" was an insult, a tedious distraction from his actual research into the resonant frequencies of soul-bound obsidian (an endeavor that would revolutionize the field if only Falazar would grant him adequate resources instead of frittering them away on moonpetal cultivation).

  Alkaer, on this particular morning, seemed determined to exacerbate his foul mood. The streets were a chaotic mess of bellowing vendors, dawdling gawkers, and suspiciously pungent puddles. He navigated the throngs with a practiced disdain, his fine robes carefully hitched to avoid the worst of the mire.

  "Trinkets! Charms of the Southern Isles! Ward off ill luck and amorous badgers!" a greasy-looking hawker yelled in his ear, brandishing a string of dubious-looking shells. Artholan withered him with a glare that could (and occasionally did) curdle milk at fifty paces.

  He peeked into a tavern – The Tipsy Troll. A few bleary-eyed patrons stared back, a quick conjuring of bright silver light casting off the shadows they sat in. No tall girls here, just the usual collection of life’s disappointments. He moved on, his lip curled in distaste. This was so beneath him. He should be communing with the Aether, not wading through the dregs of society.

  His instructions were to be observant, however, and despite his grumbling, Artholan possessed a keen eye. He noted the increased number of provincial soldiers in the streets, with their ill-fitting armor and bewildered expressions. Anxious merchants discussed of rising prices and disrupted trade routes. The "northern trouble," as the common folk were calling it, was more than just a rumor.

  He paused at a stall displaying an array of goods that, despite his current mood, caught his interest. These were K’thrall artifacts – fishing implements of intricately woven reeds and sharpened bone. Knives with blades of obsidian so black they seemed to drink the light. Strangely shaped ceramic pots adorned with swirling, abstract patterns. The craftsmanship, though alien, was sophisticated. He leaned closer, examining an intriguing multi-barbed fishing spear. Such items were rare in Alkaer, only seen in the collections of the most eccentric nobles or, of course, Falazar’s own cluttered chambers.

  "Impressive, are they not?" a cheerful, booming voice said beside him.

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  Artholan, startled from his professional assessment, turned to see a portly middle-aged merchant beaming at him. "Masillius Thorne, at your service! Freshly arrived from the K’thrall Fens, with a fine selection of their unique wares!"

  Artholan harrumphed, his gaze already drifting past the merchant, scanning the area… and froze.

  Unloading another massive, clanging bundle of K’thrall-made wind chimes and ceremonial rattles onto the stall’s bench was a young woman. Or rather, a young giantess.

  She matched Falazar’s description perfectly. Her head, even as she stooped to arrange the items, was a good foot above Masillius’. Her shoulders were broad, her arms strong and capable as she handled the heavy load with a casual ease. Her dark hair was tied back, revealing a profile that was, Artholan had to admit with a grudging aesthetic appreciation, quite striking in its own unique, large-scale way.

  This had to be her. The "oddity." The "unsettling ripple."

  The girl, oblivious to the mage’s scrutiny, finished arranging the K’thrall trinkets with a small frown of concentration on her face. She then straightened, her full height even more apparent, and glanced around the bustling marketplace, her clear blue eyes taking in the sights with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

  A strange prickle on his skin, almost like the hum of a miscalibrated scrying orb. It wasn't coming from the girl, precisely, but it seemed to… resonate around her, as if her very presence warped the local power currents. Or perhaps, he thought with a renewed surge of irritation, it was just the lingering effects of the awful sausage roll he’d consumed for breakfast.

  He cleared his throat. Masillius turned back to him, still beaming. "Something catch your eye, good master…?"

  "Indeed," Artholan said, his voice smoother than his mood. He allowed a fraction of his carefully cultivated scholarly interest to show. "These K’thrall items are… remarkable. The young lady… your daughter, perhaps? She seems quite adept at handling them."

  Masillius chuckled. "Aye, that’s my Sabine. Strong as they come, and a quick learner." He patted Sabine’s arm proudly. "First trip to the capital, and already proving her worth."

  Sabine offered Artholan a polite, slightly shy smile.

  Artholan’s mind raced. Falazar had said "observe." He had said "report." He had not said "accost the subject of your observation in the middle of a crowded marketplace and demand she accompany you to a meeting with a decrepit, eccentric Archmage." Discretion was key. However, he would perhaps indulge in a small measure of personal satisfaction in not immediately running back to the old crone like a… well, like a young sprout.

  "Fascinating," Artholan murmured, his eyes flicking between Sabine and an intricate K’thrall net. "Perhaps, good merchant, when your business here is concluded for the day, I might prevail upon you and your… remarkable daughter for a brief consultation. I am a scholar, you see, with a keen interest in the cultures of the outlying regions. And my master… he has an even keener interest."

  He produced a small, unassuming calling card of fine parchment, upon which was inscribed, in elegant script: Artholan, Scholar-Adept of the Citadel. No mention of "Mage of the Seventh Circle," or "long-suffering disciple of an infuriatingly whimsical Archmage." Subtlety.

  Masillius looked at the card, at Artholan, then at Sabine, with surprise and a touch of paternal caution in his eyes. But the allure of a Citadel scholar’s interest, and a wealthy patron, was a strong one.

  "A consultation, you say?" Masillius mused. "Well, I suppose… if our schedules permit…"

  Artholan smiled, a thin, academic expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. His errand, it seemed, was progressing. And perhaps, it wouldn't be quite as tedious as he had initially feared. The girl was certainly an anomaly. And anomalies, as any proficient mage knew, often herald interesting times.