16. Tristan: First Job (I)

  Dante was scheduled to return to the Vortalis estate once every week to continue his teachings on Reaving – both the aspect of stealing magic and using stolen magic.

  For now, he had handed Tristan and Rosalina five vials with Reaver Worms – each one containing a different Level One Cognition Thread.

  Before leaving, he had explained that these Reaver Worms had already gone through Thread Priming – a process Thread Reavers put them through to prepare them for use and ready for distribution.

  “You need to get the vial right next to your nostril before opening it.” Dante had warned. “If you open it too soon, it might run away.”

  Tristan had frowned. “And after it’s done…does it stay inside my brain?”

  “Yes and no.” Dante had replied. “It vomits the Thread inside the Inner Eye or the brain so you can use it, but after that, it’s left without sustenance. The Thread Priming makes the worm unable to consume any Cognition Threads from the recipient, and so it goes hungry and dies within an hour. After a week, it should already disintegrate inside your body entirely.”

  ‘That only made it sound worse…’

  Then, Dante left, giving Tristan homework – to try out each of the Reaver Worms and practice the magic they contained – he said it was easy. But more importantly, he told him to practice withstanding the pain of using them.

  Dante had once again made it obvious how he was against the whole idea.

  Three days had passed since then, and Tristan refused to try even one.

  If before he had been set on using reaved magic despite the damages it might bring, learning that it would only last two hours per use – and that he’d likely go braindead by twelve if he relied on it – had made him reconsider. Or at the very least, stall. Until Ifrit leaves him with no choice.

  He knew that he either needed to find a way to use Reaver Worms without hurting himself at all or figure out how to contact Gartan – hell, to figure out who Gartan really was.

  That so-called god brought him into this world and was the root of his current problem.

  But, for now, Tristan kept the vials stored in a handmade pouch sewn especially for him by his father’s personal seamstress – Mrs. Dolores Rine. The pouch was secured to his belt, always within reach but never opened.

  Right now, he was lying on his bed, thinking – overthinking – about everything, like he always did.

  Finally, after Rosalina had been called away for something, he could be alone.

  But then, the peace had shattered when she returned.

  “Come on, Little Devil.” Rosalina’s voice rang throughout the room. “We have a job to do.”

  Tristan groaned but sat up anyway, raising a brow. “A job?”

  ***

  It was Tristan’s first time outside the estate, and to say he was overwhelmed by Dalina would be an understatement.

  The capital felt like an entirely different world – and well, it was.

  The streets were wide, paved with cobblestones, and bustling with movement even under the fading light of evening. Lamp posts – infused with magic – provided some extra light as carriages rattled the roads, pulled by fancy-looking horses. Commoners roamed the streets, carrying baskets or just idly passing by.

  Everyone was talking. The constant hums of voices filled the air.

  The smells were mixed. Alongside the scent of baked goods, you could also sense piss, sweat, and then flowers again. It was like the city wasn’t sure what it wanted to smell like.

  In a sense, Dalina reminded Tristan of his home city on Earth.

  “Stay close.” Rosalina’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he upped his pace.

  They were approaching the Harbor District, and the atmosphere changed drastically.

  The cobbled streets changed into wooden walkways that creaked underneath their steps. The scent of the ocean grew stronger, laced with salt, fish, moss, and the occasional waft of tar from the docked ships.

  The water, dark under the late evening sky, lapped gently against the piers.

  But the most noticeable thing about this district was the lack of people in it.

  Outside the occasional drunk or junkie, no normal citizen seemed to be walking here at this hour.

  Warehouses lined the harbor. Massive wooden structures reinforced with iron. Some of them bore crests which Tristan recognized from his history studies to belong to some of the noble families, while others were under the protection of different guilds.

  Ahead, a single warehouse stood apart from the others, its door slightly ajar, a sliver of light coming through the crack. A man stood on guard duty next to the door, dressed fully in black robes, his arms crossed.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “Why am I here?” Tristan finally asked, still reeling from the fact that Ifrit had actually let him leave the house for once.

  Rosalina exhaled heavily, her expression visibly frustrated.

  “Ifrit’s orders.” She muttered, glancing at him with a sigh. “Your father…he’s a very direct man. He believes that throwing someone into deep water is the best way to make them learn to swim. He’s been like this for as long as I’ve known him. And now, he’s doing it with you.”

  She turned to him, her voice dropping lower. “He thinks that since you can already use reaved magic, you can defend yourself. That means, in his eyes, it’s time for you to prove your worth.”

  Tristan sighed. He had expected this to happen. And…he was ready.

  “Don’t worry.” Rosalina tried to reassure him. “It is also my first mission in a long time, so I’ll support you in any way I can. If things go south, I’ll protect you, of course. But I don’t think we have much to worry about.”

  Tristan ignored the first part. “What makes you think that? What is this warehouse anyway?”

  Rosalina ran her hand through her short dark hair, exhaling sharply. “This warehouse – and many others around here – belongs to your father. Officially, it’s registered under one of his merchant companies – Vortalis Imports – which mostly deals with transporting rare spices, dyes, minerals, medicinal herbs, and textiles from across Terra.” She gestured at the building ahead. “On paper, it’s a legitimate business. Legally, the Peacemakers – Dalina’s city guard – can’t fault it.”

  Tristan narrowed his eyes, connections forming inside his mind to some of the things he was taught by Bridges, his Criminal Activities tutor.

  “And off the books, I assume it is used for smuggling more…exotic things?” He asked.

  Rosalina smirked, nodding her head. “Indeed, it is. It is one of several key storage hubs for Ifrit’s smuggling network. High-value contraband comes in through the harbor, hidden among legitimate goods. Some of those ‘medicinal’ herbs are the base ingredients for much more valuable – and often restricted – alchemical concoctions. Enhancers, sedatives, stimulants, poisons, mana catalysts. All things that certain people would pay a lot of gold – and more importantly, favors – to get their hands on.”

  Tristan nodded. Hearing about the logistics of his father’s empire, being here physically, made it more real.

  “Favors?”

  Rosalina nodded. “Ifrit is a brilliant man. He knows the world works on favors. He doesn’t need more gold. But having a certain someone owing him a favor? Now that’s far more valuable than any metal or gemstone.”

  Tristan nodded once more. He agreed with this vision as well. On Earth, it was similar.

  “I thought everyone knew my father.” Tristan said, raising a point he didn’t quite understand. “And yet, despite this company literally having his last name, it’s allowed to operate freely?”

  “First of all, it’s your last name too.” Rosalina made sure to remind him. “Second of all, it’s not like anyone can do anything to Ifrit. Everyone and their mother knows who Kain Vortalis is, but organized crime – especially on the scale your father operates – is…accepted. To a degree.” She tilted her head and sighed. “Appearances need to be kept, and so we all play this game.”

  “It’s ‘secondly’…” Tristan corrected.

  Rosalina narrowed her eyes and rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Really?”

  Tristan nodded.

  She remained silent for a second before shrugging and pointing at the warehouse. “Anyway, to answer your earlier question, someone raided the warehouse this morning.”

  Tristan tensed. “Who in their right mind would try to steal from him?”

  “That’s a great question.” Rosalina nodded. “And the reason why I said we probably don’t have much to worry about. Chances are, some foolish punks got too drunk, forgot how to read, and thought this warehouse was a good place to rob.” She smirked. “As you said, no one in his right mind would cross Ifrit.”

  They reached the entrance and the man guarding it. His face was entirely covered by black fabric – including his eyes, and Tristan wondered if he could even see. A scimitar rested against his hip.

  As they stepped closer, the man stiffened and saluted. “Commander Rose.”

  “Shut up, Partan.” Rosalina rolled her eyes.

  The man chuckled, his stance instantly relaxing. His gaze then shifted to Tristan. “Ah, the prince has arrived.” He gave a short bow. “Tristan Vortalis, this humble tool of the Vortalis family greets you.”

  “Who are you?” Tristan simply asked.

  “A tool.” The man replied, keeping it vague.

  “He’s a Partan.” Rosalina explained instead. “It’s what we call people from his unit. Black robes. Face covered. They handle all sorts of physical work for Ifrit.”

  “Indeed.” The man agreed. “We’re also very humorous.”

  “You are very humorous.” Rosalina corrected dryly. “This Partan – David – is especially talkative. He shouldn’t be. Partans are supposed to be mute unless spoken to.”

  David let out another laugh, a deep, amused chuckle that made Rosalina’s lips twitch ever so slightly into a weak smile.

  Tristan caught it.

  A small moment, fleeting, but telling. There was history there.

  He decided not to pry and instead remember it for future use.

  “Did the Peacekeepers leave already?” Rosalina asked, cutting straight to business.

  David nodded. “An hour ago. You’re slow, Rose.”

  Rosalina didn’t react, simply exhaling through her nose. “Did they find anything?”

  “Can’t rightly say.” David replied. “Fenek is checking their station as we speak.”

  “Good.” Rosalina replied. “Keep us updated.”

  “Will do.”

  “Was anyone killed?” She followed up with another question.

  David shook his head. “No.”

  She nodded. “Then, we’re heading inside.” She turned to Tristan. “Let’s go, Little Devil.”

  David stepped aside with an exaggerated flourish, theatrically bowing as they passed and entered the warehouse.

  As Tristan stepped inside the warehouse, the first thing that struck him was the overwhelming blend of scents. The air was a mixture of spices, herbs, and metal.

  The space itself was immense with high wooden beams stretching toward the rafters where thick ropes hung loosely. Large barrels and crates were stacked neatly along the sides, each labeled with an almost unreadable handwriting.

  Despite the general orderliness, signs of the raid were easy to spot. Several crates had been pried open, their contents partially spilled onto the floor. A shattered ceramic jar leaked green dye, staining the wooden planks beneath it. Some barrels had been forced apart, their iron hoops bent.

  Tristan’s eyes caught boot prints in the dust – too many to belong to just the thieves. The Peacemakers likely.

  Some crates had been marked by white chalk as well.

  “The chalk indicates that the Peacemakers had inspected the contents of that crate, barrel, or jar.” Rosalina explained, catching Tristan’s glance lingering on the white symbols.

  Tristan nodded, examining the warehouse further.

  It was weird.

  For all the chaos inside, most of the stock remained untouched. It hadn’t been a large robbery – more likely a carefully selected theft. The question was, what had been taken?

  Rosalina let out a low whistle. “Well, at least they weren’t greedy.” She nudged a broken crate with her boot, kicking aside some spilled saffron threads.

  “They knew what they wanted.” Tristan said.

  Rosalina immediately smiled, nodding slowly. “Good observation. What do you suggest we do now, Little Devil?”

  Tristan took a deep breath, a plan forming in his mind.

  “First, we figure out exactly what’s missing.” He said. “Then, we figure out why, and who might’ve needed it.” He turned to Rosalina. “Do you still think they were drunken fools?”

  Rosalina shook her head. “Not sure about the drunken part anymore, but the ‘fools’ bit? Definitely.”