Sorcerer's Shadow

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Our Target resided roughly half a mile away. To pass the time during our walk, I asked Thorne to share what he knew about him.

"I don't have much intel, Viktor. He's a Cetan, and he's been in debt to Voltaire for a while now."

"A Cetan? That's comforting."

"Why so?"

"Nevermind," I responded. He cast me a fleeting glance but didn't question further. "Is he a big guy?"

Thorne shrugged. "Does it matter? Hit him hard enough and he'll fall."

"Is that our goal?" I asked, recalling Liora's counsel. "Get physical right away?" I noticed my nerves starting to kick in. When I'd retaliated against the Imperions who were picking on me, it was always spur-of-the-moment. I'd never deliberately sought out a confrontation. The difference was palpable.

Thorne retorted, "Your call."

I halted. "What's going on? You have experience with this; I don't. Why am I calling the shots?"

"My arrangement with Voltaire was that I'd never have to give an order."

"Huh? Why so?"

"That's not your concern."

I gazed at him. Then I realized the House of the Dragon was so plainly etched on his face, it puzzled me how I'd overlooked it before. There was likely a tale there.

As we continued our stroll, I mulled over Thorne. He stood almost precisely seven feet tall, bore medium-length straight brown hair, brown eyes, and apart from that, nothing extraordinary about him. Questions whirled around my mind, yet answers were nowhere in sight. Where did he originate from? How did he end up in Vorgan?

He tapped my shoulder, pointing towards a building. It was adorned with a howling wolf symbol, and from the exterior, seemed quite well-maintained. The interior didn't disappoint either. We traversed the main hall, drawing some disapproving looks from customers who held grudges against Terrans, Vorgan, or perhaps both. As we climbed three flights of stairs and turned left, my mind remained clouded with thoughts about Thorne, persisting until we knocked on a door and were greeted by an open entrance.

The Cetan gazed at me, blinking. He questioned, "What's up, Shortlives?"

Caught off guard, I had been so engrossed in pondering over Thorne that I hadn't even considered how to interact with the Cetan. Left without any scripted lines, I instinctively whacked his belly with my stick. He grunted "Oooph" and doubled over. I suspect I might have fractured a few ribs; my aim wasn't the best. A sudden doubt crossed my mind; was he the right person?

Regardless, the crown of his head was conveniently below my level. I nearly brought down the club again, but then Liora's advice popped into my mind, and I refrained. Instead, I shoved him with my foot. He tumbled backward, and it dawned upon me how effortlessly I'd taken control when he was unsuspecting.

He managed to roll onto his belly, coughing violently. Despite landing a good hit, Cetans are renowned for their toughness. I planted my foot on his back. Thorne joined me, placing his foot on the guy's neck. I removed my foot and positioned myself in front of the fallen Cetan. His eyes widened in surprise, probably unaware of our duo. He shot me a piercing glare.

Impulsively, I reached into my cloak, pulled out my Vorgan, and held it up to the guy. I teased, "Hungry, Opal?" contemporary romance

"Mama?"

"It's alright."

Opal flickered his tongue towards the Cetan, whose eyes bulged with terror. I informed him, "You're in debt."

"Let me stand," he wheezed. "I'll pay you."

"No. I don't want it. I want you to pay it back. If you don't, we'll return. You've got twenty-four hours. Understood?"

He managed a nod.

"Good." I returned Opal to my cloak, headed for the stairs with Thorne trailing behind.

Once outside, Thorne inquired, "Why didn't you take the money?"

"Huh? I don't know. Felt like it would've been equivalent to robbing him," I confessed.

Thorne chuckled. I suppose, in retrospect, it was quite comical. I noticed a slight tremor in my hands. If Thorne had remarked on it, I would've given him a taste of my stick, but thankfully, he remained silent.

I had regained my composure by the time we reached our starting point. The shoemaker was absent upon our return, but Voltaire was present. He scrutinized me, disregarding Thorne, and asked, "Well?"

"I'm not sure," I confessed.

"You're not sure?"

"Is the guy we're after supposed to have slicked-back dark hair, a broad face, large shoulders, a short neck, and a distinctive white scar across his nose?"

"That scar escaped my notice, but yes, the description matches."

"Then we found the right guy."

"That's reassuring. What did you two discuss?"

"We gently suggested that he should clear his debts."

"And his response?"

"He appeared to give the issue some serious thought."

Voltaire's head bobbed in a slow nod. "Alright. Where's Thorne?"

"Right here," Thorne chimed in, a note of amusement in his voice.

"Ah. Your thoughts?"

"He'll make the payment. We've given him a day." He hesitated, then added, "Viktor is quite competent."

Voltaire regarded me for a moment. "Alright," he confirmed. "I'll reach out to you both."

I nodded and exited the shop. I wanted to express my gratitude to Thorne, but he had vanished. I shrugged it off, returning home to take care of Opal and wait.

Arriving home, I felt somewhat drained but content. For once, life seemed to be treating me kindly. I offered Opal some cow's milk and drifted off to sleep on the couch with him resting on my belly. I might have been grinning.

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done.co