We disembarked the vessel early the next morning.

  Jupiter carried a large pack strapped securely across his back. He was dressed as if ready to march into a dragon’s hoard. The Red Post “bounty” armor hugged his frame — road-worn but meticulously maintained. It was built for long missions: durable leather reinforced with tempered plates, flexible enough for travel, strong enough for real combat.

  His sword hung at his side. A small buckler was fixed permanently to the arm where he had lost his hand. Bruno once told me Jupiter had to work twice as hard to strengthen that arm — that wearing a shield there wasn’t just tactical, it was necessary. He would never wield a two-handed weapon again.

  I wasn’t sure what he carried in his pack, but I imagined it was practical. Organized. Efficient.

  Mine… was not.

  I wore a simple side satchel stocked with food for Tee Tee, dried herbs, bandages, small vials Bruno insisted I carry, a few salves Graysia recommended, my diary, repair kits for my bow—

  —and around a dozen scones I had shamelessly stolen from my father’s fresh batch.

  My bow was slung across my back. My hunting knife rested at the small of it.

  And at my hip…

  I wore something new.

  Jupiter had come to my home before we departed with a gift.

  A smallsword.

  Old, but strong. Recently re-tempered. Fresh leather wrapped around the hilt.

  It had been his.

  The sword he carried during his early years in the Post.

  The sword he held the night of Tar’Tesh.

  The night he lost his hand.

  “I know you can heal,” he had told me. “And you’re deadly with a bow. But this got me through my first real mission. Maybe it’ll help you through yours.”

  I had no proper words then.

  I still didn’t.

  It rested at my side now — heavier with meaning than steel.

  I’d sparred lightly with Graysia before, but never seriously. I’d asked Jupiter more than once if we could train blade-to-blade. He would smile and say I wasn’t his target.

  “Not yet,” I would tease

  He stepped off the dock and into the streets of Mellite without hesitation.

  I hurried to keep pace.

  Mellite lived and breathed the river. The docks were crowded even at dawn — fishermen hauling nets, traders shouting inventory, crates of grain and salted fish stacked high. The scent of brine and riverweed mixed with tar and smoke.

  Once, it had been little more than a waypoint — a place to unload, refit, move on.

  Time changed it.

  Now it was a city of trappers, bargemen, dockworkers, and merchants. Ships traveled down to the Culver Sea, then on to Port Acosta, bringing back goods from across Lindor and beyond. In return, Mellite sent timber, pelts, grain, and river-caught fish.

  Technically, it was the true center of Middle Lindor — if you believed the cartographers.

  Most of Melrose would argue that point until they were red in the face.

  Jupiter moved with purpose through the streets, eyes scanning, posture rigid.

  He hadn’t told me much beyond this:

  We would stay at a Red Post lodging house.

  We would speak with farmhands first.

  We would assess.

  That was it.

  He liked structure.

  I liked… improvisation.

  After we gathered what we needed from the farms, I had plans of my own.

  I reached up and scratched behind Tee Tee’s ear as I finally caught up to the paladin.

  “Try not to walk like you’re invading the city,” I muttered.

  Without looking at me, he replied, “I’m always prepared for that possibility.”

  I smiled.

  This was it.

  My first real investigation.

  The town’s architecture reminded me of Melrose in many ways — timber frames, pitched roofs, narrow lanes between buildings — but most of the homes were only a single story. And there was no colossal wall looming over everything.

  The scent of dried fish lingered through the air. Not overpowering. Just… constant.

  The people of Mellite moved differently too.

  They walked with purpose. Nets over shoulders. Ledgers tucked under arms. Bargains half-spoken as they passed one another. Even Jupiter — who never walked slowly — was being overtaken by townsfolk heading to their next catch or trade.

  I worried I might break a sweat keeping up.

  Tee Tee’s fur was nearly flattened by the breeze from our pace.

  Fortunately, we weren’t walking far.

  A short path branched off the main street toward a larger house marked with the unmistakable red “RP” insignia painted boldly along its side.

  It stood slightly out of place — taller than most nearby cabins. The lumber had clearly been milled elsewhere, the wood stained properly, the windows framed in deliberate red trim. Not as regal as the Red Post Manor back home, but unmistakably kin to it.

  A few Postmen exited as we approached. They paused and saluted Jupiter sharply.

  He returned it just as crisply.

  He opened the door for me.

  Inside, warmth wrapped around us.

  This wasn’t the Melrose barracks. It felt… almost cozy.

  Several small braziers burned along the walls, and a large fire pit glowed at the far end of the room. Postmen sat nearby polishing boots, honing blades and polearms, or simply resting in the cottage-like atmosphere.

  Only the bulletin board and central desk felt militaristic.

  Jupiter stepped fully inside.

  Nearly every man in the room rose immediately to attention.

  He lifted a hand with a faint smile.

  “Relax, men.”

  The room exhaled.

  Jupiter was respected — deeply. But it wasn’t fear that moved them. It was something else. He demanded discipline, yes — but he gave it back in equal measure. That mattered.

  I followed him toward the desk.

  A young dwarf stood behind it.

  His features were distinctly Gurreal — flatter facial structure, reddish hair braided tightly at the sides. Not a Lindor dwarf. One from Toblerone. The glowing runic symbol etched into the back of his hand confirmed it.

  The Gurreal underwent an ancient birth ritual, Bruno once told me. Each child marked with a rune granting some extraordinary — or sometimes merely peculiar — ability.

  I couldn’t help but wonder what his was.

  “Sergeant Pactilhelm,” Jupiter greeted.

  The dwarf muted whatever conversation he’d been having and saluted.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Welcome, Lieutenant Nouns. Trip to your liking?”

  Jupiter’s tone softened. “Yes, Ryko. No trouble.”

  He gestured toward me.

  “Ryko, this is Benethasia Plad. Apprentice ranger. She’ll be assisting me with the investigation at Fennel Farm.”

  At the mention of the farm, Ryko rolled his eyes — though he recovered quickly and bowed slightly.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Plad.”

  “And you, Sergeant Pactilhelm,” I replied formally.

  His eyes flickered with faint approval.

  “The Vice Commander departed an hour ago,” Ryko continued, turning back to Jupiter. “The officer’s suite is open if you’d like it.”

  “I’ll give the suite to Benethasia,” Jupiter said without hesitation. “Put me in a bunk with the Crowleys.”

  The word hit me harder than I expected.

  “Crowleys.”

  Officially, it referred to a tail — a junior Postman assigned to shadow a superior.

  Unofficially, it meant the lowest rung of the ladder. The ones still proving themselves.

  A flicker of pride warmed my chest.

  He was giving me the officer’s room.

  Then it vanished just as quickly.

  Because it wasn’t about status.

  It was about him watching me.

  “Where was the Vice Commander headed?” Jupiter asked.

  Ryko gave a small shrug and a knowing look. “Her guard said Conkling.”

  There was something unspoken in his tone.

  Jupiter nodded once. That was enough.

  I knew little about the Vice Commander. A young Kenith’La’Quil elf. Rarely seen publicly. Rumored tension between her and Lord Commander Bertush Saltino — a man revered across Lindor.

  The Vice Commander… less so.

  “As you were, Ryko,” Jupiter said. “Don’t stir up the house on my account.”

  “Of course, Lieutenant.”

  I followed Jupiter toward the stairs as we headed for the third floor to drop our belongings.

  To call this a “suite” was generous by my standards.

  Mr. Tosh’s inn rooms were twice as spacious. But I imagined that to someone in the Red Post, this was something to aspire to.

  After years of sleeping in bunks beside dozens of others, a small private room must feel like luxury.

  It was rare for Postmen to have lodging to themselves. Even officers typically shared quarters with their squad or lived among other members of the Post.

  Jupiter was an exception.

  He owned his own home near the northern edge of Melrose. When he’d purchased it, it had been little more than a vacant two-story shack. Over the better part of a decade, he’d turned it into something warm. Livable. Personal.

  I’d only seen it once.

  The room here was simple — a single bed, a narrow writing desk facing a small window, and a crate for storage. Outside the door stretched a long row of wooden bunks — enough space for forty recruits, with two single beds set at either end for ranking officers.

  Jupiter dropped his gear into a crate at the foot of one of those beds — the one closest to my door.

  Close enough to hear if I moved.

  Close enough to intervene if I needed help.

  I watched Postmen come and go as Jupiter paused to speak with a young Postwoman near the stairs. She had broad shoulders and a powerful build — not heavy, simply strong. Her dark hair was tied back tightly, and she spoke with calm confidence about her patrol rotation.

  I had asked — more than once — whether I should join the Red Post.

  Most avoided giving me a direct answer.

  Only Jupiter ever did.

  “You could do great things without the Red,” he would say.

  I never knew if that was protection… or something else.

  I loved the camaraderie of the Post. The structure. The continental reach. The idea of belonging to something that large.

  It had always been there — an arm’s length away.

  A fallback.

  And then there was my father.

  The mere thought of his reaction tightened my chest.

  I glanced back into my assigned room.

  Tee Tee had already claimed the thin pillow as if it were a throne.

  I shook my head and smiled.

  Jupiter approached, brushing a bit of travel dust from his pauldron.

  “We’ve got some time,” he said. “The farmhands break for midday meal. We’ll speak with them then.”

  He adjusted the strap across his shoulder.

  “Care to grab something to eat? We can check the markets. I’ll give you part of the stipend now — in case something catches your eye.”

  I tried to keep my face neutral.

  Failed.

  “Sounds good, Jupes,” I replied, unable to hide the excitement.

  I slapped my leg twice.

  Tee Tee darted from the pillow, scrambled up my jerkin, and perched on my shoulder with a triumphant chirp.

  We headed down the stairs together, the murmur of Postmen continuing their routines around us — steel against whetstone, quiet laughter, the low hum of readiness.

  We walked back toward the small market.

  It was maybe a quarter the size of Melrose’s. And unlike Melrose — where even the tiniest stall drew conversation and laughter — Mellite’s vendors felt… eager.

  Too eager.

  The people manning the stalls leaned forward as we passed, voices quick, hands already gesturing toward their wares.

  It was off-putting.

  We settled on a place my father would have ranted about for hours.

  A small stand called Ailes’s Bowls.

  The concept was simple: round sourdough loaves with the tops cut off, hollowed slightly, and filled with stew or chowder so you could eat on the go.

  The bread was a little overcooked — too dark for Father’s standards — but sturdy enough to hold the soup.

  I chose a corn chowder. Aged cheddar melted across the top, hints of onion throughout, and so much corn you could barely see the broth beneath it.

  It wasn’t bad.

  The first tear of bread from the lid felt almost sinful — I had only just allowed myself to break Graysia’s strict diet. After weeks of nuts, dried meat, and forest-foraged meals, this felt indulgent.

  Jupiter chose a pot roast stew. Bits of beef, carrot, and potato poked through the surface.

  Father would have called it spectacle bread. Lesser bread. Bread used as a bowl instead of respected for what it was.

  I disagreed.

  Though I’d never admit that to him.

  We walked the market, using the torn bread tops as makeshift spoons.

  A blacksmith stall drew the largest crowd — a broad half-orc in soot-stained trousers and smock, laughing as he haggled with customers. Sparks still clung to his sleeves.

  There was a linen stand, a confection table, a small arrow vendor I considered briefly — but decided against. Graysia had warned me not to rely on specialty arrows to solve my problems.

  Not yet.

  Then one stall caught my eye.

  Konji’s Effects, the faded sign read.

  A human man stood behind a mostly empty display — simple jewelry arranged neatly across a small table.

  But what grabbed me were the carved insignias — animal marks etched into metal. The universal symbol for items enchanted with beast-affinity magic.

  I nudged Jupiter with my elbow. His mouth was still full of stew.

  We approached.

  “Morning,” the man greeted.

  I straightened.

  This was a moment.

  “Good morning,” I replied evenly. “Do you only carry items of animal kind?”

  He blinked at me.

  “Afraid so.”

  Liar.

  Mother might be gone, but her common sense lived on through me.

  The stall’s drapes hid shelves along the sides. The rear curtain bulged slightly — too structured to be empty. He wouldn’t reveal higher-tier items unless he knew there was coin involved.

  I turned casually to Jupiter.

  “My stipend is over two hundred gold, correct?”

  His mouth still full, he tried to respond.

  “Probably a waste on minor rings,” I continued lightly, already stepping back as if losing interest.

  The vendor panicked immediately.

  “Miss — actually, I did receive a few things this morning.”

  I smiled faintly.

  Thanks, Mom.

  “Oh? I suppose I could take a look,” I said, feigning reluctance.

  The man ducked behind the curtain.

  Jupiter leaned closer to me.

  “You Plads could make a scoundrel blush,” he muttered, half impressed, half wary.

  There was unease in his eyes.

  I knew why.

  Jupiter’s path restricted him from most magical items — anything not touched by divine or radiant energy was questionable at best. As a paladin, he had to be careful.

  I understood the concern.

  But my training was different.

  By definition, I was a healer — but not a paladin. Not strictly a cleric. Not a monk or priest.

  And I was also a ranger.

  Training in both disciplines was nearly unheard of. Even Bruno admitted the paths rarely intertwined cleanly. The differences between druids and rangers, clerics and paladins, the endless schools of Magi…

  It fascinated and frustrated me in equal measure.

  Bruno often told me not to stress over definitions.

  That advice helped.

  But it never stopped me wondering.

  The vendor returned, carrying a second display — rings, bracelets, necklaces set with subtle gemstones and carved sigils.

  He set it down carefully.

  “So, miss,” he asked, eyes glinting with renewed interest, “what exactly are you looking for?”

  I let doubt settle over my face, as if I wasn’t convinced he could find anything worthwhile.

  “Anything for healers,” I asked lightly, “or nature magic?”

  A smile crept across his face.

  “Of course. For a future wayward traveler like yourself, I have a few things.”

  I smiled back politely — and rejected the flattery instantly.

  Watching my mother and father bargain for years had made me nearly immune to silver tongues. Even Uncle Zain’s real tricks wouldn’t catch me off guard.

  The vendor laid out the first item.

  A ring of poison immunity.

  Dark green metal, a leaf and thorn crossed along the band. Beautiful craftsmanship.

  It would be expensive.

  Avoiding minor poisons would be essential in travel — venomous plants, tainted berries, beasts with toxic blood. Lindor hadn’t seen a plague in centuries, but illness still hid behind poison.

  I cataloged it mentally.

  Eventually, I would learn to counteract poisons through Graysia and Bruno’s teachings.

  Eventually.

  Next, he produced a bracelet.

  Not pretty. A simple chain with a rolled piece of leather bound around it. White cloth peeked from one end.

  “Endless bandage bracelet,” he announced proudly.

  Endless wasn’t technically true. Bruno drilled that into me early — nothing is endless. Merely abundant.

  Still, it was useful. My first years under Bruno were nothing but bandaging practice. Cloth wasn’t expensive, but having it readily available could save lives.

  Depending on the price.

  The third item made my breath catch.

  A simple bronze chain.

  “The Hunter’s Mark chain,” the vendor said.

  I already knew.

  Hunter’s Mark — the spell most rangers strove to master. Mark your target. Strike truer. Track easier. Hit harder. Graysia once told me about a mage she marked — the woman’s spells faltered mid-cast.

  And once marked, tracking became effortless. Even Forest Sight would bend toward the quarry.

  Every part of me wanted it.

  The vendor, sensing my interest, pressed forward with the fourth item.

  A scroll.

  He placed it down carefully.

  “A powerful spell,” he said quietly. “Scroll of B.T.L.”

  Before I could respond, Jupiter’s hand covered the scroll.

  His gauntlet began to glow.

  A golden shimmer flooded his eyes.

  I froze.

  The vendor stepped back instinctively.

  The light faded from Jupiter’s hand. He looked at me and gave a small nod.

  It took me a moment to process.

  B.T.L.

  Back To Life.

  A resurrection spell.

  Not uncommon among high clerics — if applied quickly enough to fatal injury. But that wasn’t why Jupiter had inspected it.

  He was testing for corruption.

  Necromancy.

  I’d heard stories since childhood — raising loved ones through twisted magic, commanding corpses as soldiers. Jupiter’s path as a paladin stood in direct opposition to anything tainted.

  He wasn’t judging the spell.

  He was judging the intent behind it.

  The vendor forced an uneasy smile.

  I moved on.

  If I wanted resurrection magic, I would earn it through Bruno — not purchase it from a market stall for thousands of gold.

  He showed me more items. Spells I could one day learn properly. Trinkets that tempted me.

  But like my father, my purse was conservative.

  Finally, I pointed to the last ring in the display.

  A silver band etched with Elven script.

  The vendor sighed, defeated.

  “Ring of Woodland Folk.”

  “What does it do?” I asked evenly.

  “Similar to Boots of Elvenkind,” he replied. “You move as quietly as the forest itself. No sound while traveling through wooded terrain.”

  My brow lifted.

  “Only forests? Or any wooded area?”

  “Any wooded area.”

  I glanced at Jupiter.

  He was staring at the vendor like a man assessing a liar.

  “What would you get?” I asked him.

  He didn’t break eye contact.

  “Nothing.”

  I nodded slowly.

  Then turned back to the vendor.

  “Thank you for your time, sir. When I receive my stipend, I’ll return if I’ve made a decision.”

  And I walked away.

  I grabbed Jupiter’s arm, pulling him along.

  He blinked, caught off guard.

  “All of that for nothing?” he asked once we cleared the market.

  I laughed.

  “Jupes, that man will do anything to secure a sale from me now. I’ll be walking into the discount of a century.”

  Concern melted into reluctant amusement on his face.

  He shook his head.

  “Alright,” he said, smiling. “Let’s see if your tricks work on the farmhands.”