Chapter 1
Chapter One
In the pristine halls of the Von Heusen Palace, nestled between misty mountains and ancient peaks of L’Centia, lived Sir Reginald Von Heusen the 6th. Reginald was a twenty-five-year-old prince with a preference for purple, prestige, and perfectly pressed pantaloons. His heeled dress shoes clicked in perfect rhythm as he strutted down the halls, inspecting to ensure everything was perfectly in order and perfectly in place.
“Mother,” he trilled, knocking on the tall doors to the queen’s study. “I’ve brought us tea.”
The queen glanced up from her papers and smiled. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Mmm. Is that jasmine imported from Dynmyr?”
“Yes, it was just delivered yesterday,” Reginald confirmed, settling into the plush chair across from her. He placed the teacup on a delicate saucer engraved with golden elk horns before her. “Only the finest for my favorite monarch.”
He crossed his legs with elegant precision, one hand perched on his knee, the other lifting his teacup with practiced poise. They clinked their cups with a soft chime, then touched pinkies in their signature flourish before sipping.
“I know you, Hexling,” she said fondly. “You never bring me tea unless something’s weighing on you.”
He let out a breathy chuckle, but the edges of his smile trembled. “You’re right. I’m worried about my brother.”
The queen’s face softened. “Which one?” she asked dryly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Reginald the First,” he said with a sigh. “He was supposed to return from his academic mission two weeks ago.”
“I know.” Her brow creased. “No word. No letter. Nothing.” There was a pause. Reginald stared into his cup, watching the ripples.
“I want to go after him,” he said. The words were simple, but they landed like a stone.
The queen blinked, then set her tea down slowly. “You want to leave the palace?” she asked gently.
Reginald lifted his chin. “Yes.”
“To trek across unfamiliar lands. To follow rumors. To sleep somewhere with, gods forbid, wrinkled linens?”
He swallowed, and his fingers trembled at the thought. “Yes.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “You’re serious?” she questioned.
“I am.” His fingers tightened slightly around the cup. “I know I’m not the eldest or the bravest. Or the... sword-wielding one. But I’m the Sixth. And he’s still my brother.”
The queen rose from her seat, came around the desk, and brushed a hand gently along his cheek. “My little Hexling,” she murmured. “So dramatic. So foolish.” She kissed his forehead. “Yet so brave.”
The queen’s hand lingered for a moment before she returned to her chair. Reginald, still holding his teacup, let the warmth seep into his fingers. Reginald Von Heusen the Sixth was not known for bravery, or fieldwork, or really anything that involved mud. But what he was known for (at least in his own mind) was vision.
He could often be found alone in his study, drafting treatises on magical ethics, designing intricate outfit schematics, or quietly rearranging his bookshelves so the titles aligned by both color and political ideology. But behind the silk robes and self-polished rings, a deeper ambition pulsed in his chest.
The throne.
The title of Archmage.
And maybe, just maybe, a tasteful statue of himself in the royal gardens. Bronze, perhaps. Marble, if he felt humble. However, such dreams required proof and opportunity.
“I want to find him,” he repeated softly.
The queen arched a brow. “You’re sure this isn’t just about outshining your brothers?”
He gave a theatrical gasp. “Mother, I would never!” He paused. Then, with a smirk: “Though it would be terribly convenient if the rest of the Reginalds were suddenly impressed with me.”
She laughed despite herself.
“I mean, really,” he continued, swirling his tea, “Reginald the Second has a sword named after him. The Third once tamed a wyvern with his bare hands. The Fourth ran the Eastern campaign, and the Fifth—ugh, don’t get me started on the alchemy medal.” He sighed dramatically. “Sometimes I think Father just named us all ‘Reginald’ out of sheer laziness. Or perhaps an inability to let go of his own legacy.”
“But you, Hexling,” his mother said, tilting her head fondly, “you are something else entirely.”
He straightened a little. “Exactly. I want to do more than inherit. I want to define,” he said with a flicker of boldness.
The queen rose again, walked to a nearby drawer, and retrieved a small, velvet-lined box. She returned to Reginald and placed it delicately in his hands. “This was his,” she said softly. Inside, folded with ceremonial care, was a lavender silk handkerchief, embroidered at the corner with golden thread: R.V.H. I.
Reginald blinked. “A handkerchief?”
“He hated it,” she said with a wistful smile. “Called it fussy and ‘entirely for show.’ But I had a full set made when each of you was born. I kept this one.”
He lifted it gently, letting the silk unfold across his fingers. It was absurdly delicate. Impractical. Completely unfit for adventure.
“I expect you’ll carry it with far more style,” she added, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder.
“I intend to,” Reginald said, folding it neatly and tucking it into the inner pocket of his coat. “He may have thought it fussy, but I think it’s... classic. Besides, I have mine in my nightstand drawer. It is ready for a special occasion. I will carry it with me when I come back and am worthy of it.”
“You always did have better taste,” she murmured.
There was a pause. She didn’t move away. She stood there, frozen, thinking. Reginald looked up and slightly tilted his head.
“Mother,” he started earnestly.
“Perhaps we should let the court send someone else,” she interrupted, her voice softening. “A scout. A soldier. The Fourth, even. He’s due for something reckless.” She gave a weak laugh. “You’ve never even spent a night outside palace walls.”
“I know.”
“You hate the cold.”
“I can light fire with my staff.”
“You can’t ride a horse.”
“I was hoping not to.”
Her breath caught, and for a moment, the Queen of L’Centia was just a mother standing in front of her youngest child. “Reginald,” she whispered, “you’re the only one who stayed. They all went off chasing glory. And you,” her voice cracked, “you brought me tea.”
Reginald faltered, his composure flickering.
“I don’t want to lose you, too,” she added, her voice struggling to stay steady.
The silence between them was heavy. Then, slowly, Reginald took her hands in his.
“You won’t,” he said. “I’m not leaving to disappear. I’m leaving to return.”
He offered a soft smile, touched her pinky with his like always.
“I’ll come back,” he said. “With answers.”
With that, Reginald hugged his mother goodbye, packed as much as he could carry comfortably, and set off for Mirewick the next morning.
∽∽∽
Regrettably, the path to town was none other than a dirt road. “Ugh… this is barbaric,” Reginald muttered. “I will be sure that mother and father pave these roads immediately.”
Reginald was dusting himself off every few steps. Even having the slightest bit of dirt on his purple pants made his eye twitch. From half a mile away, the townsfolk could hear him casting prestidigitation on his shoes every ten seconds. However, despite the grime, Reginald pressed onward. He could not be stopped by something as trivial as nature.
When he reached Mirewick, he covered his nose. It reeked of fish, goats, ale, and bad decisions. His eye twitched again, fixated on the uneven cobblestones, shouting merchants, and bleating goats.
Suddenly, someone ran into Reginald with a wheelbarrow full of fish. He released a shriek that could curdle milk as his bottom hit the floor. “Excuse you! I am Sir Reginald Von Heusen the-”
Before he could even finish his sentence, the person had already moved on, leaving him covered in filth in the middle of town. Reginald sighed briskly. “Commoners…” he muttered. “Prestidigitation!” He shouted as he cleaned himself… and the ground.
Townsfolk stared at him. “What’s someone like you doing here?” A man with a mischievous grin asked.
Reginald immediately recoiled. This guy was filthy. He had one foot atop an overturned crate, and his pockets were full of stolen goods. “I don’t associate with criminals. Thank you.” Reginald scoffed, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.
“Good, then you can be my alibi.” The man said with a big, pearly grin. His teeth seemed to be too white for his appearance. He had a tattered coat, messy red hair, and a brown bandana. “Name’s Gillian by the way.”
Gillian pulled Reginald to his feet. Retracting again, Reginald cleaned his hands and shook his head. “No, thank you. Good day.” He smoothed his hair and turned on his heel, ready to never see this Gillian again, that is- until he bumped headfirst into a burly pirate with a crooked grin.
“Oy- Watch where you’re goin’, fancy pants! You’re in the way.”
Gillian gripped Reginald’s shoulders and pulled him aside just as the burly pirate went to grab him. He gestured behind him for Reginald to get away. “I know, I know, you want your goods back… But look, my pockets are empty.” He pulled his pockets inside out, and the man drew his sword.
“Where is it? Where is my gold?”
“Like I know,” Gillian smiled, and ran into the crowd.
Reginald felt his pockets as he got up from the ground. His pockets were filled with stolen gold. And a bag with a small note that read: Run. Also, don’t open this.
Reginald hardly had time to think. He clutched his pockets and ran as fast as he could. His heels clacked wildly against the cobblestones. His perfectly pressed pantaloons flapped in the wind behind him.
“Oy!” The burly pirate shouted. “You’ve got my gold, don’t you?! You’ve got three seconds to give back what you stole or I’ll turn you into a decorative stain on the cobblestones!”
“I didn’t steal anything!” Reginald shrieked once again, “I don’t do crime!”
Unfortunately for him, the man did not care. He was gaining on him. Reginald quickly fumbled for his staff. Panicking, he shouted the first spell that came to mind– Invisubulus! He vanished just in time. The man lunged forward, barely missing the invisible Reginald.
“Coward! Come out and fight me!”
Reginald began tiptoeing away. He tried to stay silent, but his panicked breathing could give him away at any moment.
Thankfully, Reginald snuck his way to a tavern as the chaos erupted outside. He assumed the filthy pirate Gillian would be there. He was right. Gillian was relaxed and chatting with the bartender. “Welcome back,” he said casually, sipping something questionable from a wooden mug. “You did great.”
Reginald seethed. “You! You framed me with your stupid… whatever this is!” he flung the stolen gold and bag into Gillian’s lap. “I could have been arrested! Or worse!”
“Well, lookie here-” Gillian gently patted Reginald’s cheek. “You got out scot free.” He said with a devious grin. “Besides, now you owe me.”
“Owe you?! There is no way I will ever owe a filthy commoner like you anything!” He cleaned his face again.
“Fine, fine… have it your way. That is… if you don’t care about the lead I have on the guy who took your brother.”
Reginald’s jaw could have been on the floor. He had come into this town not knowing where to start, but this disgusting redheaded pirate had a lead. “How did you-”
“Shut it, Fancy Pants. Let’s just say his disappearance isn’t all that secret in the underground. I’ve been chasing the same guy.” Gillian stood up, stretching. The musk from his armpits could have burned Reginald’s nose hair. “So…. what do you say?”
Reginald fanned his nose. As much as he despised it, this was his best option. “Fine.”
“Alright, truce for now, your highness. We’ll find the guy, you’ll get your answers, and I’ll get my revenge.” Gillian said with the same crooked, pearly grin. “Alright then, c’mon. We have a criminal to catch.” He added, clapping Reginald on the back. “Plus… you look like you’ve never been in a fight.”
Reginald shivered at his touch. He was stunned, annoyed, and worse yet, intrigued. He scoffed again. “Well, you look like you’ve never taken a shower.”
Gillian laughed, but he didn’t respond to that comment, instead, he downed the rest of his drink.
Gillian slung a beat-up satchel over his shoulder and passed the tavern maid some gold for his drink. Reginald was surprised that Gillian was the kind of person who would even pay for his drinks. “Before we go…” Gillian started, “I don’t like nobles. I don’t like rules, and I don’t like being told what to do by people who have never experienced hunger.”
Reginald scoffed again. “As if you could imagine the pressures of being a prince.”
Gillian’s jaw tightened. He wanted to respond, he wanted to tell Reginald everything he hated about him. He wanted to make him feel the pain of being someone who grew up with nothing, but instead, he shrugged and started leading them out of the tavern.
∽∽∽
The streets were still in mild chaos from their earlier performance. But Gillian navigated through each offset cobblestone, spill, and chaotic rubble with ease.
Reginald was gasping, trying to keep up with him. “Do all of your escapades start with humiliation and theft?!” He asked exasperatedly.
“Only the good ones,” Gillian said with a charming smile. Reginald watched with jealousy as Gillian weaved through the crowd like he belonged here. “Anyways,” Gillian continued, “I have a contact who goes by Blister… He runs a pawn shop on the east side of town.”
“Blister?” He asked with a laugh. “That is a ridiculous name.”
“I dare you to say that to his face-”
“Nope! No, thank you. Never mind.” Reginald quickly changed his attitude. “I am sure he has a very good reason to go by that.”
“No, really, I dare you to ask him,” Gillian said with a knowing smile.
“Nope. You will do the talking, mister… pirate.” Reginald turned red, he could not think of a good insult in time for Gillian.
Gillian couldn’t help but burst into laughter. “Mister pirate? That’s your idea of an insult?” He held his stomach as he laughed.
“Never mind! Forget I said anything! Stupid… You are being stupid,” He said stiffly.
“There you go,” Gillian responded, wiping a tear from his eye. “That’s a better insult,” He said as he turned down a narrow alley. Gillian’s footsteps were confident and light; Reginald’s, on the other hand, were cautious, dainty, and full of regret.
They stopped in front of a crooked building, if you could even call it that. It was tilting at a steep angle, as if it were trying to escape the street. There was a busted door, scratched-up walls that were stained with some ugly brown substance. Reginald immediately assumed it was blood. A creaky sign blew in the wind that read: Blister’s Bargains and Minor Hexes. No Returns and No Regrets.
The windows were so grimy that Reginald couldn’t see inside. This was nothing like the Von Heusen Palace. He reached his hand out to cast prestidigitation, but Gillian pushed his hand down. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“This crime shack could stand to be cleaned at least a little…”
“And ruin the years worth of built-up grime? I don’t think Blister wants people to see what is going on inside,” Gillian said with a shrug. “Anyway, you first, Fancy Pants.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” Gillian was grinning again, clearly amused. “You have that princely charm, and besides, you obviously have money. Just tell Blister you’re here for information. Be polite, be firm, and most of all, don’t insult his mole.”
“Mole? What mole?” He blinked in disbelief. He had never imagined that he would be doing this. Before he could ask Gillian any more questions, he had been shoved through the door.
The inside of this place was worse than the outside. It smelled like wet socks, sulfur, and sadness. Shelves sagged with cursed objects, suspicious trinkets, and at least one half-alive chicken. A large man with a crooked spine hunched over the counter, which had a large number of candles on it. Reginald was holding in a shriek. His eyes met with Blister’s, and he was horrified.
Blister had one milky eye, a thick scar across his forehead, and the world’s most aggressive mole that Reginald had ever seen. That thing might have had stubble itself. Blister’s clothes were a little too tight, and the parts that did fit him correctly had already ripped, exposing his greenish skin. “You lost Sparkle-Britches?”
Why does everyone always insult my pants? Reginald thought. He was far too afraid to say that to Blister, though. His stomach churned when he saw what Blister was holding. It looked like a jar full of teeth. Gillian had snuck in and was pretending to browse the wares and oddities. “No. No, I am not lost. I am um-” He cleared his throat and immediately choked.
“You are… what?” Blister asked, clearly not enjoying having a noble in his store.
“I am Sir Reginald Von Heusen the Sixth.” He said, gaining a little confidence. “And I seek to inquire knowledge about a mutual enemy, Sir Bruiser.. I mean, Blister.” Blister simply raised an eyebrow.
“I said I seek knowledge,” Reginald affirmed again. “I was told that you might know something about a sorcerer… I seek the one who took my brother.”
Blister snorted. Reginald winced at the sound of mucus circulating through Blister’s sinuses. As he went to look away from him, he stumbled and knocked over a jar. “Oh, lords!” He knelt and started picking up whatever he had dropped. He felt slimy spheres in his hand and nearly vomited. He looked down only to realize he was holding eyeballs. He froze as the disgusting eyeball juice coated his hands. He could hear a snicker from behind him.
Blister sighed sharply, his breath whistling through his underbite and large tusks of teeth. He reeked of death. “Do you always enter negotiations like a fawn in a thunderstorm?”
“Only on weekdays.” Gillian joked. Thankfully, that made Blister laugh.
“Shut up, Gillian!” Reginald called back to him, and he begrudgingly picked up the eyeballs and put them in a neat pile on Blister’s countertop. “Sir, please…” Reginald said, with desperation in his voice. “I need your help. I don’t know where else to start, and someone.. Well.. something took my brother. If you could help me, I would greatly appreciate it.”
There was a long pause. Blister looked at Reginald, taking in every detail of his appearance with his one working eye. Then, in a low voice, he spoke. “Close the door, Sparkle-Britches. I think I know who you’re looking for.”
Reginald closed the door as quickly as he could. Blister leaned forward over the counter and cleared his throat. The walls rumbled as Blister moved. His bulky hands started putting the eyeballs into a new jar. “I’m sure the guy you’re looking for came through Mirewick months ago. He didn’t leave much except a trail of strange magic, missing people, and a whole lot of whispers.”
Reginald leaned forward. “Yes, yes! That should be him. Do you know where he went?”
Blister grinned. “Maybe.” It was clear that it wouldn’t be free information.
“What do you want us to fetch for you?” Gillian asked. “You’d rather take a deal than gold, am I right?”
“Precisely.” Blister snapped his fingers. “Gold is nice, but what I want is worth more than that… I want you to bring me a witherroot core.”
“Witherroot?” Reginald asked, and a shiver went up his spine. He knew that witherroot only grew in places where souls had been trapped. “You mean the fungus that grows on the graves of the damned?”
“Yup. That’s exactly what I want. It’s rare, powerful, and makes hexes stick better. Real premium stuff, I hear.” Blister added. “I hear it’s supposed to glow faintly, like dying embers.” He leaned forward, his working eye glinting in the dim light. “They say everything around it will look twisted and rotten, but the core itself, that’s where the money is. It’ll bring in excellent clientele.”
Reginald groaned. Gillian nudged him in the ribs with his elbow. It was clear that Reginald did not want to go into some haunted woods to find some fungus blob, but truthfully, if he wanted to figure out what had happened to his brother, this was his only lead. “Fine, fine. But I will not touch that thing. You can.”
Gillian snickered. “Sure thing. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty.” He said pointedly.
Truthfully, Reginald had not stopped thinking about the eyeball goop on his hands since he had dropped that wretched jar from before. As soon as they left the pawn shop, he shouted. “Prestidigitation!” and finally, he felt clean again.
