Chapter 88 – Mission Log: Price of Communication
Calen followed Marron across Splitstone Row toward the Mage's Guild, his attention caught by the building long before they reached its entrance.
Energy threaded through the structure like living veins—bright, controlled pulses of magical current that flowed through channels carved into the stone itself. His Resonance Veins lit up the moment he focused, silvery circuit-patterns along his arms warming slightly as they responded to the ambient magic.
The guild tower stood taller than the others, built from pale granite shot through with crystalline inclusions that caught the afternoon light. At ground level, arched windows glowed faintly blue—enchanted glass, probably warded against intrusion. Above, the tower's upper floors narrowed into a spire crowned with what looked like a massive focusing crystal, pulsing with steady rhythm.
"You seeing something?" Marron asked, glancing at him.
Calen nodded slowly. "The whole building's... alive. Energy flows through it like blood through a body." He tilted his head, following one particularly dense channel. "There's a lot running up toward the top. Some kind of amplification system, maybe."
Marron raised an eyebrow but didn't question further. "Just don't announce that when we get inside."
They reached the entrance—double doors carved with runes that shifted subtly when Calen looked at them directly. The moment they stepped through, the ambient energy intensified.
The entrance hall opened into a circular chamber three stories high, ringed by balconies and lit by floating orbs that drifted lazily near the ceiling. Enchanted tapestries lined the walls, each one depicting magical phenomena—leyline maps, elemental diagrams, runic arrays that seemed to pulse with faint light.
But what caught Calen's attention most was the floor.
Inlaid into the marble beneath his boots was a massive circular diagram—concentric rings filled with glyphs, symbols, and geometric patterns that reminded him uncomfortably of the dwarven forge matrix. Energy flowed through every line, converging at the center where a raised dais held a single crystal pedestal.
It's a network hub, Calen realized. The entire building was built around this—some kind of magical relay system that channeled energy to different floors, different purposes.
His circuit-scars warmed slightly, responding to the sheer density of ambient magic.
"First time in a guild hall?" a voice asked.
Calen looked up to find a woman behind a curved reception desk near the entrance. She wore deep blue robes embroidered with silver thread, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her expression was polite but detached—the kind of professionalism that came from answering the same questions a hundred times a day.
Marron stepped forward, his tone easy and practiced. "First time in this guild hall. We're from out of region."
The receptionist's gaze flicked briefly to Calen, then back to Marron. "How can I assist you?"
"My associate needs to use a communication crystal," Marron said, gesturing toward Calen. "Southern territories."
The receptionist looked at Calen. "Have you used our services before?"
"No," Calen admitted.
She folded her hands on the desk with the patience of someone who'd explained this a thousand times. "The crystals can reach any mages guild in the Empire, but both parties need to be present at their respective guild hall for a call to take place. If the recipients aren't members, we dispatch a runner to locate them and bring them in." She paused. "Where are you trying to reach?"
"A village called Riverton. Southwest of the Greywood." Calen said.
"Then we contact Riverton's hall, they send a runner, and your recipients travel to their local crystal. Depending on distance, that can take two to three days before a window opens." Her tone didn't change. "The scheduling fee is fifteen silver. That covers the initial contact and one confirmed session. The call itself is billed separately when it occurs."
Calen stared at her. Fifteen silvers just to arrange the call. Not to make it.
"Alright," Calen said.
Marron produced the coin and set it on the desk without comment. The receptionist swept it into a drawer, then pressed her thumb to a small disc on the desk. A runic glyph flared briefly across its surface and faded. She slid it across the counter. "Fourth floor, second door on the left. Give that to Operator Finn. He'll log the request and send the contact."
Marron nodded his thanks, and Calen followed him toward the stairs.
As they climbed, Calen couldn't help but track the energy flows around them—channels running through the walls, branching off toward laboratories, study rooms, and what looked like containment chambers for volatile experiments.
The whole place hummed with controlled power.
And somewhere up ahead, past the Fourth floor, that crystal spire at the top pulsed with enough energy to make his circuit-scars ache just thinking about it.
The Fourth floor corridor was quieter than the entrance hall, lined with closed doors bearing brass plaques—Ritual Preparation, Enchantment Consultation, Arcane Records. Calen followed Marron past them until they reached the second door on the left, marked simply: Communications.
Marron knocked twice.
"Enter," came a voice from within.
They stepped into a smaller chamber dominated by a raised platform at its center. Atop the platform sat a crystalline structure roughly the size of Calen's torso—faceted like cut glass, glowing faintly with internal light. Energy pulsed through it in steady rhythm, feeding up through the ceiling toward whatever relay system existed above.
A man stood beside the platform, mid-thirties, wearing the same blue robes as the receptionist downstairs. His hair was graying at the temples, and he had the tired, focused look of someone who'd spent too many hours staring at magical phenomena.
"Finn," he introduced himself. His eyes dropped to Calen's hand. "Token?"
Calen placed the disc on the platform beside the crystal. Finn picked it up, glanced at the glyph, and set it aside. He pulled the ledger from a nearby stand and flipped it open. "Where are you trying to reach?"
Calen stepped forward. "A village called Riverton. It's... small. Farming settlement. Southwest of the Greywood."
Finn's quill scratched across the page. "Recipients' names?"
"Talia and Ren," Calen said quietly. "My siblings."
Finn glanced up briefly, expression neutral, then returned to his notes. "Standard protocol—I'll establish the connection with Riverton's communication hub. Their operator will send a runner to locate your siblings. Depending on distance and availability, response time varies. Could be hours. Could be days."
Calen's chest tightened slightly. Days. He'd known this might take time, but hearing it confirmed still stung.
"Understood," he said.
Finn moved to the crystal, resting one hand against its surface. The glow intensified—blue light flooding the room as harmonic resonance filled the air. Calen's circuit-scars prickled in response, energy currents rippling through the stone beneath his boots.
After a moment, Finn spoke into the crystal. "Glasshold to Riverton. Requesting connection."
Silence stretched. Then—a voice, distant and tinny, filtered through the crystal's facets.
"Riverton acknowledging. State your business."
"Personal message request," Finn said evenly. "Recipient names: Talia and Ren. Sender is... family member, currently in Glasshold."
A pause.
"Understood. We'll dispatch a runner. Estimated response time—two to three days depending on field schedules. Sender wishes to establish scheduled contact?"
Finn glanced at Calen, who nodded quickly.
"Affirmative," Finn relayed. "Sender requests scheduled communication window once recipients are located."
"Acknowledged. We'll forward confirmation through standard channels. Glasshold contact?"
Finn rattled off a reference code, then added, "Sender is lodging at..." He looked toward Marron expectantly.
"The Thornwick Rest," Marron supplied.
Finn repeated it into the crystal.
There was a brief, silence on the other end.
"...Understood. We'll send notification once the schedule is confirmed."
The light dimmed. The connection severed.
Finn stepped back from the platform, already making notes in his ledger. "You'll receive word once they confirm availability. We'll dispatch a runner to your lodging."
"The Thornwick Rest," Finn repeated slowly, as if making sure he'd heard correctly.
"That's right," Marron said, tone flat.
Finn nodded, though his expression suggested he'd rather not send a guild runner into that part of the city. "We'll... make sure the message reaches you."
"Appreciated," Marron said dryly.
Finn gestured toward the door. "That concludes your session. If there's nothing else...?"
"Nothing else," Marron confirmed.
They left the chamber and descended the spiral stairs in silence.
Calen sighed as they reached the ground floor, the weight of fifteen silver spent settling into his chest. "Well, that was a whole bunch of nothing. We paid fifteen silver for nothing."
Marron smiled faintly, steering them toward the exit. "You'll get used to it. The communication crystals are expensive to maintain, and they're only kept at the Mage's Guild. Monopoly means they can charge whatever they want."
Calen frowned, thinking of the radios back at the inn. Two-way contact. Instant. No runners. No waiting three days for your siblings to walk to a guild hall.
Doc's technology did the same thing the guild magic does at a fraction of the price.
"Can't wait for radio to become the new normal," Calen muttered.
Marron's hand landed briefly on his shoulder, voice dropping to a whisper. "Keep that hidden for now. If the guild knew about its capabilities—what it could do to their network—they'd do something about it. And we're not ready for that kind of attention."
Calen nodded quickly, glancing around to make sure no one had overheard. The entrance hall remained busy—mages moving between floors, clerks handling paperwork, apprentices carrying equipment toward the upper laboratories.
No one seemed interested in two frontier merchants.
Still, Calen felt the weight of Marron's warning settle over him. The radios weren't just useful. They were dangerous—at least to the people who controlled communication in this world.
"Understood," Calen said quietly.
Marron's expression eased slightly, and he gestured back toward the reception desk. "It's not a complete waste. There are a few things I need to pick up for Carl and Dulric. The guild runs a supply store somewhere in this building—materials, spell tomes, runic schematics. Things you can't scavenge off a corpse or pull from a ruin. Should be worth the trip."
Calen perked up at that. Carl and Dulric had given Marron the list before they left. If the guild had what they needed, this detour might actually be worth the silver.
They returned to the reception desk, where the same woman from earlier glanced up with polite disinterest.
"Supply store?" Marron asked.
She gestured toward the eastern staircase without looking up from her ledger. "Second floor, fourth door past the landing. Ask for Martin. He handles material sales."
"Appreciated," Marron said.
They climbed the stairs again, this time branching off onto the second floor.
The corridor here was narrower, lined with study rooms and consultation chambers. Calen's circuit-scars prickled faintly—ambient energy flowed here too, though less concentrated than the communication floor above.
They reached the fourth door and found it propped open, revealing a cluttered space that looked more like a workshop than a storefront. Shelves lined every wall, packed with glass vials, bundled herbs, metal ingots, cut gemstones, and crystalline fragments sorted by color and clarity.
A man stood behind a counter near the back, middle-aged and broad-shouldered, wearing an apron covered in burn marks and alchemical stains. He looked up as they entered, wiping his hands on a rag.
"Help you?" he asked, tone gruff but not unfriendly.
Marron stepped forward, already pulling the list from his coat. "Looking for materials. Enchanting and smithing supplies, mostly. You Martin?"
"That's me." Martin took the list, squinting at the handwriting. "Let's see what you need."
Calen moved closer, watching as the man scanned the items—mana-attuned copper wire, stabilization salts, high-purity quartz, void-touched iron fragments, a handful of runic schematics, and two entries Calen recognized as spell tomes from Carl's handwriting.
Martin grunted. "Most of this I've got in stock. The void-iron might take a day or two to pull from storage. The runic schematics depend on which ones—some I keep on the shelf, some are made to order." He tapped one of the spell tome entries. "These I'll have to check."
Martin glanced at Marron, then jerked his thumb toward the back of the shop. "Follow me. Most of this is in the workroom. Easier to pull samples directly."
Marron nodded, already moving to follow.
"I'd like to look around," Calen said, glancing at the crowded shelves. "If that's alright."
Martin looked back and shrugged. "No problem. Just don't touch anything. And if you break something, you're paying for it—plus extra for the inconvenience."
"Understood," Calen said quickly.
Martin disappeared through a doorway at the back, Marron close behind. The sound of their footsteps faded, leaving Calen alone in the cluttered shop.
He exhaled slowly, letting his attention drift across the shelves.
Glass vials filled with luminescent liquids. Glass vials. Crystalline fragments sorted by color and clarity. Metal ingots with maker's stamps. The herbs had been labeled individually, each tag precise.
Calen's Resonance Veins prickled faintly as he moved between the aisles. Some of the materials resonated—faint pulses of energy bleeding through their containers. A cluster of dark-quartz fragments felt cold even from a distance, their energy signature hollow and sharp.
He paused near a shelf of crystalline components, recognizing a few from Carl's projects. Stabilization lattices. Focusing prisms. Core fragments mounted in brass casings.
His hands itched to touch them.
Then—voices from the front of the shop.
Calen turned, instinctively stepping back toward the shelves, and froze.
Three figures stood near the entrance.
The first was a girl around his age, small and neat, with mixed features—sharp ears, expressive eyes, and dark hair pulled back into a practical braid. She wore Academy robes marked with a student's insignia, and her hands carried a woven basket filled with bundled herbs.
Mira, Calen realized. He'd met her briefly at the inn when they first arrived, though they hadn't spoken much beyond pleasantries.
The second figure made Calen's breath catch.
A girl—maybe a year younger than him, tall and willowy, with long black hair that caught faint blue sheen in the shop's ambient light. Her features were fine-boned, pale as northern snow, and her eyes were a cool gray-blue that swept across the shop with quiet assessment.
She wore Academy robes like Mira, but hers were trimmed with silver clasps and fur accents that spoke of wealth.
Calen's circuit-scars warmed slightly, not from the magic in the room, but because he was staring.
She was beautiful.
Not in the soft, approachable way Risa or Tanna were. This girl had presence.
And standing beside both of them was a giant.
Calen had seen large people before. Mazoga stood taller than most fighters. Tor could heft logs like firewood.
But this man was built on a different scale entirely.
Over eight feet tall, broad-shouldered and massive, with dark hair cropped short and pale skin that carried a faint stone-gray undertone. His face was weathered, scarred across the bridge of his nose, and his expression carried the kind of stillness that came from decades of discipline.
He wore blackened steel plate reinforced with silver inlay, knotwork runes worn smooth along the pauldrons. A wolf-pelt cloak draped across his shoulders, and a war axe rested across his back—its blade wide enough to cleave through shields and armor alike.
Calen's instincts screamed at him to leave. Walk away. Find Marron. Don't draw attention.
He shifted his weight, preparing to retreat toward the back room.
Then Mira looked up—and her expression brightened.
"Calen!" she called, waving.
Oh no.
Calen froze, trapped between politeness and the overwhelming urge to vanish into the shelves.
Mira crossed the shop toward him, basket swinging at her side. The other girl followed a half-step behind, expression neutral but watchful. The giant remained near the entrance, arms folded, his presence filling the room like a siege tower.
"Calen, right?" Mira asked as she reached him. "You're staying at my families inn?"
Calen swallowed, managing a nod. "Yeah. Hi."
Mira smiled, gesturing toward the girl beside her. "This is my roommate, Cassira. We're picking up supplies for class."
Cassira inclined her head slightly—polite, formal, but not cold. "Calen," she repeated, as if testing the name.
Her voice was measured, controlled. The kind of tone that carried weight even in casual conversation.
"Hi," Calen managed again, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck.
Mira didn't seem to notice. "What brings you here? I thought you were staying with that trade group."
"We are," Calen said quickly. "Just... picking up materials. For the settlement."
"Settlement?" Cassira asked, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
Great. Now she was interested.
Calen scrambled for something vague. "Frontier. New trade outpost. Nothing fancy."
Mira tilted her head, clearly curious. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"No," Calen admitted. "Further south."
"That explains the accent," Mira said lightly.
Calen blinked. "I have an accent?"
Mira grinned. "A little. It's not bad. Just... different."
Cassira's expression remained unreadable, but something in her gaze suggested she was cataloging every word, every detail.
The giant near the entrance shifted slightly, drawing Calen's attention again.
He didn't speak. Didn't move beyond that single adjustment. But his presence alone felt like a warning.
Calen cleared his throat, glancing back toward the doorway where Marron had vanished.
Come back soon, he thought desperately.
As if he somehow heard Calen plea, Marron emerged from the back room a moment later, Martin following behind with a ledger tucked under one arm. They were still discussing something—delivery schedules, maybe, or payment terms—but Marron's expression remained easy, composed.
He glanced up and spotted Calen standing near the shelf with Mira, Cassira, and the towering guard nearby.
Marron's gaze flicked briefly toward the giant, then back to Calen. His smile didn't falter.
"All set," Marron said, crossing toward them. "Martin's pulling the order together. We'll pick it up later this evening or tomorrow."
Martin grunted his agreement, moving behind the counter to make notes in his ledger.
Marron turned his attention to Mira, inclining his head politely. "Mira, wasn't it? Good to see you again."
Mira brightened immediately. "Marron! Are you getting supplies too?"
"Something like that," Marron said smoothly. He shifted his gaze toward Cassira, offering a slight bow. "I don't believe we've been introduced."
Cassira inclined her head in return, formal but not cold. "Cassira."
"A pleasure," Marron said, tone warm without overstepping. "Marron Vyren. Merchant by trade. Frontier routes, mostly."
Cassira's expression remained neutral. "Frontier," she repeated softly. "Dangerous work."
"Occasionally," Marron admitted. "But profitable, if you know where to look."
Mira glanced between them, clearly intrigued. "You're heading back to the inn after this?"
"Yes," Marron said. "This was our last stop."
Mira nodded, stepping back slightly. "We'll see you later, then."
"Looking forward to it," Marron said easily.
He turned, placing a hand on Calen's shoulder and steering him gently toward the exit. Calen offered a quick, awkward nod toward Mira and Cassira before following Marron out.
The moment they stepped through the outer doorway, the cool air outside hit Calen like a splash of cold water.
He exhaled slowly, tension bleeding from his shoulders.
Marron glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "You alright?"
Calen nodded quickly. "Yeah. Fine."
"Good," Marron said, already moving down the corridor. "Let's head back."
Calen followed, grateful for the excuse to leave before his heart rate caught up with his brain.
Mar watched Cassira and Mira finish their purchase, his gaze lingering on the doorway where the young man—Calen—had departed moments before. The encounter had been brief, polite even, but something had set Mar's instincts off.
By habit, he'd scanned the boy the moment he'd entered Cassira proximity. The boy looked harmless enough at first glance. But his Danger Sense had flared with warning. Level twenty-five. Only five levels beneath his own.
Mar shifted his weight, one hand resting on the haft of his war axe. Few boys that age reached such heights without surviving something deadly.
What relationship did he have with Mira?
The question lingered.
Cassira turned toward him, nodding that they were ready to leave. Mar stepped forward, falling into position at her side as they moved toward the exit.
He would note it. Tonight, he'd speak with Serin. She needed to know there were dangerous unknowns moving through Glasshold—ones polite enough to smile, young enough to be dismissed, and strong enough to kill.
Mar had learned long ago not to ignore his instincts.