Vesper's facade of debauchery cracked briefly as he demonstrated the footwork's core principles. "Three essentials!" He struck a pose that would've been majestic if not for his wine-stained tunic. "Hips loose as tavern dancers, footwork lighter than cheating spouses, and—"
Amelia's blade hissed from its sheath.
"—precision matching celestial orbits!" the old mage amended hastily.
Kael stifled laughter as Vesper transitioned into legitimate instruction. The Stellar Shuffle's true mechanics emerged—micro-teleports woven into physical motion, creating the illusion of seamless speed. Each step left faint astral afterimages, trails that could misdirect opponents or enable rapid repositioning.
Training proved grueling. Amelia mastered the footwork's martial applications within hours, her blade dancing between residual stardust. Finn stumbled through pratfalls until discovering the technique's utility for evading jealous husbands.
Kael focused on combat integration. During their daily spar, he wove Flame Tyrant's Hand casts between Shuffle-steps, closing gaps no fifth-tier mage should breach. Amelia's approving nods fueled his progress.
"Adaptable, aren't you?" she remarked after a particularly deft combo.
"Necessity breeds innovation," Kael replied, recalling the Dusk Shard's ominous whispers.
Vesper observed from a safe distance, flask in hand. "That boy moves like he's racing death itself," he muttered to no one.
Three days passed in blurred motion. At dawn on the fourth morning, the lookout's cry pierced their routine: "Land ho!"
The Obsidian Wastes' jagged coastline materialized—a sawtooth silhouette against blood-red skies. As the ship neared port, Kael's Frostvein core pulsed in sync with distant volcanic rumbles.
The Dusk Shard's whispers sharpened to a command: Hasten.
Finn produced a spyglass of dubious origin, squinting at the horizon. "Scorching Sun City! By the Tyrant's flaming beard—look at those docks!"
The port of Scorching Sun City sprawled before them, its sandstone towers glowing amber under the midday sun. Merchant galleons jostled for space alongside fishing skiffs, their sails painted with sigils from distant realms.
Toms boomed with relief, "Solid ground! No more swaying like drunkards!" From his weathered satchel, he produced three parchment-like sheets—masks imbued with subtle glamours.
Finn slapped his against his face. The transformation was instantaneous: his boyish features morphed into a rugged stranger's, complete with scarred cheek and crooked nose. "Brilliant! I look like a retired pit fighter!"
Amelia's mask softened her striking beauty into forgettable plainness, though her piercing gaze defied concealment. Kael's new visage—a scholar's angular features framed by silver-streaked hair—bore an uncanny resemblance to portraits of long-dead archmages.
"Seventh-tier detection wards won't pierce these," Toms declared, preening under their astonished stares. "Woven with shadowspider silk and moonhare down. Even sniffers trained by the Thieves' Guild would—"
A docking bell drowned his boasting. The ship shuddered as gangplanks lowered, releasing a tide of passengers into the spice-scented chaos of Scorching Sun Harbor.
Vesper leaned over the railing, ogling a fishmonger's daughter. "Ah, to be young and nimble-fingered again!"
"Focus," Amelia growled, adjusting her concealed blade harness. "The Obsidian Wastes lie three days' ride northwest. We resupply and depart at dawn."
Kael's hand drifted to his pack, where the Frostvein core pulsed in time with distant volcanic tremors. The Dusk Shard's whispers sharpened—a single word reverberating through his bones: Hasten.
Vesper and Toms sauntered down the gangplank, their laughter blending with the clamor of the docks. "To artistic endeavors!" Toms winked, adjusting his newly acquired emerald ring of questionable origin.
Finn watched them disappear into the spice-scented crowd with exaggerated melancholy. "A tragic parting of kindred spirits..."
Amelia rolled her eyes. "Move."
The trio navigated Scorching Sun City's labyrinthine streets, their glamoured faces drawing no attention amidst merchants hawking dragon-scale armor and street performers breathing illusory flames. Finn's disguise—a scarred mercenary's visage—twitched with poorly concealed excitement as they approached the Heart of the Sea Tavern.
Inside, the air reeked of stale ale and charred wyvern ribs. Third-tier sellswords bellowed over gambled copper coins, their boasts punctuated by the clatter of dice.
"Three mugs of firewine!" Finn slammed a silver coin on the counter, adopting a gruff voice that cracked mid-syllable.
Kael's scholar's guise allowed discreet observation. His celestial senses prickled—beneath the tavern's reek of sweat and smoke lingered traces of umbral magic.
A hulking axeman at the neighboring table slammed his tankard, spraying foam. "Heard 'bout the tremors in Obsidian Gorge? Whole mining crew vanished—nothin' left but frostbitten tools!"
His companion, a wiry scout missing two fingers, leaned in. "My cousin's in the Ironjaw Guild. Says they found markings in the ice—like them cultist symbols from the Purge Years."
Amelia's boot nudged Kael's under the table. Her eyes flicked toward the tavern's rear exit, where a cloaked figure slipped into the alley.
The Frostvein core in Kael's satchel hummed—a glacial counterpoint to the Dusk Shard's rising agitation.