Adom stood in front of Weird Stuff Store, hand frozen on the doorknob, reconsidering his life choices.
He'd spent the morning dodging admirers, ducking behind pillars whenever students spotted him, and once hiding behind a particularly bushy potted plant when Coach Viriam started loudly recounting "The Ghost's greatest plays" to anyone who would listen.
He'd come here seeking refuge, assuming the shop would be empty as usual.
The muffled sounds of conversation from inside suggested he'd miscalculated.
With a sigh, he pushed the door open. The familiar bell jingled overhead, announcing his arrival to a surprisingly crowded shop.
Three customers stood near the front counter, where Mr. Biggins was—shockingly—doing actual shopkeeper duties. The old man was weighing colorful candies on a small brass scale, carefully transferring them into paper bags while discussing their properties in the exaggerated manner of a carnival barker.
"And these blue ones, madam, will make your voice sound like you've inhaled a considerable quantity of helium! Excellent for surprising guests at dinner parties or terrifying neighborhood cats!"
Adom blinked. In all his visits to the store, he'd rarely seen Biggins engage in actual commerce. The old man typically spent his time eating his own merchandise, lounging dramatically in odd places, or making cryptic statements before disappearing behind curtains.
Seeing him act like a legitimate businessman was more disconcerting.
Adom slipped toward the back of the store, trying to blend in with a display of dancing teacups. He needed to speak with Biggins privately about everything, and about Thessarian.
He was examining a shelf of bottled emotions (happiness was on sale, melancholy apparently commanding premium prices this season) when someone tapped his shoulder.
A middle-aged man with an impressively groomed beard had broken away from the counter and was now staring at him with growing excitement.
"Excuse me," the man said, approaching carefully as if Adom might bolt. "Are you Adom Sylla?"
Adom glanced around. The other customers had paused their browsing to look over. Even Biggins had stopped mid-sale, a handful of purple candies suspended above a paper bag.
This was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid.
If he admitted who he was, this man would tell others, who would tell others, and within an hour half of Arkhos would be crammed into Weird Stuff Store looking for the elusive Ghost.
"No," Adom said, keeping his voice neutral. "Sorry."
The man looked crestfallen for approximately three seconds before his expression shifted to skepticism. He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded newspaper, opening it to reveal a sketch of Adom mid-game, white streak of hair clearly visible despite the artist's mediocre skills.
"I think you are, though," the man said, holding the paper up for comparison. "You look just like him."
Adom considered his options. Fleeing would only confirm his identity. Magical disguise seemed excessive.
That left only one reasonable choice: polite but firm denial.
"Adom Sylla has a white streak in his hair," he pointed out reasonably, gesturing to his now completely dark hair. "And glasses." He gestured to his face, which was notably glasses-free.
The man lowered the newspaper slightly, examining Adom more carefully. "You could be disguising yourself," he said, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I would too, if I were suddenly famous."
"That's a reasonable assumption," Adom agreed. "If I were Adom Sylla, which I'm not."
"Of course you're not," the man said with a knowing nod that completely contradicted his words. "My mistake."
They stared at each other for a moment, locked in the most polite standoff in the history of Arkhos.
"It's just," the man continued, still speaking just quietly enough that the other customers couldn't quite hear, "my son is a huge fan. Read every match report. Even started practicing Krozball in our back garden."
"That's nice," Adom said sincerely. "Krozball is an excellent sport."
"It is," the man agreed. "Especially when played by someone who isn't you, since you're not Adom Sylla."
"Exactly."
The man reached into his pocket and produced a pen. "I don't suppose you'd consider signing this newspaper anyway? As a favor to someone who clearly isn't Adom Sylla but happens to share his handwriting?"
Adom glanced toward the door, calculating his chances of making a dignified exit. Zero. The other customers had abandoned any pretense of shopping and were now openly watching the exchange, whispering among themselves.
"I don't think that would be appropriate," Adom said carefully. "Since I'm not him."
"This?" Biggins looked genuinely surprised. "Not at all. It's always been here."
"No, it hasn't."
"The store is never quite the same twice," Biggins said with a dismissive wave. "Surely you've noticed. Sometimes the ceiling's a bit higher. Sometimes there's a new smell. Last Tuesday the entire place was three feet wider."
"I thought that was just me," Adom muttered.
"Hardly. Buildings have moods too." Biggins pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and selected one that looked like it was made from bone. "Especially buildings that house things like me."
The door opened without a sound, revealing a small, circular room that Adom was positive couldn't fit within the dimensions of the shop. The walls were lined with shelves containing objects that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them.
In the center of the room, atop a pedestal of dark wood, sat the phoenix egg.
It was smaller than Adom remembered, about the size of a melon, but the blue flames that engulfed it burned just as brightly. They cast dancing shadows across the room without producing any heat.
"It looks good," Adom said, approaching the pedestal. "Healthy."
"Oh yes," Biggins agreed. "Very healthy indeed."
Adom reached out, hesitated, then carefully lifted the egg. The flames wrapped around his fingers like curious animals, tickling rather than burning.
"I wonder when it will hatch," he said, turning the egg slowly to examine it from all angles.
"Probably in a few years," Biggins replied casually.
"Years?" Adom nearly fumbled the egg. "It's going to be on fire for years?"
"Oh, possibly longer," Biggins said, adjusting his spectacles. "You see, young Adom,The creature inside is already conscious. It's just taking its time."
"It's conscious? Now?"
"Of course." Biggins took the egg from Adom and held it up to the light. "It's registering the outside world. Learning. Growing. When it's ready, it will emerge on its own terms. If disturbed prematurely, it will simply go back to sleep, and the egg will turn to stone."
"That's... a long time to be stuck in an egg."
"Not so different from your own development, really," Biggins said. "Just more contained."
He placed the egg back on its pedestal and sat on a stool that Adom could have sworn wasn't there a moment ago.
"I spent seventy-six years in my egg," Biggins said conversationally. "Fully conscious for most of it."
"That sounds horrific."
"Not at all. It was quite educational." His eyes took on a distant quality. "I was traded as a treasure, you know. Passed from hand to hand. I traveled more in that egg than most humans do in a lifetime."
Adom raised an eyebrow. "You remember all that? From inside an egg?"
His expression darkened momentarily before he shook it off. "I understood what I was, even then. That I was a dragon. That there were few, if any, others like me left. An interesting perspective to develop while still unhatched."
Adom tried to imagine it: decades of floating in darkness, listening, learning, unable to respond. Knowing you were possibly the last of your kind before you'd even seen the world.
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"Doesn't that make you... I don't know, resentful? Being passed around like an object for so long?"
Biggins looked genuinely confused. "Resentful? No more than a book might resent being read. It's simply what was." He gestured toward the egg. "When it emerges, it will already be fully formed mentally. That's why beings like phoenixes and dragons can speak and reason immediately after hatching. We do our growing up on the inside."
Adom considered this. It explained a few things about Biggins' oddities - if your first decades were spent as a disembodied consciousness, perhaps normal human behavior would always seem slightly foreign.
Or maybe age had just worn away his concern for other people’s opinions.
"Is there anything we should be doing for it?" Adom asked. "To help it develop?"
"Talk to it," Biggins suggested. "Read to it. Play it music. The more varied the stimulation, the more robust its development." He reached out and stroked the flaming shell with one finger. "This one already knows your voice. It recognized you the moment you entered the room."
Adom looked skeptically at the egg. "How can you tell?"
"The flames flickered differently." Biggins smiled. "They're flickering differently right now because we're discussing it. It knows."
Adom peered more closely at the egg. The blue flames did seem to be moving in patterns, almost like a visual language.
"So it can understand us? Right now?"
"To some degree," Biggins confirmed. "Not words exactly, not yet, but intentions, emotions. Tone." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Would you like to say hello?"
Feeling slightly foolish, Adom placed his hand on the egg again. "Hello," he said softly. "I'm Adom."
The flames curled around his fingers more deliberately this time, forming shapes that held for just a moment before dissolving.
"It likes you," Biggins said with certainty.
"How do you know?"
"Because," Biggins said, his expression utterly serious, "it just told me so."
Thessarian reclined on a cushioned daybed in what looked like a lavish bedchamber. She wore a silky bathrobe, her face covered in some kind of white clay mask. A small table beside her held an assortment of pastries, chocolates, and a steaming teapot. A lyre floated in the corner, playing itself in a slow, soothing melody.
She was reading a leather-bound book, completely absorbed, one hand absently reaching for a chocolate.
Adom frowned, wondering if he was seeing things correctly.
Thessarian sipped her tea, turned a page, and then—as if sensing the intrusion—looked up. Her eyes widened slightly when she spotted them.
"Oh!" She snapped her fingers, and the lyre immediately fell silent. "I wasn't aware you were here. My apologies." She set her book down, marking her place with a ribbon.
"Not at all," Biggins said with a small bow. "I should have announced ourselves. I was fairly certain the ward would alert you to our presence."
"It works perfectly," she assured him. "But I tend to get very absorbed when reading with music. The ward nudges, but doesn't demand attention." She smiled apologetically, then her gaze shifted to Adom. Her eyes seemed to catalog every detail of him in seconds.
"Hello, Adom Sylla."
Adom's muscles tensed instinctively, combat reflexes urging him to strike first, ask questions later. His fingers twitched toward a weapon he wasn't carrying. With effort, he controlled the impulse, keeping his expression neutral as he looked questioningly at Biggins.
This woman would someday be called the Mage Killer, would hunt down and destroy his kind with ruthless efficiency. She'd recognized him immediately. And now she was having what appeared to be a leisurely afternoon in what was supposed to be her prison?
Something wasn't adding up.
Biggins chuckled. "You're sensing the binding enchantment. Quite potent."
"How did you even create something like this?" Adom asked. "The level of enchantment needed to override a Farmusian control spell..."
"Homunculi creation isn't new to the world, Adom," Biggins said, adjusting his spectacles. "It's simply a practice that's been forgotten. Modern mages are merely rediscovering what was once common knowledge. I happen to know its intricacies better than most."
Thessarian studied Biggins with renewed interest. "You're not human, are you?"
"That much should be obvious, no?" Biggins replied with a smile that revealed just a hint of too-sharp teeth.
"Fair," she conceded.
Adom shook his head, pushing aside his questions about Biggins for the moment. There were more pressing concerns.
"I need to know exactly what the Farmusians are preparing," he said. "I have intelligence reports, but nothing detailed. Nothing concrete."
"Of course," Thessarian said. "I can tell you everything."
She leaned back on the daybed, tapping her fingers against her knee as she organized her thoughts. Her eyes seemed to focus on something far beyond the room's walls.
"Where to begin?" she murmured, almost to herself. Then her gaze sharpened, and she looked directly at Adom.
"Do you know of the Sundarian Empire's Grand Chancellor, Lord Mephtilem?"
*****
Three hundred miles to the south, in the gleaming halls of Alkarond, capital of Sundar.