The world lurched violently as Soga's turquoise spatial magic deposited Fin in a narrow alley. The transition from the humid jungle to urban stone jarred his senses like a physical blow. The first sensation was the cobblestones beneath his feet, worn smooth by foot traffic, still damp from the morning's tide spray, their uneven surface a sharp contrast to the soft jungle earth he'd grown accustomed to.

Then the smells hit him in overwhelming waves. The air was thick with the fundamental scent of salt and brine from the nearby harbor, so dense he could taste it on his tongue. Layered beneath that maritime foundation came the pungent aroma of exotic spices from merchant stalls. The sharp, metallic tang of fish markets that had been operating since before dawn added another note.

The sounds of the city created a symphony unlike anything in the jungle's silence. Dockworkers called out in a dozen different languages, their voices carrying across the water as they coordinated the loading and unloading of cargo. The rhythmic creak of ships swaying at anchor provided a bass note to the urban chorus, wooden hulls groaning against their moorings with each gentle swell. Somewhere nearby, a ship's bell chimed. Cart wheels rumbled over cobblestones with a percussion that seemed to vibrate through the soles of his boots, while the distant ring of hammer on anvil spoke of smiths already at work in the early morning hours.

Even the very air of the city felt different against his skin, humid like the jungle, but heavy with salt.

Fin's hand instinctively moved to his face, adjusting the obsidian mask that Mara had given him before his exile. The smooth, light-absorbing surface felt cool against his transformed skin, its featureless contours concealing the ethereal features that marked him as Aos sí.

Beside him, Soga, now calling himself Astar Lugh, wore a similar mask, though his was subtly different. The mask's enchantments modulated his voice a little more, deepening it from his naturally cheerful tenor to something more commanding, more mature.

"Welcome to Frerun, one of the jewels of the Free Cities," Soga said. "Keep the mask on."

Fin nodded, pulling his tattered traveling cloak tighter around his shoulders. The garment had served him well during their time in the jungle, but now, surrounded by the bustling energy of civilization, it felt inadequate.

Frerun's pulse was palpable, a living thing that seemed to thrum through the very stones beneath their feet. As they emerged from the alley onto one of the main thoroughfares, the full sensory assault of the port city engulfed them. Merchants shouted their wares in the common tongue and a dozen regional dialects, their voices creating a competitive chorus that rose and fell like ocean swells. "Fresh fish, caught this morning!" bellowed a fishmonger whose voice carried the rasp of travel. "Silks from the Eastern Kingdoms, finer than spider's web!" called another, his accent marking him as a trader who had traveled far to bring his goods to market.

Heavy carts rumbled past, their iron-bound wheels adding a rhythmic percussion that seemed to vibrate through Fin's bones. The carts themselves were works of art, some painted in brilliant colors that caught the morning light, others carved with protective runes that glowed faintly as they passed. The draft horses that pulled them were magnificent beasts, their coats gleaming with health and their harnesses jingling with each powerful step.

Mixed with the smell of coal smoke was the sweet aroma of baking bread from early-rising bakers, and the herbal complexity of apothecary shops already grinding their morning preparations.

But it was the visual feast that truly captured Fin's attention. Frerun was a city that celebrated its diversity in every architectural line. Buildings rose around them in a bewildering array of styles, some with the sloping roofs and intricate wooden carvings that spoke of northern mountain influences, others sporting the flat tops and vibrant murals. Balconies jutted from upper floors at seemingly random intervals, many draped with colorful fabrics that fluttered in the sea breeze like prayer flags. Window boxes overflowed with flowering plants that added splashes of red, purple, and gold to the urban palette.

The people of Frerun were as diverse as its architecture. Fin watched a woman in flowing robes the color of sunset haggle with a merchant whose skin bore the deep tan of someone who had spent years under foreign suns. A group of sailors passed by, their rolling gait and weather-beaten faces marking them as men of the sea, while nearby a scholar in pristine robes consulted a scroll with the intensity of someone deciphering ancient mysteries.

Protective wards hummed in the walls of important buildings, creating a low-frequency vibration that he felt in his teeth. Enchanted street lamps flickered with stored sunlight that would illuminate the roads come nightfall, their gentle warmth detectable even now in the morning light.

"First step?" he asked, his voice emerging from the mask as something deeper, more mature than his actual thirteen years would suggest.

"Cloaks," Soga replied without hesitation. "Something less… conspicuous than what we're currently wearing. These rags might have been adequate for jungle camping, but they'll make us stand out."

They navigated Frerun's bustling streets with practiced caution.

Merchants with calculating eyes seemed to automatically assess the worth of everything they saw, their gazes flickering over Fin and Soga's cloaks with professional interest before dismissing them as customers of modest means.

Marian had described this place years ago, back when Fin had been a different person living a different life, but his words had failed to capture the sheer sensory intensity of actually being here. Frerun was more than just a trading post; it was a crucible where cultures met, clashed, and ultimately merged into something entirely new.

The tailor's shop they eventually found was a modest establishment squeezed between a spice merchant and a dealer in exotic hardwoods. Its sign, depicting a needle and thread swaying in an eternally gentle breeze thanks to a minor enchantment, marked it as the kind of practical establishment that served working professionals rather than the wealthy elite. Inside, bolts of fabric lined the walls in organized chaos, some shimming with subtle enchantments that would repel water or resist blade cuts, others simple but well-made cloth that would serve a man faithfully for years.

The proprietor was a middle-aged woman whose hands bore the telltale calluses of someone who had spent decades working with needle and thread. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, took in their masks without comment.

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"Need something for the road?" she asked, her voice carrying the neutral politeness of someone who had learned not to ask too many questions of her customers.

"Two cloaks, dark and durable," Soga said. "Something that will help us blend in with the crowd rather than stand out from it."

The woman nodded and disappeared into the back of her shop, returning moments later with two heavy garments of deep charcoal gray. The fabric was clearly well-made, woven with weather-resistant threads that would repel rain and resist the kind of wear that came from hard travel. More importantly, they were the kind of practical garments that working men wore, unremarkable, serviceable, and completely forgettable.

"These'll keep you out of sight and out of the weather," she said, accepting the coins Soga offered without bothering to count them.

While Soga conducted the transaction, Fin's attention was drawn to a display case near the counter. Inside, arranged on black velvet, was a set of throwing knives that immediately caught his eye. They were small, perhaps six inches in length, perfectly balanced with blades that gleamed with a faint sheen. The handles were wrapped in leather that had been treated to provide a sure grip even in wet conditions.

"I'll take those," he said, pointing to the case.

The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow but moved to retrieve the knives without comment. "Extra cost for the weapons," she noted, her tone suggesting that such additions were common enough.

Soga glanced at Fin as he paid, curiosity evident even through the mask. "Throwing knives? That's a rather... specific choice. Planning to take up juggling?"

Fin shrugged, slipping the leather case into his dimensional storage where it would be safely concealed from prying eyes. "I have a project in mind."

Soga chuckled, a sound that carried genuine amusement. "A project. I see. Well, I suppose everyone needs a hobby."

Properly equipped now, they left the shop and began winding their way through the city's labyrinthine streets toward their ultimate destination. The Free Cities were designed to be navigated by those who belonged there, their street patterns more organic than planned, following the flow of commerce and the natural contours of the land rather than any grand architectural vision. It was the kind of place where a man could disappear if he knew how to blend in or find himself hopelessly lost.

Eventually, they reached their destination: a sturdy stone building. The structure was built to last, its walls thick enough to withstand both siege and storm, its windows positioned to provide good fields of fire while minimizing vulnerability to attack. Above the heavy oak door, a sign displayed the crossed swords over a shield that marked it as a mercenary guild, one of the Free Cities' most distinctive institutions.

The Mercenary Guild was what made the Free Cities unique, it was their answer to the Adventurer's Guild. Here, loyalty was a commodity to be bought and sold, and a man's worth was measured by his skills rather than his bloodline. It was a system that offered both opportunity and danger in equal measure.

Inside, the guild hall buzzed with the kind of controlled chaos that came from gathering professional warriors in one place. Mercenaries occupied every available space, some sharpening blades with the methodical precision of craftsmen maintaining their tools, others swapping stories in the easy camaraderie of those who had faced death together, still others studying the contract boards that lined the walls.

At a scarred wooden desk that had clearly seen decades of use sat the guild's recruiter, a grizzled veteran sat. His eyes, sharp despite their age, assessed newcomers with the automatic evaluation of someone who had learned to judge a man's worth at a glance.

"New blood?" he grunted, his voice carrying the gravelly quality of someone who had spent years shouting orders. His eyes fixed on their masks without surprise.

Soga stepped forward, his posture radiating the kind of quiet confidence that came from genuine competence rather than bravado. "Astar Lugh," he said, his masked voice carrying exactly the right note of professional courtesy. "Tier 4 spatial mage, thirty years of age. This is my brother, Lasair, tier 2, twenty years old."

Fin suppressed a smirk at the casual lies. At thirteen, he was far younger than their cover story suggested. His core evolution and subsequent race change had indeed made him taller, his features more mature, his presence more commanding. Combined with the mask's voice modulation, he could easily pass for the age Soga claimed.

The recruiter's quill scratched across parchment as he recorded their information, his movements efficient and practiced. "Tier 4 spatial mage," he repeated. "That's an impressive boast. And tier 2 at twenty is... respectable, if true." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Of course, you'll need to prove both claims. Combat test, tomorrow at dawn. Standard procedure, we don't take anyone's word for their abilities, no matter how convincing they might sound."

"We'll be there," Soga replied without hesitation.

As they left the guild hall, Fin felt a surge of anticipation that had nothing to do with nervousness. The days in the jungle had been necessary, but they had also been frustrating, developing new skills in isolation, with no real measure of their effectiveness beyond theoretical understanding. Tomorrow's test would provide the first real challenge since his transformation, the first opportunity to see how his new abilities would perform under pressure.

The modest inn they found near the docks was exactly what they needed, clean, anonymous, and populated by the kind of transient professionals who minded their own business and expected others to do the same. Their room was sparse but adequate, its walls etched with faint concealment runes that would prevent casual eavesdropping while still allowing them to speak freely. The single window looked out over the harbor, providing a view of the forest of masts and the endless dance of ships arriving and departing with the tide.

Fin spent the evening hours practicing with his new throwing knives, testing their weight and balance against a wooden beam that had clearly suffered similar abuse from previous occupants. The weapons were beautifully made, their balance perfect for the techniques he had in mind. Each throw was an exercise in precision, muscle memory, and the kind of spatial awareness that his enhanced senses made possible.

Soga watched from his position against the wall, occasionally offering suggestions born from his own combat experience. "Tomorrow's test will be comprehensive, they'll want to see how you handle yourself in real combat situations, not just target practice."

Fin nodded, catching a knife mid-spin and sending it into the beam with practiced ease. "I'll manage."

"Good," Soga said, settling back with his ever-present book. "Remember, we're not just testing your abilities, we're establishing our new identities. Lasair needs to be competent but not so spectacular that he draws unwanted attention. Save that bow skill for when we need it."

As night fell over Frerun, the sounds of the harbor shifted from the busy chaos of day to the more subdued rhythms of evening. Ships' bells chimed the watches with bronze voices that carried across the water, each vessel announcing its vigilance to the harbor master and any who cared to listen. Night fishermen called to each other across the darkening waves, their lanterns beginning to bob like fireflies on the water's surface. The distant sound of tavern music drifted on the salt-scented breeze, fiddles and drums and voices raised in songs that spoke of loves lost and fortunes won, of storms weathered and harbors safely reached.

The very air of the city seemed to soften as darkness claimed the streets. Lanterns began to flicker to life along the major thoroughfares, their enchanted flames casting dancing shadows that transformed the familiar day-time city into something altogether more mysterious and romantic.

Fin settled into his narrow bed, but sleep came fitfully. His mind kept returning to the events that had brought him here, the council meeting, his father's desperate embrace, the long journey that had transformed him. He knew he'd be an emotional mess without Convergent Equilibrium, but he needed to focus. The Silent Voice might believe he was safely contained in the Academy or Korr, but the Free Cities represented something far more dangerous from their perspective: genuine freedom, the opportunity to grow and learn without the constraints of royal oversight or political necessity.

Tomorrow's test was just the beginning. The guild would provide him with legitimate work, a cover identity, and the chance to build the strength he would need for whatever challenges lay ahead.

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