The Outworlder

circles surrounded the mansion. Through Vuilsumnaar goggles I could trace their outlines. First, the red lines of simple alarms, but near the Mansion they intertwined with yellow and turquoise defensive spells. I knew their general function, but predicting their real-world effects would require knowledge I didn’t have.
Sorcery in Tarviss was different than in Dahls. Though the energies it controlled were the same, the methods differed greatly. I wasn’t sure about the details; I was no sorcerer. I wondered how deep Dahlsian understanding was of Tarvissian magic—and specifically if it was deep enough to counter their spells.
More specifically, if the protection they promised would be enough to keep me alive.
A few soldiers escorted me as far as they dared, but they stayed behind while I paused at the very edge of the protected area. For the first time, I took a good look at the Mansion.
It wasn’t a real noble house, merely an imitation. Previously, it most likely served as the community center with offices, granaries, and a big yard used as a marketplace. It was short but sprawling, with whitewashed walls—now darkened by soot—and a gently sloped roof covered in red tiles. A few banners hung from the walls: a checkered, black-and-white background with a green trident, the central prong much thicker than those on the sides. The coat of Tarviss. I realized I’d never seen it displayed before today.
The outer windows were narrow: a relic of older times when such mansions were often used for defense. And it worked. With thick walls and double gates, the building was almost impenetrable. Thanks to a few wells and full storage, the rebels could stay inside for cycles.
Provided they didn’t decide to send their troops back to Kooine. With most members of Mespana gathered here, they wouldn’t have much trouble seizing it. Or maybe not. Despite harsh conditions in Kooine, there were large colonies of nonhumans living there, mining for rare metals, tertium salts, and natural glass. I didn’t think they’d give their homes to the Tarvissi without a fight.
And yet, I hesitated. It’s not that I didn’t trust the Dahlsi…
Okay, maybe a little. But I couldn’t just turn back. Not now, not after everything.
I sucked in air. It tasted of smoke.
Well, now or never, I thought.
I moved my left foot over the spell.
The red line rippled, and the magic current ran up my leg. But apart from that, nothing. No trace of resistance. I waited for a few seconds, but nothing else happened. My right foot joined my left on the other side. Still nothing.
I exhaled.
Just an alarm, I chided myself. They probably knew I was coming. The real test of Dahlsian protection was yet to come.
I moved forward, walking carefully but steadily, my eyes fixed on the mansion, looking out for any sign of danger. It was no use, though. They wouldn’t come out for me, and the windows were too narrow for me to peek inside. Still, I watched, thinking that if they decided to shoot me down, at least I might glimpse the incoming arrow. Or spell. Something. Maybe I would spot movement behind one of the windows; catch a gleam in hateful eyes.
I saw nothing. Beneath my feet, spell after spell faltered before snapping back into place. They were all red. All harmless. Soon, though, I stood before a different line. A yellow one.
What would that one do? Turn me into stone upon crossing? Set me on fire? A real sorcerer could probably identify it, determine if my protections were strong enough to counteract it, but I was not a sorcerer. I was just a guy with a handful of devices, the inner workings of which I would never understand.
I took the next step.
That time, I felt something—the faintest hint of resistance; a numbness crawling up my leg and overwhelming my whole body for a heartbeat.
Then it vanished. The yellow line disappeared. I let out a long, shaky breath.
So, the Dahlsian spells were working after all.
I picked up my trek, but my steps became slower, more calculated. I felt a slight tingling at the back of my neck, and I knew I was being watched. I braced myself for an attack, but none came. Sooner than I would have liked, I found myself standing before the gate. Twice as tall as me, flanked by the white, black, and green banners of Tarviss.
It opened.
Did the rebels want to talk to me? Or turn me into an example?
It was dark inside. There was light in the distance, in the main courtyard. I whispered a spell, and my goggles changed mode: the blackness melted into shades of gray. Ahead of me ran a wide corridor with doors on both sides. I was struck by the realization that if I walked in, I might never come out. But, I guess, despite all logical evidence, my brain rejected that idea, because I felt nothing. No fear, no anxiety. Not yet. Just cold, silent numbness.
I stepped in.
The gate closed slowly behind me. I walked straight into the courtyard, and when I emerged from the darkness and took my goggles off, I realized it was crowded, with only a small opening left for me. All around stood burly, bearded men in traditional Tarvissian outfits: black trousers, loose white shirts, and jyats—knee-length, sleeveless coats—in the same shade of green.
My insides coiled in anxiety.
Then, following my brain’s tendency to focus on the weirdest thing, I realized something. Being surrounded at all times by people who could fit under my armpit, it was easy to forget, but the Tarvissi were tall. And I wasn’t, by any means, the tallest. In fact, I was closer to the lower end of average.
And why hadn’t I brought my Tarvissian garb? It hadn’t even occurred to me in Sfal, and now all I had was my Dahlsian uniform, suddenly too tight, too exposing. And why did I shave this morning? No chance I could grow anything to compete with what these guys were sporting, but now I felt like a kid.
In