He awoke.
For a long moment, he simply lay still, staring at the grain of the wooden ceiling and waiting for the phantom images of home to dissolve. For a few seconds, he could almost believe the skyscrapers were still outside his window.
Shaking off the lethargy, he moved through the room to retrieve his security measures. He deactivated the small, metallic discs tucked into the doorframe and windows—sleek pieces of magitech prepared for him before his departure. They hummed a final time before going dark, a comforting reminder of the world he'd left behind. They'd need to be recharged after five more nights, though he was afraid that if he let it absorb the ambient mana, it would blow up from the sheer amount.
In the small bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face and finally looked into the tarnished mirror.
The illusion was gone. Messy dark hair framed a face that looked older than his years, dominated by sharp, dark brown eyes that had seen too much. No blue skin, no flowing mane, just Kirias.
Once dressed, he reached for his core and pulled the illusion back over his skin. The human named Kirias vanished, in his place stood Flyn, a simple Nix traveler.
Descending into the common room, he was met by a wall of heat and noise. The scent of seasoned grease and woodsmoke made his stomach growl with a sudden, sharp hunger. The room was a mix of the region's inhabitants, mostly lizardmen with their dry, clicking speech and Nixes with their melodic tones, interspersed with a few stocky dwarves and fur-clad beastfolk. In a shadowed corner, a dwarf was already slamming back his third shot of what looked to be wine.
Kirias, now Flyn, approached the counter and ordered a plate. He was served a hearty portion of roasted pork, thick crusty bread, and a side of sautéed greens. He noted with a quiet sense of relief that biology seemed to follow a universal blueprint, certain plants and animals here were nearly identical to those back home.
The meal cost him three bronze Scales. The currency of Herkum was straightforward in material but curious in its logic. There were four tiers: Scales (Bronze), Shards (Silver), Claws (Gold), and the rare crowns, which was made of a material called Mythril. Each coin bore the profile of a legendary lizardman warrior or a king from an old time.
Most peculiar was the math of this place: everything was counted in denominations of twelve. He suspected it had something to do with the ancient lizardmen who simply liked the number. Either way, it was one more nuance he'd have to master to survive.
He sat in silence, a silent plea running through his mind that no one would attempt to engage him. Having the raw data of a language burned into your brain from another's memories was very different from actually using it.
Two tables away, the quiet he sought was punctuated by the booming voice of a lizardman. The warrior was leaning back, boasting loudly enough for the entire common room to hear.
"With my skills," the man bragged, slamming a scaled fist onto the wood, "any battalion would be lucky to have me. A 4th Circle Mage doesn't just walk into Herkum every day. I'm overqualified for anything less than a High Captain's rank!"
Kirias watched him over the rim of his cup, his eyes narrowing. The braggart was only one circle above Maya. If this was the benchmark for a "high-ranking" officer in this world, Kirias began to get a clearer picture of the local power scale.
Back home, magic was a precise science, a tool of war and industry. Here, it seemed tied to these "Circles." He cataloged the lizardman's mana flow, it was loud and unrefined, leaking energy like a cracked pipe. If a 4th Circle was considered elite, then perhaps his own weakened state wasn't as desperate a disadvantage as he'd first feared.
Having finished his meal, he headed toward the marketplace. He didn't have a shopping list or a particular need for supplies, instead, he needed the crowd. The market was a place where he could immerse himself in the local culture and the cadence of the language until they felt more like instinct.
Here, in the thick of the haggling and the shouting, he was just another customer. If he stumbled over a word or botched a cultural gesture, it would be dismissed as the quirk of a traveler rather than the slip-up of an interloper. It was the perfect place to fail safely and even if someone grew suspicious, the shifting tides of the crowd ensured they would never be able to pin down his identity.
He drifted through the stalls, letting the noise of the market wash over him. The air was thick with the scent of pungent spices, raw meats, and the metallic tang of magic-infused ores.
He stopped at a stall draped in heavy, dyed fabrics, intending only to observe the weaver's technique. The merchant, a stout lizardman with deep crimson scales and a jagged scar across his snout, mistook his lingering gaze for interest. He began a rapid-fire sales pitch in a thick, gravelly dialect that Maya's memories hadn't fully prepared him for.
Kirias hesitated, his mind racing to translate the slang. In the awkward silence, he instinctively reached for a bolt of shimmering silk to inspect the quality, a gesture he realized too late was a grave insult in this specific district.
The merchant's eyes flared. He slapped his hand down on the counter, the sound like a whip crack.
"You touch the Zar-silk with unwashed hands, Nix?" the merchant hissed, frill puffing out in an aggressive display. "You think your coin is so heavy you can disrespect a master's weave? Or are you just as dim-witted as you look?"
A few passersby slowed, sensing a confrontation. Kirias felt the heat of a dozen eyes on him. Murmurs of words he didn't know came from all around him, a child next to him was pulled back. His scorched circuits sparked with a sharp, warning throb, he couldn't afford to let his irritation lead to a magical outburst. He had to speak.
"My apologies, Master Weaver," Kirias said, his voice forced into the melodic, breathy register of a Nix. He felt the words stick in his throat, foreign and clumsy. "I meant no disrespect. In my... my home province, we touch the weave as a tribute to the maker's skill."
It was a total fabrication, but he delivered it with a humble tilt of his head, mimicking a gesture of submission he'd seen Maya perform in her memories.
The merchant paused, his frill slowly deflating. He narrowed his slitted eyes, looking for any sign of mockery. "A tribute, eh? You Nixes always have your heads in the clouds." He grunted, smoothing the silk with a clawed finger. "Next time, ask before you listen."
"Your wisdom is noted," Kirias replied, the Nix honorifics feeling like ash on his tongue.
He backed away slowly, merging back into the crowd as soon as the merchant turned to another customer. That had been too close. Somewhere behind him, someone laughed, and he wasn't sure it was about the silk.
This minor slip-up wasn't a catastrophe. In a city like Herkum, he was a ghost, he had no papers, no history, and—most importantly—no permanent face. If the "Flyn" persona became compromised, he could shed it and weave a new identity by morning.
The real threat was internal. Even the low-level illusion was beginning to take its toll. His mana circuits felt like frayed wires, sparking with white-hot pain every time he drew from his core. He had pushed his endurance as far as it would go for one day.
Navigating the streets with a focused, rhythmic stride, he ignored the sights and sounds of the city. He kept his head down, eyes fixed on the cobbles, until the familiar timber frame of the Blue Scale came into view.
He slipped through the common room, avoiding eye contact with the boisterous 4th Circle Mage or the inquisitive innkeeper, and climbed the stairs to his sanctuary. Only when he was behind the heavy oak door did he let the illusion collapse. The blue skin receded, the long hair vanished, and Kirias slumped against the wood, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches.
Safe, for now.