Ring of Destiny
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The Inkwell of the Ages
Prologue: The Snoring Warrior Tavern
The Snoring Warrior had never been this full.
Jack Dagger had made a point of arriving early, which in itself was unusual enough to be worth noting, but even then the place had already been alive with movement. By the time the sun had fully set and the lamps were lit, the tavern had swelled beyond what any sensible building should have been able to hold. Shoulder brushed shoulder, voices layered over one another, and still the door continued to open, admitting more people into a space that should have run out long ago.
It never did.
Jack leaned back in his chair just enough to keep his view of the room unobstructed, one boot hooked beneath the rung, his posture loose in a way that suggested idleness to anyone who didn’t know better. In truth, he had been watching the room from the moment he stepped inside, measuring the crowd not by its size, but by its composition.
New faces stood out.
They always did.
That was the job, after all.
His employer had made it simple. Find the newcomers. Not the drifters who passed through without leaving a mark, but the ones who lingered, the ones who looked like they might take root if given a reason. Give them that reason. Put a few small jobs in their hands, let them help where help was needed, and if things went well, the town would do the rest. Eastguard had a way of shaping people once they started shaping it in return.
It was a quiet kind of work, and Jack preferred it that way.
Across the room, Sir Jangle Merrigold was doing his part, though he likely didn’t think of it in those terms. The bard moved easily through the press of bodies, a harmonica in one hand, his voice rising and falling in time with the music as he shifted from song to story and back again. People laughed, clapped, leaned in to listen. He had a way of filling space without ever seeming to demand it, which was a rare gift.
Jack had marked him as a possibility the moment he arrived in town.
A bard who could hold a room like this was useful, whether he knew it or not.
The door opened again, and Jack’s attention shifted without any visible movement on his part.
Two men stepped inside, pausing just long enough to take in the scene before committing to it. One was a dwarf, burdened with a satchel that clinked softly when he moved, glass against glass, the unmistakable sound of potions or something close enough to it. The other had the look of a wizard about him, not just in dress but in the way he held himself, as though part of his attention was always elsewhere, following threads no one else could see.
An odd pairing.
Jack filed that away.
They hesitated only a moment before moving deeper into the tavern, drawn by the same thing that drew everyone else. The scent hung in the air, thick but not unpleasant, floral with something softer beneath it, something that settled the nerves rather than sharpening them. Ylang ylang, though few would have named it. Most only knew that it made the world feel just a little easier to bear.
It was the reason the place had its name.
More than one road-weary traveler had found a seat here, only to wake some time later with no memory of having fallen asleep.
Jack had seen it happen often enough that it no longer surprised him.
What did, or rather what continued to amuse him, was the other trick the tavern seemed to play.
There was always room.
It didn’t matter how full the place became, how many bodies pressed together near the bar or clustered around the hearth, there was always space for one more. A chair that hadn’t been there a moment before, a table just wide enough to accommodate another set of hands, a gap that opened and closed again without anyone noticing the moment it changed.
He had stopped trying to explain it.
The two newcomers found a small table near the edge of the room, one meant for two, and yet it waited for them as if it had been reserved. They took their seats, setting down their things, already leaning toward one another in quiet conversation.
A moment later, the door opened again.
Another traveler entered, glanced around, and without hesitation made his way toward that same table. Jack watched as the space adjusted itself to accommodate him, the table widening, a third chair present where there had only been two before. No one remarked on it. No one even seemed to notice.
Another arrival, another shift, and now four sat where two had begun.
The tavern held them all without complaint.
Jack allowed himself the smallest of smiles and took note of the group. A dwarf with a bag of glass and trouble, a wizard with too much on his mind, and now others drawn in by nothing more than proximity and chance.
Or something that looked very much like chance.
It would be worth watching.
The music began to fade as Sir Jangle drifted back toward the edge of the room, his role in the evening naturally giving way to what everyone had come for. Conversations quieted in waves rather than all at once, the kind of gradual hush that only a crowd familiar with the rhythm of an event could produce.
At the far end of the room, near the hearth, Marteph pulled a chair into place and settled into it with the ease of someone who had done this many times before.
For nearly a year, he had been telling this story.
Each week, more had come to hear it. Workers from the rebuilding of the temple, carrying news from the north, had fed him pieces of it, and he had shaped those pieces into something the town could hold onto. The tale of The Guardians of Greenspire had grown in the telling, not by exaggeration, but by accumulation, each account adding weight to what had come before.
Tonight was the last of it.
Jack could feel that in the room.
The expectation was different, sharper, as though everyone present understood that something was about to end, even if they didn’t know what would follow it.
Jack settled back, his attention fixed, not just on the story that was about to be told, but on the people who had come to hear it.
This was where things began.
Jack leaned forward as Marteph Stoneharrow dragged the chair into place by the hearth and dropped into it, boots set wide, one hand gripping the armrest. The dwarf rapped his knuckles once against the wood.
Marteph looked out over the gathered crowd, waiting just long enough for the last of the murmurs to die away, and when he spoke, his voice carried easily, filling the tavern without effort.
“Alright, alright, settle in. If you’re standin’, find a wall. If you’re talkin’, finish it quick. We’ve one final chapter left in the tale of the Guardians of Greenspire.”
He gestured toward a table near the fire, not bothering to turn his head fully, as though the memory of it was clearer than the thing itself.
“They met right ‘here. Every one of ’em tied together by the same man. When he died, they took me cook and headed north, and I figured I’d either see ’em again… or I wouldn’t.”
A small grunt followed, low and thoughtful, before he shifted forward in his seat.
“What I’m about to tell you comes from Father Ignatius. Not from his own mouth in this room, but carried back piece by piece, week by week, tucked in with coin and orders sent south to the workers rebuildin’ Mishakal’s temple. I pried the rest out of ’em over their cups soon as they’d drunk enough to loosen the truth. Words passed careful, like a good bottle you don’t spill.”
He leaned forward slightly, voice lowering just enough to draw the room in tighter.
“And of all the parts of this tale… this one don’t sit light.”
He let the quiet settle before continuing.
“You remember where we left ’em. They’d just reached the underbelly of that flying citadel.”
“They came in on dragonnels. Wasteland beasts. Clystran found ’em, trained ’em enough not to throw a rider. Flew straight at the belly of that stone and bone heap like fools who’d already decided the mountain would move for ’em.”
He pointed toward the rafters.
“Aye. This be where it turns.”
“This is where they set boots on cursed stone.”
“Wind’s howlin’ one moment…”
His hand swept slowly through the air.
“…and then it ain’t.”
“Clystran peels off with the beasts, and that last strip of open sky gets swallowed behind ’em.”
He lifted his chin slightly, then lowered his voice until the room had to lean toward him to catch it.
“Tunnel mouth cut right into the foundation. Black as a tax collector’s heart. No starlight. No torch unless you strike one.”
He let the quiet stretch a moment.
“Just that sound.”
Pressing his teeth together, he let out a low grinding hum in his throat.
“Island shiftin’ mid-flight. A groan runnin’ through the rock, up through your boots and into your teeth. Ignatius said you could feel it settlin’ in your jaw like you’d bitten down on iron.”
“They step inside. Ten feet wide at first, then it opens, then it tightens down narrow as a coffin lid. Switchbacks. Dead ends. Slopes that feel like they’re always leanin’ one way or another.”
His palm rubbed slowly along the chair arm.
“A maze built by stone that don’t care who walks it.”
He glanced around the room.
“They stop and measure it out. Three hours till Kalaman. Three hours till walls and fire and screaming. Enough time to move careful… not enough to wander like drunks in a cellar.”
A small breath passed through his nose.
“So they start readin’ the rock. Keepin’ their sense. Keepin’ their heads.”
“They take the wrong seam.”
“Tunnel opens sudden into a cavern big as this very tavern. Forty feet wide. Seventy long. Only the ceiling keeps climbin’ till the dark swallows it whole. Ignatius said the space felt wrong… like stone that remembered heat but held none.”
His fingers curled on the armrest.
“And somethin’ in there was already movin’.”
“Lesser death dragon.”
The words came low.
“Perched up in the dark like an old grudge… the sort ye wife pulls back out every time ya comes home late and smells strongly of ale.”
He let that line sit just long enough for the room to feel it.
“Didn’t roar. Just watched. Then it dropped.”
One hand cut downward through the air.
“Stone echoes. Claws bitin’ rock. Violet flame rimmin’ bone ribs. No heat to it. Just that dead cold that slides through mail and into the marrow.”
He nodded toward the front of the room.
“Raelan finds his lane. Arrows loosed clean. Bone chips skippin’ across the stone. Fizzlewhip snaps light up fast, keeps the beast from slippin’ back into shadow.”
“Orion goes in close. Of course he does. Keeps it angry at him instead of the softer folk. Feet movin’. Timing tight.”
His voice lowered slightly.
“And Iggy plants himself. Calls on faith like it’s a pillar he can brace against. That necrotic cold hits, and he’s haulin’ people back upright before they even finish fallin’.”
With a small outward gesture, he continued.
“Frosty’s the one it wants. Because that Dragonlance in his hands is a question the enemy don’t like hearin’.”
“Zargrax. Pan’el. Holdin’ the line. No flourish. Just work.”
He leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“It ain’t clean. Claws find meat. Wingbeats throw grit in eyes. For a breath that violet flame makes the whole cavern glow like a forge gone wrong.”
He paused long enough for the fire to pop.
“Then Frosty gets a line.”
His hand closed around an invisible haft.
“When that Dragonlance hits, the undead fire stutters. Like a piece a red hot iron dropped in cold water.”
He nodded once.
“Dragon comes apart. Bone collapsin’. Flame gutterin’ out. Ignatius said the cavern tasted like old ash after.”
“No more ambushes in that maze. Just the groan of the citadel overhead.”
He lifted a finger.
“Raelan’s the one who sees it first. He don’t lower that bow, not even after the dragon’s come apart. Just stands there squintin’ into the dark like he don’t trust it to stay empty.”
“Then he says, ‘There.’”
“He dips an arrow in oil, strikes a spark off stone, and draws smooth.”
With a small flick of the hand, he finished the motion.
“Lets it fly.”
“Flame streaks up through the cavern.”
“Up there!”
“Thirty feet above ’em, a clean vertical shaft cut straight through the stone… and bone.”
He leaned back slowly.
“This temple weren’t built on rock alone.”
“It was raised on a dragon graveyard.”
“So up they went.”
He tipped his head back slightly, as though looking up through stone itself.
“They climb into a pocket where the feel of it changes. Rock stops feelin’ natural. Feels cut. Worked. Shaped with intent.”
He tapped the armrest twice, slow.
“Split in the seam opens east.”
“And there she is.”
“Leedara. You’ll remember her. From that crab-shaped tavern in Vogler.”
“Aye. Blue skin. Elf lady in a pale dress. Standin’ there like she’s been waitin’ on them and no one else. Wearin’ that calm little smile that makes the back of your neck prickle whether you want it to or not.”
He let that hang.
“Chamber’s a crooked slice in the rock. Passage east forks. One side through a broken crypt.”
He leaned forward a touch.
“She wastes no breath. Says Soth’s above. Says he’s drawin’ on Cataclysmic fire stolen from Kalaman’s own catacombs to steer the citadel and wake the dragon bones buried in its belly.”
“Quell the fire, she says, and the undead dragons fall. Citadel falls with ’em.”
“She tells ’em she don’t know how to snuff cursed flame herself… but she believes divine strength can.”
His glance shifted briefly toward the temple builders in the room.
“And then she says the thing no one in that cavern wanted to hear.”
“In a straight fight… Soth is beyond ’em.”
The hearth popped, and Marteph waited.
“There’s an elven relic ahead. Mirror of Reflected Pasts. She believes it can hold his eye long enough. Long enough for someone else to move.”
“She knows his story. Offers to tell it.”
“And Fizzlewhip asks. Of course he does. Why are you here. Why do you know this. Why help us.”
His voice dropped.
“She shows ’em.”
A slow breath came in.
“For a blink the living skin drops away. No warmth left in it. Just spirit. Cold and clear.”
He slapped the hearth once.
“A Ghost!”
“She says she served Isolde once. Was among those who delayed Soth long ago. Cursed to remain.”
“Curse cuts both ways, she tells ’em. She’s bound to his story same as he is.”
His palm pressed flat against the chair arm.
“Then she looks at ’em. Not like heroes. Not like fools.”
“Just the last piece left on the board.”
“She says she cannot stop him alone.”
He let silence stretch.
“She needs them.”
“When they’ve said what they’re goin’ to say, she’s standin’ there one breath…”
“…and the next she ain’t.”
Rubbing thumb and forefinger together like he was pinching out a wick, he blew softly across them as they parted.
“This next place… well it ain’t much of a chamber.”
One hand rolled loosely.
“More like a crooked, uneven cavern chewed straight out of the rock.”
“Only way forward, other than the way they came, is a narrow crawl through crazed stone and broken bone.”
He leaned forward.
“No second path. No safer lookin’ option. Just that tunnel.”
“So they crawl.”
He rubbed his palms slowly, like brushing grit away.
“Down into the crypts they go.”
“Other side, they come up out of somethin’s grave and into a burial vault. From what I was told, it’s dwarven stonework. Even arches. Solid lines. Only now they’re bricked over and sealed. Plaques set in each one.”
“One of ’em reads: ‘Acont, Prince of Minotaurs.’”
He let that name sit.
“Which means the hole they crawled through was his.”
A small pause.
“Center of the vault, raised on a broad stone dais, stood a statue that didn’t look like it meant well.”
He leaned in.
“No time for sightseein’.”
“Two armored skeletons and one with horns and hooves came rushin’ at ’em. Steel swingin’.”
“Ignatius tells it one way.”
He glanced toward the rebuilding crew.
“Says he called down holy power, light burst through the chamber, and every last skeleton turned to dust before they’d so much as blinked.”
A small smirk touched his mouth.
“Or so those lads rebuilding the temple say.”
“In truth…”
He settled deeper into the chair.
“It likely went more like this.”
“Raelan does what Raelan does and finds a good spot at a distance to fire off some arrows.”
“Frosty though, he met that minotaur skeleton head on. Giant against giant. He’s come to like wielding that dragon lance, with one stab, it was nothing but a pile of bones.”
“Orion got between the one of the skeletons and the group, and started punching on it.”
“Fizzlewhip probably sent out a big fireball here.”
“Zargrax played a tune to inspire the group and”
“Panel smacked the skeletons with his frying pan.”
“At any rate, according to Ignatius, the skeletons never even got more than a swing in at em’.”
He leaned back slightly.
“Now’s the time for sightseein’… well, for Fizzlewhip the Curious anyway.”
“Round the room he goes, crackin’ open crypts and readin’ off plaques.”
“ ‘Nessa Coalcracker, Expert Engineer,’ ” Fizzlewhip reads. “Nothin’ in there but a toppled jar of ashes. Well… that’s what was there anyway.”
His brows rose slightly.
“ ‘This one’s all scratched up,’ ” he says, tryin’ to make out the name. Didn’t try long before he got bored and asked Frosty to pry it open.”
“That one had a cryin’ wight in it.”
A short nod followed.
“Frosty put it down quick. No more cryin’.”
“After that, Fizzlewhip decided they’d opened enough.”
He gestured toward the fire.
“In the center of the vault that statue still loomed. Robed. Skull-faced. And in front of it, two kneelin’ skeletons holdin’ a polished black altar between ’em.”
“Fizzlewhip climbs up the dais, curious as ever.”
His voice lowered slightly.
“But the moment Orion tries to follow, he stops dead. Can’t move another step toward that statue. Fear’s got hold of him proper.”
He let that land.
“Fizzlewhip says he hears a voice in his head.”
‘ I find you worthy. Join me, and I will open the River of Souls to you. ’
“No one else hears a thing. So it could’ve just been the ol’ kender mind playin’ tricks.”
He gave a small shrug.
“Anyway, accordin’ to Fizzlewhip, he suddenly knows how to use that altar and now he can ‘speak with the dead.’ ”
“Seems he was a bit overjoyed about it too, mutterin’ about all the questions he’d been savin’ up and how he didn’t even need a holy symbol of Chemosh.”
A small chuckle escaped him.
“They do eventually find one, but not before Fizzlewhip’s gathered up more than a few skulls and started settin’ ’em on the altar like they’re guests at supper.”
“He don’t get much information out of ’em.”
His tone lightened, just enough to mimic Sparks without becoming him.
‘Can you still taste things? Or is it more of a memory flavor situation?’
‘If you could blink right now, would you?’
‘If you’re cursed to stay, do you get bored? Because I get bored and I’m alive.’
‘Were you important, or did you just have a really interesting head shape?’
‘If you were a festival sausage, and you were starving, would you eat yourself? I know I would. First, I would smother meself in brown mustard an’ relish. I’d be so delicious.’
He let the room laugh a moment, then settled it again with a small lift of the hand.
“Eventually someone gets fed up and asks questions that matter.”
“Turns out those skulls only know the lay of the citadel. Corridors. Chambers. And they mention a treasure vault.”
His voice dropped.
‘Treasure is found when Takhisis turns her ire south.’
He let that line hang.
“Next room they come to’s a vestry.”
One hand waved lazily.
“Bare as an empty keg. Robes rottin’ on pegs. Smell of damp cloth and old stone.”
“Secret door’s already standin’ open.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“Behind it? Small room. Ransacked. Pottery smashed. Drawers torn out. Clothes scattered like whoever searched it didn’t care to fold nothin’ back.”
He gave a small shrug.
“Didn’t take much lookin’ to see that weren’t time that did it.”
His voice dipped just a touch.
“But that mention of treasure… that sticks.”
“So someone starts diggin’ through the mess proper.”
He glanced slowly around the room.
“And they find it.”
“A portable hole. Folded up neat. Tucked into a pocket sized for someone small.”
One brow lifted.
“That goes into the party kit.”
“No speeches about it.”
“No fuss.”
“They take it.”
“And they move.”
“Elven Catacombs.”
He sat a bit straighter in the tall chair.
“They step into a place where three statues stand watch, and behind each one is a tomb entrance carved into the stone. One’s already been shoved aside, doorway standin’ open with dark sittin’ in it like it owns the place. The other two can be moved, but you’d need shoulders for the work.”
He nodded once.
“And this is where it shifts.”
“Up to now it’s been enemy ground. Undead and traps and rot. But here… this ain’t just a crypt. This is somebody’s story that got buried and left to gather dust.”
He looked briefly into the fire.
“They take the open one first. Inside’s a long gray slab with elf bones laid out proper, glass scattered round like something was broken in anger.”
“Fizzlewhip won’t leave her there. Carries the skull back to that black altar, sets it down careful, and tries speakin’ with her again.”
“Ignatius said she answered, though not much. Her name was Talandria. Gave small pieces of truth, tight and careful, like she was still negotiatin’ even in death.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“And while they’re bent over that altar, there’s somethin’ clingin’ to the stone above the tomb entrance. Bat-shaped. Still.”
“Orion’s the one who catches it. Sees movement where there shouldn’t be any.”
“So when the creature drops and takes his proper shape, they ain’t caught blind.”
“Alstare Bellis.”
“He blocks the doorway, but he doesn’t strike. Just asks who they are and whether they serve the Red Dragon Army.”
“They don’t. That much is plain enough.”
“So he makes an offer. Says there are draconians above, led by one scaled in gold. Says kill them, bring proof, and in return…”
A slight pause.
“ ‘Treasures untold.’ ”
“He doesn’t say what that means, and he doesn’t need to.”
He settled back a touch.
“And here’s the truth of it: they were headin’ up there anyway. Those draconians stood between them and where they needed to go.”
“So the choice wasn’t whether to fight.”
“It was whether to fight him too.”
He let the silence settle.
“Fight a vampire in tight stone and risk blood and strength they might need higher up. And, save for Fizzlewhip, none of ’em had much appetite for growin’ fangs.”
“Or let him believe their purposes aligned, at least for the moment.”
“Ignatius said they looked at one another, and it didn’t take long.”
“They agreed.”
“Didn’t make ’em friends.”
“Just meant they weren’t swingin’ at each other yet.”
“He smiles.”
“Steps aside.”
Marteph tapped the chair arm once.
“And waits.”
“They turn to the east statue next. Fine work on it. Noble elf seated upright, hands folded like he expects respect.”
“Frosty steps up first, same as he always does, and puts his shoulder into it.”
“He shoves hard. Stone shifts maybe a finger’s width, not near enough, and you can tell that first push likely bruised more pride than muscle.”
A small grin tugged at him.
“Raelan doesn’t say a word. Just wedges in low and adds his weight, and this time the statue gives. Slow. Stubborn. Grindin’ across the floor like it resents bein’ moved. But between the two of ’em, they get the passage open.”
“The doorway yawns, and in they go.”
“Inside’s near the same as the last tomb. Long gray slab sittin’ in the middle. Only this time the bones ain’t laid out proper. They’re scattered round it like somebody lost their temper and swept the poor soul clean off the stone.”
“Now Fizzlewhip’s the first to stiffen.”
He tilted his head slightly, just enough to suggest Sparks.
“Ignatius said it was like watchin’ a cat hear somethin’ no one else caught. That look comes over him, like the air itself just shifted.”
“He says it felt wrong. Like the moment before a storm breaks, when the hair on your arms stands up without askin’.”
“So he does what he does.”
A loose little flourish followed.
“Waves a hand. Murmurs a few words. And the room answers.”
“Magic lights up in his sight.”
“He scans slow, lettin’ his gaze move across stone and bone, takin’ in whatever’s hummin’ beneath the quiet.”
“There’s old residue clingin’ to the slab and the air. Faint. Lingering.”
“But…”
He lifted a finger toward the rafters.
“Up above, set clean into the ceiling, there’s a mirror cut to match the slab below. Same size. Same shape. Like the two were made to face one another.”
“That’s where the magic gathers.”
“He says it’s necromancy. Death-work. Same kind they felt at the altar before, only tighter. Cleaner. Done with intent.”
“First thing old Fizzlewhip does is reach for the skull. You just know he was about to haul it straight back to that altar.”
The small grin settled into his beard.
“But Pan’el catches him by the back of his robes and hauls him up short.”
“Tells him plain, ‘So far that’s only gotten us short, tight answers that were barely more than names.’”
“And then Pan’el says he’s got an idea.”
“He nods toward the ceiling.”
“Says that mirror’s there for a reason.”
“So instead of runnin’ skulls back and forth like game pieces, he starts gatherin’ the bones and layin’ ’em proper.”
“He sets the spine straight. Lines the arms. Fits the skull where it belongs.”
“And when he places the last piece…”
A small pause.
“The mirror changes.”
“In the glass above, the bones below turn to flesh.”
“There’s an elven face lookin’ back at ’em. Whole as the day he walked into that temple.”
“His reflection opens its eyes and speaks.”
‘I am Cithcillion of Silvanost. I came here with two dear friends, Madar and Tenadria. Do you know what’s become of them?’
He let the words hang in the firelight.
Once they laid Madar and Tenadria beside him, Ignatius said you could see the change plain as daylight. The elf in that mirror didn’t look so drawn anymore. Like a man who’d been carryin’ a cask uphill alone and finally got help settin’ it down.
And after that, he talked.
Spoke like someone who’d been waitin’ centuries for a listener that weren’t tryin’ to pry secrets out of him.
He told ’em he was a Silvanesti elf of standin’, one whose word carried weight where he came from, and that the Kingpriest’s growin’ arrogance had been gnawin’ at him for years. Said the man’s reach kept stretchin’ farther than his wisdom, and the way he spoke of the gods… well. He spoke like a man who’d started believin’ he was iron when he was still only flesh.
Marteph shifted in the chair.
Cithcillion said when word reached Silvanost that dragon bones had been disturbed, taken from where they’d lain in peace, that weren’t politics anymore. That was a wound. And wounds have a way of demandin’ answer.
So he went as ambassador to Onyari. Face to face. To see whether reason still had a seat at that table.
Madar went with him. Tenadria too. Friends. Not just council. The three of ’em walkin’ into a place already sour with pride, hopin’ words might steady a man who’d begun to love the sound of his own thunder.
And they brought a gift.
An elven relic. Mirror of Reflected Pasts.
Meant to remind long-lived folk who they used to be, back when humility sat easier on the shoulders. Plan was simple. Set it before the Kingpriest and let him see himself as he once was, before pride set in like rust in steel.
His thumb dragged slowly along the chair arm.
It didn’t go that way.
They were welcomed.
Then confined.
Ambassadors walkin’ in upright, and captives soon after.
They died there. Interred in that temple so their spirits could be pressed and questioned like coin under a stamp.
As for the mirror, Cithcillion said it was taken but not broken, not while he still breathed. He believed it remained somewhere in that temple still.
And that was all he had to give.
Marteph leaned back slightly.
“Right then.”
“They’d done what the dead asked of ’em. Laid friends side by side again.”
“And after that? There weren’t much left below but stone and silence.”
“So they climbed.”
Back to the narrow stairs. Steep as a cellar ladder. Up into the next level.
Ignatius said the landing weren’t much. Worked stone. Corridor stretchin’ ahead. Door straight before ’em.
And off to the right…
Two skeletal knights standin’ like they’d been told to hold that post until the world ended.
Soon as the Guardians clear the top step, those bones start movin’. No talk. No warning. Just rusted steel and old orders rattlin’ in hollow ribs.
Frosty steps forward like he’s tired of bones insultin’ him.
A small grin returned.
First axe splits one through the collar. Bone scatters like dropped tankards on a busy night.
Second knight barely gets its blade up before Frosty turns through and finishes the job.
Didn’t even breathe hard.
Corridor goes quiet again, save for bits of skull rollin’ to a stop.
But Orion’s already lookin’.
He spots small bootprints in the dust leadin’ toward a side room. Fresh enough that they matter.
So they follow.
Room’s half-choked with rubble, wall and ceiling come down in a heap.
Bootprints go in.
And halfway across the chamber they change.
Raelan kneels, says they’re rat tracks from there on. Clean. Clear. Headin’ straight into the rubble.
Now that’s the sort of thing that pulls a group forward.
So they squeeze through. Stone tight on the shoulders. Dust in the throat.
And they come out the other side into a chamber lit by black candles burnin’ low.
Open coffin in the center.
And inside it lies a kender lass laid out proper, hands folded neat, face calm as if she’s just waitin’ for someone to close the lid.
He let a breath pass.
Soon as they step close, she sits up.
Tries to scare ’em.
From what I’m told, it nearly works.
She grins wide and starts chatterin’ before steel’s even halfway drawn. Calls ’em trespassers like she’s delighted about it.
Says her name’s Lorry Wanwillow.
Kender vampire.
He gave a grunt of disbelief.
And if that don’t make a body pause, I don’t know what would.
“A kender vampire, if you can believe such a thing.”
A faint grunt of amusement followed.
“Stranger things have happened. We’ve already got one kender wizard in this tale… or was it the second first kender wizard? Hard to keep that straight.”
“She’d been snoopin’ round the citadel in rat form for days, bored out of her skull and hungry for gossip.”
“She tells ’em Alstare Bellis is somewhere about, knows more than he lets on and fears the black rose knight.”
“Makes mention of a ghost named Caradoc driftin’ round with bad intentions.”
“Says some of the higher ranks of the dragonfolk have been spendin’ time in the sanctuary.”
“And she’s got treasure of her own tucked in the corner.”
He lifted his mug slightly.
“They don’t try takin’ it.”
“Smart move.”
“A bored kender vampire is nuisance enough.”
“A hostile one’s another matter.”
“So they take what information she’s willin’ to give, leave her candles burnin’, and crawl back out through the rubble the way they came.”
“Sanctuary lay ahead.”
“And that’s where things turned harder still.”
Marteph shifted his mug to one hand and set the other broad palm on the armrest, like he was about to steady the whole room.
“So they leave that rubble-choked rat hole behind and head back the way they came, climbin’ up toward where the air feels less like graves and more like soldiers.”
“Ignatius said there was a door ahead, proper door, heavy wood and iron, and Orion’s already lookin’ at the dust before anyone lays a hand on the latch, because that lad don’t walk into a room blind if he can help it.”
“They crack it open and step into a sanctuary that’s been left to rot.”
“Frescoes on the walls, what’s left of ’em, crumbled and flakin’, and obsidian columns standin’ along the edges like black teeth, though the south side’s partly caved in where stone finally gave up and took a couple columns with it.”
He rolled his shoulder once, slow.
“At the far end of the place there’s a statue of the Dragon Queen, tall enough to make a man feel small, and behind it a half-circle of other gods carved in stone, the sort of company you don’t keep unless you’re invitin’ trouble.”
“Iggy knew what he was lookin’ at the moment he saw it, and he didn’t like it.”
“But they didn’t get time to stand and judge carvings.”
“Because there were draconians in there.”
“Six of the bozak sort, breakin’ down those lesser statues with tools and spite, and an aurak standin’ over ’em like a foreman, watchin’ the work and watchin’ the door all at once.”
Marteph tapped the mug with one knuckle, a dull little thunk.
“Soon as the Guardians step in, that room goes from quiet ruin to steel and spell.”
“Raelan starts it the way he always does, bow up, arrow out, and one of those bozaks drops before it even knows it’s been counted.”
“Frosty goes in like a batterin’ ram, axe comin’ down hard enough you’d think he was split-tin’ firewood, and bones and armor scatter across the stone.”
“Orion’s in the angles, movin’ where he’s hardest to catch, keepin’ blades off the others, and Fizzlewhip throws light and magic so the shadows don’t get to decide the fight.”
“Zargrax keeps the beat of the thing, and Pan’el, bless him, is right there in the mess, puttin’ iron into anything that’s still standin’.”
“It don’t take long before the draconians realize this crew ain’t here to argue.”
Marteph’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
“And that aurak, Drayan, she sees it goin’ against her and decides she’s got better ways to die than in that room.”
“So she tears a hole in the air and vanishes, leavin’ her soldiers to get chopped down in her wake.”
“When the last bozak hits the floor, the sanctuary goes quiet again, only now it’s the kind of quiet you earn.”
“And Orion, he’s already movin’ before anyone’s done wipin’ blood off steel.”
“He walks straight to the base of that great statue and starts lookin’ for what don’t belong, hands on stone, eyes on seams, because folk that build places like this always leave a trick somewhere.”
Marteph leaned forward a touch.
“He finds it.”
“Depressions along the base, set like grips for hands, and a plaque worked into the stone with words carved deep enough to last.”
“Yield to Her Will.”
Marteph took a slow drink, then set the mug down carefully, as if what came next deserved steady hands.
“So they stand there a moment in that ruined sanctuary, bones and broken stone at their boots, and Orion’s found the trick in the base of that great statue, those handholds cut into it and that plaque sayin’, ‘Yield to Her Will.’”
“They could’ve tried it right then.”
“Could’ve put shoulders to it and seen what happened.”
“But they remembered a promise.”
“Alstare Bellis.”
He scratched at the side of his beard.
“They’d given their word to clear out the draconians above, and they’d done it. The aurak fled, the bozaks lay scattered, and that was proof enough.”
“So back down they go through the halls they’d fought for, past the rubble and the black candles, back to the tomb where that pale priest of undeath kept his rest.”
“And Alstare, he’s waitin’.”
“He listens while they tell him what was done, and he believes ’em, because there’s a smell to a room where draconians have died, and that citadel was thick with it.”
A faint curl touched one corner of his mouth.
“True to his word, he gives them what they came for.”
“Doesn’t hand ’em gold or jewels. Not yet.”
“He tells ’em how to turn the statue.”
“North to open one path. South to open another.”
“And he makes it clear enough that any other direction will earn ’em flame for their trouble.”
“He keeps the rest of his treasure behind stone and secret, same as he said he would, and sends ’em on their way with that knowledge as payment.”
Marteph leaned back again.
“So up they climb once more to the sanctuary.”
“The room’s still and cold now, draconian bodies where they fell.”
“They go straight to the base of Takhisis, hands settin’ into those carved grips.”
“It takes muscle.”
“That statue weren’t made to move easy.”
“But between Frosty’s strength and the others lendin’ what they have, stone grinds against stone and the great figure begins to turn.”
“They aim her south.”
“Slow. Careful.”
“Like men lowerin’ a heavy beam into place.”
“And when she faces true…”
He let the pause breathe.
“There’s a shift in the wall.”
“Stone gives way, and a hidden door opens where there was nothin’ but carved rock a breath before.”
Marteph leaned back, chair creaking under him, eyes half-lidded like he was seeing it plain.
“So they turn her south.”
“And the wall answers.”
“Stone splits where there’d been nuthin’ but shadow, and behind it sits what every tyrant keeps close to hand.”
“Coin.”
A few in the crowd chuckled. Marteph gave a slow nod.
“A chamber half-collapsed, dust hangin’ thick in the air, and gold layin’ scattered like grain from a burst sack. Offerings. Spoils. Things taken from folk who won’t be needin’ ’em again.”
“Five thousand and more in coin and art, Ignatius said. Enough to make a man careless if he forgot where he was standin’.”
“They didn’t forget.”
“They gathered it steady.”
“Found potions among the wreckage. One that lets a body slip into mist. A pair strong enough to haul a warrior back from death’s door if poured quick enough. A fine greatsword, balanced and clean, the sort that sings when you test the edge.”
He paused, then lowered his voice just a touch.
“And there, leanin’ against the far wall, pane dark as deep water, stood a mirror.”
“Black glass. Whole. Untouched.”
“The Mirror of Reflected Pasts.”
“The same relic Cithcillion had spoken of.”
“They knew it soon as they saw it.”
“Didn’t take a priest to feel the weight of that.”
Marteph tapped the side of his mug lightly.
“And that, townsfolk, is when the night stopped bein’ about gold.”
“It turned into somethin’ else entirely.”
Marteph set his mug down slower than before. The room quieted on its own.
“So they turn her north and step through.”
“And what waits ain’t gold.”
“It’s a cave cut from darker stone than the rest, and in the center of it stands an altar black as a moonless well, polished so smooth it throws back what little light they carry.”
“Only it don’t throw it back clean.”
“Where the light strikes, colors move inside it. Blue. Green. White. Red. Like somethin’ breathin’ under the surface.”
He shifted in his chair, voice lowering just a hair.
“Ignatius goes first.”
“Of course he does.”
“He lays his hand on that stone.”
“And for a heartbeat he ain’t there anymore.”
Marteph’s fingers tightened slightly on the mug.
“He told us later what he saw.”
“Five draconic heads fillin’ the sky, shriekin’ in triumph. Armies marchin’ across Ansalon like ants over bread. A black temple risin’ outta broken ground, taller than any spire, and all of it lit in that same hungry color they’d seen in the altar.”
“He felt her will pressin’ on him.”
“Felt it tryin’ to bend.”
“But Ignatius is made of steadier timber than that.”
“It didn’t take him.”
“It marked him.”
He nodded once.
“While he stood there caught in it, the room answered.”
“Three shapes pulled themselves from the air, thin as smoke and colder than winter stone.”
“Wraiths.”
“They didn’t go for the priest.”
“They went for the breathin’.”
“Frosty took the first hit, necrotic cold bitin’ into him like bad wind through a cracked wall. Orion was already movin’, slippin’ in and out where claws tried to catch him. Zargrax caught a strike that near folded him.”
“The ground itself favored the dead in that place. You could feel it, Ignatius said later, like prayin’ in a chapel built for the wrong god.”
“Raelan loosed arrows steady and true. Fizzlewhip snapped light into the dark so the things couldn’t vanish where they pleased. Pan’el kept swingin’ that pan like he meant to season the afterlife itself.”
“And then Ignatius came back.”
Marteph straightened slightly.
“He blinked once, saw Frosty staggerin’, saw the dead pressin’ close.”
“And he answered.”
“Radiant fire tore through one of ’em, not flame, but judgment.”
“The rest followed quick enough once the balance shifted.”
“In a handful of breaths, it was done.”
“The cave stank of grave-cold and spent magic.”
“And Ignatius stood there quiet a moment longer, feelin’ the echo of what he’d seen.”
Marteph’s eyes swept the room.
“He told us somethin’ else too.”
“That vision didn’t weaken him.”
“It hardened him.”
Marteph shifted in his chair, thumb still idly rubbing the side of his mug like he was trying to scrub a memory clean. He looked up at the room, slow, and let the hearth do most of the talking for a breath.
“So after that altar and those wraiths, they don’t linger. Not in a place that feels like it’s listenin’.”
He tipped his chin toward the floorboards, as though he could see the corridor under everyone’s boots.
“They step back out into the hall, breathin’ harder than they want to admit, and there’s a door on the left. Plain wood, old iron. The kind o’ door that don’t look important till you remember where you are.”
He made a small motion with two fingers, like pushing a latch.
“They ease it open and it’s a study.”
“Old desk in there, shoved against the wall like it got tired and sat down. One leg’s gone, and somebody’s propped the whole thing up with chunks of rubble, which tells you right away this place has been shakin’ and settlin’ for a long time.”
“Doors off that room too, more than one. West. North. East. Like it used to be part of a livin’ keep, not just a tomb with bad manners.”
He snorted softly, then let it fade.
“Fizzlewhip makes a beeline for the desk, because of course he does. That kender sees a drawer and his hands start actin’ like they’ve got their own ideas.”
“Orion hangs back a step, eyes doin’ that sweep he does, checkin’ corners, checkin’ ceiling, makin’ sure nothin’ in that room is waitin’ to drop on ’em. Raelan’s in the doorway half-turned, bow not lowered, just… ready. Frosty stands where he can see everyone at once, which is a fine thing when the halls keep tryin’ to surprise you.”
Marteph tapped his mug once, quiet.
“They go through the desk careful. Top drawer sticks a little, then gives with a scrape that sounds too loud in that kind o’ quiet.”
“And inside, it ain’t love letters or dust.”
“Reports.”
“Dragon Army handwriting, crisp enough to make your skin crawl. Lists. Notes on troops. Notes on supplies. Who’s where up on the surface, what they’ve got, what they’re movin’, what they’re short on.”
He lifted his eyebrows slightly, as if acknowledging a bitter usefulness.
“Useful information, but it don’t feel good to hold. Like pickin’ up a knife you know was used on someone you liked.”
“And tucked in there with the papers is a scroll. Proper scroll. Arcane work. The kind o’ thing a wizard will stare at like it’s warm bread.”
“Fizzlewhip claims it before anyone can say a word, then looks up with that innocent face he puts on when he knows damn well what he’s done.”
A few in the room chuckled. Marteph let it happen, then took it back with his voice.
“They don’t argue. Not much. Time’s still pressin’ on ’em, even if the citadel feels like it wants to pretend it’s got all night.”
“So they move to the next door. One of the ones out of that study.”
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as though that would keep the dust from hearing.
“And it opens into a small library.”
“Not a grand one. Not shelves lined neat with candles and velvet. This one’s been dead a long time.”
“Ancient shelves collapsed into heaps along the walls. Old books with bindings fallin’ apart, pages spilled all over the floor like shed skin. Dust thick enough that every step writes your name in it.”
He rubbed his fingers together, as if feeling that grit.
“Most of it’s rot. Worthless. Mold and time did what steel couldn’t.”
“But Fizzlewhip… he don’t hear ‘worthless’ the way you and me do. He hears ‘maybe.’”
“So he drops to his knees and starts diggin’ through the mess, careful for once, not jokin’, just workin’ his hands through ruined paper. Pan’el stands over him a bit, watchin’ like a cook watchin’ a cat near the pantry. Zargrax keeps his eyes on the doorway. Orion checks the corners again, because Orion don’t trust a quiet room in a cursed place.”
“Five minutes of that, Ignatius said. Five minutes of dust in the throat and torn pages stickin’ to your gloves.”
“And then Fizzlewhip straightens up with another scroll in his hand, eyes bright as lantern glass.”
Marteph gave a slow nod, the kind that said that was how it always went.
“Another piece of magic they didn’t have before.”
“And that’s the thing about crawl-in places like this.”
“You find rot. You find danger. And every so often, you find somethin’ that might save your life later, if you live long enough to use it.”
He settled back, letting the chair creak, and let the fire crackle once before speaking again.
“So they pocket the scrolls, fold up those enemy reports, and step back out of that library with dust on their boots and one more door still waitin’ somewhere ahead.”
He looked around the room, slow, holding the pause like a mug held just out of reach.
Marteph rolled his shoulders once, like he was settling into a heavier stretch of road. His voice dropped a notch, not softer, just steadier.
“They step back into the study, dust still clingin’ to their boots, and this time they take the north door.”
He made a slow pushing motion with his palm.
“And it opens into a war room.”
“Big table dead center. Rough map spread over it, Nightlund sketched out in ugly lines, scraps of paper scattered like a gambler’s losing hand. Plans. Movements. Arrows drawn toward Kalaman.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“And there they are.”
“Four sivaks gathered round that table. Not rank-and-file fools, neither. The sort that take pride in thinkin’ they’re clever.”
“Only this night, there’s five.”
He lifted a finger.
“Because Drayan’s there too.”
“Aurak.”
“She ain’t hidin’ this time. Stands near the head of the table like she owns it, eyes already on the door before it’s fully open.”
He narrowed his gaze slightly, remembering.
“They’d left her breathin’ once.”
“She didn’t intend to make the same mistake.”
“The moment Orion pushes that door wide enough to see in, she lets loose.”
Marteph exhaled sharply through his teeth.
“Cloud pours out from her mouth. Not flame. Not clean magic. Noxious breath. Thick and choking, rolls across the doorway like a bad fog.”
“Raelan takes the edge of it. Zargrax coughs hard enough to stagger. Even Frosty feels it sting his lungs.”
“But Orion had only cracked that door a sliver, and that saved ’em worse.”
He tapped the mug once, deliberate.
“Raelan don’t waste the moment. He leans into the hinge side, fires through the gap. Arrow catches one sivak high in the throat before it’s even cleared the table.”
“Frosty don’t do slivers.”
A faint grin touched his beard.
“He kicks the door full open and charges straight through the gas like it insulted his mother.”
“Axe comes down hard on the nearest sivak, splits scale and bone in one go. And when that creature falls, it shifts as they do, flesh twistin’ into the shape of the one who struck it.”
He glanced around the room.
“So for a blink, there’s two Frostys in that room.”
“One real. One dyin’.”
“Orion darts in low, blades flashin’, and keeps the second sivak from flankin’ Iggy. Pan’el comes in behind, pan ringin’ against scale, knockin’ another off balance long enough for Zargrax to drive steel home.”
“Fizzlewhip answers Drayan proper this time. Light flares sharp and bright, cuts through the haze she made, and for a breath that aurak looks less certain.”
Marteph leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“She tries to reposition. Smart. Knows she ain’t built to trade blows like the others.”
“But Ignatius steps into that room like a man steppin’ into his own doorway.”
“He plants his feet. Calls on his faith. Radiant light spills out, not wild, not showy. Directed.”
“It scorches two sivaks at once, and the smell in that chamber turns foul fast.”
“Frosty and Raelan work in tandem after that. One drives ’em back from the table. The other drops ’em where they stand.”
“Orion slips behind Drayan when she thinks she’s got space. Blade finds scale between the plates.”
“She screams. Not like a beast. Like a commander watchin’ her plan fall apart.”
He paused, letting that sink.
“She tries to tear open another hole in the air.”
“This time, they don’t let her.”
“Raelan’s arrow catches her mid-gesture. Fizzlewhip follows with a crack of force that slams her back against the far wall.”
“And Frosty finishes it.”
Marteph nodded once.
“Room goes still.”
“Four sivaks and an aurak lay broken around that table.”
“And as the last of ’em falls, they shift again, takin’ on the shapes of those who struck the final blow.”
“So there’s echoes of the Guardians sprawled across that war room floor. Twisted reflections.”
He let that image hang a beat.
“They take a moment after. Catch breath. Check wounds.”
“Then they look at that table.”
“Map of Nightlund. Lines pointed at Kalaman like a dagger.”
“Sketches too.”
“Marshal Vendri. Darrett.”
“And drawings of the Guardians themselves.”
His brow furrowed.
“Enemy knows your face, you’d best remember that.”
“They gather what’s useful. Burn what ain’t.”
“And one of those sivaks had a key on him.”
He lifted his hand, thumb and forefinger pinched together.
“They pocket it without ceremony.”
Marteph leaned back slowly, chair creaking under him.
“That war room weren’t just a fight.”
“It was proof.”
“Kalaman wasn’t a a minor obstacle. It required a plan on a table.”
“And the Guardians had just put their boots through it.”
He swept his gaze across the room, steady and calm.
“And with a key in hand and smoke still hangin’ in the air, they turned to the exit to the north.”
Marteph shifted his weight, like the tale was moving from steel to stone again. He scratched once at the edge of his beard and looked at the fire, not the folk.
“They take that north door.”
“Key still warm from a dead draconian’s belt.”
He made a small turning motion with his fingers.
“It opens easy enough.”
“Cells.”
“Bare stone. Narrow. Iron doors. The kind meant for holdin’ priests who asked the wrong questions.”
“They try the key.”
“It fits.”
He nodded once.
“So now they know what it’s for.”
“Rooms are empty. No chains rattlin’. No bones in the corners. Just cold air and old silence.”
“They don’t linger.”
“Nothing in there but walls that remember.”
He lifted his chin slightly.
“So back out they go and south instead.”
“Another door.”
“Heavy, but not barred.”
“It opens into a storeroom.”
He gestured lazily with one hand, as if sweeping across a cluttered space.
“Rubble piled up. Broken pottery. Two stone gargoyles snapped clean and tossed aside like firewood no one wanted.”
“A painting leaned against the wall, sunset over some city skyline. Faded, but still proud of itself.”
“And there, sittin’ crooked on a crate, a bronze bust.”
He paused, letting the image settle.
“Man wearin’ a hat so full of feathers you’d think he was tryin’ to scare birds off a field.”
A few chuckles rippled. Marteph didn’t smile much, but his eyes creased.
“Fizzlewhip tilts his head at it first. Says he’s seen hats like that before. City of Lost Names, maybe. Something about it tickles his memory.”
“Pan’el wipes a thumb across the bronze. Under the grime, it’s good work. Old work.”
“Iggy takes a closer look and nods slow.”
“That ain’t junk.”
“That’s Istarian.”
Marteph tapped his mug.
“And worth coin.”
“Real coin.”
“They don’t have the luxury of carryin’ statues under their arms.”
“But they remember.”
He glanced around the room knowingly.
“That portable hole they pulled from that ransacked chamber.”
“Frosty lays it flat on the floor like he’s unrollin’ a rug.”
“It’s black as a well mouth.”
“They heft that bust together, careful not to chip it, and lower it down.”
“It vanishes clean.”
“Frosty folds the hole back up, tucks it away like nothin’ happened.”
He shrugged slightly.
“Efficient.”
“Room’s still junk otherwise.”
“They leave the painting. Leave the rubble. Leave the broken gargoyles.”
“Gold’s heavy enough without sentiment.”
He leaned back a touch, voice steady.
“And just past that door, they find stairs.”
“Cut stone. Upward.”
“No carvings. No decoration. Just purpose.”
He rested both hands on the arms of the chair.
“So they don’t argue about it.”
“They climb.”
“And whatever waits above?”
He let the pause sit, low and heavy.
“Ain’t likely to be feathers and furniture.”
Marteph settled forward, elbows on knees. His voice dropped, and the room did too.
“So they come up into that ruined hall, and the violet light is leakin’ through the cracks to the east like the place is bruised under the stone.”
“At the far stairs, there’s a soldier in Kalaman armor.”
“She looks down at ’em like she’s seein’ familiar faces in a mirror.”
“‘Oh. You,’ she says. ‘You could be helpful. Come on.’”
He paused. Let the hearth pop once.
“They follow, but they don’t trust it. Not a step of it.”
“Up in the next room, it’s a shrine that’s gone to ruin. Carvings of robed figures beneath a black moon. Black candles burnin’ in little wall recesses, wax melted down and hardened like tears that never finished fallin’.”
“And that soldier turns to face ’em proper.”
“And she tells ’em straight.”
“Caradoc.”
“No lies about it. No mask. Just a dead man wearin’ a livin’ body and speakin’ like he owns the air.”
“He offers ’em a deal. Betray Soth. Take the citadel. Leave Kalaman behind and let him have his revenge elsewhere.”
Marteph’s mouth tightened.
“They don’t take it.”
“They don’t spit in his face, neither. They just don’t give him what he wants.”
“And that’s when the room turns sharp.”
“He comes at ’em in that soldier’s skin, drivin’ her like a spear.”
“They try not to kill her. That’s the cruel part, see. He knows it.”
“Raelan shoots careful. Orion tries to bind her instead of cut. Frosty puts his weight into shoves and hard hits meant to drop, not butcher. Pan’el keeps the pressure with iron, and Zargrax keeps the line from frayin’.”
“Then Caradoc does the other thing he’s good at.”
“He whispers.”
“And for a blink, one of the Guardians turns the wrong way with steel in hand, like their own thoughts ain’t quite theirs.”
He let that sit, then continued.
“They shake it off. Barely.”
“And they put the soldier down.”
“She hits the stone and lies there still, breath thin enough you don’t trust it.”
“And Caradoc spills out of her.”
“Not smoke, not mist. Somethin’ colder than air, shaped like a man who forgot he was ever warm.”
Marteph lifted his mug slightly, then set it down like it weighed more now.
“Ignatius steps in.”
“He lifts his holy symbol and throws his faith at that spirit like a hammer.”
“And for once, the dead thing flinches.”
“It recoils. Pulls back. Forced away from him like it can’t stand the light behind the prayer.”
“Caradoc gets desperate then. Tries to jump into Frosty.”
“Tries to wear the big one.”
A low, approving grunt.
“But Frosty holds. Stubborn as bedrock.”
“So the ghost circles and waits, lookin’ for an easier door.”
“And in that scramble, it catches Zargrax with that dead touch.”
“Not a clean wound. Not blood.”
“Just cold that steals the strength right out of a body.”
“Zargrax drops, hard.”
Marteph paused, long enough that a chair creaked somewhere in the room.
“Ignatius is on him in a heartbeat.”
“Hand to chest. Prayer through clenched teeth.”
“And he pulls him back.”
“Zargrax comes up coughin’, eyes wide, alive again, and angry about it.”
“And the Guardians finish Caradoc the only way you finish a thing like that.”
“Together.”
“Steel. Light. Refusin’ to give ground.”
Marteph leaned back slowly.
“After, they don’t forget the soldier.”
“She’s still breathin’.”
“They bind her. Keep her from slippin’ away.”
“Later, when she comes to, she don’t remember fightin’ like that. She remembers bein’ taken. Remembers fear. Remembers stone and screaming and a castle she never wants to see again.”
“Amelia Ghallen, she says her name is.”
“And all she wants is home.”
He swept his gaze across the room, steady.
“They leave her as safe as they can, then move on.”
“Because the worst part of that fight ain’t the cuts.”
“It’s knowin’ the next rooms are higher, the air’s thinner, and whatever strength they have left… they’re gonna have to spend it smart.”
Marteph sat forward now. No mug in hand. Both palms on the chair arms.
“They climbed into Sargonnas’s shrine first.”
“Minotaur carved into the wall. Scorch marks everywhere.”
“Two skeletal knights waited there like they’d been promised a fight.”
“They got one.”
“It weren’t long. But it weren’t free neither.”
“Every swing took more outta ’em than the last room had.”
He nodded once.
Then, with both hands settled on his knees, he went on.
“They stepped into the throne room.”
“And you could feel it before you saw him.”
“Storm grindin’ outside. Violet fire burnin’ below. Stone hummin’ through the soles of your boots.”
“And there he was.”
“Lord Soth.”
“Sittin’ on that throne like he’d grown there. Armor blackened. Eyes burnin’ red through that crown of a helm. He didn’t rise when they entered, and he didn’t waste breath on threats. Men like that don’t.”
His voice lowered, steady.
“They brought out the mirror.”
“And when he saw it…”
“He whispered a name.”
‘Isolde.’
“Soft. Like iron laid down instead of lifted.”
“And then he froze. Not stiff like stone. Still like a man lookin’ at the one thing he ever loved and lost.”
He let the silence stretch just enough.
“They didn’t waste that gift.”
“They looked down.”
“Forty feet below that throne burned the engine of it all. The brazier. Violet flame churnin’ like a forge run too hot.”
“And they understood without sayin’ much.”
“Break the fire, and you break the throne. Break the throne, and you break the citadel.”
He nodded once.
“So they left Soth starin’ into his own past.”
“And they went down.”
“In the Mourning Sanctum that brazier burned like a wound that refused to close. Fire lickin’ upward. Light spillin’ across cracked stone.”
“And Wersten Kern stood guard.”
“She fought like she meant to be the last thing standin’ between him and the world.”
He rested a hand flat on the arm of the chair.
“She near was.”
“Frosty took a blow that would’ve split a weaker soul clean in half. He went down hard. And for a breath… it felt like the story might end there, in that chamber beneath a broken throne.”
His voice warmed, not soft, but steady.
“But Ignatius.”
“He stepped in where others step back.”
“Dragged Frosty from the edge again.”
“You ever see a man pour the last of a cask when he’s got none for himself? That’s what it was.”
“And that was the turn.”
“They pressed.”
“They broke Wersten.”
“And they shattered that brazier.”
“When that violet fire died…”
He lifted his chin slightly.
“The whole sky changed.”
“Death dragons fell from the air like bone cut loose from rotten sinew.”
“The throne above went dark.”
“And somewhere in the tearing stone…”
“Lord Soth fell into shadow.”
He leaned back slowly, chair creaking.
“But the citadel weren’t done with ’em.”
“It began to tear itself apart. Walls splitting. Floors bucklin’. Stone crackin’ like an oven door left too long in flame.”
“They ran.”
“And just when they thought they’d earned breath…”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“Karavarix.”
“Bigger than the rest. Still burnin’. Still angry.”
“She roared a name from a past none of ’em had lived, and she came for blood.”
A long pause.
“They had near nuthin’ left.”
“Near.”
“But near ain’t the same as none.”
“They stood.”
“They fought.”
“And they brought her down.”
He took up the mug but did not drink.
“When that dragon struck earth and the sky stopped glowin’ violet…”
“The Guardians of Greenspire had done what armies could not.”
“They broke a flyin’ citadel.”
“They shattered Lord Soth’s war engine.”
“And they walked away from it.”
He looked around the tavern slowly.
“That’s how the Bastion fell.”
“And that’s how legends start.”
He did not sit back this time. He stayed forward.
“They made it to the field west of Kalaman.”
“Behind ’em, the Bastion broke apart and fell from the sky. Stone crushin’ draconians in droves. Death dragons droppin’ like bones from a butcher’s hook.”
“And for a breath… it looked finished.”
His eyes shifted once toward Rowan’s parents, then back to the fire.
“But war don’t end neat.”
“A red streak cut across the smoke.”
“Ignia.”
“And atop her…”
“Kansaldi Fire-Eyes.”
“She perched on a shard of fallen stone and called down judgment like she believed the heavens owed her witness.”
“She offered surrender.”
“She offered death.”
“The Guardians chose neither.”
He nodded once.
“The field turned to fire and falling stone. Bozak crashed near Raelan’s boots. Flame rolled through grass. The sky itself seemed to want a piece of ’em.”
“They were empty by then. Nuthin’ tucked away for later. Just will and whatever strength a body finds when there ain’t a step left to take.”
“Ignia came down hard.”
“Frosty climbed that broken spire like it were a mountain he meant to claim.”
“They fought up there, steel against scale, and when the dragon faltered…”
“It was Frosty who drove the blade home.”
“Right through bone.”
“Dragon fell.”
“Hard enough the earth felt it.”
He let that settle.
“But Kansaldi weren’t done.”
“She leapt from the height.”
“She came for Darrett.”
“And she meant to finish it.”
“They traded steel. Darrett was runnin’ on the last of himself. She struck him down to his knees.”
Marteph’s hand tightened slightly.
“She raised that pike.”
“And Rowan—”
He stopped, breathed once.
“Rowan didn’t weigh it.”
“He didn’t measure it.”
“He moved.”
“He threw himself between ’em.”
“That pike meant for Darrett…”
“…went through Rowan.”
Silence held long enough to be felt.
“He made a sound.”
“Not loud.”
“Just surprised. Like he hadn’t known the world could hurt that deep.”
“Darrett caught him.”
“And in that same breath, with the lad still in his arms…”
“He drove his sword up under her armor.”
“Through her.”
“Kansaldi fell.”
“Dead before she struck the ground.”
A long pause.
“Ignatius ran.”
“But he had given everything beneath that citadel. There weren’t no more light left in him to pull another soul back from the brink.”
“Rowan was slippin’.”
“He looked at Darrett.”
“And he said the words Darrett once told him.”
‘You don’t have to be brave every day… just be brave today.’
Marteph swallowed once.
“And then he asked him…”
‘I was brave today?’
His voice dropped low, steady.
“Aye.”
“He was.”
He looked once toward Rowan’s parents, not long, not dramatic.
“He was brave today.”
Silence sat in the room, and no one rushed to fill it.
“And that’s how the siege ended.”
“With a citadel broken.”
“A dragon slain.”
“A Highmaster dead.”
“And a farm boy from Eastguard who stood when he didn’t have to.”
He lifted his mug slowly.
“To Rowan Hearthswell.”
“And to not being brave every day, just being brave today.”
Chapter 2: The Journal of Arden Voss
The smell of smoke did not follow them from the warlock’s retreat, and that alone was enough to unsettle the road back to Eastguard.
It should have lingered. Fires like that always did. They clung to clothes, to hair, to memory. Instead, the sea breeze swept it clean, as though whatever had happened there had already been folded away and set aside. No one remarked on it, though more than one of them noticed. The journal was safe, the mercenaries were dead, and by all practical measures the task had been completed. Still, there was a sense, faint but persistent, that something had been left unfinished.
Inside the retreat, that feeling had taken a stranger shape. The arcane cube had resisted easy understanding, and for a brief, misguided moment someone had thought to use the corpse they had found, standing it upright near the device as though proximity might coax a response. It hadn’t. The body had toppled once, then again, each attempt more awkward than the last, until the idea was abandoned in favor of something simpler. When the answer came, it had nothing to do with the corpse at all. Tower. Ship. Key. The pieces had aligned cleanly once they stopped forcing them.
It was easier to laugh about that than to wonder what it said.
Chapter 3: The Town that Forgot
By the time Eastguard came into view, the sun had begun to dip, casting the walls in warm light and turning the sea beyond into a darker, steadier blue. The town should have been bracing itself. Instead, it was alive with movement. Even from a distance, they could see it, people crossing the streets, structures going up, color where there should have been caution.
They slowed without needing to discuss it. A half mile out, the group came to a halt, watching the gates as if expecting something to change if they waited long enough.
Bimmi did not wait.
“I’ll have a look,” he said, already moving before anyone could answer.
The guards greeted him like an old friend.
“Back just in time,” one of them called. “Spring Dawning starts at dawn. Fishing contest, games, plenty to go around.”
Bimmi listened, then asked the question that mattered.
“What about earlier?”
The guard frowned, not suspicious, but puzzled, as though the question itself had no place in the moment.
“What earlier?”
That was enough.
Bimmi gave a nod, said nothing more, and made his way through the gates.
He found Brittany Marginsong where she always seemed to be when something needed explaining, composed and unhurried, as if the world rarely surprised her.
“You’re back,” she said, and there was nothing in her tone to suggest she had expected otherwise.
Bimmi did not circle the matter. “The town,” he said. “What happened?”
She answered with a small motion of her hand, as if brushing away a trivial concern. “I handled it.”
Pressed for more, she explained, though the explanation itself felt oddly light. She had spoken to the town, cleared up a misunderstanding, reminded them that the party had not come to take anything but to return what belonged to her. The tension had dissolved as quickly as it had formed.
Simple.
Too simple.
Still, the town outside her door bore it out in every detail. There was no sign of fear, no hint of unrest. Bimmi accepted that for what it was worth and went back for the others.
They entered together without resistance, passing through the gates into a town that had already decided who they were and what they had done.
The shop behind the library offered a brief respite from the noise, though not from the strangeness of it all. They placed Arden’s journal in Brittany’s hands, and for a time, the world narrowed to that single object.
Titus studied it carefully, tracing the lines and symbols with a practiced eye. “Warlock magic,” he said at last. “Drawing power from somewhere else. It looks like it was meant to protect something.”
The word lingered, but no one pressed it further.
Brittany closed the book. “I’ll need time,” she said. “And perhaps someone more familiar with this kind of work.”
Then she paid them, three hundred gold apiece, as though the matter had been settled.
Outside, the festival had already taken hold.
Tables filled the streets, fires burned in open pits and in the smithy alike, and the smell of food carried through the air in a way that made it difficult to think about anything else. Bimmi did not try. He drifted from one conversation to the next, trading ideas about bread and brewing with Bree, then moving on to the forge where a pig turned slowly over the heat.
Sauce became a topic of serious discussion, as did the balance of sweet and spice, and somewhere in the middle of it Brynnan managed to turn a simple sausage into something new, battered and fried, a creation that drew interest whether it deserved it or not.
Vonmese, meanwhile, found himself drawn into the work of assembling the stage near the center of town. What at first appeared to be a jumble of rods and joints revealed itself, under Borin’s guidance, to be a simple structure once the markings were understood.
Titus made his way to the inn, where rest came more easily than it had any right to.
By nightfall, the town was crowded and loud, though the inn held a different kind of noise, layered and shifting, where conversation carried as much weight as drink.
Brynnan listened. It was not difficult to hear what mattered when one knew how.
Room 10 was spoken of in low tones, a place sealed and reopened once, if the story was to be believed. A group had entered with a key and vanished from the world they had known. Whether they had returned at all seemed to depend on who told the tale.
Another thread emerged alongside it, quieter but no less persistent. An old grave across the river, unmarked and nearly forgotten, where fresh flowers appeared every few days without anyone seeing who placed them. The last had been that very morning.
Bimmi followed that rumor to its source, confirming it with Teti, who offered no embellishment, only the simple truth that it happened and no one knew why.
At some point, another remark slipped through the noise. Someone swore that a woman who lived in town had not always had pointed ears. It passed quickly, dismissed as drink talk, but it lingered in the mind longer than it should have.
Elira Hearthwell appeared not long after, her presence enough to quiet certain thoughts. She glanced toward the party, then away, showing no sign of recognition or concern. Whatever might have passed between them before held no weight now.
Bimmi, for his part, decided to add something of his own to the current of rumor, suggesting that Arthur Simon Napier had come from Room 10 himself, stepping out one day and setting up shop as though it were the most natural thing in the world. It was not true, and when Teti later said as much, Bimmi did not argue. He had made it up to see what would happen.
They went to the grave before the night was done.
The path across the river was quiet, the festival’s noise fading behind them, leaving only the sound of water and the occasional misstep from Bimmi, who found the journey less steady than intended. The bushes along the way bore witness to that.
At the grave, there were no flowers.
Vonmese searched for magic and found none. Brynnan took a rubbing of the stone, revealing markings that suggested a date that felt out of place, as though it belonged to a time yet to come. Bimmi studied the symbol carved there and recognized it as that of Paladine, though what that meant in this place was far from clear.
They returned to the inn with no answers, only questions that had grown sharper in the asking.
Bimmi rose before dawn.
The docks were already alive with activity, boats preparing to head out, competitors gathering with the kind of focus that turned a simple contest into something more serious. He found a place aboard one, paid his way, and set about preparing.
Mackerel proved its worth quickly. The line went taut, the struggle immediate, and what followed was less a contest of skill than one of endurance. The fish fought hard, and Bimmi matched it, refusing to yield until, at last, the creature gave way.
When it was brought aboard, its size was enough to draw attention without needing announcement.
Two hundred and forty pounds.
Bimmi turned it in and stepped back, content to let that stand.
By midday, the festival had reached its height.
The mayor spoke, as mayors do, of growth and of pride, of the Guardians and what they had done for the town. Rowan’s name was given its due, the moment held long enough to matter before the celebration resumed its pace.
The prize for the largest catch was presented, a small box that contained far more than its size suggested. Bimmi accepted it with a grin, slipped it into his pocket, and broke the formality of the moment with a remark that drew laughter from the crowd.
Near the center of town, a statue stood wrapped in ribbons, children circling it as they carried the lengths of cloth, while adults stepped forward to write on them before passing them back. Brynnan paused there, reading what had been written, adding his own words to those already present before letting the ribbon return to its place.
As evening settled in, masks appeared, and with them a shift in the tone of the town. Faces were hidden, voices lowered, and conversations took on a different weight when no one needed to be known to speak.
It was sometime during the masked hour, when the crowd had grown thick with laughter and half-hidden voices, that they heard it, a sound that did not belong among celebration. It was quiet at first, easy to miss beneath the music and murmured secrets, but once noticed it drew the ear and held it. Someone was crying.
They found Brittany Marginsong just beyond the edge of the gathering, where the lantern light thinned and the masks no longer mattered. She had turned slightly away from the crowd, as if she had tried to hide it and failed. Her shoulders trembled, and when she tried to speak, the words caught before they could fully form.
“Not here,” she managed, her voice unsteady. “Please… come to the bookstore.”
Bimmi did not ask questions. He stepped in close, resting a steady arm around her shoulders, guiding her away from the noise and the light without a word. She leaned into him without thinking, as though the effort of holding herself together had finally given out.
Inside, with the door closed and the sounds of the festival dulled to something distant, she broke.
The words came in pieces at first, tangled in breath and grief, then all at once.
“They didn’t stop,” she said, her voice raw. “They just… went somewhere else.”
She pressed her hands to her face for a moment, then lowered them, eyes shining.
“A village. South of here. Saltmere. They couldn’t hold them back.” Her voice faltered, and she swallowed hard before forcing it on. “People are dead, Bimmi. A lot of them. And the rest…” She shook her head, unable to finish the thought cleanly. “They’ve taken everything from them.”
She drew in a shaky breath, the words turning inward now, heavy with something she could not seem to set down.
“It’s my fault,” she said, barely above a whisper. “All of it.”
Bimmi did not challenge her. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t try to untangle what she meant or where that guilt had taken root. He simply stayed where he was, steady and close, letting her speak until the worst of it had passed.
“It’s about an hour south,” she added at last, quieter now, as though the telling had taken something from her. “Along the coast.”
For a moment, she said nothing more.
Then Bimmi reached up, gently taking her by the cheeks and lifting her gaze just enough to meet his. There was nothing uncertain in his expression, nothing measured or cautious about the promise that followed.
“We’ll take care of it, lass,” he said.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, simple and certain, the kind that carried no question in it at all.
“Come on now,” he added, softer, trying to draw her back from where she had gone. “You’re talking to the fishing king of Eastguard. We’ll sort it.”
She didn’t smile, not fully, but something in her expression eased, just enough to let her breathe again.
The following morning, they sought out Teti again, pressing for more information about Room 10. Her answer reached back further than expected, telling of a group that had entered the room in pursuit of a murderer, only to emerge elsewhere, following a path beneath the sea to Westguard, where they had confronted and destroyed a colony of mind flayers.
The story seemed familiar. Like it was their story. For now they chose not to follow it.
Saltmere was more than enough, for now.
They went to the library, gathering what they could of the land ahead, maps and details that might give shape to what awaited them. Vonmese committed what he found to memory, while Titus recorded what he could from the journal.
Then they turned to the boat.
“Fins to the left!” shouted Bimmi. The box unfolded, expanding into a 24 foot ship with five sets of oars and a sail. Brynnan gasped. “How are we going to use that thing? There’s not enough of us to man even the oars, much less steer, and don’t get me started on trying to rig up the sail.” “Lost shaker of salt” said Bimmi and the ship shrank down to something capable of carrying them along the coast. They tested it. “This will be enough for us.” They set out to the south.
The smoke marked the village before it came into view, a dark line against the sky that grew heavier as they approached. When Saltmere revealed itself, it did so in pieces, a tower, figures moving along the shore, the signs of a place that had been taken and not yet reclaimed.
Those on the docks waved them away, their gestures urgent, warning rather than welcoming.
The party did not turn back.
The boat touched the shore, and Bimmi stepped forward, looking at those who did not yet believe help had come.
“We’re here to liberate you,” he said.
No one laughed.