[prose-only version here]

VI.

Frostmere 16, Hearthday, Year 731.

“So you know there’s scrolls down there, but not the layout?” Maelen asked, rubbing her chin and studying the stone stairs into darkness. There was something unnatural about the shadows, like they had substance. Something like black fog, she decided.

“That’s right,” the lad swallowed. His voice was unexpectedly deep and resonant.

“Alright, well. You follow me, Vessa in back. We stick close, but don’t bump me from behind if you want to keep your head attached to your shoulders, understand?” She threw a hard glare at him. The kid nodded, wide-eyed intimidation taking over the hungry, eager look she’d seen a few heartbeats before. Good. The last thing they needed was him setting off traps in a vault or stumbling off to another room on his own. She and Vessa didn’t want a repeat of the debacle that landed them in debt to the Latchkey Circle in the first place.

For just a moment, the horror of that day filled her mind. There had been ten of them in the Larkhands, their band of thieves, and Maelen was their second-in-command. They’d been planning the break-in at a sealed vault beneath the Argenoak’s root foundations for weeks. When they’d breached the vault, however, instead of a mountain of coins they’d found glyph-marked relics and an ancient warding seal. Maelen could still remember their little thief Grale reaching for the seal… Maelen’s shout of warning, unheard. Vessa had been the only Larkhand within reach, so Maelen had tackled her and taken cover beneath a slab of stone. When the seal cracked and the screams began, she and Vessa had been spared. Those tortured screams, though, took a long time to stop. And their twisted bodies when the dust had settled…  

Maelen shook her head, banishing the images. She unshouldered her pack with a grunt and tugged free one of the torches lashed to its side, a rough shaft of pinewood, about as long as her forearm, wrapped tightly at one end with resin-soaked cloth. The wrapping was stained dark with pitch, a homemade mix of pine tar, lard, and scrap linen meant to burn hot and slow. It smelled faintly of smoke and tallow, even unlit.

From a leather pouch on her belt, she retrieved her tinderbox. It was a small, square tin with a hinged lid, scratched and blackened with use. She crouched by the edge of the stone doorway, opened the box, and struck flint to steel. Sparks danced, catching the charcloth with a faint red glow. She leaned close, coaxed the ember with a steady breath, then pressed the cloth into a small bundle of dry moss and bark scrap. The kindling flared. Maelen touched the flame to the cloth-wrapped end of the torch. It caught with a hungry whoosh, casting flickering orange light over the carved stone and the gaping stairwell below.

She gave the torch a testing shake, nodded, and said, “Alright, let’s go see what’s so secret that the Inkbinders locked it away out here.” There was a light scrabbling sound as Tatter scampered from one shoulder to the next. Tatter squeaked once, an unusual amount of noise from the mouse. Maelen grinned, her scar tugging. Vessa gave her a nod.

She turned her back on them, torch held out front, and descended the stairs.

Though the shadows had an opaque appearance, they were just shadows, and retreated from her torchlight, revealing a well-hewn set of narrow stairs, twenty in all, and an otherwise undecorated corridor. Orange light flickered and smoke pooled on the low ceiling of the corridor as she squinted and looked around.

Vessa was an expert in trap-finding, but Maelen’s practiced eye could spot them well enough. She spied no tripwires, pressure plates, or loose stones that might spell danger. She stepped forward cautiously, toe-to-heel, one foot after another, through undisturbed dust. The scribes who guarded this place already trapped the door, she reasoned, why trap the corridor as well? It all depended on how often they walked these halls back when Thornmere Hold was active and how forbidden the knowledge. Maelen admitted to herself that she was more than a little curious as to what they’d find down here.

As she suspected, they reached the simple door at the end of the short corridor without incident. Tatter squeaked again, tightening Maelen’s jaw muscles. Did the little critter know something she didn’t? But that was stupid, she scolded herself.

“Shh, mouse,” she lightly scolded.

Maelen examined the door carefully, but it wasn’t trapped either as far as she could see. Some faded script had been carved in an archway over the door frame. She held the torch at head height so the lad could see.

“What does it say?” she asked in a low whisper.

“It… hm. It’s an old script, but I can read it. ‘The Vigil Endures, Though the World Forgets,’” he said in reverent awe.

She could hear the excitement in his voice, so she hissed, “Don’t bloody touch anything until we know it’s safe.”

“Of course,” he said defensively as she turned to face the door, but once her back was to him, she grinned. What sort of knowledge is dangerous enough to lock in a hidden vault out in the wilds?

The door was a thick slab of hardwood, copper-banded and hanging on rusted iron hinges set in the stone wall. The iron had rusted and copper corroded, but was otherwise in decent repair.

“You okay, Mae? Need me to look it over?” Vessa asked in a low voice from the back.

“I got it,” she said, and pushed the door open. It groaned like something in pain, its hinges frozen and wood bloated from the moisture down here, but she leaned her shoulder into it, grunting.

Maelen faced a small square room, maybe five strides across. Two decorative iron wall sconces sat empty on the walls, one hanging askew, and a broken oil lamp lay discarded on the floor. Directly across from her was a shattered door, fragments of rotting wood lying both within the room and beyond. Her torchlight didn’t reach far enough to see much beyond, but she wouldn’t have been able to focus on the next room anyway. Instead, her eyes snapped to the figure near the doorway.

At first, she thought it was an armored corpse, its copper plates dulled to verdigris. As she brought her torch forward, however, she could see that its helmet-like head bore a single circle of black glass, like the lens of the dead lantern on the floor. Its limbs did not end in fingers, but instead one a three-pronged claw and the other a heavy, fingerless club. Arcane runes, worn nearly smooth, had been etched along the chest plate, shoulder joints, and encircling the clubbed hand.

She knew there wasn’t anyone in the copper armor because a blackened steel spear had been driven deep into its chest and the stone wall beyond, pinning it upright. A thin trail of scorching marked the wall behind it, as though fire had erupted from the blow. Hanging from the cracked chest and back were broken gears and empty beakers. No skeleton or body lay within, only metal and glass.

“Lad,” she whispered urgently. “What is this?”

“I– I… I don’t… Oh! It’s an automaton! Crafted by guild artificers, a dying skill indeed! I’ve never seen one, only read about them. It must have been Thornmere Hold’s guardian. Amazing!”

“But what killed it?” Vessa asked warily, and Maelen could hear her unsheathing her shortsword.

Maelen had the same question. “Hold the light,” she offered to the lad, and he took it, staff in one hand and torch in the other. Maelen pulled her blade from the scabbard across her back, settling her grip two-handed, sword pointed at the shattered, open doorway. She listened, but could hear nothing but the flickering torch and the scribe’s excited mumbling as he examined the copper guardian. Tatter squeaked and ran from one shoulder to a pouch across Maelen’s chest, seeking safety. Smart mouse.

The darkness beyond the shattered door pulsed like a held breath.

Something shuffled in the gloom beyond the shattered doorway, like slow, dragging steps. Then more, slightly further away. Maelen set her mouth and exhaled through her nose, bringing her immense sword to guard.

“What in the seven unshacklings was that?” Vessa cursed behind her.

“Keep that bloody torch up!” Maelen hissed at the scribe over her shoulder. “We can’t fight if we can’t see!”

The first figure lurched into the doorway. It was a lightly armored man, with pauldrons and bracers of steel over a leather cuirass and sturdy shirt and padded pants. Even at a glance, Maelen could see that everything he wore was of the highest quality, like a nobleman dressed for a formal duel, but old and even tattered in places. He wore no helmet, which allowed her to see that his skin was gray and sagging like melted wax. His mouth hung open and toothless, a dark maw …but no sound came out. Yet by far the most disturbing were the sunken black pits where his eyes should have been. It was as if the man’s eyes had turned black and burst, running in thick rivulets down his cheeks.

A second figure shambled behind the man, this one a woman, dressed similarly, with the same empty, weeping eyes and gaping mouth. Her thin black hair clung to her head and neck as if she’d recently taken a bath, wet and stringy, almost oily.

As he stepped into the room, the man raised his gray gnarled hands towards Maelen, the skin hanging loose at his thin wrists.

The move startled her, and the eyeless man lunged at the last moment. He made no sound—no breath, no snarl, no voice—just the soft scrape of boots on stone. Maelen stepped sideways and pushed him away with the flat of her blade, shouting in surprise. Unfortunately, the move sent the man stumbling directly towards the scribe, who, to his credit, swung that walking stick of his in response and kept the armored thing at arm’s length. Damned if she wasn’t more and more impressed with the lad.

The other figure lurched forward in a burst of speed, and Maelen saw that she wielded a spear identical to the one pinning the copper guardian to the wall in her two hands. Silently—and Maelen just now realized that the things made absolutely no noise except for their shuffling steps—the woman thrust the spear forward awkwardly. The blow had power but no grace, and Maelen parried and, on the backswing, scored a hit on her arm. The fabric of her sleeve tore under Maelen’s blade, but no blood spilled. Whatever these things were, they weren’t human. At least not anymore.

With a roar, Maelen gave her no chance to recover. She’d seen one of those spears driven through the breastplate of the automaton and into the stone wall. These things may not be fast or skilled, but they were strong. She swung her longsword in a horizontal arc, cleanly lopping off the woman’s head. The head rolled with a wet flop, the oily hair clinging to the stone like seaweed.

Maelen allowed the momentum of her attack to spin her towards the armored man. Without pausing the swing or her battle cry, the blade sunk into man’s leather-clad side with a thunk. It turned its eyeless head towards her, mouth gaping horribly and silently. It began to reach out towards her with gray, withered hands.

A flicker of motion at the edge of her vision, and then Vessa was there, her short blade buried into the back of the thing’s neck. The tip of her blade erupted from the man’s throat, again bloodlessly. Without a sound, it slumped to the stone floor and did not move.

The three of them panted and Maelen pulled her sword free of the cuirass to point at the shattered doorway. She stood, stance wide and ready, for several heartbeats. Nothing else emerged from the darkness.

“Torch,” she barked at the scribe, empty hand outstretched. He blinked at her in the firelight and then nodded quickly, handing it over. Maelen stepped forward, light in front of her, into the doorway. Shards of old, rotting wood crunched beneath her boot.

“Did you see their faces?” the lad was saying behind her. “Black tears, like the Lanternless! What does that mean?”

“There’s no blood,” Vessa’s voice added. Maelen could almost hear the frown in her voice. “And look at the scrollwork on this armor, Alric, and the tower emblem. These were humans once, I think. Worshippers of the Herald. But why would they lock their own down here and seal the door? What did they become?”

“Shut it, both of you,” Maelen said, moving her torch around in the shadows. “Come here. We’ve found your secret knowledge, lad. Let’s find out what they were guarding, eh?”

She stepped into the dark, and the dark seemed to lean closer to embrace her.

Next: Vault of the Sightless God [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

V.

Frostmere 16, Hearthday, Year 731.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Alric muttered in awe.

Alric had been shaken awake before dawn, and they’d all eaten their rations, prepared their travel packs, and studied the map in relative silence. Maelen didn’t say it aloud, but it was clear that she still worried the Lanternless and Sarin the Nightwight would seek vengeance for their fallen comrades. Yet other than the trill of morning birds and chirping of insects, it seemed to Alric that they were utterly alone within the forested hills. The morning felt peaceful, reverent, and clear of danger, and he found himself smiling in anticipation of the day.

They’d camped near the ridge of the Greenwood Rise. In only a few dozen steps they’d reached the crest, and it was as if they stood atop the world. Above them was the blue, clear dome of sky. Below them, as far as the eye could see to the east, fog blanked everything. Only the top of the great Argenoak was visible, like a leafy island amidst what seemed an endless field of snow.

Maelen stood at his shoulder and the two looked out over the soft expanse of whiteness. She said nothing and her face was as hard as ever, but he took her silence as shared awe. The moment lasted several heartbeats, and then Maelen asked him, “Ready?”

Alric sighed and turned his back on the field of fog. To the west stretched forested foothills, though it seemed their perch reached higher than any of the western hills. Well, all except Dragon’s Mount, which sat like a shepherd overlooking the other hills, far on the horizon. Alric’s eyes studied the view, comparing it with the mental image of his map. He pointed. “It should be there,” he said. “Perhaps two-thirds of a day at my pace, nestled between those two hills.”

Maelen squinted at the map, across the hills, and back a few times. “Good,” she nodded, and clapped him on the shoulder. It was a friendly gesture, but felt like colliding with a warhorse. “Vess will trail us again, keeping watch. Let’s go.”

With one last glance eastward over the fog-packed expanse, he slipped the rolled map into the scroll case at this belt, adjusted his travel pack, gripped his staff, and followed.

Traveling downslope at first seemed far easier than up, and they set a good pace. By midmorning, however, his knees ached, and he found that he must constantly watch his footing or stumble. When they took their first break of the day for water and rations, the forest had swallowed them, making it nearly impossible to discern the surrounding hills. He studied his parchment map, tracing a fingertip across their route.

Vessa took a long swig of water and asked, “We’re almost there, yeah? So are you going to tell us finally where we’re going and what we’re looking for?”

Alric looked up from the map, blinking. “Oh! Of course. This afternoon we’ll reach Thornmere Hold.”

Vessa and Maelen traded a glance. Vessa shook her head. “Never heard of it.”

“Ah. No surprise there. Long ago, it was a place where scribes of The Herald stored knowledge too dangerous or heretical to catalog in the Tower of Public Record. The Inkbinders Lodge has done its best to purge any mention of the place, but I found a scroll referencing it and was able to, eventually, uncover its location. It’s been abandoned for more than a hundred years.”

“What sort of dangerous knowledge?” Maelen said, her broad face dour. “What’s so scary on scrolls that they have to put it out here?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Alric said excitedly.

“You don’t know?” Vessa asked incredulously.

Alric blinked again, confused. “It’s forbidden knowledge. How would I know?”

Maelen chuckled and Vessa shook her head.

“What?” Alric asked. “You seem disappointed.”

“We thought it was treasure, is all,” Vessa shrugged. “Should’ve known. The boy hires two blades for a scroll hunt.”

“What’s more valuable than knowledge?” Alric asked, genuinely baffled.

“Yeah, okay,” the thief rolled her eyes, stood, and stretched her back. “Let’s find it and get home, then. The day isn’t getting any longer.”

“But–” Alric sputtered. “You don’t understand…”

“Shut it, lad. It’s your coin. We’ll get you there and back to Oakton, your arms full of dusty, scary scrolls.” She raised her eyebrows at this last bit, mocking.

He kept his face still, but inwardly Alric winced at the words. What had he hoped for? That they would be so enamored with this quest that they wouldn’t demand the second payment when they’d returned to the city? For the hundredth time, his mind worried over how he would conjure forty silver thorns by the time they’d returned. He’d been so concerned they wouldn’t take the job with what he had to offer that he’d pushed the problem to later, a tendency about which his master at the Lodge had scolded him more than once. Yet his mind offered no answers. Every journey was simply a collection of steps, he reminded himself. Next step, find Thornmere Hold. He’d figure out something about the missing coin.

In the relative quiet of the moment, Maelen turned her attention to Vessa. “No sign of being followed, then?”

Vessa shook her head, running a palm over the stubble. Alric wondered, why had she shaved her head before their journey? He knew so little about these mercenaries he’d trusted to guide him through the wilds, and Vessa in particular was an enigma.

“But you marked where Old Yara said the camp was?” the hard warrior asked.

“Of bloody course,” Vessa said testily.

“Wait, why?” Alric swallowed. “You want to know where their camp is so we can avoid it when we return?” He looked between both mercenaries. They traded a look with each other, and Maelen smiled, the scar on her face tugging.

“That,” she said. “And Vess and I are likely to come back, looking for that buried treasure Sarin’s guarding. After we’ve taken you home, lad. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“But,” he found himself standing abruptly. “I told you: He’s a Nightwight! You can’t possibly hope to–”

“As I said,” Maelen held up a hand, her voice taking a keen edge. “Nothing for you to worry about, lad. Drop it.”

He did, and the beginnings of an idea began forming at the edge of his imagination. Perhaps he could avoid the second payment after all. Every journey is a collection of steps, he told himself again, like a mantra, and the next step is to find Thornmere Hold. But after that… Well, it might work. He felt a twinge of guilt but quickly pushed it down. One step at a time.

Without further discussion, they followed a valley between two low hills as it snaked westward. Though the canopy overhead kept the forest shadowed and cool, the blue sky peeked through above. Birds and insects filled the valley with sound while Alric’s shuffling steps and Maelen’s heavy stride rustled the undergrowth. Vessa, for her part, followed behind them, but even when he tried, he couldn’t hear her passage through the forest.

Sometime past midday, something in the woods changed. A hush fell upon them, devoid of any noise but their steps. Maelen stopped them, listening. Heavy silence hung all around.

“What is it?” Alric whispered. His heart began to pound, beating in his ears.

“Shh!” Maelen hissed angrily. Her eyes darted around the trees, which had grown denser, weaving together overhead like shuttered windows.

Vessa appeared at Alric’s shoulder, and he squawked in surprise. He would never get used to how she moved through the forest like smoke. Maelen shot him a poisonous look and then leaned towards Vessa.

“Predator?” the muscled woman whispered. Vessa chewed her bottom lip, her freckled face swiveling to look all around them, and shrugged.

Alric sensed a hum in the air, not a sound exactly, not anything perceptible by his human senses. But it was there, nonetheless. He closed his eyes, trying to still his frantic heart and labored breathing.

“Not a predator,” he murmured, reverent, but not soft. He opened his eyes to see Maelen and Vessa staring at him. “It’s magic. We’re here.”

“Lad!” Maelen barked at him in a harsh whisper, but Alric limped forward, leaning on his staff.

He looked down and smiled. Below one foot was a flattened, worn stone. A steppingstone, marking a path but barely visible amidst the fallen leaves and moss.

Maelen appeared at his side, and Alric had the sense she’d meant to drag him back. But she followed his gaze and widened her eyes. He smiled when she looked at him questioningly.

What remained of Thornmere Hold was nestled in a hollow glade where the earth seemed sunken, like the land itself had tried to bury the place. Once within the glade, the steppingstone path was more obvious and led to faint stone steps that descended from the forest’s edge into a ruin overgrown with vines, moss, roots, and black lichen. At the heart of the ruins, half-toppled, were a crumbled half-circle of standing stones. Beyond those lay a fallen obelisk, broken into three large pieces of stone. Something had been carved into the stone, but the forest and weather had obscured any details.

Alric stood at the top of the steps, marveling at the place. The magic here was like standing near the embers of a fire, but it wasn’t warmth he felt. It thrummed in his jaw, in the bones of his fingers. He swallowed, unsure whether it comforted or warned. Otherwise, there was simply silence.

“I don’t like this place,” Vessa said, standing at one of Alric’s shoulders and crossing her arms over her chest.

“Shut it, Vess,” Maelen grumped from his other shoulder. “Where are the scrolls, lad? What are we looking for?”

“I… don’t know exactly,” he said reverently. “But there must be a door somewhere.”

“Well, let’s go then,” Maelen said, stepping forward and taking two steps towards the sunken glade.

Alric and Vessa followed her lead. It was eerie in a place so quiet. The shadows in the glade felt deeper somehow. It must have been near midafternoon, yet any hint of the sky overhead had vanished. Instead, it felt as if Thornmere Hold was in a perpetual gloom of twilight.

They searched the glade carefully, making as little noise as possible. Without discussion, Maelen drifted right, Vessa left, and Alric middle. The deeper he stepped into the area, the more he felt as if the place was watching, waiting. Hungry, that was the word. Not for food. For something else.

At one point, he lost himself at the center of the fallen standing stones. Here, chosen scribes of the Inkbinders Lodge had performed rituals, discussed history, and defended the banished texts from outsiders. What must their lives had been like? How had they been chosen for this sacred task? Had the glade ever fallen under attack? And why had the place been abandoned, so many years ago? He sighed, yearning for the stones to speak to him and share their vigilant observations.

“Here,” Vessa’s voice broke the silence. Alric blinked and shook himself out of his reverie, searching for the source of the voice. The stubble-headed, lithe woman in leathers crouched just beyond the base of the fallen obelisk, rubbing at her nose and frowning down at something. He and Maelen picked their way through the clearing to her.

Vessa crouched beside a stone disk half-sunk in the earth, its face etched with runes worn smooth by centuries and swallowed by moss and black lichen. Had the carvings once been script or images, it was impossible to tell. The disk was wide, flush with the earth, carved into the hollow like a massive stone plug. Alric saw now that its edge formed a faint seam—not a true lid, perhaps, but a seal. Something meant to be kept closed.

“It’s a door,” Vessa said, pointing a thin finger. Alric supposed fine hands were good for a thief. “See here? There’s room to swing it aside. The scrolls must be below ground.”

Maelen grunted. “Think the two of us can lift it?”

“It’s sealed,” Vessa said, rubbing again at her nose. “And maybe trapped. I’ll take a closer look.” She dropped to her stomach in the grass, her face close to the stone.

For several heartbeats, Maelen and Alric stood mutely watching the woman as she squinted and touched the edge of the circular stone. For Alric, it meant constantly feeling the low hum of magic everywhere in the glade, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It was both intriguing and maddening in equal parts.

Vessa crawled the perimeter of the door, grunting softly as her fingers traced the edge.

“Definitely trapped,” she mumbled. “Not mechanical. Magical, maybe? But they’d leave a bypass…” She grinned suddenly. “There. Got it.” Her tongue peeked from the corner of her mouth as she dug into the mossy ground, then paused to breathe deep. Vessa glanced up at them.

“You might want to step back,” she said with a wry grin. “Just in case.”

Alric blanched and shuffled backwards several strides. Maelen, frowning, took two cautious steps backwards but stayed closer to the door.

“You got it?” Maelen asked, voice low and taut.

The woman had fished some tools from a belt pouch and was digging at the same spot with them. “I got it,” she breathed. “Probably. Here goes.”

For a moment, Vessa’s face turned red as she struggled with something Alric couldn’t see. The moment stretched, quiet as breath. Then, with a sharp exhalation of triumph, she smiled up at them. The woman stuffed her iron tools back into the pouch, scrambled to a crouch, and dipped both hands beneath the stone. There was a crack and pop, like a wine flask opening for the first time, and then Vessa was pushing the stone with steady effort.

As she’d predicted, the stone door swung wide, scraping along the ground as it went. When Vessa had pushed it aside and stood, slapping dirt from her front and grinning, they all looked down. The door left a circular opening into the earth, still partially covered by the stone. Worn, stone steps led down. Shadows pooled in the stairwell, impossibly deep for daylight, as if night waited just below.

The accomplishment of what he witnessed overwhelmed him a moment. He’d done it. He’d found the right skills to get him here from Oakton, to find and open the vault. And here it was, waiting for him. Not just hidden knowledge, but perhaps a key to understanding the magic he felt just beyond his reach.

Thornmere Hold opened like a waiting mouth, silent and expectant, beckoning him forward.

Next: Into the Darkness [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

V.

Frostmere 16, Hearthday, Year 731.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Alric muttered in awe.

Alric had been shaken awake before dawn, and they’d all eaten their rations, prepared their travel packs, and studied the map in relative silence. Maelen didn’t say it aloud, but it was clear that she still worried the Lanternless and Sarin the Nightwight would seek vengeance for their fallen comrades. Yet other than the trill of morning birds and chirping of insects, it seemed to Alric that they were utterly alone within the forested hills. The morning felt peaceful, reverent, and clear of danger, and he found himself smiling in anticipation of the day.

They’d camped near the ridge of the Greenwood Rise. In only a few dozen steps they’d reached the crest, and it was as if they stood atop the world. Above them was the blue, clear dome of sky. Below them, as far as the eye could see to the east, fog blanked everything. Only the top of the great Argenoak was visible, like a leafy island amidst what seemed an endless field of snow.

Maelen stood at his shoulder and the two looked out over the soft expanse of whiteness. She said nothing and her face was as hard as ever, but he took her silence as shared awe. The moment lasted several heartbeats, and then Maelen asked him, “Ready?”

Alric sighed and turned his back on the field of fog. To the west stretched forested foothills, though it seemed their perch reached higher than any of the western hills. Well, all except Dragon’s Mount, which sat like a shepherd overlooking the other hills, far on the horizon. Alric’s eyes studied the view, comparing it with the mental image of his map. He pointed. “It should be there,” he said. “Perhaps two-thirds of a day at my pace, nestled between those two hills.”

Maelen squinted at the map, across the hills, and back a few times. “Good,” she nodded, and clapped him on the shoulder. It was a friendly gesture, but felt like colliding with a warhorse. “Vess will trail us again, keeping watch. Let’s go.”

With one last glance eastward over the fog-packed expanse, he slipped the rolled map into the scroll case at this belt, adjusted his travel pack, gripped his staff, and followed.

Traveling downslope at first seemed far easier than up, and they set a good pace. By midmorning, however, his knees ached, and he found that he must constantly watch his footing or stumble. When they took their first break of the day for water and rations, the forest had swallowed them, making it nearly impossible to discern the surrounding hills. He studied his parchment map, tracing a fingertip across their route.

Vessa took a long swig of water and asked, “We’re almost there, yeah? So are you going to tell us finally where we’re going and what we’re looking for?”

Alric looked up from the map, blinking. “Oh! Of course. This afternoon we’ll reach Thornmere Hold.”

Vessa and Maelen traded a glance. Vessa shook her head. “Never heard of it.”

“Ah. No surprise there. Long ago, it was a place where scribes of The Herald stored knowledge too dangerous or heretical to catalog in the Tower of Public Record. The Inkbinders Lodge has done its best to purge any mention of the place, but I found a scroll referencing it and was able to, eventually, uncover its location. It’s been abandoned for more than a hundred years.”

“What sort of dangerous knowledge?” Maelen said, her broad face dour. “What’s so scary on scrolls that they have to put it out here?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Alric said excitedly.

“You don’t know?” Vessa asked incredulously.

Alric blinked again, confused. “It’s forbidden knowledge. How would I know?”

Maelen chuckled and Vessa shook her head.

“What?” Alric asked. “You seem disappointed.”

“We thought it was treasure, is all,” Vessa shrugged. “Should’ve known. The boy hires two blades for a scroll hunt.”

“What’s more valuable than knowledge?” Alric asked, genuinely baffled.

“Yeah, okay,” the thief rolled her eyes, stood, and stretched her back. “Let’s find it and get home, then. The day isn’t getting any longer.”

“But–” Alric sputtered. “You don’t understand…”

“Shut it, lad. It’s your coin. We’ll get you there and back to Oakton, your arms full of dusty, scary scrolls.” She raised her eyebrows at this last bit, mocking.

He kept his face still, but inwardly Alric winced at the words. What had he hoped for? That they would be so enamored with this quest that they wouldn’t demand the second payment when they’d returned to the city? For the hundredth time, his mind worried over how he would conjure forty silver thorns by the time they’d returned. He’d been so concerned they wouldn’t take the job with what he had to offer that he’d pushed the problem to later, a tendency about which his master at the Lodge had scolded him more than once. Yet his mind offered no answers. Every journey was simply a collection of steps, he reminded himself. Next step, find Thornmere Hold. He’d figure out something about the missing coin.

In the relative quiet of the moment, Maelen turned her attention to Vessa. “No sign of being followed, then?”

Vessa shook her head, running a palm over the stubble. Alric wondered, why had she shaved her head before their journey? He knew so little about these mercenaries he’d trusted to guide him through the wilds, and Vessa in particular was an enigma.

“But you marked where Old Yara said the camp was?” the hard warrior asked.

“Of bloody course,” Vessa said testily.

“Wait, why?” Alric swallowed. “You want to know where their camp is so we can avoid it when we return?” He looked between both mercenaries. They traded a look with each other, and Maelen smiled, the scar on her face tugging.

“That,” she said. “And Vess and I are likely to come back, looking for that buried treasure Sarin’s guarding. After we’ve taken you home, lad. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“But,” he found himself standing abruptly. “I told you: He’s a Nightwight! You can’t possibly hope to–”

“As I said,” Maelen held up a hand, her voice taking a keen edge. “Nothing for you to worry about, lad. Drop it.”

He did, and the beginnings of an idea began forming at the edge of his imagination. Perhaps he could avoid the second payment after all. Every journey is a collection of steps, he told himself again, like a mantra, and the next step is to find Thornmere Hold. But after that… Well, it might work. He felt a twinge of guilt but quickly pushed it down. One step at a time.

Without further discussion, they followed a valley between two low hills as it snaked westward. Though the canopy overhead kept the forest shadowed and cool, the blue sky peeked through above. Birds and insects filled the valley with sound while Alric’s shuffling steps and Maelen’s heavy stride rustled the undergrowth. Vessa, for her part, followed behind them, but even when he tried, he couldn’t hear her passage through the forest.

Sometime past midday, something in the woods changed. A hush fell upon them, devoid of any noise but their steps. Maelen stopped them, listening. Heavy silence hung all around.

“What is it?” Alric whispered. His heart began to pound, beating in his ears.

“Shh!” Maelen hissed angrily. Her eyes darted around the trees, which had grown denser, weaving together overhead like shuttered windows.

Vessa appeared at Alric’s shoulder, and he squawked in surprise. He would never get used to how she moved through the forest like smoke. Maelen shot him a poisonous look and then leaned towards Vessa.

“Predator?” the muscled woman whispered. Vessa chewed her bottom lip, her freckled face swiveling to look all around them, and shrugged.

Alric sensed a hum in the air, not a sound exactly, not anything perceptible by his human senses. But it was there, nonetheless. He closed his eyes, trying to still his frantic heart and labored breathing.

“Not a predator,” he murmured, reverent, but not soft. He opened his eyes to see Maelen and Vessa staring at him. “It’s magic. We’re here.”

“Lad!” Maelen barked at him in a harsh whisper, but Alric limped forward, leaning on his staff.

He looked down and smiled. Below one foot was a flattened, worn stone. A steppingstone, marking a path but barely visible amidst the fallen leaves and moss.

Maelen appeared at his side, and Alric had the sense she’d meant to drag him back. But she followed his gaze and widened her eyes. He smiled when she looked at him questioningly.

What remained of Thornmere Hold was nestled in a hollow glade where the earth seemed sunken, like the land itself had tried to bury the place. Once within the glade, the steppingstone path was more obvious and led to faint stone steps that descended from the forest’s edge into a ruin overgrown with vines, moss, roots, and black lichen. At the heart of the ruins, half-toppled, were a crumbled half-circle of standing stones. Beyond those lay a fallen obelisk, broken into three large pieces of stone. Something had been carved into the stone, but the forest and weather had obscured any details.

Alric stood at the top of the steps, marveling at the place. The magic here was like standing near the embers of a fire, but it wasn’t warmth he felt. It thrummed in his jaw, in the bones of his fingers. He swallowed, unsure whether it comforted or warned. Otherwise, there was simply silence.

“I don’t like this place,” Vessa said, standing at one of Alric’s shoulders and crossing her arms over her chest.

“Shut it, Vess,” Maelen grumped from his other shoulder. “Where are the scrolls, lad? What are we looking for?”

“I… don’t know exactly,” he said reverently. “But there must be a door somewhere.”

“Well, let’s go then,” Maelen said, stepping forward and taking two steps towards the sunken glade.

Alric and Vessa followed her lead. It was eerie in a place so quiet. The shadows in the glade felt deeper somehow. It must have been near midafternoon, yet any hint of the sky overhead had vanished. Instead, it felt as if Thornmere Hold was in a perpetual gloom of twilight.

They searched the glade carefully, making as little noise as possible. Without discussion, Maelen drifted right, Vessa left, and Alric middle. The deeper he stepped into the area, the more he felt as if the place was watching, waiting. Hungry, that was the word. Not for food. For something else.

At one point, he lost himself at the center of the fallen standing stones. Here, chosen scribes of the Inkbinders Lodge had performed rituals, discussed history, and defended the banished texts from outsiders. What must their lives had been like? How had they been chosen for this sacred task? Had the glade ever fallen under attack? And why had the place been abandoned, so many years ago? He sighed, yearning for the stones to speak to him and share their vigilant observations.

“Here,” Vessa’s voice broke the silence. Alric blinked and shook himself out of his reverie, searching for the source of the voice. The stubble-headed, lithe woman in leathers crouched just beyond the base of the fallen obelisk, rubbing at her nose and frowning down at something. He and Maelen picked their way through the clearing to her.

Vessa crouched beside a stone disk half-sunk in the earth, its face etched with runes worn smooth by centuries and swallowed by moss and black lichen. Had the carvings once been script or images, it was impossible to tell. The disk was wide, flush with the earth, carved into the hollow like a massive stone plug. Alric saw now that its edge formed a faint seam—not a true lid, perhaps, but a seal. Something meant to be kept closed.

“It’s a door,” Vessa said, pointing a thin finger. Alric supposed fine hands were good for a thief. “See here? There’s room to swing it aside. The scrolls must be below ground.”

Maelen grunted. “Think the two of us can lift it?”

“It’s sealed,” Vessa said, rubbing again at her nose. “And maybe trapped. I’ll take a closer look.” She dropped to her stomach in the grass, her face close to the stone.

For several heartbeats, Maelen and Alric stood mutely watching the woman as she squinted and touched the edge of the circular stone. For Alric, it meant constantly feeling the low hum of magic everywhere in the glade, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It was both intriguing and maddening in equal parts.

Vessa crawled the perimeter of the door, grunting softly as her fingers traced the edge.

“Definitely trapped,” she mumbled. “Not mechanical. Magical, maybe? But they’d leave a bypass…” She grinned suddenly. “There. Got it.” Her tongue peeked from the corner of her mouth as she dug into the mossy ground, then paused to breathe deep. Vessa glanced up at them.

“You might want to step back,” she said with a wry grin. “Just in case.”

Alric blanched and shuffled backwards several strides. Maelen, frowning, took two cautious steps backwards but stayed closer to the door.

“You got it?” Maelen asked, voice low and taut.

The woman had fished some tools from a belt pouch and was digging at the same spot with them. “I got it,” she breathed. “Probably. Here goes.”

For a moment, Vessa’s face turned red as she struggled with something Alric couldn’t see. The moment stretched, quiet as breath. Then, with a sharp exhalation of triumph, she smiled up at them. The woman stuffed her iron tools back into the pouch, scrambled to a crouch, and dipped both hands beneath the stone. There was a crack and pop, like a wine flask opening for the first time, and then Vessa was pushing the stone with steady effort.

As she’d predicted, the stone door swung wide, scraping along the ground as it went. When Vessa had pushed it aside and stood, slapping dirt from her front and grinning, they all looked down. The door left a circular opening into the earth, still partially covered by the stone. Worn, stone steps led down. Shadows pooled in the stairwell, impossibly deep for daylight, as if night waited just below.

The accomplishment of what he witnessed overwhelmed him a moment. He’d done it. He’d found the right skills to get him here from Oakton, to find and open the vault. And here it was, waiting for him. Not just hidden knowledge, but perhaps a key to understanding the magic he felt just beyond his reach.

Thornmere Hold opened like a waiting mouth, silent and expectant, beckoning him forward.

Next: Into the Darkness [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

IV.

Frostmere 15, Goldday, Year 731.

The afternoon had grown long within the Greenwood Rise, golden light dappling the small glade. Vessa’s head and stomach both felt hollow, raw and carved out like a melon. She still had no idea what happened last night. Woke in a barn with a dog licking her face, a missing tooth, shaved head, and a government writ-seal in her pocket. Lotus leaf and drink, but what else? Whatever had happened then, right now what her body yearned to do was spend a full day in darkness, retching and clutching her stubbled skull. Instead, she’d been tromping slowly west of Oakton, up and up through the forested hills, following a lamed scribe and stumbling upon a group of outcasts.

She took no pleasure in sneaking up on the one whose throat she’d slit. The bald man with the black tar-marks on his cheeks wasn’t the first nameless idiot who’d died without ever seeing her approach, and he bloody well wouldn’t be the last. But killing left her in a foul mood, and her mood had already been foul. Vessa spit a glob of bile, briefly remembering the man’s choking gasp, the hot blood that spilled down his dirty shirt. With a grimace, she pushed the images away and focused on the woman in front of her.

The crone must have been four times Vessa’s age, back bent by labor and hair white and wild as loose spider webs. She regarded Vessa with a natural look of distaste on her wrinkled, leathery face, thin lips pursed. The same black streaks as the man she’d slain decorated her cheeks, and she wore a dirty homespun shift and a bulky necklace of—Vessa squinted—blobs of wax? She decided that the old woman was poor as dirt and, glancing at her almost black feet, had been living out here for a long, long time.

“Ye killed ‘em, then? The others?” the woman asked into the growing silence with a dry, papery voice.

Vessa shrugged, rubbing at her crooked nose, an old injury that flared whenever her temper did. Her shaved head felt too cold and tingly in the autumn air, and she moved her hand to brush over the unfamiliar stubble. Gods, she needed some proper sleep.

“You’re not the one asking questions,” Vessa muttered. “So shut it.”

The old woman crossed her thin arms, little more than loose flesh dangling from bones, and squinted hard at Vessa. Dammit all. Vessa knew that she wasn’t particularly charming in the best of times, but she’d fumbled their interaction already. She saw clearly that this woman wasn’t going to tell them a bloody useful thing.

“We did kill them,” Maelen said, stepping forward in a crunch of leaves. “They friends of yours?”

“Not as much. Bah,” the woman scoffed, turning her attention to Mae. “They woulda done the same t’you, I s’pose. Sorry fer it, though. Good people, hard workin’.”

Maelen sighed. “I was coming up to talk to you all when I tripped. Then there was yelling and people coming down the hill at me with weapons.”

“Heh,” she smiled wearily, showing three withered teeth in otherwise empty gums. “Didn’t expect you, eh? Big warrior wif a sword bigger’n they’d ever seen, I bet. They weren’t soldiers. Jassel was a chimmy-sweep. Bran a lampligh’er. Karn was a stablehand.”

“The bearded one with the club? His name was Karn?” Maelen asked.

The woman nodded, sucking at her top lip.

Maelen turned to show the side of her leather vest. It was scarred with two small tears in the leather. “He hit me one good. Strong fellow. A different day, it could have been me in the dirt.”

The old woman nodded. “Kinda you to say,” she said. “Wha’s yer name?”

“Maelen. Yours?”

“Yara. Folks call me Old Yara if’n ‘cause I’m older’n the sun.” She smiled her gummy smile.

Maelen chuckled. “Seems to me, all the young ones are lying dead in the leaves and you’re still here, Old Yara.”

“True ‘nuf,” the woman nodded once. “I’m a survivor.”

“Yes ma’am,” Maelen cocked her head. “What’s with the black goop on your cheeks?”

“Oh,” Old Yara waved a hand dismissively. “Jus’ somefin’ the Night Captain makes us do, to be part ‘o his gang. Calls us the Lanternless, and I never met anyone hates the light much as him. Don’ even like us makin’ fires at night, so I’ve got used t’eat’n meat raw.”

“He an outcast from Oakton too?” Maelen asked casually, and even amidst Vessa’s hollowed-out haze, she admired the mercenary. Whereas Old Yara immediately hated Vessa, Maelen had used her streetwise charm to turn her around. If they’d been in the city, the old woman would have been offering them tea. Quietly, Vessa drifted back from the conversation, letting Mae take the old woman’s full attention.

She glanced over at Alric, the scribe, who had found a place to sit and stretch his legs out beneath him, back against a tree. The man’s eyes were watching Old Yara and Maelen intently, probing. She decided not to interrupt his eavesdropping. The last thing they needed was for the kid to yelp in surprise and break the spell Maelen was weaving with the old outcast. Keeping her eyes scanning for anyone approaching, Vessa brought her attention back to the conversation.

“He was a lamplighter too, then?” Maelen was saying in response to whatever Old Yara had answered. “Like the one in your group?”

“A lampligh’er, aye, like Bran. Had a pole ‘n whistle his whole life ‘n wore the city’s colors. When the Night Captain talks ‘bout Oakton, s’like he’s still walkin’ its bones,” the old woman bobbed her head. “But he did his work long ago, mind. Long time.”

“So he’s got the age of experience like you, eh?” Maelen folded her thick arms casually, a move Vessa thought was to remind Old Yara of her strength while seeming relaxed.

The crone waved a hand, shooing away Maelen’s words. “Naw, naw… he’s older’n me but you got the wrong idea.” Her eyes twinkled in the dappled sunlight. “He ain’t human, see. He’s been walkin’ these woods longer’n any o’ us.” She paused. “The Night Captain’s a ghost.”

Alric shifted, sitting up straighter and practically buzzing with questions. Vessa cocked an eyebrow herself. What in the bloody mists was going on out here?

Thankfully, as if reading her thoughts, Maelen asked. “A ghost? Now why would a bunch of outcasts band together to follow a ghost out here in the wilds?”

The way she posed the question clearly hit Old Yara badly, as if she suddenly realized she were being interrogated. Or perhaps there was some other offense in the words none of them understood. Whatever the case, the woman’s face hardened, and she crossed her thin arms, mirroring Maelen’s posture. “Well, we’re outcasts, ain’t we? Gotta survive. The Night Captain’s tougher’n anything we meet out here, includin’ you and your pups. If he was here, you’d be skinned and hangin’ from that tree, sure as night.”

Maelen saw that she’d struck a nerve. She held up a hand in peace. “Now listen, Old Yara, I didn’t–”

“I think,” the woman spat, barreling forward and getting herself riled up. “You’ll be hangin’ there soon anyway. Night Captain’s not gonna like you cullin’ his flock none. How d’you think it’ll feel, when your skin comes off in strips and your pups are screamin’ while he pulls their tongues out one by one?” Something unsettling filled the old woman’s voice, hard and mean. “Will ya be so tough then? Your big sword won’ do squat to the Night Captain. You’ll die wailin’ and beggin’ tonight, sure as night. And I’ll be watchin’ and laughin’ the whole time!” She cackled.

Maelen’s lip curled, the patience slipping like bark from a burned tree. Then, quick as a snake’s strike, she backhanded the old woman. It wasn’t a strong blow, and done so casually that Maelen’s expression looked almost bored. Old Yara spilled to the ground with a surprised yelp, and when she looked up from her hands and bony knees, fear flickered across her face.

“That’s enough of that,” the warrior said. “I’m just trying to have a conversation, Old Yara. I don’t need you scaring the lad and lass. Okay?”

The crone scampered to her knees on the forest floor, wiping blood from her lip with the back of one hand. Her eyes had gone flat and distant.

“Sure, sure,” she said. “Ask yer questions, then.”

The light was fading by the time Maelen had finished her conversation. They left Old Yara tied sitting to a tree, using a shirt from one of the dead men. When Alric protested that the old woman would die left like that, Maelen assured him that Sarin and the Lanternless would seek out their patrol when it didn’t return and so would find her long before she succumbed to hunger or thirst. She also argued that, if the Lanternless had claimed this part of the Greenwood Rise as their territory, the chances of a predator finding Old Yara before her gang were slim. Alric didn’t seem convinced but wisely didn’t push the issue.

Instead, all the scribe wanted to talk about was the gang’s leader, Sarin the Night Captain.

“It’s a Nightwight, I’m sure of it,” he said breathlessly to Vessa as they pushed through some underbrush. “Several scholars have written about them, but I don’t believe anyone has seen one in more than a generation!”

Vessa scanned the forest for danger but had stayed by Alric’s side to help him keep Maelen’s pace. The warrior had said they needed to gain as much distance from Old Yara and where she’d said the Lanternless’ camp was as possible, and soon darkness would make stumbling through the forest foolish. They still crawled at a frustratingly slow speed because of the man’s limp, but Vessa had to admit that he was pushing himself without complaint.

Despite herself, she was curious. “What’s a Nightwight, then? Is it a ghost like she said?”

“More solid,” Alric panted. “A corpse risen and filled with spirits, not a spirit itself. But powerful and consumed by some purpose that keeps the body moving. For Sarin—ow!” he yelped as a branch thwacked him across the cheek. “For Sarin, it seems it’s whatever he has buried at their camp that the woman said he wouldn’t let any of them see. What do you think it is? Is he guarding it or waiting for something to happen related to it?”

“Old Yara said he was waiting for a sign. ‘The Blind Sovereign will send a herald,’ she said. What do you think that means?”

“I have no idea,” Alric said, frustrated. “But I want to ask some people at the Inkbinders Lodge when we’re back. It’s remarkable, don’t you think? I mean, it’s all utterly terrifying, but still… this could be something–”

“By the Rootmother’s teat, shut up you two!” Maelen said from the deepening shadows ahead. “Keep up and keep your ears open and mouths tight.”

Maelen continued to push them hard. Vessa wouldn’t have minded, especially at the scribe’s halting pace, except for her pounding head and sour stomach.

Eventually, long after Vessa thought advisable, it became clear even to Maelen that the woods had become too treacherous to continue safely. The three of them found a space amidst a copse of trees and large stone that Maelen pronounced “as defensible as they were likely to find in the twice-cursed darkness,” ate a dinner of trail rations and dried jerky, and unrolled their bedrolls. Maelen decided that, based on the conversation with Old Yara, they would avoid making a fire. Wind gusted across the ridge of the Greenwood where they’d stopped, chilling their small camp in the autumn night.

Alric had done well against the challenges of the day, Vessa thought, though he was nearly asleep on his feet, and snoring as soon as his head touched the bedroll.

“You sleep too, Vess,” Maelen grunted, grinning down at the scribe and shaking her head. “I’ll take first watch. I have to repair my jerkin and see to my ribs. That bloody club tagged me harder than I admitted to Old Yara.”

“You need any help?” Vessa asked, stifling a yawn.

“Nah,” Maelen chuckled in the darkness. Clouds off the bay had swept across the Greenwood Rise, and chill fog wound through the trees, swallowing the forest whole. Beyond their circle of breath and silence, the world seemed to vanish. “You looked at bad as the lad when we stopped. Get some rest.”

Vessa nodded, this time yawning fully and loudly. Gratefully, she stretched herself down on her bedroll, resting her head upon folded arms.

Eyelids heavy, she said, “Mae?”

“Mm?”

“We’re going to go steal that thing the old woman mentioned, right? Sarin’s buried treasure?”

“Damned right we are,” Maelen answered.

“Good,” Vessa murmured, the grin audible in her voice. She closed her eyes. The world went black.

Next: Thornmere Hold [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

IV.

Frostmere 15, Goldday, Year 731.

The afternoon had grown long within the Greenwood Rise, golden light dappling the small glade. Vessa’s head and stomach both felt hollow, raw and carved out like a melon. She still had no idea what happened last night. Woke in a barn with a dog licking her face, a missing tooth, shaved head, and a government writ-seal in her pocket. Lotus leaf and drink, but what else? Whatever had happened then, right now what her body yearned to do was spend a full day in darkness, retching and clutching her stubbled skull. Instead, she’d been tromping slowly west of Oakton, up and up through the forested hills, following a lamed scribe and stumbling upon a group of outcasts.

She took no pleasure in sneaking up on the one whose throat she’d slit. The bald man with the black tar-marks on his cheeks wasn’t the first nameless idiot who’d died without ever seeing her approach, and he bloody well wouldn’t be the last. But killing left her in a foul mood, and her mood had already been foul. Vessa spit a glob of bile, briefly remembering the man’s choking gasp, the hot blood that spilled down his dirty shirt. With a grimace, she pushed the images away and focused on the woman in front of her.

The crone must have been four times Vessa’s age, back bent by labor and hair white and wild as loose spider webs. She regarded Vessa with a natural look of distaste on her wrinkled, leathery face, thin lips pursed. The same black streaks as the man she’d slain decorated her cheeks, and she wore a dirty homespun shift and a bulky necklace of—Vessa squinted—blobs of wax? She decided that the old woman was poor as dirt and, glancing at her almost black feet, had been living out here for a long, long time.

“Ye killed ‘em, then? The others?” the woman asked into the growing silence with a dry, papery voice.

Vessa shrugged, rubbing at her crooked nose, an old injury that flared whenever her temper did. Her shaved head felt too cold and tingly in the autumn air, and she moved her hand to brush over the unfamiliar stubble. Gods, she needed some proper sleep.

“You’re not the one asking questions,” Vessa muttered. “So shut it.”

The old woman crossed her thin arms, little more than loose flesh dangling from bones, and squinted hard at Vessa. Dammit all. Vessa knew that she wasn’t particularly charming in the best of times, but she’d fumbled their interaction already. She saw clearly that this woman wasn’t going to tell them a bloody useful thing.

“We did kill them,” Maelen said, stepping forward in a crunch of leaves. “They friends of yours?”

“Not as much. Bah,” the woman scoffed, turning her attention to Mae. “They woulda done the same t’you, I s’pose. Sorry fer it, though. Good people, hard workin’.”

Maelen sighed. “I was coming up to talk to you all when I tripped. Then there was yelling and people coming down the hill at me with weapons.”

“Heh,” she smiled wearily, showing three withered teeth in otherwise empty gums. “Didn’t expect you, eh? Big warrior wif a sword bigger’n they’d ever seen, I bet. They weren’t soldiers. Jassel was a chimmy-sweep. Bran a lampligh’er. Karn was a stablehand.”

“The bearded one with the club? His name was Karn?” Maelen asked.

The woman nodded, sucking at her top lip.

Maelen turned to show the side of her leather vest. It was scarred with two small tears in the leather. “He hit me one good. Strong fellow. A different day, it could have been me in the dirt.”

The old woman nodded. “Kinda you to say,” she said. “Wha’s yer name?”

“Maelen. Yours?”

“Yara. Folks call me Old Yara if’n ‘cause I’m older’n the sun.” She smiled her gummy smile.

Maelen chuckled. “Seems to me, all the young ones are lying dead in the leaves and you’re still here, Old Yara.”

“True ‘nuf,” the woman nodded once. “I’m a survivor.”

“Yes ma’am,” Maelen cocked her head. “What’s with the black goop on your cheeks?”

“Oh,” Old Yara waved a hand dismissively. “Jus’ somefin’ the Night Captain makes us do, to be part ‘o his gang. Calls us the Lanternless, and I never met anyone hates the light much as him. Don’ even like us makin’ fires at night, so I’ve got used t’eat’n meat raw.”

“He an outcast from Oakton too?” Maelen asked casually, and even amidst Vessa’s hollowed-out haze, she admired the mercenary. Whereas Old Yara immediately hated Vessa, Maelen had used her streetwise charm to turn her around. If they’d been in the city, the old woman would have been offering them tea. Quietly, Vessa drifted back from the conversation, letting Mae take the old woman’s full attention.

She glanced over at Alric, the scribe, who had found a place to sit and stretch his legs out beneath him, back against a tree. The man’s eyes were watching Old Yara and Maelen intently, probing. She decided not to interrupt his eavesdropping. The last thing they needed was for the kid to yelp in surprise and break the spell Maelen was weaving with the old outcast. Keeping her eyes scanning for anyone approaching, Vessa brought her attention back to the conversation.

“He was a lamplighter too, then?” Maelen was saying in response to whatever Old Yara had answered. “Like the one in your group?”

“A lampligh’er, aye, like Bran. Had a pole ‘n whistle his whole life ‘n wore the city’s colors. When the Night Captain talks ‘bout Oakton, s’like he’s still walkin’ its bones,” the old woman bobbed her head. “But he did his work long ago, mind. Long time.”

“So he’s got the age of experience like you, eh?” Maelen folded her thick arms casually, a move Vessa thought was to remind Old Yara of her strength while seeming relaxed.

The crone waved a hand, shooing away Maelen’s words. “Naw, naw… he’s older’n me but you got the wrong idea.” Her eyes twinkled in the dappled sunlight. “He ain’t human, see. He’s been walkin’ these woods longer’n any o’ us.” She paused. “The Night Captain’s a ghost.”

Alric shifted, sitting up straighter and practically buzzing with questions. Vessa cocked an eyebrow herself. What in the bloody mists was going on out here?

Thankfully, as if reading her thoughts, Maelen asked. “A ghost? Now why would a bunch of outcasts band together to follow a ghost out here in the wilds?”

The way she posed the question clearly hit Old Yara badly, as if she suddenly realized she were being interrogated. Or perhaps there was some other offense in the words none of them understood. Whatever the case, the woman’s face hardened, and she crossed her thin arms, mirroring Maelen’s posture. “Well, we’re outcasts, ain’t we? Gotta survive. The Night Captain’s tougher’n anything we meet out here, includin’ you and your pups. If he was here, you’d be skinned and hangin’ from that tree, sure as night.”

Maelen saw that she’d struck a nerve. She held up a hand in peace. “Now listen, Old Yara, I didn’t–”

“I think,” the woman spat, barreling forward and getting herself riled up. “You’ll be hangin’ there soon anyway. Night Captain’s not gonna like you cullin’ his flock none. How d’you think it’ll feel, when your skin comes off in strips and your pups are screamin’ while he pulls their tongues out one by one?” Something unsettling filled the old woman’s voice, hard and mean. “Will ya be so tough then? Your big sword won’ do squat to the Night Captain. You’ll die wailin’ and beggin’ tonight, sure as night. And I’ll be watchin’ and laughin’ the whole time!” She cackled.

Maelen’s lip curled, the patience slipping like bark from a burned tree. Then, quick as a snake’s strike, she backhanded the old woman. It wasn’t a strong blow, and done so casually that Maelen’s expression looked almost bored. Old Yara spilled to the ground with a surprised yelp, and when she looked up from her hands and bony knees, fear flickered across her face.

“That’s enough of that,” the warrior said. “I’m just trying to have a conversation, Old Yara. I don’t need you scaring the lad and lass. Okay?”

The crone scampered to her knees on the forest floor, wiping blood from her lip with the back of one hand. Her eyes had gone flat and distant.

“Sure, sure,” she said. “Ask yer questions, then.”

The light was fading by the time Maelen had finished her conversation. They left Old Yara tied sitting to a tree, using a shirt from one of the dead men. When Alric protested that the old woman would die left like that, Maelen assured him that Sarin and the Lanternless would seek out their patrol when it didn’t return and so would find her long before she succumbed to hunger or thirst. She also argued that, if the Lanternless had claimed this part of the Greenwood Rise as their territory, the chances of a predator finding Old Yara before her gang were slim. Alric didn’t seem convinced but wisely didn’t push the issue.

Instead, all the scribe wanted to talk about was the gang’s leader, Sarin the Night Captain.

“It’s a Nightwight, I’m sure of it,” he said breathlessly to Vessa as they pushed through some underbrush. “Several scholars have written about them, but I don’t believe anyone has seen one in more than a generation!”

Vessa scanned the forest for danger but had stayed by Alric’s side to help him keep Maelen’s pace. The warrior had said they needed to gain as much distance from Old Yara and where she’d said the Lanternless’ camp was as possible, and soon darkness would make stumbling through the forest foolish. They still crawled at a frustratingly slow speed because of the man’s limp, but Vessa had to admit that he was pushing himself without complaint.

Despite herself, she was curious. “What’s a Nightwight, then? Is it a ghost like she said?”

“More solid,” Alric panted. “A corpse risen and filled with spirits, not a spirit itself. But powerful and consumed by some purpose that keeps the body moving. For Sarin—ow!” he yelped as a branch thwacked him across the cheek. “For Sarin, it seems it’s whatever he has buried at their camp that the woman said he wouldn’t let any of them see. What do you think it is? Is he guarding it or waiting for something to happen related to it?”

“Old Yara said he was waiting for a sign. ‘The Blind Sovereign will send a herald,’ she said. What do you think that means?”

“I have no idea,” Alric said, frustrated. “But I want to ask some people at the Inkbinders Lodge when we’re back. It’s remarkable, don’t you think? I mean, it’s all utterly terrifying, but still… this could be something–”

“By the Rootmother’s teat, shut up you two!” Maelen said from the deepening shadows ahead. “Keep up and keep your ears open and mouths tight.”

Maelen continued to push them hard. Vessa wouldn’t have minded, especially at the scribe’s halting pace, except for her pounding head and sour stomach.

Eventually, long after Vessa thought advisable, it became clear even to Maelen that the woods had become too treacherous to continue safely. The three of them found a space amidst a copse of trees and large stone that Maelen pronounced “as defensible as they were likely to find in the twice-cursed darkness,” ate a dinner of trail rations and dried jerky, and unrolled their bedrolls. Maelen decided that, based on the conversation with Old Yara, they would avoid making a fire. Wind gusted across the ridge of the Greenwood where they’d stopped, chilling their small camp in the autumn night.

Alric had done well against the challenges of the day, Vessa thought, though he was nearly asleep on his feet, and snoring as soon as his head touched the bedroll.

“You sleep too, Vess,” Maelen grunted, grinning down at the scribe and shaking her head. “I’ll take first watch. I have to repair my jerkin and see to my ribs. That bloody club tagged me harder than I admitted to Old Yara.”

“You need any help?” Vessa asked, stifling a yawn.

“Nah,” Maelen chuckled in the darkness. Clouds off the bay had swept across the Greenwood Rise, and chill fog wound through the trees, swallowing the forest whole. Beyond their circle of breath and silence, the world seemed to vanish. “You looked at bad as the lad when we stopped. Get some rest.”

Vessa nodded, this time yawning fully and loudly. Gratefully, she stretched herself down on her bedroll, resting her head upon folded arms.

Eyelids heavy, she said, “Mae?”

“Mm?”

“We’re going to go steal that thing the old woman mentioned, right? Sarin’s buried treasure?”

“Damned right we are,” Maelen answered.

“Good,” Vessa murmured, the grin audible in her voice. She closed her eyes. The world went black.

Next: Thornmere Hold [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

III.

Frostmere 15, Goldday, Year 731.

On the surface, Maelen was thoroughly annoyed. She was adamantly not going to die on the bloody Greenwood Rise, off trail, where no one would know or find her body to bury it. She sure as bastards wasn’t going to die because of a lamed pup of a scribe who didn’t know the pointy end of a sword from the holding one. None of this was worth the promised hundred silver thorns she and Vessa were getting paid (though, to be fair, it was a lot of coin), and she was not going to die in debt to the gods-cursed, bloody Latchkey Circle.

Below the annoyance, though: Maelen was excited. Violence was her purpose in life, her profession. She’d never known her Tideborn father, and her mother was a knife-for-hire who ran numbers for no less than three gangs. From age nine, Maelen performed “errands” for rough men and mean women. By thirteen, she was knocking out the teeth of men twice her age. By sixteen, she was running a gang of canal-cutters who’d dubbed her Marr the Merciless. Truly, Maelen Marrosen was a fighter to the core, and it had been too long since she’d wet her blade.

The lad’s eyes were bulging out of his head, but he was doing a fair job of keeping quiet. Damned if she hadn’t been impressed by his lack of complaining and dogged perseverance up the hill all day. The pace was slow as sap, sure, but the lad couldn’t help that. Maelen had pegged him as a soft book-boy, but he’d shown a spine again and again and again, and she’d reassessed her first impressions. There was iron in his heart, and iron was the only thing that Maelen respected.

Tatter, probably sensing her mood, scampered out of her belt pouch and onto her arm. The mouse sniffed the afternoon air. Maelen paused for a moment amidst her thoughts and grinned down at the mouse.

“You take her,” Maelen whispered, extending a hand towards the scribe. Tatter knew the gesture well and ran along the length of her forearm, across her hand, and onto the boy’s shoulder. He startled, looking dubiously at his new companion, and then nodded silently at her. Good lad, able to roll with the situation. Maelen liked him far more than she expected to.

“Keep her safe or I’ll gut you,” she hissed. His face paled, and she felt certain he’d gotten the message. That done, Maelen gripped her sword with both hands and stepped cautiously forward to the tree with the black circle.

Quiet as a shadow, Vessa appeared out of the brush. The scribe squeaked in surprise but slapped a hand over his mouth to keep quiet. She stepped close to Maelen and the unwashed smell of urine, vomit, and sweat rolled over her. If they survived, she’d drag the girl to a stream and wash her herself if she had to.

“There’s four of them,” Vessa whispered close, lips near Maelen’s ear. “Look like outcasts. Criminals, maybe. Three look like they could fight, one old woman, but no armor and only one obvious weapon. They’re sitting around and drinking, but it’s not a permanent camp. They have black smudges on their cheeks, like a cult or something.”

Maelen frowned, absorbing this new information. “You think we can get around them?” she breathed close to Vessa’s ear.

The lass shot a meaningful, disapproving look at the lad and shook her head once. She leaned forward and said in a whisper, “They’re scouts, Mae. Talking about a leader they’re scared of: Sarin. If they find us, they’ll loot us and worse. And there was something weird…” Maelen raised an eyebrow and waited. “They seemed scared to make a fire. Said Sarin would be mad.”

Maelen pressed her lips together and nodded. “Not so weird. They’re hiding. Good work, Vess.”

“What’s going on?” The scribe whispered, urgently and too loud, like he’d never once played at sneaking through an alley in his life. Maelen shot him a quick hand gesture to shut him up.

“You stay put with Tatter,” she whispered, pointing at his nose and scowling. Maelen cocked her head and listened to decide whether they’d been heard. Comfortable to continue, she said quietly, “I’m going to talk to these people. Vessa’s got my back. You hear me yell, you hide. Clear?”

Sweat on his face, the lad nodded, already crouching low behind a tree. Good. He wouldn’t be underfoot, then. Maelen jerked a chin to Vessa, who nodded and disappeared back into the brush as quietly as she’d come. She was touched by The Claw himself, Vess was, able to blend into shadows better than anyone she’d ever met. It was one of three truly useful things about her.

Maelen cracked her neck and strode, quietly and purposefully, up the wooded hill, her long blade held out in front of her. She wasn’t nearly as stealthy as Vessa, but she knew how to plant her foot in pine needles and twigs to keep quiet.

So, of course, she tripped. Like a bloody amateur. A root just below a cover of fallen leaves snagged the toe of one boot, and Maelen went down hard onto one knee. Worse, she yelled in surprise and pain. There was a series of frantic shouts from up the hill as the four outcasts that Vessa had spied realized her presence.

“There’s someone here!” a woman yelped, her voice cracking. Others cried out as well.

“Get your weapons!”

“Gut ‘em!”

“For Sarin! For the Lanternless!” There was more fear in their voices than faith, but it was no doubt they were coming to fight.

Gritting her teeth, Maelen surged up, rage flaring hotter than the ache in her knee. No more mistakes. Not today. She charged up the hillside, her sword held in two hands. As the first of the outcasts stumbled down the hill towards her, she raised the blade high. Maelen briefly registered a wiry, pockmarked woman with greasy, dark hair tied back in tattered clothes. Her cheeks were smudged by tar or soot to look like black tears running down her face, and her eyes were wide and scared. She carried a rusty knife that looked more like a kitchen tool than a weapon, and Maelen realized with grim confidence that this ragtag group wouldn’t last long against her and Vessa. With a shout meant to attract the other outcasts and distract them from Vessa and the lad, she slashed her bastard sword down, cutting the woman from shoulder to hip in a single, practiced stroke. The outcast shrieked and rolled down the hill past Maelen’s boots, dead.

A man with sunken cheeks and a long, tangled beard, the same black streaks on his cheeks, appeared behind a tree and roared with outrage. For the second time, Maelen’s footing betrayed her and she stumbled. A heavy cudgel wrapped with iron nails slammed into her ribs. Her leather vest caught the worst of it, but the blow still stole her breath and pride. Maelen decided then and there that she’d spent too much time on the flat streets of Oakton and had gotten too soft for these overland jobs. She was going to get them all killed if she didn’t get her bloody feet straight.

The bearded outcast’s next swing with the spiked cudgel was a competent one and would have caved in one side of her head if she hadn’t brought her sword up to block it. Maelen thrust low, the tip of her blade slicing clean through his thigh muscle. The man shuffled backwards, trying to get out of her sword’s reach, and Maelen saw in his eyes that he knew he was going to die here. That leg wound would kill him if he didn’t tend to it, and Maelen was the better fighter, with the better weapon. She knew it, and so did he. With a malicious grin, she caught her breath, straightened, and leveled her longsword at him.

The last thing she expected was the soft-footed scribe suddenly looming behind the man, walking stick clutched tightly in both hands, Tatter riding along on his shoulder. The lad gave a wordless yell and swung hard, his stick slamming into the outcast’s ribs with a crack. It wasn’t elegant, but it did the job. The bearded man went down, curled in a ball and bleeding out from his leg.

The lad, Alric, panted like he’d run from a troll, staring wide-eyed and crazed down at the fallen outcast between them. If possible, Maelen found even more admiration for the scrappy lad for joining the fight. It was a pathetic swing, but at least he’d swung.

“Are you mad, idiot?” she barked. “I said hide.”

“But…” he said, confused.

“Come on,” she huffed, stepping past him to continue up the hill. As she passed the boy, she extended a finger and Tatter scampered onto her arm. “Let’s go find Vess.”

“By the Herald…” she heard him whisper in horror as he stepped past the dead woman and dying man.

“Heh,” she chuckled darkly. Doing so hurt her side. Damn her fool footing and getting herself clobbered by an idiot outcast. “The gods don’t come to the wilds, lad. The Herald isn’t watching. Now keep up and stay sharp.”

They strode up the incline of the wooded hill, slipping around trees and bushes with weapons raised. In no more than ten paces, the hill leveled briefly. In a small glade, dirty, ragged packs were strewn about. A smudged green bottle lay on its side between two rocks, a few drops of whatever was inside soaking into the dirt.

Standing at the edge of the clearing were two women. One was an elderly, bent-backed woman with wild white hair, the same black streaks on her face as the others. She wore a stained, simple shift and a blocky necklace of some kind. At her feet lay a small paring knife. Clutching the old woman from behind, one arm wrapped around her shoulders and another pressing a short, chipped sword—more oversized dagger than proper blade—beneath the old woman’s chin, was Vessa.

“Look what I found,” the young woman grinned at her, looking smug.

“Good,” Maelen nodded, and sheathed the bastard sword onto her back. She cracked her neck and stepped closer, studying the old woman’s wide, unblinking eyes. “Let’s hope she knows how to talk.”

Next: Old Yara [with game notes]

[game notes version here]

II.

Frostmere 15, Goldday, Year 731.

The Root Gate stood on the western edge of Oakton, where an old road began to climb into the forested foothills of the Redwood Marches. Its name came from the sprawling, gnarled roots of the Argenoak—the miraculous tree that towered high over the entirety of the city. So vast was the Argenoak that its roots pushed up through the street even here, a quarter-day’s travel from the trunk. Generations ago, masons of the Carved House worked those thick, petrified root-knots into the construction of stone gate’s archway, giving the impression the city was cradled by its sacred tree.

Twin, squat towers of weather-stained granite, decorated with old shields and faded banners, guarded either side of the arch. Each tower had a pair of slit-eyed lookouts, watching footsore travelers and carts full of salted fish, apple barrels, bundles of wood, and clay tiles pass in and out of the city. Grizzled Iron Thorn wardens stood nearby, their blue-and-rust tabards fluttering in the morning breeze, sometimes pausing to usher visitors forward so they wouldn’t stand in the road, ogling at the reaching branches of the Argenoak across the sky. Nearby, a group of scribes worked busily at a ledger table beneath a faded canvas awning, recording tolls and weighing disputes.

Alric had long since unshouldered his travel pack and set it against a rock, and he stood awkwardly beside the road, breath steaming in the midmorning air. He wore a leather vest over a sturdy, homespun shirt, plus travel breeches, and his only pair of boots. His crescent-shaped foot already ached, and though he dreaded the days of travel ahead, he kept his dread buried beneath a scholar’s frown. It was his eyes, though, that held a thunderstorm of impatience and frustration, scanning each new person who approached the Root Gate.

The only thing that kept him from complaining constantly was that the muscled thug Maelen appeared even more annoyed. She stood well away from the gate and Iron Thorn wardens, broad back against a cedar, thick arms crossed, her face set like a hammer waiting for a nail. Alric had tried and failed to speak with her, and it was clear she had no more idea where Vessa was than Alric did.

The thought came unbidden: What if Vessa never came? Alric swallowed. He had no more money, so it was this crew or none. Alric didn’t like the idea of traveling deep into the wilds with a single protector, plus no one adept at picking locks or avoiding traps. Truth be told, he had little idea what they’d find at Thornmere Hold, but he assumed the ancient order there had guarded their secrets fiercely and thus he would need a proper thief. That is, if Thornmere Hold even existed, or hadn’t already been looted by brigands once the secretive lorekeepers left. Alric ground his teeth, wanting desperately both to get going and to abandon this whole folly.

One hand dipped into a pouch at his belt, brushing the dry parchment, either the key to Thornmere Hold, or a fool’s errand in ink. No, he needed answers. He would go, today, even if it was just with Maelen Marrosen. The woman was a criminal, wasn’t she? Perhaps she could pick a lock herself. Alric’s gray-green eyes watched Maelen, standing bunched and hard, like a clenched fist. Would she simply gut him and search his corpse once they were out of the city? Surely she wouldn’t—reputations mattered, even among blades-for-hire. Besides, he’d been told these two were both competent and reliable.

Abruptly, Maelen pushed away from the tree and began striding angrily toward the gate. Alric’s gaze followed her path and saw the thief Vessa approaching at a ragged half-jog, red-faced and short of breath. Her head was shaved down to dark stubble, but otherwise she wore the same battered leather armor and carried the same short blade at her hip. Alric exhaled with relief, murmuring a quick prayer of thanks to the Rootmother.

Vessa raised both hands, trying to offer a stumbling apology. Maelen stalked straight up to her and drove a fist into her jaw. Back at the Lodge, a missed deadline meant stern words and lost pay. Out here, apparently, it meant your teeth on the ground. Alric’s heart lurched. If they ended up in a cell before leaving the city, the whole job was doomed.

He scrambled toward them as fast as his clubbed foot would allow, awkwardly dragging the straps of his travel pack behind him. By the time he arrived, a small knot of onlookers had gathered, the Iron Thorn guards already hauling Maelen off Vessa, who had curled defensively on the dirt, cursing a blue streak.

Alric drew a deep breath and projected his baritone voice as loud and steady as he could manage.

“Excuse me! Please! These are my companions, please!” Alric shouted as he stepped out of the circle of gawkers. The larger of the two wardens, dressed in a faded blue-and-rust tabard stretched over chainmail, had pulled Maelen off Vessa. The thief’s lip was bleeding, and she held the back of her wrist to it while sitting on her knees in the dirt. Maelen, meanwhile, still held a furious expression across her scarred face, but she was allowing herself to be subdued without throwing further punches. Her thick fists still balled, knuckles white.

The other Iron Thorn warden, tall and lean with a narrow face and receding hairline, raised an eyebrow and turned to Alric as he approached.

“Your companions?” the man asked, his voice nasal. “Why are they fighting?”

“Yes, sir, my companions. I’m afraid the one on the ground,” he pointed to Vessa, “has arrived late, and the other,” he gestured at Maelen, “has objected to the breach of contract. They’re not criminals, sir, simply…” Alric cleared his throat. “Too passionate about their obligations.”

The tall warden snorted, unconvinced. “Passionate? Looks like a drunken street brawl to me. The one on the ground reeks.”

Alric offered a curt, respectful nod. “I agree it seems that way, sir. But they are under my employ, on contract from the Inkbinders Lodge. I have writ to show the Guild Council if needed. Any injury to them will be deducted from a sealed order of passage I’ve already filed with the Castellan’s clerks.”

This was all a lie, of course. None of what Alric did last night at the Heart & Dagger was known to the Lodge, and he had no formal contract. He reached to his belt, pulling a folded scrap of parchment with a careful flourish – not actually the sealed writ, but a page of scrawled supply notes, folded to hide the writing, with a broken wax blob still clinging to the corner.

“I assure you, sir, the Guild Council will demand to know why their contractors were delayed if you take them in. Please, let me handle their punishment. They’re mine to discipline, and they’ve hurt no one here but themselves.”

The warden glanced at the parchment in Alric’s hand, then looked the young scribe up and down, appraising. His eyes flicked at the crowd behind Alric, and he frowned.

“Let them go,” he said over his shoulder to the other warden. “You,” he said to Alric. “Get out of here with your riffraff. You’re causing a line, and I don’t have time for any of this nonsense.”

Alric bobbed his head. “Much obliged, sir. Maelen! Vessa! Let’s go,” he jerked his chin past the Root Gate.

Vessa blinked, still dazed, but obeyed. The big guard perhaps pushed Maelen a little harder than was necessary, and she stumbled. For a moment, Alric worried the mercenary would turn on the Iron Thorn warden. But she only cracked her neck, gave the man a wink and a grin, and stepped to Alric’s side. Tessa stood, brushed her leather breeches of dirt, and followed sullenly. As she joined, Alric’s nose wrinkled. She truly did reek.

“Do you really have a writ?” Vessa muttered, rubbing her jaw. They strode, shoulder to shoulder, away from the Root Gate, the two women shortening their steps to keep up with Alric’s limp.

“Absolutely not,” he said without blinking. “Just keep walking.”

A man, back bent by hard labor and waiting in the line that had formed outside the Root Gate, overheard the exchange as they passed. He whooped out a laugh.

“Oh! He’s a clever one, that one!” the man called out after them. With so many missing teeth he had a pronounced lisp. “I’ve got my eye on you, son! Well played!” Alric shot the man a desperate, disapproving look to shut up, and kept walking down the road.

When they’d passed, Alric glanced back. The man—stooped, toothless, grinning—gave a crooked salute. He frowned, unsettled, and kept walking.

With the city walls far in the distance and out of any earshot, Alric finally blew out a loud, relieved exhale of breath. Maelen snorted, cuffing him lightly on the shoulder. Vessa said nothing, following behind them both a step and keeping her eyes to the gathering trees.

“So,” Maelen said, the happiest Alric had seen her. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer, precisely. “We’ll follow the road for a bit, then go up and over the hills.”

“What are we looking for?” Maelen pressed, cocking an eyebrow.

He paused a heartbeat, then said, “A Lodge sanctuary. Well, the ruins of one. Less than a day over the ridge.”

“Ruins, eh? And what is Vessa breaking into, then? Scribes aren’t known for their hoarded treasure, lad.”

“Just get me there safely and we’ll see,” Alric said sourly.

Much to his surprise, the woman laughed. “Alright, alright. You’ve shown a spine to you, that’s for sure. Keep your secrets, and lead on, lad. We’ll get you back by Ashday, with whatever it is you’re after. And forty more silver richer for it, eh?”

Alric nodded back, pursing his lips, not yet sure how he’d avoid that second payment once the job was done. It might be his teeth in the dirt by the Root Gate then, or worse.

The old road, called unimaginatively Root Road, exited Oakton on its western wall. It passed first due west, then curved south, climbing higher all the way. Eventually the Marchlander trails branched off—narrow paths connecting remote logging camps and hill farms. After that, the Root Road followed the foothills south and, much later, west into the Redwood Marches proper. Alric had never been further than the stepstone trail that wound its way to the famed Skywarden Tower, and even then, only once.

Today, however, they stepped off the road just as the first trail branched west, well before the path to Skywarden Tower. Alric paused and unrolled his map, studying it carefully and comparing what he saw on the parchment with the surrounding countryside. His bad foot ached, but not as much as he’d feared it would, and he was pleased that neither of the mercenaries criticized or mocked his pace. True to her word, Maelen had not pestered him further about their destination. Mostly, the three of them had begun their journey traveling in companionable silence through the clear, autumn day. They were faintly terrifying, these rough-and-tumble mercenaries, but Alric had to admit that they had a certain kindness and honor to them. He was again grateful that his contacts had avoided connecting him with lowlifes who would simply slit his throat and loot his corpse once they’d left the city.

Satisfied with their location, he rolled the map and slid it back into the oiled leather tube at his belt.

“Now we go up and over the Greenwood Rise,” he said, pointing into the forest, climbing upwards to the western side of the road.

Maelen nodded. “I go first,” she said, brooking no argument. “And you follow right after me. If I say stop or shut up, you do it. These hills are wild places, full of danger.”

Alric nodded. “Fine.”

“Vessa will follow behind,” Maelen raised her voice so the thief could hear. Vessa stared back unblinking. “Both because she needs a bath and because she’s stealthy. If we do get into a scrap, we’ll be happy to have her surprise whatever’s bothering us.”

Alric swallowed and nodded. This would be his first time off a road or trail, something every Oaktowner of every profession would tell you would get you killed by all manner of criminal or beast. Monsters roamed the wilds, they said, and the demons who spawned them.

The climb up the Greenwood Rise hurt his foot significantly worse than the road. He and Maelen crunched through undergrowth as cedars and, eventually redwoods, towered over them. Birds called and insects chittered, but otherwise the only sounds were the crunch crunch crunch of their steps and Alric’s panting breath. He soon found himself gripping younger trees and pulling himself up the hill, trying to put some of the burden of the climb on his arms instead of his cursed legs.

Several times, Maelen stopped and watched him with a grim, serious expression. She never offered help, but also never showed outward frustration. Maelen became almost a fever dream manifestation of Alric’s will, a silent witness to his pain and progress. For his part, Alric grunted and struggled, focusing only on the next tree in front of him. So focused was he, that he never even thought to look back for Vessa, to see how far she tracked behind them.

It was impossible to tell how long they climbed. Alric felt his chest near to bursting, his legs numb, his foot in agony, sweat dripping into his eyes, and all the while the canopy above them obscured the sun. They climbed endlessly, each step a fresh misery, time stretched thin beneath the trees.

“Stop,” Maelen hissed, the first word she’d uttered since they began. Alric pulled himself forward by the trunk of the tree in front of him and paused, his breath heaving like a bellows.

“What—what is it?” he wheezed, reaching for his waterskin. Alric wiped his face for the hundredth time with a sleeve. He looked around for danger, but it was the same as everywhere else on these hills: A sea of trees, verdant underbrush, and fallen leaves and pine needles.

Maelen simply pointed, her eyes searching the hill above them. Alric’s gaze followed her thick finger, to the tree just beyond him. It would have been the next tree he used as a lever to pull himself forward, in fact. It was paler than the others—not unnatural, just a different species than the redwoods, firs, and laurels around it, its bark flaky and almost white.

A black-filled circle had been carved into its bark, glistening like tar.

“What is it?” Alric whispered, trying to control his rapid breathing.

“Well, it was carved by someone, wasn’t it?” Maelen whispered back. Quietly, she slid the sword on her back out of its scabbard. It was a massive weapon, fully two-thirds Alric’s height, he guessed. The blade glinted in the dappled spots of sun allowed by the canopy.

Alric’s eyes widened as he looked at Maelen. The woman put a finger to her lips, signaling quiet. His chest pounded, but he tried his best to silence his panting.

Up the hill above them, out of sight, someone laughed.

Next: The Lanternless [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

II.

Frostmere 15, Goldday, Year 731.

The Root Gate stood on the western edge of Oakton, where an old road began to climb into the forested foothills of the Redwood Marches. Its name came from the sprawling, gnarled roots of the Argenoak—the miraculous tree that towered high over the entirety of the city. So vast was the Argenoak that its roots pushed up through the street even here, a quarter-day’s travel from the trunk. Generations ago, masons of the Carved House worked those thick, petrified root-knots into the construction of stone gate’s archway, giving the impression the city was cradled by its sacred tree.

Twin, squat towers of weather-stained granite, decorated with old shields and faded banners, guarded either side of the arch. Each tower had a pair of slit-eyed lookouts, watching footsore travelers and carts full of salted fish, apple barrels, bundles of wood, and clay tiles pass in and out of the city. Grizzled Iron Thorn wardens stood nearby, their blue-and-rust tabards fluttering in the morning breeze, sometimes pausing to usher visitors forward so they wouldn’t stand in the road, ogling at the reaching branches of the Argenoak across the sky. Nearby, a group of scribes worked busily at a ledger table beneath a faded canvas awning, recording tolls and weighing disputes.

Alric had long since unshouldered his travel pack and set it against a rock, and he stood awkwardly beside the road, breath steaming in the midmorning air. He wore a leather vest over a sturdy, homespun shirt, plus travel breeches, and his only pair of boots. His crescent-shaped foot already ached, and though he dreaded the days of travel ahead, he kept his dread buried beneath a scholar’s frown. It was his eyes, though, that held a thunderstorm of impatience and frustration, scanning each new person who approached the Root Gate.

The only thing that kept him from complaining constantly was that the muscled thug Maelen appeared even more annoyed. She stood well away from the gate and Iron Thorn wardens, broad back against a cedar, thick arms crossed, her face set like a hammer waiting for a nail. Alric had tried and failed to speak with her, and it was clear she had no more idea where Vessa was than Alric did.

The thought came unbidden: What if Vessa never came? Alric swallowed. He had no more money, so it was this crew or none. Alric didn’t like the idea of traveling deep into the wilds with a single protector, plus no one adept at picking locks or avoiding traps. Truth be told, he had little idea what they’d find at Thornmere Hold, but he assumed the ancient order there had guarded their secrets fiercely and thus he would need a proper thief. That is, if Thornmere Hold even existed, or hadn’t already been looted by brigands once the secretive lorekeepers left. Alric ground his teeth, wanting desperately both to get going and to abandon this whole folly.

One hand dipped into a pouch at his belt, brushing the dry parchment, either the key to Thornmere Hold, or a fool’s errand in ink. No, he needed answers. He would go, today, even if it was just with Maelen Marrosen. The woman was a criminal, wasn’t she? Perhaps she could pick a lock herself. Alric’s gray-green eyes watched Maelen, standing bunched and hard, like a clenched fist. Would she simply gut him and search his corpse once they were out of the city? Surely she wouldn’t—reputations mattered, even among blades-for-hire. Besides, he’d been told these two were both competent and reliable.

Abruptly, Maelen pushed away from the tree and began striding angrily toward the gate. Alric’s gaze followed her path and saw the thief Vessa approaching at a ragged half-jog, red-faced and short of breath. Her head was shaved down to dark stubble, but otherwise she wore the same battered leather armor and carried the same short blade at her hip. Alric exhaled with relief, murmuring a quick prayer of thanks to the Rootmother.

Vessa raised both hands, trying to offer a stumbling apology. Maelen stalked straight up to her and drove a fist into her jaw. Back at the Lodge, a missed deadline meant stern words and lost pay. Out here, apparently, it meant your teeth on the ground. Alric’s heart lurched. If they ended up in a cell before leaving the city, the whole job was doomed.

He scrambled toward them as fast as his clubbed foot would allow, awkwardly dragging the straps of his travel pack behind him. By the time he arrived, a small knot of onlookers had gathered, the Iron Thorn guards already hauling Maelen off Vessa, who had curled defensively on the dirt, cursing a blue streak.

Alric drew a deep breath and projected his baritone voice as loud and steady as he could manage.

“Excuse me! Please! These are my companions, please!” Alric shouted as he stepped out of the circle of gawkers. The larger of the two wardens, dressed in a faded blue-and-rust tabard stretched over chainmail, had pulled Maelen off Vessa. The thief’s lip was bleeding, and she held the back of her wrist to it while sitting on her knees in the dirt. Maelen, meanwhile, still held a furious expression across her scarred face, but she was allowing herself to be subdued without throwing further punches. Her thick fists still balled, knuckles white.

The other Iron Thorn warden, tall and lean with a narrow face and receding hairline, raised an eyebrow and turned to Alric as he approached.

“Your companions?” the man asked, his voice nasal. “Why are they fighting?”

“Yes, sir, my companions. I’m afraid the one on the ground,” he pointed to Vessa, “has arrived late, and the other,” he gestured at Maelen, “has objected to the breach of contract. They’re not criminals, sir, simply…” Alric cleared his throat. “Too passionate about their obligations.”

The tall warden snorted, unconvinced. “Passionate? Looks like a drunken street brawl to me. The one on the ground reeks.”

Alric offered a curt, respectful nod. “I agree it seems that way, sir. But they are under my employ, on contract from the Inkbinders Lodge. I have writ to show the Guild Council if needed. Any injury to them will be deducted from a sealed order of passage I’ve already filed with the Castellan’s clerks.”

This was all a lie, of course. None of what Alric did last night at the Heart & Dagger was known to the Lodge, and he had no formal contract. He reached to his belt, pulling a folded scrap of parchment with a careful flourish – not actually the sealed writ, but a page of scrawled supply notes, folded to hide the writing, with a broken wax blob still clinging to the corner.

“I assure you, sir, the Guild Council will demand to know why their contractors were delayed if you take them in. Please, let me handle their punishment. They’re mine to discipline, and they’ve hurt no one here but themselves.”

The warden glanced at the parchment in Alric’s hand, then looked the young scribe up and down, appraising. His eyes flicked at the crowd behind Alric, and he frowned.

“Let them go,” he said over his shoulder to the other warden. “You,” he said to Alric. “Get out of here with your riffraff. You’re causing a line, and I don’t have time for any of this nonsense.”

Alric bobbed his head. “Much obliged, sir. Maelen! Vessa! Let’s go,” he jerked his chin past the Root Gate.

Vessa blinked, still dazed, but obeyed. The big guard perhaps pushed Maelen a little harder than was necessary, and she stumbled. For a moment, Alric worried the mercenary would turn on the Iron Thorn warden. But she only cracked her neck, gave the man a wink and a grin, and stepped to Alric’s side. Tessa stood, brushed her leather breeches of dirt, and followed sullenly. As she joined, Alric’s nose wrinkled. She truly did reek.

“Do you really have a writ?” Vessa muttered, rubbing her jaw. They strode, shoulder to shoulder, away from the Root Gate, the two women shortening their steps to keep up with Alric’s limp.

“Absolutely not,” he said without blinking. “Just keep walking.”

A man, back bent by hard labor and waiting in the line that had formed outside the Root Gate, overheard the exchange as they passed. He whooped out a laugh.

“Oh! He’s a clever one, that one!” the man called out after them. With so many missing teeth he had a pronounced lisp. “I’ve got my eye on you, son! Well played!” Alric shot the man a desperate, disapproving look to shut up, and kept walking down the road.

When they’d passed, Alric glanced back. The man—stooped, toothless, grinning—gave a crooked salute. He frowned, unsettled, and kept walking.

With the city walls far in the distance and out of any earshot, Alric finally blew out a loud, relieved exhale of breath. Maelen snorted, cuffing him lightly on the shoulder. Vessa said nothing, following behind them both a step and keeping her eyes to the gathering trees.

“So,” Maelen said, the happiest Alric had seen her. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer, precisely. “We’ll follow the road for a bit, then go up and over the hills.”

“What are we looking for?” Maelen pressed, cocking an eyebrow.

He paused a heartbeat, then said, “A Lodge sanctuary. Well, the ruins of one. Less than a day over the ridge.”

“Ruins, eh? And what is Vessa breaking into, then? Scribes aren’t known for their hoarded treasure, lad.”

“Just get me there safely and we’ll see,” Alric said sourly.

Much to his surprise, the woman laughed. “Alright, alright. You’ve shown a spine to you, that’s for sure. Keep your secrets, and lead on, lad. We’ll get you back by Ashday, with whatever it is you’re after. And forty more silver richer for it, eh?”

Alric nodded back, pursing his lips, not yet sure how he’d avoid that second payment once the job was done. It might be his teeth in the dirt by the Root Gate then, or worse.

The old road, called unimaginatively Root Road, exited Oakton on its western wall. It passed first due west, then curved south, climbing higher all the way. Eventually the Marchlander trails branched off—narrow paths connecting remote logging camps and hill farms. After that, the Root Road followed the foothills south and, much later, west into the Redwood Marches proper. Alric had never been further than the stepstone trail that wound its way to the famed Skywarden Tower, and even then, only once.

Today, however, they stepped off the road just as the first trail branched west, well before the path to Skywarden Tower. Alric paused and unrolled his map, studying it carefully and comparing what he saw on the parchment with the surrounding countryside. His bad foot ached, but not as much as he’d feared it would, and he was pleased that neither of the mercenaries criticized or mocked his pace. True to her word, Maelen had not pestered him further about their destination. Mostly, the three of them had begun their journey traveling in companionable silence through the clear, autumn day. They were faintly terrifying, these rough-and-tumble mercenaries, but Alric had to admit that they had a certain kindness and honor to them. He was again grateful that his contacts had avoided connecting him with lowlifes who would simply slit his throat and loot his corpse once they’d left the city.

Satisfied with their location, he rolled the map and slid it back into the oiled leather tube at his belt.

“Now we go up and over the Greenwood Rise,” he said, pointing into the forest, climbing upwards to the western side of the road.

Maelen nodded. “I go first,” she said, brooking no argument. “And you follow right after me. If I say stop or shut up, you do it. These hills are wild places, full of danger.”

Alric nodded. “Fine.”

“Vessa will follow behind,” Maelen raised her voice so the thief could hear. Vessa stared back unblinking. “Both because she needs a bath and because she’s stealthy. If we do get into a scrap, we’ll be happy to have her surprise whatever’s bothering us.”

Alric swallowed and nodded. This would be his first time off a road or trail, something every Oaktowner of every profession would tell you would get you killed by all manner of criminal or beast. Monsters roamed the wilds, they said, and the demons who spawned them.

The climb up the Greenwood Rise hurt his foot significantly worse than the road. He and Maelen crunched through undergrowth as cedars and, eventually redwoods, towered over them. Birds called and insects chittered, but otherwise the only sounds were the crunch crunch crunch of their steps and Alric’s panting breath. He soon found himself gripping younger trees and pulling himself up the hill, trying to put some of the burden of the climb on his arms instead of his cursed legs.

Several times, Maelen stopped and watched him with a grim, serious expression. She never offered help, but also never showed outward frustration. Maelen became almost a fever dream manifestation of Alric’s will, a silent witness to his pain and progress. For his part, Alric grunted and struggled, focusing only on the next tree in front of him. So focused was he, that he never even thought to look back for Vessa, to see how far she tracked behind them.

It was impossible to tell how long they climbed. Alric felt his chest near to bursting, his legs numb, his foot in agony, sweat dripping into his eyes, and all the while the canopy above them obscured the sun. They climbed endlessly, each step a fresh misery, time stretched thin beneath the trees.

“Stop,” Maelen hissed, the first word she’d uttered since they began. Alric pulled himself forward by the trunk of the tree in front of him and paused, his breath heaving like a bellows.

“What—what is it?” he wheezed, reaching for his waterskin. Alric wiped his face for the hundredth time with a sleeve. He looked around for danger, but it was the same as everywhere else on these hills: A sea of trees, verdant underbrush, and fallen leaves and pine needles.

Maelen simply pointed, her eyes searching the hill above them. Alric’s gaze followed her thick finger, to the tree just beyond him. It would have been the next tree he used as a lever to pull himself forward, in fact. It was paler than the others—not unnatural, just a different species than the redwoods, firs, and laurels around it, its bark flaky and almost white.

A black-filled circle had been carved into its bark, glistening like tar.

“What is it?” Alric whispered, trying to control his rapid breathing.

“Well, it was carved by someone, wasn’t it?” Maelen whispered back. Quietly, she slid the sword on her back out of its scabbard. It was a massive weapon, fully two-thirds Alric’s height, he guessed. The blade glinted in the dappled spots of sun allowed by the canopy.

Alric’s eyes widened as he looked at Maelen. The woman put a finger to her lips, signaling quiet. His chest pounded, but he tried his best to silence his panting.

Up the hill above them, out of sight, someone laughed.

Next: The Lanternless [with game notes]

[game notes version here]

I.

Frostmere 14, Thornsday, Year 731.

The Heart & Dagger tavern crouched near the lakeshore, its weathered sign showing a bleeding heart pierced by a long, crooked dagger. The sign swung gently in the nighttime breeze, lit by two smoky torches that shimmered hauntingly in the chill, lazy lake mist.

Inside, the tavern was low-ceilinged and lantern-lit, dense with the smells of hearth smoke, stale ale, and spiced fish. The oak beams were blackened with age and soot, and voices echoed off mismatched walls. Dunfolk traders, off-duty Iron Thorn enforcers, and a half-dozen loud drunks all competed to be heard over the constant din. Candle stubs guttered atop crowded tables, their wax pooling on warped old boards.

From a back table, Vessa scanned the entrance for the hundredth time, swearing softly. Her long black hair, tied with a frayed leather cord, revealed a sharp, freckled face. With long, lithe fingers, she absently rubbed at her bent nose, something that had become a nervous habit since the accident that broke it two years ago.

“He’s bloody late,” she murmured to her companion. When it was clear she hadn’t been heard she leaned over and said more loudly, “He’s late!”

“You’re too impatient!” Maelen bellowed back. Where Vessa was lean and wiry, built for balance and speed, Maelen was thick and powerful, built for breaking bones. The woman’s pale, nearly amber eyes flicked from Vessa to the entrance and then down at her half-empty mug. Maelen took a long, loud draught, then wiped the back of a calloused hand across her mouth.

Vessa, irritated, barked back, “And you’re too… too… gah!” She threw up both hands. “We need this, Maelen!”

Maelen’s grin showed more predator than warmth. The scar decorating one cheek tugged when she grinned. “He’ll come, lass.”

A small brown mouse scampered across Maelen’s shoulder and curled into the crook of her elbow. The square-jawed woman’s face entirely transformed as she looked down at it, from hard to soft, like a doting mother. With a thick finger, she stroked the small creature’s head. Tatter the mouse had been Maelen’s only friend when Vessa had first been introduced to her two years ago. Now, she supposed, it was only herself and Tatter, with the rest of their crew gone. It was a dark thought, and Vessa scowled back, rubbing at her crooked nose.

Maelen, meanwhile, pushed herself from their table to go order more ale at the bar, reflexively moving Tatter from elbow to shoulder as she stood. Vessa reached for her own mug, hardly touched, and caught a glimpse of the tattoo of a lark upon the inside of her wrist. The glimpse only made her mood darken. Her whole life was a curse. Damn the Larkhands, all dead but her and Maelen. Damn the Latchkey Circle who’d hired them last year. Damn the incident that had killed her friends and left them in debt, scrabbling for scraps ever since. Damn sneaking jobs outside the watch of the Guilds for pips and spare copper oaks. How had her life come to this at only eighteen years old?

As if reading her thoughts, Maelen returned and cuffed her on the shoulder to bring her back to the present. Vessa rocked to one side from the blow and ale sloshed over the side of her mug.

She opened her mouth to complain when she saw him.

A pale-faced young man in robes stood in the doorway, squinting in the candlelight and looking wholly out of place. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but Vessa saw immediately that his body held none of the hard edges of real work, and none of the menace of someone who knew how to wield a blade. That said, he looked like a priest or scholar, not a privileged merchant or noble. His tunic was brown and simple, tied at the waist with a cord, and his boots were beaten and worn.

“He’s here,” Vessa announced with a slap of the table. In one fluid motion she was out of her chair and weaving through the Heart & Dagger’s maze of tables towards the doorway. When she was already within range of a knife thrust, he finally saw her, gray-green eyes going momentarily wide. Up close, he had a handsome enough face, with heavy brows and an obvious sharp wit. He seemed close to her own age, maybe just under twenty.

Once they’d made eye contact, Vessa turned and waved for him to follow. She paused, though, and cocked an eyebrow when she saw the young man’s first, shuffling step. One of his feet turned inward, the leg thinner than its mate. It looked like a condition from birth rather than injury, but regardless, it gave the man a shuffling, loping gait as he made his way across the common room and to the table with Maelen.

His face shone with sweat as he settled into his chair, his eyes darting between the two women. Vessa had to give him credit, though: She was sure he’d never been to the Heart & Dagger before—maybe not even to this side of the lake—but neither his hands nor lips were trembling, and he met their gaze without flinching, even Maelen’s. He might lack a fighter’s build, but at least he wasn’t a coward.

He leaned forward to say something conspiratorially, but his low voice was lost to the din of the crowd. He frowned, clearing his throat, when he realized the predicament.

“Is there a place we can speak privately?” he asked loudly. His voice was rich and deep.

Maelen gave him that malicious grin of hers. “You can say anything in the Heart & Dagger, lad. Don’t waste our bloody time and get on with it.”

He pursed his lips, clearly not liking the situation, and ran a calloused hand through his thick, brown hair. Vessa knew that she was not the most charming or persuasive person in Oakton, but she may have some of the keenest eyes in the city. This man—who she decided was a Marchlander scribe by trade, and a low-ranking one at that—was a thinker, a planner. He hadn’t expected such a chaotic, noisy conversation and was now adjusting his approach. Vessa could almost see his mind working, like a great water mill. After no more than three heartbeats, he nodded almost imperceptibly and straightened his posture.

“Alright,” he said, leaning forward again but this time speaking so they could hear him. “I need an escort, out of the city and over the western hills. Perhaps two days’ travel, and back. I was told you were available to hire.”

“Out of the city?” Maelen scoffed. “You need a ranger, lad. Do we look like woodsmen to you?”

Vessa shot her companion a sharp look. They needed the coin, desperately. Even the expense of Maelen’s refill of ale gave Vessa heartburn. But her friend just winked at her and fixed her dark grin on the stranger.

“I don’t need a ranger,” he said, nonplussed. Vessa noticed an ink stain on the inside of one finger. “I have a map. What I need is protection,” he nodded to Maelen, “And a thief,” he nodded to Vessa.

So. The scribe had done his homework. This whole situation had the Latchkey Circle’s footprints all over it, but then she supposed all their jobs did since… the incident. Normally, she’d have interrogated him about how he got their names, but she guessed it came through a chain of middlemen. He likely had no idea that he was dealing with one of the most powerful and least known guilds in Oakton, or that she and Maelen were so deep in debt to the Circle that they would accept his job no matter how little it paid.

The man clearly misinterpreted their silence, because he reached into his robe and pulled out a fat purse that he dropped onto the table before them.

“I have coin,” he announced. “One hundred thorns for the job. Sixty now, forty when I’m back here safely.”

Maelen snarled and grabbed the man by the front of his robes, pulling him into half-standing. “You bloody idiot! Lower your voice!”

“But you said–”

“That was before I knew you brought a sack of silver that could get us all gutted,” she hissed, and then released his robe. She nodded to Vessa, who swept the purse off the table and into her lap faster than a blink. It sat there heavily, and she didn’t need to count them to know the coins were indeed thorns, and a lot of them. She nodded back to Maelen.

The scribe looked momentarily confused, straightening his robe. “She took the purse,” he said. “Does that mean you accept?”

Maelen’s eyes scanned the tables around them to see if anyone had overheard or seen the money. Finally, she licked her lips, slapped the table, and stood.

“When do we leave?” she smiled at him, her scar tugging at her cheek and making Maelen look somewhat crazed.

“Oh! Very good. Tomorrow morning?” he also stood. Vessa stayed sitting, the heavy purse weighing on her thighs. “How about we meet at the Root Gate?”

“Done,” Maelen nodded. “Watch yourself getting home, lad, and we’ll see you at first light.”

“My name’s Alric,” he said.

“Don’t care,” Maelen scoffed. Her face hardened as she jerked a thumb to the doorway. “Now get out. We’ll be seeing enough of each other over the next four days.”

“But–” he sighed. “Fine.”

As the young man shuffled his way awkwardly out of the Heart & Dagger, Vessa caught Maelen’s wide smile, displaying her chipped front tooth, and grinned back. Perhaps the Gambler had finally decided to favor them, after all.

Frostmere 15, Goldday, Year 731.

Vessa woke because someone was licking her face. She groaned and shrank away from the offending tongue. Blinking woozily, Vessa attempted to gain her bearings. She lay atop a straw pallet, and she had that cotton-headed feel, so familiar to her, of a night inhaling too much lotus leaf.

“By the Rootmother,” she wheezed, running a hand over her face. She moved her fingers higher and found only a thin layer of stubble where her hair had been long and tangled the night before.

Vessa sat up straight, blinking. Stubble?

A dog sat a stride away from her, panting happily and tongue lolling. Right. Someone had been licking her face, and it was, apparently, the hound.

She groaned again and ran a palm over her shaved head. Where had her hair gone? And… her tongue probed a gap at the side of her mouth… why was she missing a tooth?

Vessa scanned her surroundings. Other than the dog, she was alone. It appeared that she had not been sleeping on a straw pallet, but simply straw. It was a barn, and not a particularly clean one. She was still clothed in her leathers, which was a blessing, and both shortsword and dagger lay unbuckled nearby. Apparently, she’d come here of her own volition, not been dumped unconscious.

In a flash of panic, she patted her belt but heard the jingle of silver coins. Vessa still had the money from that scribe at the Heart & Dagger, or least most of it. Well, some of it, anyway. The problem with heavy purses, she found, was that she used them for lotus leaf. And drink. And gambling. And brawling. And usually sex. She gently probed her face and neck with long fingers, then stretched. She wasn’t injured, thank the gods, so maybe last night had been more drink and lotus, and less of the rest.

That’s when she felt something else in her pouch, sitting oddly and poking her in the ribs. After some fumbling, she pulled it out and examined it. The item was a heavy piece of polished brass, about the size of a large walnut, shaped into a hexagonal stamp. Its face bore the stylized sigil of Oakton—the Argenoak framed by twin scales—and ringed in delicate, curling script spelling out “By Order of the Castellan.” Its handle was bound in dark, cracked leather to give a firm grip, and the underside was caked with red, waxy residue. A thin iron chain, snapped at the clasp, dangled from a drilled hole in its spine.

A writ-seal? From a clerk of the Castellan? Vessa shook her head, trying desperately to recall the previous evening after the Heart & Dagger. The hound panted its way closer, pressing its head into her hand. She stroked it behind the ears idly, her mind working slowly at the problem of a strange barn, friendly dog, and a government writ-seal.

“Shit!” she exclaimed, startling the animal, who yelped and jumped away, tail between legs.

Vessa buckled on her weapons and started running, the mysteries of the evening forgotten. It had just occurred to her that light had been slanting into the barn from outside. Sunlight.

Wherever she was, it wasn’t the Root Gate. She was late, very late, for the first decent job she’d landed in a year.

Next: Into the woods [with game notes]