As we regrouped by the gates of Thistle Hold, recounting to our companions our encounter with the elves at the Halls of a Thousand Tears, a sinister change came over the sky. The air grew humid and heavy, and the sunlight — already pale and timid — was further obscured by massive storm clouds gathering unnaturally overhead. Something was wrong.
Instinctively, I turned to Lysindra. It finally occurred to me to ask what had happened to her and Leslie during our audience with Ka’eroan. She explained that they had been unable to pass through the veil of leaves and vines — where we had entered, they found only a wall of stone. A troop of elves then surrounded and blindfolded them, ordering them to wait. When the blindfolds were removed, they found themselves outside Thistle Hold, reunited with us. I understood at once what it meant: Lysindra and Leslie carried the taint of corruption, and the Halls of a Thousand Tears would not suffer their presence. I did not like it, but the best I could do was strive to earn the knowledge that might one day cleanse them of their corruption. Such had been Teara-Teana’s promise.
“I’ve never been to an Ambrian city,” I heard Anya-Rey mutter. She looked concerned.
“Nothing to it,” Boga said with a shrug. “Pull that hood low and hide your weird face. The locals won’t look twice.”
“My weird face?” Anya bristled. “Are there mirrors in Thistle Hold?”
“Look,” I cut in before the bickering could grow. “We have a barbarian witch, a goblin, and an elf. We’re already a traveling spectacle. Best let Lysindra and me take the lead and hope the storm distracts from the rest of you.”
I turned to Lysindra. “We’re carrying a mission from the Iron Pact, and to see it through we’ll need your help. You know Thistle Hold better than any of us. Before long we’ll need to call on Erlaber at the old tannery, and it wouldn’t hurt to have more strength at our side… unless you’d rather I simply set half the city on fire.”
That last part was meant purely in jest, but Boga and Anya were nodding slowly at me. I really need to be more careful with my words around these two.
“I can call on my cell of the Iron Pact in Thistle Hold,” Lysindra said. “I’m sure Mearoel will welcome the opportunity.”
I saw Anya-Rey flinch, likely remembering — as I did — Teara-Teana’s warning. Apparently, Mearoel was reputed to be a bit of a loose cannon, even by the Iron Pact’s standards.
“We must make do with what we have,” I said, meeting Anya’s glance in silent acknowledgment of her concern. “So, can you arrange a meeting?”
“Yes,” Lysindra replied, her voice firm with conviction. “I cannot reveal the cell’s location, but I can summon Mearoel. As soon as we are within the walls, I’ll send word. He should be able to meet us within the hour.”
“Tell him to come to our house in Haloban’s Ring,” Boga added, to my surprise. We had a house now, it seemed.
Assuming we succeeded in retrieving Eox’s head, our task was to deliver it to Gadramon and Eferneya, the barbarian witches said to be stationed somewhere outside Thistle Hold. Since Leslie was a witch herself, she volunteered to seek them out at once — both to inform them of our intentions and to ask for their aid. With that, she departed for the time being.
So, the four of us who remained — Anya, Boga, Lysindra, and I — marched into Thistle Hold. As we did, Boga muttered darkly about the so-called “Sellswords of the Sun,” a local militia who had crossed him before. He knew their gathering place and proposed sending Mearoel against them in force, stirring up enough trouble to draw the attention of both cultists and city guards away from us. I admitted it was a clever notion, but questioned the wisdom of making yet another enemy. Besides, we might need Mearoel’s strength when the time came to confront Erlaber and his cultists — should matters turn violent, as they almost certainly would.
Rain began to fall in heavy sheets as we entered the city, and the local guard moved to close the gates behind us, though night was still hours away. It might as well have been dusk already, for the storm clouds had blotted out every trace of sunlight. Darkness pressed down, thunder rolling incessantly across the sky.
The memory of the earthquake that had swallowed the Fern Tavern — killing Anadea and loosing abominations from the depths — was still raw in Thistle Hold. Its weight lingered in every street. People moved with downcast eyes, their faces set in hopeless lines. The guards were restless, their hands too often straying to their weapons, and many houses stood silent, their windows boarded tight against the world.
Boga led us to Odovakar, a picturesque tavern of relatively recent construction, whose interior reminded me of grottos I had once visited. Its walls were dressed in stone and creeping greenery, and smoke drifted from the kitchen like some domestic mist. It did not take long for a server to recognize Boga. He darted upstairs and soon returned with someone I had heard of — Sarvola, the priest. From the landing above, a slight figure leaned against the railing, studying us in silence. It was Aluin, Sarvola’s son, whom we had encountered on the road before meeting Taraban. I had neglected to record the encounter, brief and strange as it was, for it had seemed of no immediate consequence. Seeing him again, here in Thistle Hold, raised plenty of questions, but this was Boga’s ground, so I held my tongue and let him do the talking.
Sarvola approached, his face brightening at the sight of Boga. I took his measure at a glance: an older man, stern in bearing, his scalp completely bare, clad in worn brown robes. An ascetic, by all appearances. His gaze passed from me to Anya-Rey, then to Lysindra, and his smile faded. “It seems your venture into Davokar has cost you a comrade or two,” he said to Boga, his voice carrying a genuine note of mourning.
“Leslie’s outside the city,” Boga replied. “She’s doing alright.”
“And what of the wizard girl?” Sarvola asked softly. “I remember her well… and Edogai too.”
Boga hesitated. He tried to sound matter-of-fact, but the weight in his voice betrayed him. “They’re not… with us anymore.”
Silence hung for a moment. Sarvola bowed his head, then gave a slow nod. With a gesture, he summoned a server to clear a table, and soon we were seated, steaming mugs of hot wine before us.
“Drink,” he said quietly. “Warm yourselves.”
A few quiet moments passed before Sarvola spoke again.
“I imagine you are about to tell me what brings you here,” he said softly, his gaze shifting toward me and then Anya-Rey. “But first — who are your new companions?”
I inclined my head.
“Mordamir, of Ordo Magica.” For the first time, the words felt hollow — just a fragment of who I was, and perhaps not even the part that mattered most. Sarvola’s eyes flickered with recognition at the mention of the Order, but I steered the conversation away before he could bring up Lelya again. I had no wish to lay bare my failure before a stranger.
Anya straightened, trying to imitate Boga’s blunt confidence. “Anya-Rey of the Iron Pact. I met them in Davokar under… unfavorable circumstances. I lost my companions there, so I chose to see their mission through.”
Sarvola extended both hands toward her. She glanced uncertainly at Boga, who gave her a nod and mimed the gesture. Hesitantly, she offered her palm, and Sarvola enclosed it between his own. His voice was low, almost apologetic: “I know what my people have done to yours. You have my sorrow for it.”
Boga cleared his throat. “We’ve work to do, my friend.”
Sarvola leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I cannot pretend to know the whole of this. But I was with Deseba only recently — and whatever it is you’re planning, I suspect it is no small matter.”
Boga met his eyes. “I’ll speak plainly. We need to take something from Erlaber, the owner of the antique shop — and it’s likely to get messy.”
Sarvola’s expression tightened. “I see. And what is it you want from the Church of Prios?”
“We don’t need the Church, we need you,” Boga replied. “Remember the Sellswords of the Sun? Chances are they’ve thrown in with Erlaber and his pack of mad cultists. Any help we can muster will matter, and to be frank, Erlaber doesn’t need to walk away from this.”
The priest flinched at the suggestion of murder, but his silence suggested he was weighing the greater evil.
“So let me be clear,” Sarvola said at length. “You ask for aid against Erlaber’s cultists — or against the sellswords who once struck our house of charity?”
“We’ll take either, or both,” Boga answered. “I know it’s much to ask. We’re calling in every favor we can — Lysindra’s friends from the Iron Pact included. Anyone willing to listen.”
Sarvola nodded gravely.
“I will see what may be done. Give me an hour, two at most, and I will meet you at your house.”
“Thank you,” Boga said softly, before tilting his head. “And the boy? How is Aluin doing?”
Sarvola’s face softened.
“Well. Quite well. He told me he’d met a band of travelers in the forest, but you know how children love their tales.”
“We did meet him,” I interjected. “Forgive me, but how is it possible? He roams the forest freely, while we barely escaped with our lives.”
“I like to believe Aluin is touched by Prios, and perhaps even by the spirits of the wood,” Sarvola said. “That is why he is allowed to come and go. I neither seek to explain nor to judge it. I am only grateful each morning when I see him safe at play.”
“He’s a little… strange in the head, isn’t he?” Boga asked. “Do you know who he truly is?”
“He is my son,” Sarvola said firmly. “I do not care whence he came. When I found him starving — as I have found so many in this city — and brought him home, he became of my flesh and blood. I have heard the whispers, that he might be a changeling. Let them whisper. To me, he is mine. The heart of Prios is open to every soul.”
With that, we departed from the Odovakar Tavern. Father Sarvola lingered in my thoughts. As a rule, I loathe the clergy — puffed-up hypocrites cloaked in “divine authority,” strutting about while dressing their cruelty as righteousness and striking down rivals in the name of piety. Sarvola, however, seemed cut from another cloth. He carried himself not with arrogance, but with quiet resolve. Perhaps he truly believes in charity. Wouldn’t that be a rarity?
We also parted ways with Lysindra, who set out to contact the local cell of the Iron Pact. The rain had grown into a downpour, torrents sluicing off tiled roofs and coursing along the cobbled streets, sweeping up debris and the occasional loose object. The city guard was out in force, struggling to erect makeshift defenses against the flood. By the time we reached the house, we were soaked through.
The place had seen better days. Boga explained the boarded-up windows — remnants of a recent attack that had left the house battered and scarred. Inside, the furnishings were sparse. In one room, half-hidden beneath a white sheet, lay a small cluster of crates and chests — Lelya’s belongings… an eerie reminder of her absence.
We kindled the fireplace, its crackle a small defiance against the storm outside, and gathered what little furniture remained, arranging it until the house resembled, if only barely, a living space once more. We hung our drenched clothes near the fire, steam rising in ghostly wisps, and settled in to wait. There was nothing else to do for the time being.
At length, over the hiss and howl of the rain, came a pounding on the door — three heavy knocks. Sarvola entered, cradling a massive tome against his chest, his tunic clutched awkwardly around it in a futile attempt to keep the rain from soaking its cover. He set it down with a heavy thud on a table that seemed about to give under the weight.
“I bring tidings,” he said, his voice calm but carrying a faint note of triumph. “I’ve spoken with Captain Dekamedo of the City Watch. After some careful persuasion — and calling in more than a few favors — he granted me access to certain reports concerning Erlaber’s activities. If this man is truly a cult leader, as you say, this book should shed some light on his doings.”
He rested his hand on the tome with a kind of reverence, as though the book itself were a weapon of great power. “This volume is unique and cannot be mishandled,” he warned. “Dekamedo has also ordered his guards to intensify patrols around Erlaber’s shop. Beyond that, his resources are strained — this storm has them stretched thin. As for the sellswords, I spoke with Deseba. We’ve yet to shape a proper plan, but we’re considering options. For now, let me show you the page that may prove useful…”
Sarvola cracked open the tome and began reading from the City Guard’s so-called “intelligence” on Erlaber. I say “intelligence,” but in truth it sounded more like a laundry list of grotesqueries stapled to his name. And what a list. The man was the sole survivor of his family — wife and four children — who had all turned up one night strangled, exsanguinated, and strung upside-down from the rafters like sides of beef. Erlaber, conveniently, claimed to have been in a “business meeting” with a wizard named Desidera. She corroborated his alibi, though her testimony reeked of pillow talk.
And then it just kept going. Erlaber’s shadow fell over the theft of a corrupted statuette, the unmasking of a beast cult in the neighboring city of Glimmervann, and cozy strolls with two changelings — Klagander and Sibela — both wanted for robbery and murder. Add to that the poisoning and evisceration of an antique dealer named Jorlio and, at this point, Erlaber was less an antique merchant and more a one-man carnival of horrors.
I’ve decided to spare my journal the full catalog of his sins, but I make note of the names worth remembering: Desidera, Klagander, Sibela. Those could come back to bite us. As for Erlaber, I had no doubts. If justice existed, it had long ago missed his address, and it fell to us to rectify the delivery. After hearing Sarvola’s recital, I was almost looking forward to it.
“As you can see,” Sarvola said, “this man has kept busy for some time. What troubles me most is the cultist activity in Glimmer.” He tapped the page again, lingering on the name Ambreagos — an old Symbarian lineage of nobles with a reputation for tyranny. “This worship of ancient deities can only herald disaster. Do you know more about this?”
“We have some idea,” Boga admitted with a long exhale, though he offered no further detail.
“Well,” Sarvola said, closing the tome with a heavy thud, “that is the extent of my aid for the time being. I must leave now and return this record to Captain Dekamedo. I wish you fortune in your endeavor. Something tells me we will meet again soon — at least I hope so.”
He wrapped the book carefully in the cloth of his tunic, bowed with solemn dignity, and departed in haste. I watched him go, thinking that even priests seem to believe fate enjoys dramatic entrances and exits. Perhaps he was right — perhaps we would meet again. And if not, at least he left before the roof of this ramshackle house collapsed on our heads.
Not long after, Lysindra appeared at our door, her elven collaborator in tow. Thus, into our improvised base strode Mearoel — though he did not so much enter as condescend to allow the room to suffer his presence. Every fold of his cloak seemed to declare the room beneath him, our hearth unworthy of his warmth. His amber eyes flicked across us. Anya-Rey earned the barest nod, and Boga a flare of nostrils, as though the poor goblin had tracked shit onto the rugs. As for myself, the Ambrian colonizer, I received a gaze heavy with the quiet certainty that my kind was a mistake nature had yet to correct. When he spoke, his words were polished stone, smooth on the surface but sharp enough to cut:
“I have been informed that you set foot in our ancestral home,” Mearoel said, folding his arms across his chest. “The fact that you emerged alive must mean Ka’eroan, for reasons beyond my comprehension, has seen fit to grant you some measure of approval.”
“Mearoel,” I answered, stepping forward to meet his gaze, “we are here at the bidding of both Teara-Teana and Ka’eroan. It is they who entrusted us with this mission.”
His expression curdled into disdain.
“Ridiculous! Teara-Teana would never commit any true matter of weight to an Ambrian…” He cut himself short, though I could guess the insult that had nearly crossed his lips.
Before the air could grow heavier still, Anya-Rey moved between us, lowering her hood and holding his eyes with calm defiance. “That is far enough. Choose your words with care.”
“I do not know you,” he hissed. “What business brings you to this city… in the company of an Ambrian?”
Lysindra, quiet until then, laid a hand on his shoulder. Her look was firm, almost chiding, urging him back toward restraint before the moment collapsed entirely.
“I am Anya-Rey, of the Iron Pact,” she declared, her voice measured but unyielding. “I crossed paths with these companions while they sought the Halls of a Thousand Tears within Davokar, and fate decreed that we should find our way there together. I stood at their side, and his words regarding the mission we bear” — she pointed to me — “are nothing less than the truth.”
Mearoel’s eyes narrowed as he studied her, searching for the tremor of a lie. It was only when Anya drew back her cloak entirely and swept her braided hair from her brow, revealing the intricate tattoos etched into her skin, that the meaning of the standoff became clear to me. These were no mere decorations; they marked station, authority, a weight of experience Mearoel could not so easily dismiss.
The effect was immediate. His posture slackened, the fire in his eyes dimmed, though the tension in his jaw betrayed how little he liked yielding. Begrudgingly subdued, he let Anya recount the tale — from our first meeting in the forest to our descent into the Halls of a Thousand Tears. When she reached the moment of our encounter with Ka’eroan and Teara-Teana, she paused, her gaze shifting toward me. A slight nod made it clear she meant for me to speak in her stead. I accepted without hesitation.
“Once again, I want to make it clear that we are here at the behest of those we met within the Halls,” I began, my patience fraying at having to play diplomat when time was bleeding away. “Even if you find it difficult to believe, we are not your enemies. A common cause binds us, and a crisis grows even now. I urge you to treat it with the gravity it deserves. The only reason I asked Lysindra to arrange this meeting is because you are reputed to be a resourceful and trustworthy ally. Before I share further details, I need to know that your reputation is deserved. Can we rely on you?”
I had stretched the truth a little thin, but all in the name of goodwill between unlikely collaborators — and, more importantly, surviving the night. He mulled over my words longer than I expected, weighing them with visible distaste, before finally allowing his answer to fall with all the warmth of a wet stone:
“I will do as I’m requested.”
“Right,” I pressed on, not missing a beat. “Here’s the situation: A band of cultists somehow slipped into Dark Davokar, butchered an ancient forest deity, and smuggled its head here, into the heart of the city. We know the cult leader. We know where the head is kept. Our mission is simple in design, if not in execution: reclaim the skull and deliver it north to the barbarian witches, who claim they can restore what was slain. If we can do that, we deny the cult whatever it is they’re working toward. And given how the weather is behaving, I trust you see we’re already short on time.”
He glanced through the slits of a boarded window, and right on cue lightning raked the sky, thunder rolling so deeply it seemed to shake the very marrow of the house. When he turned back, his expression had darkened.
“What would you have my kin do?”
“There’s no time for elaborate stratagems,” I said. “The storm is no accident — it’s a sign their ritual is already underway. We know where Eox’s head is. All that remains is to gather enough steel and courage to storm their den and put an end to this before it ends us. Unless someone here has a brighter idea?”
Boga remained fixated on the notion of sending someone to deal with the Sellswords of the Sun — “deal with” meaning, if possible, erase them altogether. I had always thought myself a harsh critic of Prios and his followers, but clearly Boga’s contempt ran in deeper channels. Something to reflect upon another day, when the world isn’t threatening to come apart at the seams. For the present, I argued that our strength would be wasted chasing zealots when Erlaber and his deranged congregation were the storm’s true architects. The storm outside, thrashing at the shutters as if to underscore the point, seemed to agree. In the end, so did the company.
“When should I send my elves?” Mearoel asked.
“As soon as possible,” I replied, gesturing toward the storm outside, which by now rendered further argument redundant.
“I will gather them at once. We are not many, but we can do enough damage.” I thought I caught the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. I could only hope it was not the sort of smile one learns to regret later.
“Am I dismissed?” he grunted at Anya-Rey.
“You may go,” she replied.
With that, Mearoel drew up his hood and strode into the rain, the door slamming shut behind him like a gavel. Lysindra stepped closer, her voice calm but firm.
“He treats you so because he has never stood within the Halls of a Thousand Tears. Do not be too harsh in your judgment. For all his pride, he remains a valuable ally.”
“Here’s to hoping,” I said, reaching for my staff. Erlaber awaited.
As we pressed into the storm, down Thistle Hold’s darkened streets, I drew deep breaths, as if the air itself might lend me the resolve I lacked. Soon we would step into Erlaber’s den, and whether we emerged again hinged on the faith of others: Sarvola holding to his word, Mearoel proving that his venomous tongue masked more than pride. Trust — that most brittle of currencies — was all I had left to spend. And yet, in that fragile balance, there was Lysindra. She moved through the city with calm authority, proof that the Iron Pact was not only arrogance and disdain. Ever since the trials in Davokar, when she had saved me and I her in turn, I had been made to reconsider my opinion of her — a process not yet finished, by all accounts.
Our boots splashed through the puddles as we neared the district of the antique shop, the watchmen passing by in their habitual groups of four. The rhythm of rain and patrol was suddenly broken by the heavy clink of armor behind us. A young soldier in a soaked blue tabard hurried up.
“Are you Boga?” he asked, uncertain.
“That’s what some people call me,” the goblin muttered.
“I have a delivery for you.” The courier rummaged in his pack until at last he produced a small cloth bag. He pressed it into Boga’s hands, bowed awkwardly, and vanished back into the curtain of rain.
Boga opened the bag and frowned. Inside was… a twig.
“Is this a joke?” He scratched his head.
“Probably from Aluin,” I remarked. “The boy seems to have a fondness for forest debris.” My tone was dismissive, but I knew better. Aluin was no ordinary child. No one who strolls into Davokar and returns unscathed is. Still, whatever meaning the gift held, we had no time to unravel it. I urged us on toward the task that awaited.
Coincidentally, we found ourselves near the den of the Sellswords of the Sun. Boga pointed it out with his newly acquired twig: a three-story house whose bulk was starkly revealed each time lightning cut across the sky. Most of its windows shone with lamplight, signs of life within.
Then the ground shifted. A low rumble grew beneath our boots, at first no more than a quiver, then mounting into a tremor that shook the street itself. Within moments, windows burst outward, shards scattering into the storm, while the stonework groaned under unseen pressure.
The front door exploded from its hinges, and panic followed: a torrent of men and women fled the threshold, their cries half-swallowed by the storm. Behind them, impossibly, something vast and wooden was prying its way into the open world. A trunk pushed through the roof, its bark grinding against brick and beam. Branches shouldered aside furniture, tore walls apart, and within minutes the house was less a dwelling than the husk of a seedpod split by the growth it once contained.
When at last the thing stilled, the sight was almost grotesque: a tree far too large for any street of Thistle Hold, rising from the gutted shell as though the building had been nothing but a pot all along. We stared, stunned into a strange blend of fear and confusion (and, in Boga’s case, amusement). It was a miracle, or a prank, or both. But there was no time to wonder whose hand had caused it. Upon later reflection, this was almost certainly Aluin’s magic, which only raised more questions.
Thus, we slipped back into motion, hugging the shadows, our progress made easier by the chaos. Few eyes were sharp enough to notice us when an entire house had just been devoured by a tree.
We finally reached the antique shop, its district crawling with patrols of the city watch, their lanterns cutting through the storm. The building itself — a three-story house of clear wealth — loomed dark and silent, its silhouette set apart by finer stone and ornate trim that made the neighboring dwellings look shabby in comparison.
Suddenly, Lysindra slipped into a side alley, her movements quick and purposeful. When she returned a few minutes later, she explained in hushed tones that Mearoel's companions were close, watching, but dared not break from the shadows lest the city guard catch sight of them. She would remain outside to summon them when we gave the signal. A necessary precaution, I reminded myself — the elves were not welcome in Thistle Hold, and a single misstep could see this whole endeavor undone before it began.
I turned my attention back to the shop. Its windows were dim, almost blind, but even in near-darkness the workmanship marked it as a place of value. Steeling myself, I tried the front door. Locked, of course. Yet the moment I touched the handle, something rippled through me — not just a premonition, but a physical wave. I glanced around. Guards nearby doubled over, retching into the gutters. Boga hunched, clutching his stomach. Anya-Rey, peering through a window, staggered against the wall as if struck by sudden vertigo. The air itself seemed to rebel.
There was no time to hesitate, no luxury to puzzle over the why. I drew back and slammed my boot against the lock. Wood splintered, the door crashed open, and a wall of darkness yawned before us.
I lit a torch and we pressed inside, searching for signs of recent occupation. The ground floor’s fireplace was not merely out, but stone-cold. Odd trinkets cluttered the shelves — the sort of curious nonsense one expects in an antique shop. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Boga palming a frog figurine and tucking it away. I didn’t comment, but made my way upstairs alone.
The second floor bore walls lined with bronze plaques, etched with Symbarian script. I lingered for a moment, staring at the ancient glyphs, wishing I could make sense of them. Even without understanding their meaning, one thing was plain enough: Erlaber had a collector’s hunger for Davokar’s secrets. Finding nothing else of note, I ascended to the third floor.
The living quarters were richly appointed, predictably so. Nobles’ garb filled the wardrobe, and personal trinkets bore the name Ambreagos. For all the whispers of cultism, it looked more like the house of a man proud of his bloodline than a heretic’s lair.
Fortunately, Boga and Anya-Rey had been far more successful, uncovering a boarded-up section of the house that led to a dark corridor. At the threshold, the floor was littered with burnt incense sticks, though not nearly enough to disguise the stench of rot and decay wafting from the unseen passage like a ghoul’s breath.
We pressed on, covering our noses. The corridor sloped down into a stairwell that seemed to go on forever, finally ending at a rough stone wall through which a passage had been carved. At its mouth loomed a massive oaken double door. From behind it came the faint sound of chanting — low, monotonous male voices, their rhythm unmistakably ritualistic.
I pushed the door just wide enough to glimpse what lay beyond. A vast cavern opened before me, its ceiling lost in darkness. The floor shimmered with the pale glow of bioluminescent fungi, their light rising like mist. The chant swelled, feverish voices hammering the same syllables again and again, reverberating through the hollow chambers.
I drew back, scratching my beard, weighing the odds. If the three of us entered, we would be swallowed whole by numbers, that much was certain. We needed Mearoel’s reinforcements, and quickly — but even if Lysindra kept watch above, she had no way of knowing we had vanished beneath the earth. Someone had to go back and fetch them. Goblins and elves see better in the dark than men, so I proposed a division of labor: Anya-Rey would slip ahead to assess the threat; I would retrace my steps to signal our allies, and Boga would stand guard at the threshold.
I hurried back to the antique shop, torch in hand, and waved the flame at the doorway. It wasn’t long before Lysindra came running through the sheets of rain, three hooded figures at her back. One by one, they slipped inside, water dripping from their cloaks. The elves regarded me with suspicion, then muttered among themselves in their own tongue.
Three elves. That was it. And no Mearoel. For all his posturing, he hadn’t bothered to come in person. Perhaps he still didn’t trust us. Perhaps this was some sort of test. Or perhaps they simply didn’t have the numbers to spare. Well, damn it, I wasn’t about to waste time arguing the point. Any blade in the dark was worth having, and the reckoning could wait until after. They had better pull their weight down below.
I led them through the passage and down the stairs, where Boga waited in the dark. No sooner had we reached him than Anya-Rey emerged from the shadows, returning from her scouting mission.
“There’s a vast chamber,” she whispered. “At its center, a rocky islet rises from black water. An altar stands there, and a masked man — Erlaber, most likely — is leading the rite. Around him… at least sixteen cultists.”
“Did you see Eox’s head?” I pressed.
“It’s on the altar,” she said grimly. “A massive skull. Antlers and all.”
“Eh, it’s time, then,” Boga sighed.
We advanced into the cavern, moving slowly, carefully, angling for position before the inevitable clash. The sight struck me at once — just as Anya had described. The head was monstrous, larger than a horse, ragged chunks of rotting flesh still clinging to the bone. Not beast, not man, but some abominable mixture, crowned with antlers that jutted from a misshapen brow. The empty eyes stared into nothing, yet seemed to drink in everything.
Erlaber stood before it, naked from the waist up, his face hidden behind a crude leather mask. His pale body was scrawled with red Symbarian runes, daubed thickly across his chest and arms. His voice thundered through the cavern, commanding, with the cadence of a man lost to zealotry. His followers swayed with arms raised, echoing fragments of his chant in unison, their frenzy rising like heat from a pyre.
I had hoped — one always hopes — for some path other than blood, even if Erlaber did deserve to die for his crimes. But as soon as I laid eyes on that grotesque scene, I knew there would be no words, no bargains, no reason. Only one road remained.
Boga seemed to agree, for he loosed the first shot. His arrow struck Erlaber in the chest, drawing a howl — not of pain, but rage, as if the insult cut deeper than the wound. Anya-Rey followed instantly, her bowstring singing, and Lysindra and the three elves joined in, their arrows hissing through the damp cavern air.
But something was wrong. The shafts that struck Erlaber hardly slowed him, sinking into flesh as though into sodden wood, vexing him more than harming him. His chant broke, twisted into a furious bellow — and at once, the cultists turned, sixteen pairs of eyes fixing upon us with a single, dreadful will.
Even if Erlaber fell, the tide would still be against us. I clenched my staff, weighing the moment. No time for hesitation. If I could not thin the swarm, the fight would drown us before it began. Planting my feet, I raised the staff in both hands and summoned fire — and with a crack of heat and sulfur, unleashed a Brimstone Cascade upon the nearest cultists.
Four of them were now ablaze, shrieking as the fire devoured cloth and flesh alike. Yet even through the flames I saw it clearly — these were no longer men. Their bodies bore grotesque signatures of corruption: arms split into writhing tentacles, jaws sagging and dripping black ooze, skulls cracked open to sprout thorn and bone, old horrors clawing their way out from within. The sight jolted something in me. Lelya. Edogai. Faces I had burned from this world with the same merciless fire I now summoned again. “Mercy,” I had told myself then. “Justice,” I told myself now. Suddenly, however, I was not the only voice to uphold its truths.
“Ah, the reek of blackened flesh, the music of their shrieks — all thine handiwork, wizard. Remember… thou burnest because it delighteth thee. Thou recallest Lelya, Edogai, Taraban — friends, foes, little do they differ. Ashes in thy wake, one and all.”
The cultists began to twist, shedding what little humanity remained, becoming full abominations. I heard my companions shouting, bowstrings singing — but it all reached me as though from far away. One of the creatures hurled an axe at my chest. It would have struck true had Anya leapt not before me, the blade glancing off the curve of her armor.
“What are you doing?” she shouted, her voice cutting through the fog. “Pull yourself together — we need your fire!”
Her words snapped me from my paralysis. They steadied me, gave me the defiance I needed to resist the voice’s poisonous reasoning. Fire is a tool. My tool. And now, more than ever, we needed it. This was no time to buckle under guilt or fear. This was the moment to stop these zealots, to save the city. Fire — not to consume, but to save.
“Did I hear something about a wizard helping us with fire?” Boga shouted between one arrow and the next.
My answer was immediate — the same words, the same motion, a mirror of the last invocation. The spell leapt from me with ease, flawless in its precision, another Brimstone Cascade roaring down upon a fresh cluster of twisted cultists.
The cavern lit up like a furnace. Screams echoed off the stone as flames engulfed the cultists, and in the hellish light I saw bodies fall — some charred to lifeless husks, others convulsing, their flesh splitting and reshaping into abominations. I knew that look, that sound. I knew what came next. These were not foes that yielded easily to steel or fire. One was a challenge. We were facing several.
At the same time, I caught sight of Erlaber — and the vision curdled my blood. Arrow shafts bristled from his chest, flames licked at his clothes where fire arrows had bitten, and yet he stood unshaken. His mouth worked ceaselessly behind the leather mask, the chant spilling out raw and guttural. As he spoke, his body began to change: the skin around the wounds blackened and split, his spine arched into a cruel angle, and ridges of bone pressed upward beneath his flesh, as though something inside him were clawing to get out. Even the mask bulged and shifted grotesquely, as though the face beneath it no longer matched a human shape. It was no longer a man that chanted, but something half-born, dragging itself from Erlaber’s very body.
I gritted my teeth and forced myself to trust the others to keep Erlaber at bay. My task was clear: thin the tide before it swallowed us whole. I raised my staff and hurled fire without restraint — one Brimstone Cascade, then another, then another, each strike shaking the cavern with its roar. The air grew thick with smoke and the stench of charred flesh. When at last the haze lifted, the floor was carpeted in smoldering bodies. Only two of the warped creatures still stood, their forms ablaze yet unyielding, swaying like horrors too stubborn to die.
One of the abominations lashed out, a slick tentacle snapping toward Anya-Rey. I saw at once she would never dodge it in time. Instinct overruled thought — I lunged, slamming into her and knocking her clear just as the thing’s whip of corruption cracked down. It struck the stone with a wet, sickening force, spraying filth where we had stood a heartbeat before. My staff rattled in my grip. We had avoided death by inches.
As I scrambled upright and hauled Anya to her feet, my eyes caught Boga loosing arrow after arrow with a kind of desperate precision. He wasn’t aiming for the cultists at all, but at the jagged stalactites looming over the altar. His gamble paid off: with a final crack, a slab of stone tore free from the ceiling and crashed down upon the abomination that Erlaber had become. The impact shattered stone against his warped form, breaking his chant mid-breath and wringing from him a howl of rage that echoed through the cavern.
Arrows rained from Lysindra and her elves, the cave ringing with the whip-crack of bowstrings. The abominations became grotesque porcupines of flame and fletching, their bodies bristling with shafts — yet still they pressed on, swinging corrupted limbs without pause. One of them stilled for a breath, its many eyes glinting with unnatural intent, before both tentacles lashed out in unison at Anya-Rey. This time the strike landed square. She was hurled from her footing, her skin seared by the burning ooze that slicked the tendrils, and slammed against the jagged wall with a sickening thud.
“No,” I muttered. “Not again.” I summoned the fire, trying to pour all my fear, fury, and grief into the precision of one last Brimstone Cascade. The spell tore through me like a blade of my own forging, and for the first time that night I felt the pushback — the scorn of Creation, Ka’eroan’s warning made flesh. Wizardry is unnatural, he had said, and a path to unavoidable ruin. But there was no alternative. The flames erupted with violent clarity, reducing the two abominations to cinders — then nature’s retribution lanced through me: Corruption, a rust seeping into my very blood.
I saw Anya-Rey drag herself up and brace against the wall before loosing one more arrow — it pierced straight through Erlaber’s mask. But the cultist stood unfazed. Arrows, fire, falling stone — none of it mattered. He had been pierced, burnt, crushed, yet still he lingered, sustained by some ancient curse or blessing, a figure of zeal and defiance wreathed in flame.
I stood there, catching my breath, my mind raking through a dozen fruitless ways to bring down this unholy creature. And then, without thought, my hand slid into my satchel. My fingers found the Sun Stone. I drew it out and gazed into the swirling spirit within the gem. I felt the undeniable, unspoken covenant between us. I had not even shaped the question when an answer — or an intuition — pressed against my thoughts, bright, eager, as though saying: Yes. Use me.
Like before, the Stone demanded almost nothing of me. No elaborate gestures, no exhausting invocations — only my intent, sharpened and surrendered, filtered and purified by fire. I clenched the gem in my fist and fixed my gaze upon Erlaber.
At once, the flames that danced around him bent to the Stone’s will, drawn inward as though by a starving maw. They coiled and converged, forming a vortex that roared louder and hotter, its hues shifting until the blaze turned a dead, merciless blue. The air itself seemed to scream. No sacrifice, no blessing, no blood-bought protection could shield him from this doom.
Erlaber clawed upward, reaching for some unseen god that could not save him. His chant faltered, then choked, his throat collapsing into ash. And when at last the flames guttered out, all that remained was a warped skeleton — inhuman, abhorrent, frozen in a kneel before the altar, as though still worshipping the skull of Eox.
I collapsed to my knees, drunk on the power I had just unleashed. My arm throbbed violently, blackened veins spreading like cracks in glass from the spot where the Stone had seared into my palm. This night, I had conjured more fire than in all my years combined, wrung flame after flame from my marrow until I should have been ash myself. Yet none of it mattered. Whether I lived another hour or bled my soul away in the next breath, I did not care. My companions lived — and that alone was a boon. Of course, the night would not be complete without a final visit from the Voice:
“Magnificent! Behold the ruin that marketh thine hands. What is this, if not glory? What is this, if not thy true self revealed? Rejoice, wizard! For every breath thou stealest from the world, the fire claimeth thee as its own.”