It has been three months. The aftermath of our clash with Erlaber gave us plenty to do, but there was also respite — granted, for once, by the absence of deadly emergencies. Time to recover, and time to reflect — more of the latter, in truth. The corruption that blackened my arm faded within weeks; the memory of the battle, however, lingers like a haunting shade. It must be confessed: wizards cannot afford the kind of recklessness I displayed. That I invoked so many Brimstone Cascades and emerged unscathed is almost a miracle. No deeper mystery, no hidden providence: just luck. Simple as that.
Still, what else could I have done? Had I hesitated, the others might have paid the price. I know — rationally — that I did what was needed, that I made myself useful. But this cannot become routine. I now believe Ka’eroan’s warning without reservation: wizardry is a path that ends in ruin. I felt it — saw it. I charged blindly, and by sheer chance halted just before the edge. And now, the thought that consumes me is this: if you take the fire from me, what remains?
First things first — I should continue recording the outcome of our adventures. Perhaps, in time, an answer will surface from all the murk. I will pick up from the death of Erlaber at our hands, which left us with the curious problem of having to remove a carriage-sized skull from beneath Thistle Hold and deliver it to Gadramon and Eferneya. To my surprise, the city watch itself aided us in the task, alongside Mearoel’s elves. Yeleta, the huldra from Karvosti and confidante of Mayor Lasifor Nightpitch, mediated the process, while Leslie was summoned to assist in transporting the monstrous relic back into Dark Davokar.
I suspect the mayor wished the matter concluded swiftly and quietly, since the calamity that created Thistle Hold’s sinkhole had already drawn the baleful eye of Queen Korinthia — who promptly began deploying her militant clergy into the city. Even now, untold resources — said to come directly from the Queen — are being poured into sealing the sinkhole at the heart of Thistle Hold. On one hand, the speed of the city’s reconstruction is uncanny; on the other, Korinthian forces multiply by the day. More templars are never good news, and Mayor Nightpitch strains to hold their numbers in check.
It did not take long for Sarvola to come looking for us — with Aluin by his side, as usual. The boy immediately demanded that Boga return his twig, his tone polite but expectant. Boga tilted his head, clutching it close, and asked if he could keep it instead. Aluin considered this for a breath, then went, “Fine. I can always find another.” And that was the end of it.
Soon thereafter, it was Lysindra’s turn to make her appearance. She spoke little of the effort it had taken to shape the story of our deeds into something the city — and the Iron Pact — could stomach. Instead, she fixed us with her gaze and, with a rare and solemn clarity, said: “You managed to prove something to the Iron Pact.” This, more than the countless dangers behind us, marked the true measure of what we had done.
Perhaps the most impactful realization of those early days after our battle was that we had, improbably, a home — though “home” is a generous word for that sagging ruin. As the newest addition to the company, I did not know that Ordo Magica had once rewarded my companions with a house, a token for having descended into the chasm that gapes beneath the city. Apparently, much had already transpired before my arrival. The house itself had not always been so wretched; its present state — broken shutters, charred beams, windows nailed shut — was the legacy of an attack, not simple neglect. Still, it was shelter, and in Thistle Hold that is a precious thing.
As a brief side note — only now, having lived a few months in Thistle Hold, do I begin to grasp the true weight of the city’s sinkhole. The chasm is not merely a scar in the cobbles, but a wound burrowing into the bones of Symbaroum. Even collapsed, it demands vigilance. These days it is ringed with scaffolds and tents, swarming with the Queen’s laborers who hammer and hoist from dawn to dusk. They patch stone and timber as though a few boards might tame what gapes beneath. Perhaps they believe that it can be done. I do not.
Anyhow, back to the house — our so-called headquarters. It squats on Haloban’s Ring, the street that marks the boundary between Toad’s Square and the rest of the town. The distinction is not arbitrary. Toad’s Square is regarded as the most dangerous quarter of Thistle Hold, where more murders are said to take place than in all other districts combined. The town watch rarely patrols the area, and the taverns, gambling dens, and salons that cluster around the square are left to their own devices. Crossing Haloban’s Ring after nightfall is considered unwise by even the most seasoned locals. So, it is in this environment that our dwelling stands.
For all its sorry state, however, the house is ample enough: two stories and even a courtyard, which in Thistle Hold passes for a kind of luxury. Anya-Rey and I were granted vacant rooms, though “vacant” was only another way of saying their former occupants had failed to outlive Davokar. Lelya’s chamber, for one, remained just as she had left it, furnished and waiting as though she might walk back through the door at any moment. We set about the melancholy task of clearing it, salvaging a keepsake here or there, and doing our best to cloak the intrusion in dignity. Among her effects we uncovered proof that she had been far richer than most of us suspected — no less than two hundred and fifty thaler, a tidy fortune. A portion of it, we agreed, would be spent on mending our battered home. The rest, I imagined, she would not begrudge us.
We returned most of Lelya’s belongings to Ordo Magica, accompanied by a letter that Boga dictated to me: “Lelya went to the forest. Lelya died in the forest. She defended her friends. This is all your fault.” He insisted I write it word for word, and I agreed — then proceeded to set to parchment a more cautious message. My version was a carefully formal account — that Ms. Lelya, like so many who leave Thistle Hold for Davokar, had perished tragically under circumstances that defied explanation, and that her effects were hereby returned. Cold, impersonal, deliberately unremarkable. Nothing in it to provoke questions or prompt anyone from the Order to come prying at our door. The truth was, my own feelings lay much closer to Boga’s than to the mask I put on the page. His fury echoed my own, and much of mine was turned at myself. But paper is not confession. In this case it was a shield, both for myself and for my companions, and I chose to wield it as such.
For the house renovations, we hired the services of an ogre called Murruidoso, reputed to be skilled as a stonemason and in several other, less mentionable trades, if the tales he spun under our shared roof were to be believed. A physically intimidating presence, no doubt, but also a surprisingly personable — if boastful, irreverent, and downright vulgar — individual. In my cloistered Ordo Magica days I would have turned my nose up at him, certain that his kind was beneath me. Now I find myself laughing at his boasts, and I fully acknowledge the irony: that it took an ogre with the manners of a dockside brawler to remind me that blunt honesty is worth more than the polished deceit of a sycophant. Somewhere along the way, I became the sort of man who enjoys his company. In time, we came to regard him as part of the company as well — and, to my own surprise, I was pleased by it.
I feel compelled to record an exchange between Murruidoso and Boga, in which the latter asked about the meaning of the ogre’s name. Murruidoso answered with a story that could not have been told delicately if he had tried: how the name came from the sound his fist made when it shattered a man’s face for insulting him.
“Teeth stuck to my fist — felt like cracking knuckles,” he said, laughing so heartily that the room seemed to tremble.
“That’s a great story,” Boga encouraged, and then offered his own: “I got the name from my mother — if she’s the one who named me. I was taken and sold when I was very small, so I don’t remember it.”
There is something almost clinical in the way Boga can tuck a ruined childhood into casual conversation, smoothing the edges with a smile. It can’t be helped, I suppose. The Elder Folks — goblinoids, ogres — have suffered more than their share at Ambrian hands.
“Your mother?” Murruidoso scratched his chin. “Funny thing, that. An old fellow once told me ogres don't have mothers. Said we grow out of dead roots. Now, I've seen plenty of dead roots, but never one with a baby ogre hanging off it.” He looked at me. “Say, wizard — wise man — what you think?”
Boga brightened whenever the ogre turned his clumsy curiosity on me. Murruidoso went on, earnest and bewildered: “Someone else told me we come from mud. All of us, just made out of mud. But I’ve seen what happens when you mix dirt and water, and it doesn't look like an ogre.” He paused, considering. “Women squat to give birth. It’s like they’re shitting. So maybe people come from shit.”
I exchanged a look with Boga; he was enjoying every second. “Could be the case for some folks,” I said, keeping my tone neutral, “though it’s not the usual explanation.”
I had learned not to weigh such remarks with too much seriousness. Once I offered to teach Murruidoso to read. “Reading makes my head hurt,” he told me. “I can count a little, though. One time a fellow tried to cheat Murru, so I took his eyes. Bet he couldn't count after that!” Another eruption of laughter.
“I’m sure he deserved it,” I returned dryly, “and if I had been there, I’d have set him on fire.” The ogre’s roar that followed threatened to rattle the rafters.
As for the renovations, they proved extensive. The floor had to be re-leveled, the windows strengthened with bars, and every lock replaced with sturdier fittings. Murruidoso, a true pragmatist, argued that the courtyard ought to be covered entirely for security’s sake. Anya-Rey nearly fainted at the suggestion, unwilling to see the only touch of greenery — an unruly garden of flowerpots, climbing vines, and even one fruit tree — consigned to darkness. In the end, a compromise was reached: a pergola of stone columns and iron crossbeams, forming a lattice above the yard, strong enough to keep intruders out while still admitting light and air.
The basement demanded the most work. Once a damp and useless hollow, it was remade into something habitable: fitted with shelves, chests, and air ducts, and anchored by a large meeting table. Most importantly, the passage from the kitchen was reshaped into a hidden entrance — a granite slab on iron hinges which, once lowered, lay flush with the stone floor and betrayed no trace of its presence. In this city, such small comforts are worth clinging to. To that end, we went further: our plans included a tunnel leading from the basement out beyond the palisade of Thistle Hold. Its construction may have drawn some attention and delayed the work for weeks, but the thought of being trapped beneath our own refuge seemed the greater folly. Better a scandal in stone and soil now than the certainty of a tomb later.
In fact, the renovated basement turned out so well that, when we formally invited Murruidoso to join our company and live with us, he chose it for his quarters. Thus, each of us settled according to our tastes: Anya-Rey claimed a room overlooking the courtyard-turned-garden; Boga selected a small chamber with convenient access to the roof; I took the second-floor room with a fireplace, which felt almost civilized. And the ogre, naturally, chose to live underground. The arrangement might almost have been called harmonious, even idyllic — until Murruidoso gave his reason:
“Better for everyone. I fart a lot when I sleep.”
So, the whole purpose of all these renovations was to give ourselves a base — and, in a sense, to declare to Thistle Hold what we were. Explorers? Consultants? Problem-solvers? Between an elven hunter, a goblin tracker, a barbarian witch, an ogre who doubles as stonemason and menace, and an Ambrian wizard — what difficulty could not be overcome, or at least postponed? Our triumph over Erlaber had left us in unusually high spirits, enough that the idea of branding ourselves did not feel entirely absurd.
When the matter of a name arose, I suggested “The Five Roots.” It seemed fitting: each of us different in kind, yet bound together, sustaining the same whole. I even drafted a sigil — a stylized tree, its five roots entwined into a trunk that burst into a canopy — and we had it etched into the door. A small act of optimism, perhaps, but it did not feel unwarranted. We even extended invitations to Sarvola and Aluin to join us. Why not? In that moment it felt as though our company could grow without limit.
I haven’t cast a single spell since the battle for Eox’s head three months ago, but I have been to the local Ordo Magica tower. One cannot walk Thistle Hold and ignore it — its presence is as unavoidable as the Beacon’s light. And despite my having “departed” from the Order, I admit there is a kind of comfort in those halls, a reminder of Mermes and of the charge he laid upon me: to push deeper into the nature of magic and the mystery of Symbaroum’s ruin. For that alone, the tower remains a place I cannot abandon.
I’ve made acquaintances in the tower: not yet allies, perhaps, nor patrons — but opportunities, each in their own way. Most prominent of all, there’s Master Kullinan, of the dead House of Furia; arguably the most brilliant of the tower’s minds, though brilliance in his case comes wrapped in silence. He avoids people, and when he speaks it is as though each word costs him dearly. Yet there is precision there, and clarity, and I suspect one could learn more from a single afternoon in his company than from a month of study alone.
Then, Master Eufrynda, who is easier to approach. She has the rare ability to bend rules without appearing to break them, a talent I have seen save lesser wizards from ruin. To her, I am of little consequence in the hierarchy, but she spares me the courtesy of listening — and that, in this place, is no small gift.
Master Goncaï, the authority on elves, was known to me through Lelya. It was he who first told her of the Halls of a Thousand Tears, a fact I cannot regard without unease. Still, his work is invaluable: an ambitious account of Ambrian arrival and settlement. His pen moves as if guided by posterity itself, though I wonder whether history will thank him for the tale he tells.
Finally, there is Master Cornelio, whose craft is as practical as it is broad. He concerns himself with rituals and workings of immediate use, and it seems no one in power is above calling on his services. Mayor, Queen, or common citizen — all turn to him when need arises. His is not a subtle path, but it is effective, and there is something to admire in that.
My time at the Ordo Magica tower has not been wasted. From Master Goncaï I have learned to read more than just the words of history. His shelves sag beneath maps, chronicles, and fragments, and he has generously allowed me access to them, guiding my first steps into the art of weighing one record against another until patterns begin to emerge. The past is less a litany of dates than a field of hidden traps and buried weapons, and I have grown sharper at recognizing both.
No less valuable has been the instruction of Master Cornelio, who has shared his knowledge of wounds, poisons, and the silent advance of disease. Under his tutelage I have learned to read the body as one might a text — to distinguish healing from rot, to recognize when a fever conceals something graver, to identify poison before it claims its victim. It is not a discipline that dazzles, but one that ensures I remain of use to my companions. I find myself eager to continue along this path, to build a skill set that does not depend solely on fire. Should that gift never return to me, I will not be powerless — nor will I stand idle while those beside me fall.
I have also learned much from Anya-Rey, though her teachings are of a different kind. She has shown me how to endure in the wild when comfort is scarce: where to find dry wood after rain, how to make a meal from what the forest grudgingly offers, and how to shape a night’s shelter from little more than earth and branches. For one raised within walls and among books, these lessons have been humbling, though I admit there is a certain satisfaction in knowing I can now venture a little farther into the wilderness without becoming its immediate victim.
However, it is her knowledge of the creatures that haunt Davokar which I have come to value most. Anya-Rey speaks of them not as legends but as living adversaries, each with habits, hungers, and frailties of their own. Under her instruction I have learned to read their tracks, to tell when a beast is hunting or merely passing through, and to recognize when the forest’s silence means more than chance. She has taught me especially about the abominations — those twisted things that defy natural order. Their patterns, their weaknesses, and how best to bring them down. I take her words to heart, not only for myself but for my companions as well, for if knowledge can spare us the teeth and claws of such nightmares, then hers may well be the most vital wisdom I possess.
Lysindra has also taken it upon herself to show me the use of the bow. Or rather, I asked her to. It felt foolish at the time — a wizard humbling himself to request lessons in a skill better suited to rangers and hunters — but she regarded me for a moment, unreadable as ever, and then agreed with a small nod, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. My hands, long accustomed to quills and sigils, found the string less forgiving. Yet she was patient, correcting my stance with a word or a glance, until the draw felt less like an intrusion and more like intent. I cannot claim skill — not yet — but at least I have begun to understand how an arrow may carry purpose across distance, striking where one cannot reach. It is a different sort of discipline than any I have known: quiet, exacting, and with no margin for flourish. Perhaps that is why her instruction lingers with me more than most. And though I will not say it aloud, I find that when she guides my aim, my thoughts steady in ways the bow alone could never teach.
With that, the account of those three months is nearly complete: Erlaber was gone, Leslie had vanished into Davokar with her burden, and we had established a base. Thistle Hold, however, remained curiously oblivious to the staggering potential of the Five Roots, a negligence that would surely be corrected in due course — or so we told ourselves — until, on a rain-sodden night, someone knocked at our door.
There stood an elderly woman, cloaked in the traditional garments and face paint of the Odaiova — Leslie’s tribe. Her eyes carried the weight of a life spent measuring men, and it was difficult not to feel diminished beneath them. She lingered at the threshold, studying us in silence, before speaking at last: “I have urgent business with the lot of you. May I come in?”
“Of course,” I answered, stepping aside. She entered with deliberate care, each motion marked by age rather than hesitation. At the door she surrendered her heavy cloak, and I hung it while she made her slow way to the couch.
“Got herbs?” she asked Boga, her tone less request than expectation.
“Sure,” he replied. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, boy,” she retorted, already drawing from her garments a pipe absurdly large for her frame. “For smoking.”
Boga was only a moment in fetching what she required. The old woman tamped and lit the bowl with practiced ease, drawing on it two or three times until the room filled with the earthy haze of her indulgence.
“I’m here because of your friend Leslie,” the woman declared, her voice grave. “At this moment she finds herself in a delicate situation. Very delicate.” Once more her hand slipped into the folds of her garments, this time producing a small case shrouded in the blackest velvet. She placed it in Boga’s hands. “This must be delivered to her. It belongs to her.”
Boga lifted the lid. Inside lay a set of thin, long, flat pieces of tin, each etched with cuneiform markings. The sight of him handling them drew a cold shiver through me, as if the symbols themselves breathed. The woman’s eyes found mine, steady and unyielding. “Calm yourself,” she said, as though she had plucked the thought straight from my skull. “There is no corruption in them.”
“These,” she went on, her words slower now, “are keys to a revelation of great significance. Under no circumstances can they be allowed to fall into Ambrian hands.” At that, her gaze lingered on me with deliberate emphasis, and I understood well enough what was being said without words.
“When Leslie departed with Gadramon and Eferneya, she did not have the opportunity to carry these with her,” the woman explained, nodding toward the case in Boga’s hands. “But now she needs them. They must leave Thistle Hold at once — above all, before the arrival of Queen Korinthia.”
“Where is Leslie now?” I asked.
“She is in Karvosti.”
That name struck me twice over. First, it called to mind Kae’roan’s words — that in Karvosti I might find his sister, and in doing so glimpse a way to avert the ruin he foresaw should I persist along the path of wizardry.
Second, it stirred memories of my hours with Master Goncaï, who had spoken often of the cliff-plateau where the barbarian clans gathered. The object of greatest interest to Ambrians, however, was the ruined temple of Prios unearthed there — the oldest shrine yet found to the Sun God, older than Korinthia herself — which raised many questions. Its sun-marked stones had sent ripples all the way to Yndaros, drawing the Queen and the Sun Church to dispatch templars and theurgs to seize it. Their first assault had failed against the barbarian Wrathguard, but diplomacy won what force could not: the clergy of Prios was allowed to establish the Shrine of the Setting Sun. Since then, Karvosti has been both a place of pilgrimage and a political hinge viewed with greed by Queen Korinthia.
I had drifted into memory, but the crone had not moved — she still sat across from us, smoke coiling from her pipe, waiting. Her eyes fixed on me as if to remind me that Karvosti was not a lesson in a master’s chamber, but the destination she now pressed upon us.
“So, we’re to deliver this box to Leslie in Karvosti,” Anya-Rey finally broke her silence, fixing the old woman with a direct gaze, “while keeping it from falling into Ambrian hands. You do realize that our wizard is Ambrian, don’t you?” She punctuated the remark with a tilt of her head in my direction. The old woman only smiled.
“True enough,” I said before she could answer. “But I have no love for the nation of Ambria, as you might have guessed from my choice of company. As for Korinthia and her zealots, they could tumble into the sinkhole and I would not climb down after them for all the gold in Alberetor. My allegiance, such as it is, has been pressed into the service of the Iron Pact.”
“That is fine and good, my boy,” the woman replied, her voice measured, “but this is not a mission for the Iron Pact. In fact, no one must know I was here — not even the Pact.”
“Interesting,” I murmured. “And why not?”
“You don’t know who I am, do you?”
I did not. The same was plain on the faces of my companions.
“My name is Yagaba,” she said at last, “and I live with Mayor Lasifor Nightpitch.”
Boga let out a sharp snort. “So that’s how it is. Well, if we’re barred from leaning on the Iron Pact, this errand won’t get easier. What in all the hells is the mayor playing at?”
“Lasifor walks a narrow edge,” she explained, and there was a weariness to her words, as if she had rehearsed this truth too many times. “He must appear to serve Korinthia’s interests, while at the same time working to blunt her reach. If he tips the scales too far, he will be replaced — and the one who follows will show her no such resistance.”
I had never crossed paths with Lasifor Nightpitch myself, but I knew the stories whispered about him. They said that after Queen Korinthia was abducted and then returned during the war against the Dark Lords, her mother soon fell prey to a grave and bizarre illness. Into this crisis stepped a single man — Lasifor — who promised he could procure a rare herb, the Twilight Thistle, said to keep death itself at bay. True to his word, he brought it to her chamber and continued to supply it in secret infusions month after month. The Queen, grateful, offered him wealth — but he refused, asking instead for two things only: a title of nobility, and leave to establish a settlement on the forest’s edge. Thus, Thistle Hold was born, its very name a monument to that mysterious herb. How he obtained it remained an enigma. Some claimed bargains with the witches of Davokar; others whispered that darker pacts must have been struck. And now, standing before us, was Yagaba — the woman said to embody that forest-bond, the one thread in the tale that might make sense of it all. The pieces aligned with an elegance that unsettled me, as if the city I had come to think of as a raw, chaotic frontier were in truth woven out of a single, deliberate design.
“Is it true, then?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me. “That Nightpitch secured an accord with the witches of the forest — twilight thistle in exchange for his shielding them from Korinthia’s grasp?”
Yagaba exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke and regarded me with something between amusement and weariness. “Yes,” she said, flat as a closing door. “That’s about the size of it.”
“But don’t let your thoughts wander down sinister paths, young wizard,” Yagaba went on, her tone unhurried, yet edged with authority. “Lasifor cares for the forest folk more than he lets on. Were it not for him, Thistle Hold would be another Yndaros, where Korinthia’s forces obliterated all who stood in their way. And remember the Jezora, whom she had slaughtered. Her thirst for conquest does not rest. Lasifor holds the line here, with nothing but his wit and his bargains, while the Queen, the Church, and even your Ordo Magica watch him like hawks.”
“I see,” I muttered.
“Perhaps you don’t realize it,” she said, her eyes resting on Boga, Murruidoso, and Anya-Rey in turn, “but Thistle Hold is the last city in all of Ambria where people like you may walk the streets freely and even claim a house as your own. Should Korinthia increase her hold here, that privilege will vanish.”
“Your point is made,” I interjected. “We understand.”
“See that you do.” She pressed out her pipe, rose slowly, and added almost in passing: “I wish you luck on your journey.” Then, turning her gaze on me, she said with deliberate calm, “Perhaps, in Karvosti, you will find your path.”
She was already at the door, drawing her heavy cloak about her, when I caught up and asked under my breath, “What did you mean by that? Why Karvosti?”
“Because there, you may find one who can help you loosen this knot within your soul. To make headway in this… search you’ve set yourself upon. Unless you die first.”
“How do you know of my search?” I asked, though it was more lament than question. “How does everyone know but me?”
“You Ambrians are such slow learners,” she replied with a cryptic smile. “But you show promise, nonetheless. I’ll pray for your safety. Be well, boy wizard.”
And then she was gone — into the rain, into the night.
For three months the same thought has gnawed at me: if the fire is taken, what remains? I have no answer yet — only the hollow echo of the question. But now, with Karvosti before us and a task heavy enough to match my doubts, I suspect the opportunity has come to find out.