Week 1
The sun is back.
Not just the light—but the heat. The kind that sinks into the stone and smells like dust and old iron. I opened the shutters today and didn’t flinch. The wind doesn’t bite anymore. It nudges. It’s easy to forget how quiet warmth can be.
And just when I thought I might enjoy a few days of peace—
Butch arrived.
He showed up grinning like he’d punched summer into existence, covered in coal dust, dragging a crate of something that definitely wasn’t wine, and shouting that he’d “brought refreshments and muscle.” I didn’t invite him. He came anyway. Said the mines were closed for repairs or flooding or ghosts—I’m honestly not sure. His accent gets thicker the happier he is, and he was *very* happy.
The wards were thrilled. Damascus offered him a bath (he declined). Cassius took one look at him and said, “Ah, a bear in man’s trousers,” before locking himself in the pantry with his journal. Dong Quixote attempted to spar with him using broomsticks. That ended with three broken chairs and Butch swearing loudly that “Hestralians bruise like plums.”
He’s taken up residence on the floor beside the hearth. No bed. Just a blanket, a jug, and whatever gods keep Dunnicks from throwing their backs out. He snores like a dying forge and sings in his sleep. Loudly.
And yet… it’s good to have him here.
He talks too much and eats like a famine’s coming. But he keeps the silence away. He asks nothing of me, expects even less, and still makes space like it’s instinct.
He saw me watching the shutters this morning. Just nodded and said, “Hard part’s over. Now you breathe.”
Maybe he’s right.
—-
Week 2
The walls don’t echo as much with Butch here.
He hums constantly—tuneless, wordless things that sound like mining songs or drinking chants or both. He fixed the loose hinge on the cellar door without being asked. Didn’t even say anything about it. Just whistled, hammered, nodded like the door had won some sort of test.
I caught him teaching Dong Quixote how to throw a proper punch using a sack of flour and a stick with a smile painted on it. The sack burst. The stick snapped. Everyone is still covered in flour. Cassius compared the scene to “a moonlit duel between foolishness and fate” and immediately tripped over a bucket.
The kitchen has never been louder. Or funnier.
I should be irritated. The bar isn’t packed. The forum crates sit half-filled. My checklist remains half-finished, my bottles unpolished, my hands too idle.
But I’m not angry. I’m breathing easier.
Butch doesn’t ask about Santiago. Not directly. But I think he sees the space he left behind. I caught him once, looking at the rum glass Santiago always used—the one I never put away. Butch didn’t say a word. Just picked it up, rinsed it, and used it himself like it was any other cup.
Like I didn’t have to keep holding the ghost of someone who’d already left.
Maybe he’s the first person who didn’t expect me to pretend.
He won’t stay long. He’s already talking about returning to the mines. About a match in the next town over, some loud thing with sweat and bets and broken noses. I won’t stop him. It’s not what he’s for.
But I’ll remember what it felt like—just for a little while—to laugh again without it catching in my throat.
—-
Week 3
Butch left this morning, loud as ever, promising he’d send word if a fight went his way. The door slammed behind him like a punctuation mark I wasn’t ready for.
The quiet returned immediately.
I walked through the rooms, half-expecting to hear his hum or the scrape of boots on stone. Instead, only the wind answered.
The forum looms closer now. The crates sit heavier, the bottles weigh more. Every small task feels like wading through a fog thicker than the morning mist. I’m restless, pacing, polishing, arranging—over and over—trying to carve out order from chaos.
Cassius is still sulking in the corner somewhere, muttering poetry about lost heroes and broken promises. Dong Quixote is practicing his “strategic flour sack defense,” a gift from Butch that now serves as an impromptu weapon. Damascus is inventing new cocktails with names I don’t trust.
I envy their noise.
I miss Butch’s blunt comfort—the way he didn’t demand explanations or sympathy, just showed up and stayed loud. I miss his easy presence, a reminder that life goes on, even when it wants to stop.
The rum bottle Santiago left sits on the shelf. I touch it sometimes, but I don’t drink. Not yet.
Tomorrow, the work begins in earnest. I’ll need every scrap of strength.
But for now, I let the silence stretch.
—-
Week 4
The air feels heavier this week. Not the warmth of summer, but something darker—like a storm brewing beyond the hills.
Whispers have spread through Runeheim like wildfire. Raids, thieving bands, strangers prowling the alleys after dark. The kind of trouble that doesn’t announce itself with fanfare. It creeps in, bites, then disappears before anyone can catch its breath.
Tomaso shut down his warehouse quietly, locking the gates and turning away anyone who came asking. No explanations. Just a terse shake of his head and a warning glance that spoke more than words ever could.
I’m concerned for him. For what he’s protecting. For what we all might lose.
The forum can’t come soon enough. It’s meant to bring coin, connections, safety—but what if it only draws more eyes? More hands?
I’ve kept the wards close, tightening their strength, but they feel thinner these days. Like a shield with cracks you can’t see until it’s too late.
Dong Quixote has taken to pacing the halls with an intensity that borders on obsession. He claims it’s “to keep watch, to ward off the shadows.” He’s clumsy and loud, but there’s a fierce loyalty in his eyes that steadies me more than I expected.
People whisper when they think I’m not listening, eyes flicking to the shadows. I clean the glasses with shaking hands, telling myself the forum will turn this tide. That I’m not alone.
The city is changing.
And I’m not sure it’s for the better.
—-
Week 5
The city feels heavier with every passing day, but it’s not just the looming threats or Tomaso’s silent warnings. It’s something deeper—a hollow ache that gnaws at the edges of my mind.
I find myself drifting back to the islands of Hestralia. The scent of salt and spices carried on warm breezes. The crowded markets bursting with color—fruits piled high, merchants shouting over each other, the clatter of coins exchanged with quick hands. The heat that clings to your skin, the laughter spilling from every corner.
I miss the noise. The life. The chaos that made everything feel possible.
Here, the stone streets are cold beneath my feet, even in early summer. The shadows cling too long, and the silence presses too close.
Dong Quixote, ever dramatic, has taken to loudly rehearsing heroic speeches in the middle of the house—claiming he’s “warding off the dark with the power of words.” Damascus insists he’s concocted a new stew “so potent it’ll scare away any thief or worse,” but it mostly smells like burnt cinnamon and desperation. Cassius broods in the corner, delivering scathing critiques of both men’s efforts, all while nursing a glass of mulled wine like it’s the last thing keeping him from dissolving into a puddle of frustration.
Their ridiculous bickering breaks the weight of the silence, reminds me that even here, I’m not alone.
The forum edges nearer, a chance to shake free from this place, or at least to make it bearable. But the fear of what waits in the shadows grows stronger.
I worry for Tomaso still—what risks he’s facing, the risks he’s taking, what battles he’s already lost in silence and the impending possibility of battles to come.
And beneath it all, the longing for home hums quietly, a steady ache beneath the noise and worry.
—-
Week 6
The city’s undercurrent has shifted from whispers to murmurs of hunger. Stealing isn’t just petty mischief anymore—it’s survival. Faces once familiar now shadowed with desperation, hands once steady now trembling with need.
I hear stories of families going hungry, of mothers trading what little they have for scraps, of thieves who don’t want to take but must. The market stalls have grown sparse, the usual clamor replaced by tense silence.
Tomaso’s warehouse remains shut tight. No one comes or goes, and the usual flow of goods has stalled. It’s a quiet, unspoken sign that the cracks in Runeheim’s safety are growing wider.
Inside the house, the others try to distract me from the weight of it all. Dong Quixote insists his latest poem will inspire the starving masses to courage, though the delivery is more comedic than stirring. Damascus’s “secret aphrodisiac blend” stew is still a constant, though few dare eat enough to be convinced. Cassius, in his usual fashion, declaims grand speeches about honor and sacrifice—while eyeing the last piece of bread like a hawk.
Their noise is a shield against the gnawing emptiness. I cling to it, knowing that soon the forum must bring more than just coin—it must bring hope.
Because if it doesn’t, desperation will grow into something darker. And Runeheim may not survive it.
—-
Week 7
The forum is almost here, and with it, the frantic chaos I both dread and need. The house is a madhouse of last-minute preparations and absurd distractions.
Dong Quixote has appointed himself the official “inspirational bard,” which means every few minutes he bursts into a booming recital of heroic verses—mostly about how “the might of Runeheim will outshine the darkest night!” The only problem is he insists on performing in various stages of undress, claiming it “enhances the emotional impact.” The furniture hasn’t quite forgiven him.
Damascus, meanwhile, is convinced he’s discovered the ultimate secret ingredient to end the city’s woes: a stew so potent it will “ward off hunger and thieves alike.” The smell, however, suggests he may have simply invented a new form of biological warfare. Even the rats are avoiding the kitchen.
Cassius, ever the dramatic critic, spends most of his time delivering theatrical tirades about honor and survival while glaring daggers at both Dong’s poetry and Damascus’s cooking. Yet somehow, he always manages to sneak a bite of that cursed stew when no one’s looking—and then complains loudly about how it “ruins his palate.”
Amid the ridiculous bickering, I find brief moments of relief. Their noise cuts through the tension like a blade, reminding me that even in the darkest times, life still goes on—messy, loud, and stubbornly alive.
The forum looms ahead, promising coin and maybe even a flicker of hope. For now, I’ll hold onto this madness. It’s the only thing keeping the gnawing hunger and shadowed streets from swallowing me whole.
—-
Week 8
The summer sun beats down on Runeheim’s cold stone, but no warmth travels all the way in. The city feels distant, sharp-edged, like a place I’ve been dropped into rather than one I belong.
I miss Aurelia.
Not just the spoiled, indulgent cousin who’s wrapped up in wine and luxury, but the spark I remember from when we were younger. The fire she commands at the forge, the reckless brilliance that feels so far from this gray city. She’s still in Hestralia, lost in her world of decadence and flame, and I ache for the part of me tethered to her—tethered to that distant home I left behind.
Santiago feels like a fading shadow, slipping further out of reach with every day that passes. And here, surrounded by walls that seem to absorb the heat, I search for something real to hold onto.
The forum approaches, a distant hope. More than coin, I need something to remind me I’m still here—that I still belong somewhere, even if it’s not this cold, lonely city.
—-
Week 9
The days are full now, frantic with preparations. Bottles are cleaned, wards checked, and supplies packed with care. The forum edges closer, a weight settling on my shoulders that I can’t shrug off.
I’m nervous—not just about the crowds or the deals, but about being seen again. It’s been so long since I felt like I belonged anywhere, like my smile was more than a mask. What if I’ve forgotten how to be more than the roles I play? What if the cracks in my act show?
Still, I’ll wear the mask. I always do. But maybe this time, I’ll let it slip—just a little. Maybe I’ll let someone see the woman beneath it all, even if only for a moment.
Aurelia remains far away, lost in her world of fire and excess. Santiago is gone, a ghost I carry quietly. And Tomaso—he’s been busy lately, seemingly rallying his own band of brigands. I hope to hear from him soon, see how he’s holding up.
Here, in Runeheim, I stand on the edge of something new, unsure if I’m ready but knowing I can’t turn back.
The forum will come and go, but what matters is what I take from it—the coin, yes, but also the chance to find my footing again, to remind myself I’m still here, still fighting, still alive.
—-
Week 10
The forum edges closer, and the days fill with endless preparation. The tension in the city is thick, but my three “wards” keep the chaos lively enough.
Last night, Butch came back to visit—loud, grinning, and carrying a fresh stash of Dunnick ale. His booming laugh broke through the quiet like a thunderclap.
Dong Quixote, ever the self-appointed sentinel, was patrolling the main room, dramatically quoting old poems and inspecting every corner like a knight on watch. Then, right as he stopped to announce some grand proclamation, he sneezed so violently that Cassius nearly dropped his cup of wine in surprise. The whole room erupted into laughter.
Damascus shook his head, muttering something about “losing the art of subtlety,” while Butch laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks, joking that Dong was “allergic to dignity.”
Dong, not to be outdone, tried to save face by reciting a poem about “silent guardians and restless boots,” which was mostly nonsense but earned a round of amused applause.
Perhaps tomorrow, I’ll try to check in on Tomaso and see how he’s managing with the warehouse locked tight against desperate thieves. The city may be on edge, but at least I’m not alone in it.
—-
Week 11
Butch’s visit stretched well over a week, his hearty laughter filling the room and chasing away some of the days’ weight. The three “wards”—Dong, Cassius, and Damascus—were more trouble than protection, but they kept the place from feeling too quiet.
Dong decided it was time to “boost morale,” which meant launching into one of his infamous dramatic monologues about his “glory days” as a charms-for-hire. He paced the room like a stage actor, throwing in wild gestures and sighs, insisting it was “to remind us what true dedication looks like.” Cassius rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smirking, while Damascus muttered something about “less drama, more actual work.”
Butch, never one to be left out, interrupted with a booming Dunnick war cry—half drinking song, half battle yell—and slapped his knee so hard he nearly knocked over a crate. That sent Cassius into an impromptu narration of their “battle for survival,” painting us as heroic warriors fending off invisible invaders.
Damascus, meanwhile, had concocted a new “secret weapon” — a pungent herbal smudge meant to clear the air and keep spirits high. It smelled like a strange mix of pine needles and something vaguely medicinal, and when he lit it, the smoke quickly filled the room. Butch coughed but laughed and declared it “a fine way to clear out both bad air and bad moods.”
Despite the city’s hunger and locked warehouses, these moments of absurdity remind me I’m not alone.
—-
Week 12
The morning arrived crisp and bright, sunlight sneaking through the shutters like a quiet reminder of the day ahead. Butch stayed for breakfast today, insisting that a proper meal could set the tone for whatever madness was coming—and honestly, I wasn’t about to argue.
Dong was already up, polishing his old knives with an intensity that suggested he believed they’d send thieves running, though I suspect they’d barely scare off a stray cat. Cassius, true to form, was composing an ode to the morning’s light—something about “golden hopes and Runeheim’s stubborn heart”—which he dramatically declaimed between mouthfuls of bread.
Damascus, meanwhile, was back at it with that herbal smudge he introduced last week, waving the smoke around like a sorcerer performing a blessing. Butch just chuckled, promising that if the smoke didn’t scare off the desperate thieves, his fists certainly would.
Santiago’s memory grows fainter with each passing day, like a shadow dissolving in the morning sun. I catch myself reaching for him in quiet moments, only to find emptiness instead. The ache remains, dull but persistent.
—-
Week 13
The city feels restless these days, shadows lengthening not just from the setting sun but from the worry threading through every corner. The talk of raiders and thieves has grown louder, sharper—and even Butch’s booming laughter can’t quite drown it out.
The three wards have their own ways of dealing with the tension. Dong, convinced that spirits can be lifted by sheer volume, has taken to singing old sea shanties at odd hours, much to everyone’s surprise—and Cassius’s endless delight at having an audience. Damascus, ever the chef, tried to invent a “morale-boosting” stew again. This time it involved an alarming amount of fermented cabbage and something suspiciously sour. Butch tasted it, nodded grimly, and declared it “an acquired taste” before chasing it down with a slug of rum.
I find myself watching the horizon more often, wondering what’s coming next. Santiago’s absence feels heavier in these moments—his steady presence a quiet shield I no longer have. And in the quiet between the chaos, I catch myself missing my cousin Aurelia too, imagining her surrounded by the luxury and decadence she so desperately loves, far away in Hestralia while I stand here, caught in the storm.
I’ve even begun to wonder whether I should extend an invitation. Not out of sentiment—though I do miss her—but because Runeheim could use a blacksmith with her skill. If the city’s going to keep fraying at the edges, we may all need someone who can forge something stronger.
She’s never set foot in this place. I’m not sure she’d even know how to walk through the mud without cursing the ground. But the thought lingers.
The forum edges closer. There’s no turning back now.
—-
Week 14
The forum is nearly upon us, and the city hums with a kind of nervous energy. It’s in the way the vendors tighten their stall ropes twice over, the way the guards linger longer near alley mouths. Everyone’s preparing—some with skill, others with sweat and crossed fingers. I don’t know which I am anymore.
The wards, predictably, are little help. Dong insists we need a rallying cry for our stall and has taken to painting dramatic slogans on anything flat: “Wit Before Steel,” “Nephele Knows Best,” and, bafflingly, “Come for the Drink, Stay for the Drama.” He tried to sneak one onto Butch’s back by pinning it with a fish hook through the collar. Butch didn’t notice for half an hour and then wore it like a badge of honor, demanding someone explain what “morale” even meant.
Cassius is in full pre-forum performance mode, strutting through the house rehearsing monologues that have nothing to do with sales and everything to do with himself. This morning, he asked whether he should greet customers as a tragic prince or a misunderstood pirate. I told him to try being quiet.
Damascus has thrown himself into “culinary innovation” again. His latest invention was a pickled mushroom and onion jam he described as “bold, defiant, and sensual.” I told him it tasted like regret. Butch, of course, asked for seconds, said it “tastes like someone lost a bet, in a good way.”
There are moments now when I go a whole day without thinking about Santiago. His absence is still there, but it no longer presses so heavily against my ribs. It’s quieter now, like a scar beneath clothing—still part of me, but no longer the first thing anyone sees.
And Aurelia…
I’ve been thinking about her more. I miss her. For all her wine-soaked dramatics and impossible standards, she’s still family. She would loathe Runeheim. Gods, she’d scream about the mud and the lack of silk sheets within an hour. But still—I’ve been wondering if she’d come if I asked. Not in writing—I can’t write, and she never had the patience for dictated letters anyway. But maybe Tomaso could carry word. Or I’ll send something with a merchant. A bottle of something expensive. Something Hestralian. A reminder.
She’d laugh. Then she’d come just to complain in person.
And maybe that’s exactly what I need.
—-
Week 15
Tomorrow, the forum opens.
The air has changed—not colder, not warmer, but tighter, like the city is holding its breath. Every conversation in the street ends with a glance over the shoulder. Even the wind seems to carry anticipation in its teeth.
I finished setting up what I could. Checked my supplies twice, then once more just in case Cassius had rearranged anything to make it “aesthetically powerful.” He hadn’t. But he did leave a feathered hat on the counter that he insists will make him “approachable but enigmatic.” I told him he looked like a confused rooster. He took it as a compliment.
Dong has started shouting inspirational quotes to “energize” the team. This morning’s gem: “Courage is just panic that knows how to pose.” He followed it with a triumphant backflip attempt that ended with him crashing through one of Butch’s old stools. He’s fine. The stool is not. Butch mourned it like a fallen comrade and declared he would carve a replacement “using only his fists and a rock.” I hope he was joking. I fear he wasn’t.
Damascus has decided we need a pre-forum meal to “bind us in shared spirit.” His dish involved dried fish, roasted pear, and something he called “sun-touched nettle foam.” I’m not sure what any of that means, but it fizzed. Loudly. Cassius ate it dramatically and declared himself reborn. Dong refused entirely and tried to barter for Butch’s pocket jerky.
And Butch—he’s been here the whole week, lending his strength where my patience failed. He and I barely speak about anything serious. We don’t need to. He shows up when he’s needed, moves what must be moved, fixes what breaks, and deflects trouble with a grin and a threat in equal measure. He doesn’t ask questions. He just stays.
I’ve hardly slept. Not from fear—just… readiness. I’ve lived through worse. I’ve survived worse. But it’s strange to think I’ll have to stand in front of strangers again, smile like I’m not hollow in places I haven’t dared name, and try to sell not just goods, but myself. Not that way. Not like the wards once did. But in the sense that I’ll need to be someone again. Someone worth speaking to. Worth remembering.
Maybe I’ll be her. Maybe I won’t.
Either way, tomorrow, I open the door.
And I step into whatever comes next.
