Evening, Day One
She arrived at Forum like a falling chandelier—loud, unnecessary, and likely to kill someone if ignored.
Aurelia. In a brocade coat and a tiara, of all things. Stepping down from a rented wagon with her chin high and eyes scanning for me like a hawk that expected to be fed.
She found me near the tannery stalls. No greeting—just grabbed my arm and whispered:
“They were asking about someone named Alu.”
The Inquisition stopped her at the southern checkpoint. Said her papers were incomplete, asked why she was traveling during Forum. She tried to deflect, but they pressed. Asked what she knew about Runeheim’s history. Asked about Alu.
That name again.
That thing has haunted Runeheim. His curses linger like rot beneath the cobblestones. The Inquisition is circling back through old stories, digging up names like they’re unspent coin.
I told her to keep her head down.
She told me she came to collect a debt.
Of course she did.
Late Night, Day One
The tavern hummed with whispers and uneasy glances tonight. Fear was thick, though no one said it outright.
Helga stood at the bar—a short, bent woman with matted gray hair tangled like seaweed caught in a net. Her voice was low and rough, like one who’s spent more time talking to ghosts than the living.
She spoke of her eleven sons—eleven strong lads. One was gone now, burned by those red-cloaked Inquisition dogs. Helga said she always thought the boy was slow, maybe even dumb, but the Inquisition called him a heretic. Said it was worse than being dumb. When she said it, I saw the bitterness curl in her spit like a wound that wouldn’t heal.
Then she muttered about Lady Vindicta—planning treason against the throne. Helga hates the Goths, calls them cold-eyed and empty-hearted, but if she had to pick a devil, Vindicta’s the one she’d spit on last. At least Vindicta doesn’t smile while she kills you. Her words hung jagged and rough, like broken glass in the air.
Later, Tomaso arrived—my cousin, silver-tongued and sharp-eyed as ever. He wasn’t alone. An attractive woman with a jagged tear down the middle of her shirt followed him, joking that maybe a bear did it. Her eyes held something wild, and she moved with a nervous energy I couldn’t place.
Tomaso caught my eye and leaned in close. “Nephele,” he said quietly, “I need you to listen. Find out what people think, fear, and plan. I want to know about the vampires, the armies, the monsters, the opportunities that may arise. I want to know the direction the winds and whispers are blowing through Runeheim”
I told him I was listening—not just for rumors, but for anything that might implicate him or bring harm his way. This town’s pulse was quickening, and Tomaso wanted me to feel it.
Then there was Tyler… or was it Trevor? I heard both—a sly one with restless eyes that danced like he knew secrets no one else did. His fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm, but his grin was all charm and mischief.
He drifted from group to group, asking about weapons—buying, selling, never quite saying which—his voice low and teasing like he was sharing a private joke.
He kept glancing at the Inquisition guards with a wink and a smile, sizing them up like a cat playing with mice.
I’m not convinced he’s just a traveler passing through. Maybe he’s peddling medallions—official passes from the Inquisition, the kind needed for permission to leave town. Dangerous business, if true—but he sure seems to enjoy the game.
Aurelia’s not just hiding here. She’s scared.
I see it in how she bolts my door three times and rearranges the curtains as if expecting someone to break in. I caught her checking her reflection—not for vanity but for something lurking behind her eyes.
I asked her what she told the Inquisition.
She said, “That I knew nothing about Alu. Which is true.”
She really doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand the weight that name carries here—the way a city cursed again and again by a ghost never quite forgets.
She asked about Anacrussis—heard the word tossed around in the tavern.
I told her it’s a sickness made by wizards, like a fever—too much magic rotting in one place, things not dying right, grief outpacing breath.
She asked if it’s catching.
I didn’t answer.
Afternoon, Day Two
After court today, the tavern was thick with murmurs about Tomaso.
He stood in front of the entire Forum—Inquisition, nobles, half the town—and laid out a plan to feed Runeheim. Not some dreamer’s ramble, but real logistics: sourcing, distribution, routes. He called himself a humanitarian, bold as anything.
Only one person argued. He questioned the intents of Tomaso’s hired army. Tomaso didn’t shout, didn’t break stride. Just tilted his head and reminded the man of how similar the means of his acquiring his own army were. Implicating the man of hypocrisy without the need to use those exact words.
No one else spoke against it. They nodded. They agreed to help. Not with applause, but with silence, which in Runeheim counts for more.
Later, Tomaso met Aurelia, Svart, and I at the bar. Svart had already been lingering by the bar, looking like a scarecrow someone had tried to dress like a lord. Tomaso claims he’s rich. I’ve seen no proof. Still, he didn’t object to being included.
That’s when Tomaso told us what the Shahzadah really was—not just a name for his little trade outfit, but a story. A scar.
It began as a fleet of three ships—merchants, explorers, dreamers with too much coin and too little sense. But sea serpents took two of them. The last, the Shahzadah, limped ashore on the outskirts of Runeheim. Survivors flipped the hull, turned it upside down, and built it into a warehouse. They sold what they had left, made it into something the city could use. That wreck became the bones of the business Tomaso now claims as legacy.
That’s the name we carry.
Tomaso made Aurelia and I officers. Svart became a member—more from being in the right place at the right moment than anything formal. But he nodded like it meant something to him.
He asked, “What exactly does the Shahzadah do?”
Tomaso answered without hesitation. “We buy and sell wares. We look after each other. We scratch each other’s backs. And if we find the means—we’ll build ships again. Expand the docks into shipyards. Provided we can keep the sea serpents from dragging us under.”
Mad? Maybe. But Runeheim runs on madness. And I’ve followed Tomaso into worse.
Early Evening, Day Two
The fire started tonight.
The Inquisition has decided Runeheim is beyond saving. They’re purging the city by flame—burning what they claim is infected, corrupted, irredeemable.
Lady Vindicta made her declaration in the square, loud enough for everyone to hear. She openly pledged treason against the Empire, backed by the warlord Dunn named Liam. Many cheered; some did not.
The city smells of smoke and fear. Flames are already licking at the edges of the quarter.
Aurelia didn’t joke like she usually does. She only asked, “Is that where the awful cleansing begins?”
We were silent as the smoke thickened. I packed what little I could carry—satchel filled, knife sharpened, coat folded. I shoved a few essentials into a trunk for her, but she insisted on choosing for herself, fussing over what to take and what to leave.
There was no time for arguments.
We ran before the sun set.
I’m taking her back inland—to the wards. They’re safe, for now, hidden away from the city and the Inquisition’s reach. But I need to be sure.
She looked at me with something like resolve, maybe guilt, or maybe fear disguised as arrogance.
She didn’t say much after that.
Runeheim is burning, and we won’t be here to watch it die.
