Category: Journal Entry

The gate watch had seen the dust long before the wagons came thundering up the road. Two wagons, neck and neck, jolted over the still rough mountain road as the drivers urged them on with reckless grins.

“Ha! You’re losing your touch, Felix!” Damian called, his cap nearly flying off in the wind, Silvester holding on tight just behind him.

Felix cracked the reins “Not yet I haven’t!” driving Buttercup on with stubborn pride.

Crouched low with the cargo, Mitch looked ahead, gauged the narrow stretch to the gate, and made his decision. “You’ll never make it at this pace with me slowing you down, Mr. Porter.” Before Felix could protest, Mitch lept.

Hitting the ground rolling, Mitch came up coughing up dust, but was waving and hollering as the Wagons lumbered on. Suddenly lighter, Felix’s wagon started to creep ahead of Damian’s and crossed the gate just moments ahead of him.

While the gate watch cheered, Felix stood in the front of the cart, waving and bowing to the onlookers. Mitch jogged into the fort and got a rough clap on the back from one of the guards.

“What are you still doing in the Wagon?” Damian snarled at Silvester.
“Because I didn’t want to die?”
“If that’s the case you should have jumped!” Damian took a swing at him and Silvester jumped back in the bed of the Wagon, managing to both not get hit and stay on.

Then came the inevitable voice

“By Benalus’ beard, have you both lost your senses?”

The stablemaster stormed across the yard, his face as red as the sunset. “You’ll lame our best stock racing like drunk sellswords! Look at these poor beasts!” He gestured at Buttercup and Red Spade, both dark with sweat and sides heaving.

Damian turned back “We’re just keepin ‘em sharp, sir”

The stablemaster’s expression showing he did not agree with the younger Porter’s assessment, Felix interjected “We’ve gotta get these to storage right away, we’ll make it up to the horses later!” Shooting Damian a glance, he tapped the reins to get a trot going to their destination, and the two wagons with Mitch on foot made their way to the stone warehouse up against the wall.

—-

Gilbert was putting back some extra beams from the project in the yard when he heard the wagons approaching the warehouse. Brushing the sawdust off his doublet, he made his way out the door and broke into a wide smile.

“Well, well,” he said. “looking like you’ve run from the Rimelanders themselves.”

“Worse,” Damian said solemnly “It was Felix and Mitch.”

Gilbert nodded in mock understanding. “Sounds like the wagons made the whole trip despite that excitement though. Why’s Mitch covered in dirt?”

“Because we won.” Felix said smugly, without further explanation.

Gilbert continued to nod in understanding. “Naturally, what other reason could it be. How’s summer treating you lads?”

As they unloaded the carts, they traded their stories of the summer so far. Mitch’s path to his path, the sights and sounds of the southern reich. Silvester’s hunting stories and tales of the other hunters in Mecorton. Felix and Damian argued about who had a harder time delivering their cargo, with Felix suggesting that it was Silvester who had it worse. Felix also shared how Woodsman was getting on showing his son the ropes in Survold. Gilbert had been in the fort the whole time, and shared stories of the continued improvements and the various visitors who came through.

They laughed loud, easy laughter that filled the warehouse and echoed off the stone. During Damian’s recounting of surprising Silvester in Mecorton, Gilbert was quiet, before interjecting.

“Each tale they bear doth gild their weary face,
And bids our hearts to join their glad expanse.”

The mood changed immediately, but Damian’s excitement was the most palpable.

“Is this what I think it is?” He asked, looking to Felix for confirmation

Felix gave a weary sigh. “Making himself useful. That’s how things get done.”

These trips as of late have not been as long as my normal, but they have been lonely all the same. Having Sil with me on the way back has been nice even if he has been preoccupied with a more important task. I find myself playing little games to pass the time. How many clicks of that back right wheel will I hear before we get to that rock? How many of Gil’s sonnets can I recall without checking my notes? “Disturb me not, lest death itself ye crave”. How many white hairs are in Felix’s beard now? Just little things to keep from pondering the solitude.

That is the benefit of this trip though, the majority of the crew will be together again, even if only for a moment. Sil did his job, I am sure Mitch is faring well. I think I might need to request a job that keeps me in one place a little longer. Get back to sewing a bit.

Oh shoot, did I miss a turn?

“Sil did I fu-“
“You are good keep going straight you will see it soon”

I look back into the wagon. He isn’t even looking. How did he know? He better not be – oh no he is right. Whatever. No wait, not whatever.

“Sil is that Felix?”

Sil gets up this time to check. “Yup. I’ll grab onto something”

I tighten my grip, “Giddy-up! We gotta beat him!”

As the wagon clattered southward, wheels striking stones hidden by the morning mist, Mitch rode in the back with his pack, knees loose, shifting along with the sways as though they meant nothing to him. His easy seat in the back of the wagon marked him as a man long accustomed to rough travel.

Ahead on the bench was Mister Porter, guiding the horse with steady patience. Kevin, another of the porters, sat in the bed of the wagon with him, humming in fits and starts with his eyes on the horizon. Before long, the wagon would stop in Survold, leaving the two of them to finish the rest of their journey on foot while Mister Porter collected materials from Erik in Survold.

Mitch leaned back against the sideboard, his gaze drifting back at the road they’d come down. The fort lay behind them, its walls rising pale in memory, his sister within them. When he’d left, she’d smiled and waved him off, but unease clung to her like a faint shadow he couldn’t shake. Too many eyes seemed to linger on her lately, hushed voices speaking when they thought no one else listened.

Recalling the night he crept through those shuttered windows, he involuntarily clenched his fists. The parchment, the seal broken by his touch, the words, though they meant nothing to him, their meaning had been given voice, clear and inescapable. He had memorized them by sound alone, carrying them not in ink but echo. He burned the page after, watching the flame eat away the lines until there was nothing left but ash. Her safety was secured by his own hands… yet the echo remained, heavier than the pack between his knees, pressing on him even now.

The wagon lurched hard in a rut, and Mitch steadied himself without effort, catching the sideboard as though born to the motion. Up front Mister Porter cursed in Rogalt, glanced back, offered the faintest nod, and returned the to reins.

“Quiet today, Mitch” Kevin said, settling himself back to his spot after the bounce.

Mitch managed a smile, “Just thinking about how much nicer my path’ll be than yours”

While true, it wasn’t what occupied his mind. While the stones ahead would be lifted with back and hand, the burden behind was a different kind of weight entirely. He carried it in silence, hoping this path he forged would lead him nearer to his sister’s safety.

Svart should have known when they didn’t go get the witch in the woods or the mages that caused all the troubles, that they were not the real Inquisition. Svart was asked a lot of questions but they didn’t ask him about anything important. Talking about people he didn’t know and other stupid questions. Never paying any attention to anything important. Pretending to be the Church so they could be mean to people.

Working against Svart. Trying to attack Svart and his allies.

Allies like Cnut. Cnut is back. It is a good sign that the forces sent against him failed. Cnut is one of Svart’s oldest allies. Everybody else is dead or has disappeared. Captured and held prisoner by the witch in her cave. If only Svart could find the bandits base in his woods I could find out where she is, but just as I uncover where it is and am about to attack it, I go there and they have moved it. They always run except when they ambush Svart.

Svart told the people claiming to be the Inquisition all about the Witch, her bandits, and her plans to use the spirit creature the mages summoned. That they did nothing made suspicions grow that something was wrong. With the warnings that the Vindicta and others were planning an uprising to put them down just confirmed Svart’s conclusion that they were not the real Inquisition. They did nothing about witches or the mages or any of the real threats.

Svart is now a noble. Ragnar made him one. He claimed Svart was a Baron after Svart supplied all the food needed for the teams to leave Runehiem on missions this Forum.

The Color Wizard has added black to his ensemble. I will have to dwell on what this means. Lately, he seems to be trying to act human. He has addressed Svart and seems to be attempting to act in a friendly manner.

Not like Rhyme and Reasons who is turning cruel. She has been tormenting Svart. Then other times, seems almost regretful. Trick? Trap? The last vestiges of their human soul trying to break through the fire that is burning it away? Perhaps the process of being one soul in two bodies has affected the process of doom that Wolf Rick described happening to himself is affected.

Svart has uncovered that there is a way to steal their magic. They call it suppression. Java was able to do it one of its own kind. The fake Inquisition did it. If Svart can learn how to do this and use it on them. Perhaps if I contacted the real Inquisition, they would be able to come and do it.

Tomaso, a great merchant, asked Svart to join his organization knowing that Svart would bring it more wealth. Svart joined along with Nephele. Nephele is not like the others. The Others are not as we are. We’re going to make lots of money and Svart will have his treasure for when it is Time.

The Time draws near. Svart will return to Runeheim. To the hut he was born in. I’ll wait in the darkness and watch the thieves run back and forth like rats. Svart will sit in the tavern and listen to everybody’s secrets as only Wolf Rick ever noticed. Svart will wait for the Time.

Friday Night
Forum began with myself being accosted by inquisitors, despite knowing nothing of the goings on within Runeheim, and Nephele drowning in an endless dirge about Santiago.

Honestly, I’m tired of hearing it, even though it’s only just begun. He is Santi-ah-gone, she needs to move on. Knut doesn’t deserve to be dragged through her misery—or tangled up with me. I don’t love Knut; I admire him. His steady calm, his quiet strength—they’re rare, and frankly, impressive. But love? That’s for fools. Knut deserves someone who isn’t me—someone who won’t inevitably break his heart. Someone who is a fool, like Nephele!

So I’m doing them both a favor. Admiring Knut from afar, sparing him the chaos I’d bring, and setting him up with Nephele—bitter and mournful, yes, but steady. Exactly what he needs. And she needs her focus redirected away from Santiago.

I keep slipping Knut drink coins for Nephele’s bar—free drinks on me—much to Nephele’s outrage. “Aurelia, how many more tokens will you steal before you bankrupt us? That one-handed oaf isn’t worth a coin!” she snapped, bitter as ever. She mocks Knut’s missing hand too. Just last night she joked loud enough for half the bar: “Maybe you should trade those coins for a second one.” Knut grinned through it all, patient as ever. I know the way to any man’s heart is through their stomach, Nephele will win him over quickly with her delicious beverages.

Knut attempted to collect his bill from Nephele, itemized list and all, to be met with her balking and handwaving frantically while near-yelling something about “I’ll figure out what to pay you” and me refitting his armor to him as part of whatever agreement she dredged up. She denies she has my mother’s riches. I know she is just lying.

Saturday Morning
I “accidentally” sent Knut to Nephele’s bar at opening, forcing an awkward moment between them. Nephele snapped, “Don’t get soft on me, Knut. And don’t expect free drinks every time—one hand or not.” Knut laughed it off, and I swear Nephele’s glare softened just a touch. Progress.

I am so generous that I fed the entire town by providing resources to the cook– who is also a mage! And contributed to the town’s stockpile. Yes, Aurelia—the benefactor of Runeheim. If anyone deserves to live well, it’s me.

I saw Nephele sneaking not just one, but two cupcakes to Knut while she thought I wasn’t looking. The embers of their shared love are slowly burning brighter.

Saturday Night
Runeheim burns; the Inquisition tightens its grip. Yet Nephele managed to coax a secret story from Knut—someone threatening someone she cares for. She actually paid him for it, like a savvy merchant. A fierce spark lit in her eyes—a flicker of life I haven’t seen since Santiago disappeared. It’s proof they belong together.

As we left the city late, flames painting the sky red behind us, I indulged in a sweeter fantasy: Nephele finally handing me the entire chest of my “inheritance”—that supposed fortune she’s been “holding” for me—while I live free from debts and worry.

I imagine a day when Nephele is married to Knut, finally quieting her endless mourning, while I sit back, knowing I masterminded it all—for their good and my own. A free guard and a silent cousin, what more could a girl ask for other than her inheritance?

Nephele pushes me to pack up my belongings, quipping about how long it’s taking and having the audacity to tell me to just leave my scarf. I give her a look, she shuts up, we leave the city before the smoke is thick enough to prevent us from being able to see at all. My cousin is in a desperate hurry to protect her wards and her belongings–my belongings she owes me.

Sunday Afternoon
Back home, surrounded by Nephele’s wards—Dong Quixote, Damascus Steele, and Cass a’Nueva—grown men softened under Nephele’s care. I indulged their antics with amused affection: Dong Quixote’s tales of misplaced chivalry, Damascus’s restless pacing, and Cass’s absurd poetry. Their laughter brightened the room and softened Nephele’s bitterness, if only briefly.

I’m doing them a favor. Knut deserves someone who isn’t me. Nephele needs to move on. And I deserve to live free of worry—and debt. If pairing them means Nephele foots my bills, hands me my inheritance chest, and marries Knut, then every stolen coin and sharp word was worth it.

Romance is for fools—I’m better than that. I’m simply the architect of a better future, one where everyone wins—especially me.

When news came that my dear mother Selena Leto had passed on to the splendid afterlife she deserved, I steeled myself to reclaim what was rightfully mine. My cousin Nephele and brother had already fled to Runeheim to seize my inheritance: chests brimming with gold, sapphires bright as stars, silks finer than whispered secrets, porcelain cups fit for kings, and above all, cellars of rare Etruvian wine awaiting my arrival.

The sea voyage was a trial of endurance. Gray skies stretched endlessly, icy winds tore through my golden Sha’ran silk brocade coat that shimmered like liquid sunlight even under the dullest clouds. Sailors whispered of sea serpents trailing our ship, and I fancied glimpsing their shadows beneath the waves. I was poised to faint elegantly should one surface—an exit worthy of a lady of my stature.

Upon landing, I joined a caravan bound for Frosthearth, where I met Knut—a battle-worn man still licking the figurative wounds of losing his army and right hand in a fierce campaign. His eyes bore the weight of countless hardships, yet when I unveiled my plans, he listened with a steady gaze and sighed often enough for a symphony.

“Just imagine, Knut,” I said one evening beneath a sky smeared with pale stars, “a marble bath the size of a ballroom, filled with rose petals imported fresh from Hestralia. Heated floors, so my slippers never meet cold stone.”

Knut sighed long and slow, then sank onto a log and facepalmed, murmuring, “A vision worthy of a queen.” His voice, thick with mock exasperation, I interpreted as the shy adoration of a man secretly enchanted by my grandeur.

As we trudged through biting wind and clinging mud, I declared, “Two servants will be required just to carry my hatboxes—and a personal sommelier, naturally, to taste my wines and ensure only the finest grace my lips.”

His eyes rolled with such theatrical flair I could barely suppress a smile. “A sommelier, my lady? Naturally. Shall I add ‘court jester’ to the list?”

I knew such teasing was the language of a devoted admirer, masking his affection beneath humor.

Meanwhile, Knut meticulously tracked every hardship in his mental ledger, to be presented as a bill to Nephele upon my safe arrival:

• Laborious escorting fee (1 copper coin per mile, doubled for extra whining)
• Hazard pay for bandit attacks (one silver coin per assailant subdued)
• Emotional fatigue surcharge (to compensate for my frequent speeches on opulence)
• Mud-stained coat cleaning compensation (especially for the golden Sha’ra silk brocade)
• Lost glove retrieval fee (twice, when I demanded we turn back)
• Extra luggage handling charge (for the two trunks, hatbox, and precious wine crate)
• Surprise goat chase surcharge (because apparently even goats plot against me)
• Late-night storytelling exhaustion tax (for the times I regaled him with my future soirées)

The road was no less dangerous than it was tedious. When bandits attacked on the second day, I leapt behind Knut, shouting tactical advice: “Aim for the arms! And please, try not to soil my coat!” He dispatched the scoundrel with swift efficiency, sighing so deeply it seemed musical—a lament and a love song all at once.

A few days later, a gang of cutthroats ambushed us. I dove into a snowdrift, offering muffled encouragement: “Don’t let them see you sweat!” Knut fought silently and skillfully, grunting and sighing between blows. When the last foe fled, he dusted snow off his battered cloak as if it were merely a nuisance rather than evidence of his loyalty.

On a lighter note, a suspiciously malevolent goat stalked me like a silent assassin. Knut chased it off with a sigh that plainly said, Why me?—but I knew it was a sigh of heartfelt devotion.

Through all this, Knut bore my burdens—and my endless fantasies—with exaggerated sighs and dry wit. I chose to interpret his sarcasm as rapt attention and secret admiration.

At last, as the ragged gates of Runeheim loomed, Knut let out a sigh so long I swore it stirred the icy wind itself. He looked at me and said, “Good luck, my lady. I’ll be here, polishing your throne—and keeping a detailed invoice for Nephele.”

I smiled serenely, certain that soon all of Runeheim would know: Aurelia Leto, rightful heiress, had come to claim her birthright—and perhaps, a reluctant admirer’s heart as well.

Week 1
Summer has come. The snow has melted, revealing mud, bones, and the unbearable sound of Dong Quixote’s morning “morale rituals.” Today he oiled himself with what he claimed was sacred “sun-wolf grease.” He was shirtless, again, and danced in the square. Three children cried. One woman fainted. Dong called it “spiritual elevation.”

Cassius recited a poem about the moon. I think it was a poem. It could have been a love letter to his own reflection.

Damascus served us “breakfast kebabs” made of pickled eggs and marshmallow bark. Aurelia ate them like they were truffles. She hasn’t stopped smiling since.

I miss Santiago.

Week 2
Cassius has written seventeen odes. One to Aurelia’s hammer. One to a spoon. One to a splinter in his finger he insists is “the shard of fate.”

Damascus invented “hot wine salad.” It was exactly what it sounds like, and worse. Dong says it gave him visions. He tried to convince a goat to lead a rebellion.

Aurelia lounges in the forge like a queen, draped in adoration. She hasn’t paid for a thing in two weeks. Somehow, she has Damascus convinced he owes her his future children.

I found Santiago’s old knife in the bottom of my pack. Dull, rusted. I can’t bring myself to sharpen it.

Week 3
Dong challenged a tree to a duel. The tree won.

Cassius wrote a tragic monologue from the perspective of a burnt pancake. It ended with him sobbing into his wine. Aurelia clapped like she was at the opera.

Damascus combined jam and dried squid. Aurelia called it “an unexpected delight.” I think she’s lost her sense of taste. Possibly her soul.

I saw a man in the market—broad shoulders, that same careless confidence in his stride. For a moment, I thought it was Santiago. My heart stopped. But when he turned, the eyes were wrong. Too soft.

Santiago doesn’t limp. He moves like he owns the world and dares anyone to say otherwise.

I bought a bottle of plum liquor anyway and drank it behind the tannery.

Week 4
Cassius is now referring to himself as “The Bard of Flame and Flesh.” He tried to write a poem on my cloak. With ink. While I was wearing it.

Dong has started wearing a cape and shouting “Morale check!” before hip-thrusting into rooms.

Damascus put fish in coffee. I cannot describe the scent. I nearly threw him into the river.

Aurelia kissed someone in the square today. I don’t think she even knew his name. She just looked at me afterward and said, “You see, darling? I still have it.”

I nearly punched her. Instead, I laughed. Then I cried. Then I punched Cassius for rhyming “grief” with “beef.”

Week 5
Dong has painted abs on his already bare torso. Cassius says it’s performance art. Damascus tried to make “fermented stew foam.” Aurelia told him it was genius and now he won’t stop.

They built a shrine to Aurelia in the forge. It’s made of spoons, old nails, and a terrifying sculpture of her face made of cheese.

I dreamed of Santiago. We were running. Not from anything. Just running. And laughing.
When I woke up, I’d rolled into the hearth ashes. Aurelia put a blanket over me and said nothing.

Week 6
Dong tried to form a militia. He called it the Order of Gyration. Instead of men in this militia, they were goats. Cassius wrote their anthem. Damascus cooked celebratory “grape meat pie.” We banned all three from public events.

Aurelia got drunk and forged a tiara out of scrap metal. She made me wear it. Said I’m a “princess of shadows.” I wore it for five minutes before throwing it in the river.

Cassius dived in after it.

I miss Santiago every day. But today I didn’t cry. Today I laughed. And I let Aurelia take the last piece of bread, even though I was hungry.

Maybe this is healing. Or maybe it’s madness.

Either way, it’s mine.

Reason sat on a grassy knoll, overlooking the bustle of forum attendees packing up their belongings as they readied to make their long treks home. They brought their knees to their chest, hoping it would quell the ball of dread that had yet to unravel.

Their gaze drifted upwards, squinting from the stark blue of the sky. Ashy-backed swifts, transient travelers from the south, chittered and dipped over the field as they chased after their bounty of insects. It was hard to feel envy towards these creatures, carrying themselves frantically on trembling wing from meal to meal, each day a struggle to feed oneself whilst dodging the talons of predators above and below. If anything, Reason felt a kinship.

Below, the Valerian banners flew proudly in the breeze, their bold purple hues unmistakeable. The Rogalians milled around, preparing to travel. A bitter taste welled up in Reason’s mouth. Not towards any one individual, never, and they’d be remiss to say they did not have their soft spots. The brave chef, Tiff, for one, always lit up any room she graced. The Jokiers remained pillars of support for Rhyme, and for that Reason was beyond grateful. Even the band of porters, discreet as they were and yet more earnest than most people they’d encountered. If Felix was anything, he was reliable.

The Lady’s words on sin did not sit well with Reason. Another Rogalian banner exerting its will on a people whose culture they did not comprehend. Call it cultural heritage.

The Old Gods were cruel and frightening; Reason gathered as much from hushed whispers. Still, they were as much of the land as the mountains and forests of Njordir, shaping their way of life and old traditions, harsh but *free.* It was just another component of their culture that the Throne wished to smother, and it made Reason nauseous to think anyone would be complacent.

Holy fire, burning away each perceived imperfection until left polished like glass, pristine and palatable.

Further still, others picked through the parts of forum razed by the Inquisition. Dark spots on dusty ground denoted where blood had pooled too thick to drain overnight. The bitter taste in Reason’s mouth soured to hatred. Memories of chain and hot steel raced through their mind and their hands began to tremble once more. Burned patches of skin prickled from the slightest movement and brush of cloth.

Cruelty masked by holiness.

Reason tore their gaze away from the wreckage below, watching the swifts again. A small cloud of gnats caught the attention of the flock, the little birds screeching as they swooped for their prey.

What had the Inquisition done here other than salt Njordir’s wounds? One scouting party that attempted to go feed a starving populace without explicit permission returned beaten to a pulp. Reason struggled to wrap their mind around why God’s will would mean hundreds go hungry until a single heretic was burned, no explanation sitting well with them.

Still, Runeheim persevered. Those under threat were saved, not from expectation of return, but out of compassion and love. When Father Erasmus and Reason kneeled beside the despairing peasantry of Haedpor Village, it was not as clergy and civil servant, trying to demand the villagers would continue to spin like cogs to feed the reich, but as countrymen, brethren, family, there to help restore a connection to the land.

O’shea wouldn’t have cared. O’shea would have kept his head down, would have scoffed at indolence or been sent by the Fire Guild to threaten with greasing flame until the cogs no longer squeaked.

Flame still lived in Reason’s heart, but it took a different form. Tender, burning, overwhelming. Perhaps splitting the soul meant there was room for something more to grow, lonely and hurting as O’shea once was, bouncing from one warfront to another. Different banners, all a part of the Throne’s will.

A high-pitched squeak and fluttering snapped them out of their musing. A swift that swooped too low had gotten tangled in a bramble, its long wings fluttering helplessly against the ground. Taking pity, Reason stood up, picking their way towards it through the tall grass.

Reason was almost there when they froze. A few paces from the swift was an emperor adder, coiled and poised to strike, its head fixed on the fluttering bird.

Nature should take its course, Reason thought. Cold adrenaline rushed through their veins at the sight of the snake, knowing it would be a poor decision to suffer its venom over this, yet the cries of the swift tore at their heart. Against their better judgement, they crouched, careful not to make any movements that would provoke the adder. It was stupid, but they stuck their hand into the bramble, wrestling with the prickly, whip-like branches to snatch the bird out.

They could feel the flutter of the swift’s heartbeat as it lay flush in their palm for a few moments before it caught enough wind under its wings to take off into the sky.

The adder lay unmoving as Reason slowly backed away.

Reason sat back down in the grass a safe distance away, their hands shaking again as the fear drained from their body. They’d already lost sight of that swift, identical to the few dozen gracing the skies.

Njordir was wild and free. Rife with conflict and archaic ways, perhaps even to its own detriment, but ways that should allowed to **be,** ways that can and should be fought for. Just as Dunland deserved a chance for its sovereignty, so did Njordir, so did Runeheim.

Any less, and they may as well have let the Inquisition burn this whole place to the ground.

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.