Nox – 15th Harvestwatch 1383
Wolvsbane, Trifectorate Confederacy
"Beware Vantara, the Shadow Queen. She does not batter gates or break shields she slips a velvet hand inside your breast, finds the pulse of your deepest hunger, and presses until you call the pain a blessing. She will grant what you covet most, but the price is always tomorrow, and when tomorrow comes, she claims the whole of you. Mind, name, and lineage leaving only a pretty husk for her collection of broken
High General of the Holy Empire
advising the Holy Empress
We had been traveling for another week after the two orcs joined us. The girl, Annalise, asked questions about every fragment of my life and pressed far too close. Her voice softened the march, but seven days of continuous song frayed my temper. My patience returned only when the trees thinned, the trunks ended in raw stumps, and churned soil that opened onto a meadow.
Wolvsbane rose from the grass like a fortress forged to defy the sky itself. Its ramparts were three men thick, gunports bristled, rune flares pulsed under each parapet in a slow heartbeat. Siege cannons crouched between bastions, their black iron throats aimed outward as though the whole haven expected the world to end twice.
A tide of refugees churned at the sealed southern gates. Their camp was a patchwork of sagging tents, guttering cook fires, children chasing hope through ankle deep mud. Garrick muttered through clenched teeth, ""
No one could answer.
Zephyr raised his hand, and we followed. He had slipped into leadership without requesting permission. Under his guidance we ate, slept, and avoided every monster on the road.
We angled toward the western wall through grass dotted with . A broad moat ringed the stone wall.
Zephyr studied the masonry, then murmured, "Hold fast," there was no spell chant, no grand gesture. Air simply folded to his will.
Weight vanished. My boots left the earth with the hush of a drawn breath. There was no push of wind, no stomach lurch, only a hush so ubiquitous it whispered in my ears. We drifted upward, over the wall inked with kill runes, past murder holes that stared like cautious eyes. The city unfurled below, bathed in moonlight: lantern rows, slate roof, a silver river cutting the city in half.
I should have felt vertigo; instead, I felt nothing. No air resistance, no pull of gravity, only the cool brush of power shaped by a man who treated natural law as suggestion. Fear pricked the back of my throat. Zephyr's control was terrifying precisely because it was effortless.
We settled on an inner street like motes of dust surrendering to their resting ground The moment my boots touched stone, weight snapped back into my bones and the hush shattered: distant bells, market cries, the low rumble of gears. Zephyr offered no explanation, merely turning,
"I am unsure where exactly Helena resides, Garrick you mentioned you know where."
The old orc nodded, still shaky, and led the way between narrow shops. Zephyr kept pace beside him. I watched their backs and tallied debts. A flight over a fortress wall was no small favor and favors always demand payment. For now, the city lay open, and Dalia rested in her litter, breathing easier than she had since the sea.
Garrick guided us through a maze of narrow lanes that smelled of wet stone and cooking oil gone to smoke. Most shops were shuttered for the night; only a few lanterns glimmered behind iron barred windows. At last, he stopped before a weather beaten three story townhouse edged between a candlemaker's ruin and an abandoned roofer's loft. A hand carved sign arched above the double doors.
The Vanguard Guild
Paint was fresh on the board. The top floor windows gaped dark and crooked, but the lower shutters were freshly mended, and someone had swept the stoop clean.
Garrick rapped twice. No answer. He knocked again, knuckles thudding wood in a slow soldier's cadence. Lock groaned. One door eased open a handspan, held by large ashen grey forearm bristling with scar tissue. Narrow eyes narrowed from inside the shadow.
"State your need," he rumbled.
"It's Garrick War Hail," voice rough but steady. "I bring travelers and a debt owed to Helena."
The door opened wider. "Then we are one and the same. The name is Qapla." He looked unique, unlike a majority of the orcs in the area, he was a dull gray.
Qapla's gaze flickered over each of us, lingering on Dalia's litter and on Zephyr's tailored coat. A human woman appeared beside him, lean and sun browned, a sword resting across her shoulder. She looked Zephyr up and down in open curiosity; humans were rare in Duskmere, and she clearly counted herself the lone specimen.
"This is my comrade, Velyan."
"Velyan," Garrick greeted her with a respectful nod. "May we enter?"
"One moment." Velyan states with a voice like shifting sands. She slipped inside, boot steps faded, then returned accompanied by the rhythmic thump of a crutch.
The door opened and a massive, female, orc filled the doorway: broad shouldered, cloak blood stained, ironwood brace strapped to what remained of her leg. Her single amber eye burned with undiminished command.
"Garrick," she said, warmth hidden under drill sergeant gravel. "Get inside before the night eats you."
She pivoted, ready to swing the door, but Zephyr inclined his head.
"Lady Helena, may my companions and I cross your threshold?"
The courtesy hung in the air like a drawn blade. Helena studied him quizzically for a moment, nodded once, "Permission granted. All of you, come inside."
The double doors opened fully. Lamp light spilled across our weary boots, and the scent of leftover stew reached my nose. It was under renovation, but almost complete.
Helena ushered us into the common hall. Some recruits slept haphazardly in the corners. Their gear laid about them. At the back sat a large bar with barrels stacked behind it. Helena motioned and a goblin poured some drinks and set them around.
The party took their seats before Garrick cleared his throat and began to recount the march from the wall: the slaughter on the wall, our encounter in the woods, the refugees locked outside. I tried to listen, I truly did.
But the instant a salamander like creature, a kobold, if Annalise was correct, appeared from the stairwell and my gaze snapped to him. The cobalt blue kobold wore a patch alchemist's coat, pockets bulging with vials that clinked like nervous teeth.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned as he walked down the stairs; as the Kobold's hands fell from his face his eyes twitched towards Dalia, his projection suddenly pivoting from the bar to her stretcher. I made my way over to stop anything strange going on, but I only heard his muttering as he stood over her.
"Loss of color, tremor in the pulse… her breath is catching every fourth beat," he muttered, scales flicking as he knelt beside the litter. His eyes darted up to me, "May I?"
"What are you going to do?"
"Just a standard examination. No external probes or incisions. Just a simple diagnostic and draught, if needed, free of charge."
"Why?"
"Helena pays me well."
"Do I owe Helena?"
"No."
"Deal."
He produced a thumb size vial of opalescent syrup, uncorked it, and titled Dalia's head. She swallowed unconsciously; the liquid glimmered down her throat. The kobold held two fingertips to her neck, eyes half lidded as if listening for music I could not hear.
Nothing changed. Dalia's breathing stayed , her brow still slick with sweat.
The kobold exhaled through his snout. "Not bacterial, not venom, not rot. This is no sickness."
"Then what?" My voice sounded sharper than steel on stone.
"Curse work." He straightened, tail lashing once in frustration. "Subtle and old. Draws vitality without leaving a physical path in the body. It affects the very soul itself."