Chapter 18: Cracks in the Facade

  Midday in Oakhaven offered little warmth to counter the valley’s pervasive chill. The meticulous, almost compulsive orderliness continued—the quiet movements, the swept paths, the averted gazes. Beneath the surface calm, tension coiled tighter with each passing hour. In their sparse room at the common house, Edmund finished checking the worn leather straps on his gauntlets.

  "The warnings were clear enough," he murmured, more to himself than to Isolde, who was carefully examining a small pouch of reagents. "Avoid asking questions, keep your head down... but someone has to find out what happened to the missing." He thought of the fearful faces in the market, the vacant look of the controlled Blighted. Kael said discontent weakens the community... but what if the Shepherd is the sickness? He had to find concrete evidence, something more than just fear and whispers, but the memory of Kael's calculating gaze lingered. He'd need to be smarter, more cautious, perhaps check the abandoned quarter mentioned in hushed tones.

  Isolde looked up from her reagents, her expression grimly determined. "And I need that Heartstone." She thought of Borin's impossible challenge—retrieve a pure, fist-sized shard from a Blight-touched fissure known for poisonous fumes and unstable rock. A fool's errand, designed to deter or kill. But the Duergar’s bitter words about the Shepherd twisting their craft resonated with her own findings. If Borin held knowledge of runes, knowledge that might help her understand or even manage the creeping taint in her own arm, the risk was necessary. Observe. Adapt. Use only what is essential. The mantra repeated in her mind, a bulwark against the fear of her own power's cost.

  With a shared nod, they left the oppressive quiet of the common house, heading out on their separate, dangerous paths.

  Isolde made her way back towards the Duergar door, then veered off, scrambling up the rocky slope towards the jagged fissure Borin had indicated. Even from a distance, the air grew acrid, stinging her nostrils with the scent of sulfur and something else… something sickly sweet associated with certain Blight strains. The rock around the fissure was discolored, stained yellow and grey, and felt unnaturally brittle beneath her worn boots. Steam hissed intermittently from the crack, carrying waves of dizzying heat and noxious fumes.

  She tied a damp cloth over her nose and mouth, the meager protection doing little against the worst of the stench. Peering into the fissure required nerve; the drop was obscured by steam, and the rock within looked shattered and unstable. She scanned the edges, her eyes sharp. Borin had specified pure Heartstone, unblemished. That meant avoiding the obvious surface veins, likely already corrupted. She needed to go deeper.

  Finding a relatively stable section, she carefully began her descent, using her hands and feet to brace against the treacherous rock. Loose scree skittered away beneath her boots, echoing into the depths. The heat intensified. She spotted a faint, crystalline glow further down, emanating from a cluster of formations within a small side pocket of the fissure. Heartstone.

  Reaching it required traversing a narrow, crumbling ledge. She moved slowly, testing each foothold. As she stretched to grasp a handhold, a wave of particularly foul steam billowed up, making her head swim. Instinctively, she channeled a minuscule thread of Essence, weaving a tiny ward against the poison—just a shimmer of green light. It worked, clearing her head momentarily, but a sharp lance of pain shot up her arm from her wrapped wrist, making her gasp and clutch the rock face, knuckles white. So sensitive now… even the smallest exertion… She grit her teeth against the wave of nausea, the familiar cold dread washing over her. Had Borin seen that flicker of magic? From his hidden door, she couldn't be sure, but she imagined his cynical eyes watching, judging.

  Focusing purely on the physical task, she finally reached the pocket. Several Heartstone shards jutted from the rock, but most showed the tell-tale greyish mottling of Blight corruption. One, however, tucked deeper in, glowed with a clear, pure light. Reaching carefully, mindful of the razor-sharp edges and the unstable rock, she managed to pry it loose. It was heavy, easily fist-sized, and thrummed faintly with trapped earth energy. Clutching her prize, she began the perilous climb back up, the brief magical exertion leaving her trembling slightly, her jaw tight against the lingering throb in her arm.

  Meanwhile, Edmund made his way towards the western edge of Oakhaven, near where the valley wall met a sluggish, reed-choked stream. He’d overheard whispers about a tanner named Finn, known for his quiet dissent, who had vanished a week prior. His small workshop now stood silent and seemingly abandoned.

  Avoiding the patrols that seemed more frequent today – Did Kael pass on my description?— Edmund slipped around the back of the dilapidated workshop. The air hung heavy with the usual smells of tanning chemicals, overlaid with something else… fear. He found a neighbor, an elderly woman hanging laundry with trembling hands, her eyes darting constantly towards the Shepherd's guards visible near the valley gate.

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  "Excuse me, goodwife," Edmund began gently. "I heard… I was looking for Finn the tanner? Owed him for some hides."

  The woman jumped, dropping a clothespin. She looked him up and down, fear warring with a desperate need to speak. "Finn?" she whispered, leaning closer. "Gone. Took him, they did. Middle of the night."

  "Took him? Who?"

  "The Shepherd's Reavers," she hissed, glancing around fearfully. "Said he was… spreading discontent. Questioning things. He just… wanted fair prices. Said the Shepherd’s tithes were too high." Her eyes filled with tears. "They dragged him off. Haven't seen him since. His wife… she went looking near the mines… hasn't come back either."

  Edmund's stomach tightened. "Did they leave anything? Did you see anything?"

  She shook her head rapidly, then paused. "Only… this." She fumbled under her apron, pulling out a ragged, folded piece of parchment. "Found it trod into the mud outside his door the morning after. Looks like nonsense."

  Edmund took it carefully. It was indeed torn, part of a larger document, written in a precise, almost fanatical hand. He smoothed it out.

  ...the Blight is a test, a crucible through which the faithful achieve true purity. Only through Order, through Sacrifice, can the weak flesh be overcome and the Shepherd's peace embrace this land... reject the whispers of the past, embrace the necessary...

  The rest was torn away. Chilling words. Doctrine. Justification. Edmund felt a cold certainty replace his earlier unease. This wasn't just control; it was fanaticism. He thanked the woman quietly, urging her to be careful, before slipping away. Following a hunch based on the woman mentioning Finn's wife heading towards the mines, he skirted the edge of town, moving towards an area marked by several disused storage sheds near an old mine track.

  He heard it before he saw it—a low, rhythmic chanting coming from inside the largest, most dilapidated shed. Keeping low, he crept towards a crack in the warped wooden wall. Peering through, his blood ran cold.

  Inside, under the flickering light of a single lantern, several figures in the dark tunics of the Shepherd's followers stood around a crudely drawn spiral-eye symbol on the dirt floor. They weren't chanting prayers. They were chanting phrases eerily similar to the fragment Edmund held: "Through Sacrifice, Order. Through Order, Purity. The Shepherd Guides." And in the center of the symbol… lay several emaciated figures, bound and gagged, clearly recent captives. Worse, chained against the far wall were two Blighted creatures—the same controlled type he’d seen earlier—standing unnervingly still, runes on their collars glowing faintly. Were they guards? Or components of whatever ritual this was? The air felt thick with corrupted energy, the same oppressive stillness Isolde had described.

  He'd seen enough. This was the heart of the darkness festering in Oakhaven. He started to back away, needing to get back to Isolde, but his boot scraped against a loose stone.

  Instantly, the chanting stopped. Heads snapped towards the sound. "Who's there?" a harsh voice called out.

  Edmund cursed silently. He turned to flee, but two Reavers burst from the shed door, weapons drawn. No time for stealth. He drew his sword, the memory of Isolde’s weakened state flashing through his mind. He was on his own.

  Isolde, clutching the fist-sized Heartstone wrapped in cloth, finally reached Borin’s iron-banded door. She knocked, the heavy thud echoing in the tense silence. The grille slid open, the same suspicious eyes peering out. Wordlessly, she held up the glowing, pure shard.

  The Duergar’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. There was a long pause, then a low grunt that might have been grudging respect. "Hmph. Thought the fumes or the fall would claim you, surface walker."

  The door creaked open a hand's breadth. "Give it here." Isolde passed the Heartstone through. "Fine," Borin grumbled. "You didn't die. Maybe you ain't entirely useless." He didn't open the door further but lowered his voice. "Listen close, then. The Shepherd… he ain't just controllin' the Blight. He's feeding it. Twisting earth-lines, corruptin' deep veins with his foul runes. Some of my kin… fools… listen to his promises of power drawn from below. He's perverting Duergar craft for his own ends."

  Just as Borin finished speaking, a frantic signal echoed through the stones—three sharp raps, a pause, then two more. Edmund's danger signal. Isolde's heart leaped into her throat.

  "I have to go," she said urgently, turning from the door.

  Borin watched her go, then glanced down at the Heartstone in his hand, his expression unreadable.

  Isolde raced back towards the rendezvous point they'd agreed on—a small, abandoned shrine outside the town palisade. She found Edmund leaning against the crumbling stone wall, breathing heavily, his tunic torn, a fresh cut bleeding on his cheekbone.

  "Edmund! What happened?"

  "Cultists," he gasped, gesturing back towards the sheds. "Saw them. Rituals… captives… controlled Blighted. They saw me."

  Before Isolde could ask more, Borin emerged from the shadows nearby, having followed her far more stealthily than she'd realized. He held a small, crudely carved stone bird. "Tracks," he grunted, pointing towards the path leading back to town. "Cult markers, fresh. They knew you were regrouping here. Someone's been watching you both."

  The trap was closing.