Chapter 2: Harmonic Shadows

  Aftermath of the Drow Battle

  By the time they had finished slaying the drow it was close to 4am. The party was exhausted so they settled in for a long rest in some of the many bedrooms in the manor. Before heading off to sleep, a plan was hatching in his mind and he asked the group to meet him at the center of town at noon. The gears in his head were marching along as he fell asleep. He couldn’t keep himself in bed for more than 4 hours before he made his way through the town spreading indistinct rumors about some big news that would be announced in the town square at noon. He was really laying it on heavy attempting to drum up a crowd. The more, the better. He wanted to tell their story. But more than that, he wanted to tell it to the whole town…

  The Town Square Performance

  When noon had come around, practically the whole town had gathered and Magnus was strumming his mandolin for them and telling them stories. Finally the time had come and past and he was starting to get worried that his new found friends were nowhere to be seen when over the crowd, he saw the tall frame of Kaeric approaching from the manor with Ashen and Sylvi.

  Magnus erupted into song singing the Song of Greymoor’s Blight. The crowd was ecstatic, not just with the playing, but the news. The town needed the news. They had long hoped that whatever this evil was would be stricken from the land. They were throwing coins and clamoring for more as Magnus went into the greatest of exaggerative detail of how the four had slain the drow and protected the town. More than 10 gold pieces from the crowd, which was so much for a single hour of time and he immediately took the money and turned to Father Orin. “Father Orin,” he said. “You protect your flock and care so much for them. You will know better what to do with this gold than I ever would.”- And the crowd cheered swarming the group to get to know them better. Magnus kneeled to let the children pet his horns while others climbed onto Kaeric’s massive shoulders. The little ones were in love with Sylvi as she danced with them. Ashen - well, Ashen was Ashen. He was standoffish as always, but probably was more annoyed by the light than anything.

  Taking notice from across the crowd of Ashen’s discomfort, Magnus redirected the crowd toward the tavern to continue the festivities in a little more comfort - and hopefully get himself the catch up sleep that he had missed the night before. But… sleep would not come. Apparently the boasting and storytelling had successfully gotten away from me and the town needed some merriment and they continued to drink and ask for more stories and songs as my newfound friends slipped out the door just after dinner had been served.

  Consulting the Sword (Whispers in the Streets)

  While Magnus remained inside the tavern, entertaining the crowd with his tales, the rest of the group took to the streets to search for clues. They needed to determine whether the curse had truly been lifted or if it was prudent to make a swift exit. Though they had defeated the drow, there was no certainty she had been the sole cause of the disturbances. As they walked down the road, the quiet hum of the night was broken by faint whispers—just barely audible, as if caught in that strange in-between space where hushed tones overlap. Occasionally, a single syllable emerged from the tangled mess of sound, discernable for only a moment before being swallowed again.

  Ashen paused, his sharp ears straining as he focused on the voices. “Do you hear that?” Kaeric muttered, glancing around. He raised his voice cautiously, attempting to speak to the unseen whispers. Instantly, the voices fell silent, as if startled by the realization they had been overheard. The group exchanged uneasy glances, unsure if the whispers had retreated or were simply waiting, listening.

  They agreed to dig deeper. Perhaps the sword might reveal more, though it had grown silent since Sylvi donned the rings. Sitting at the edge of the fountain in the city’s center, she carefully removed the amulet and slipped off both rings. As she placed the items aside, a curious sensation washed over her. Unlike before, there was no headache or sense of unease. For the first time, she felt she could speak directly to the sword—not aloud, but within her mind.

  Ashen and Kaeric stood nearby, tense and watchful, as Sylvi closed her eyes and concentrated. Through her connection with the sword, they began to unravel the story.

  The drow had come to the town with her two shades, seeking the amulet. It was a powerful magical artifact, highly prized by the followers of Zarathrax—the Shadowed Flame Bringer and ruler of the Seventh Circle of Hell. Sylvi’s connection with the sword revealed more: there were likely others loyal to Zarathrax already in the town, watching, perhaps even now.

  The sword spoke of the orc shade they had fought earlier, once a proud warrior who had been chosen to wield the hilt. In life, he had been an honorable defender of his clan, well-regarded and brave. But he had been trapped, twisted into a shade, and forced to serve the shadows. Now, with Sylvi wielding the hilt, there was relief—perhaps even hope—for its purpose to be restored.

  The group was struck by the weight of their task. Protecting the amulet would be difficult enough, but keeping its presence hidden would prove even harder. As they deliberated, Kaeric returned to the tavern to fetch Magnus. When he arrived, Magnus immediately noticed the amulet resting on the fountain’s edge. His eyes widened in alarm. “That needs to be covered!” he exclaimed, marching over.

  Without thinking, Magnus grabbed the amulet. The group froze, expecting him to recoil in pain. Only Sylvi had touched it without injury, thanks to the rings. But Magnus felt no searing heat. Instead, it was cool to the touch.

  “See? It’s just like any other piece of jewelry,” Magnus said, holding it up for them to see. He turned to Kaeric. “Go ahead, try it. It’s fine.”

  Kaeric hesitated, then touched the amulet cautiously. When nothing happened, Magnus let out a sigh of relief. “Good. But Sylvi, cover it up. We don’t need anyone knowing we have it.”

  As Sylvi concealed the amulet beneath her cloak, they continued their questioning. Through Sylvi, the sword revealed more. The whispers and shadows were part of an effort to perform a summoning ritual—an attempt to bring Zarathrax into the material plane as a servant of the Seventh Circle of Hell. The revelation hit the group like a thunderclap. This was no ordinary threat. The gravity of the situation left them momentarily stunned, each grappling with the implications.

  Magnus, however, began nodding off where he stood, his exhaustion overtaking him. His head dipped lower, and he nearly stumbled.

  “Go to sleep, Magnus,” Sylvi said with a faint smirk. “We’ll go speak with Father Orin. He might have more information about this Zanthrax Demon Lord.”

  “Huh? Wha—? Oh. Yeah… I’ll get some sleep. Isn’t it Zarathrax?” he mumbled, already shuffling away.

  “Yes, Zarathrax. You know what I mean, Magnus. Go to sleep. We’ll get you if we need you,” Sylvi replied. Needing no further convincing, Magnus stumbled back toward the tavern for much-needed rest.

  The Promise of Havenford

  Before being waylaid to Greymoor by rumors of supernatural tremors, shadows, and crop failures, Magnus had been on his way to the Grand Hall of Lore in Havenford. He was in the middle of what some might call a research project—perhaps more of a hunt—for a truly wondrous bardic instrument lost to the sands of time: The Starweaver’s Lyre.

  The instrument, it was said, had been touched by the divine, allowing its player to conjure images that bent the fabric of reality, mesmerizing audiences and leaving them utterly enchanted. For Magnus, the Lyre was more than a legend—it was a goal, a piece of artistry and magic that could solidify his place among the great storytellers of his time.

  When Father Orin suggested the party head to Havenford, Magnus’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Ah, Havenford,” he began, his voice filled with reverence. “It’s not just a port city, you know—it’s a great historical hub, a city of knowledge where historians, scribes, and bards come together to share stories and preserve the legends of our age.”

  He continued, almost breathlessly, “In the Grand Hall of Lore, there are plaques dedicated to renowned bards. ‘One day,’ I’ve always said, ‘I’ll have my name engraved there, alongside the greats.’ Imagine that! To be remembered forever as one of our time’s most cherished storytellers. And if I may be so bold,” Magnus added with a flourish of his hat, “I fully intend to see that dream realized.”

  Ashen raised an eyebrow but said nothing as Magnus carried on.

  “But you know,” Magnus continued, “there’s another library we might consider. It’s far more secretive—the Mirror Library in Silvershade. Each section is guarded by riddles of reflection, and I must say, it’s quite the experience. Some of the riddles are rather simple; the assistants even give away answers to the well-known ones now. For example—”

  “Magnus,” Ashen interrupted, his tone flat.

  “Uh, yes?” Magnus replied, blinking.

  “I know you love to talk, but are you going to get to a point here?” Ashen asked, staring at him with raised eyebrows.

  Magnus cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, well… One time, I encountered the Hall of Multiplying Pathways there. It was a corridor of identical mirrors reflecting endlessly, making it nearly impossible to discern the true path forward from a reflection. In the mirrors, my reflection always held a different object—fascinating, really! Only by realizing there was one true mirror, the one showing my walking stick, was I able to pass through to the room of tomes I sought.”

  He paused, only to launch into another memory. “Another room held a single nonsensical book—a cookbook, or so it seemed at first glance. A plaque beside a massive mirror read:

  ‘Knowledge reversed is knowledge hidden. Bring the truth into the light.’

  I assumed I must read it backward. That didn’t work, naturally, but when I turned the book to the mirror and read the reflected words, the glyphs shifted before my eyes! Oh, it wasn’t the tome I needed, but it made for a delightful afternoon.”

  Magnus’s tone grew wistful as he added, “But then there was another room… After solving its riddle, I was unceremoniously ushered out, and when I returned to my desk, my notes were missing! I hit a brick wall in my investigation after that.”

  “Again, Magnus,” Ashen interrupted, his tone growing sharper. “Your point?”

  Magnus straightened his hat. “Well, my point is this: if we don’t find what we need in Havenford, the Mirror Library might hold answers. Their secrets are often more deeply protected than what’s filed away in the Hall of Lore. I even solved a few puzzles myself—”

  “How far is it?” Ashen cut in again, clearly uninterested in another tangent.

  Magnus tilted his head thoughtfully. “Oh, about 800 miles? Give or take. Though closer to 900 if you avoid the direct route through Caelora, which is a shame because they have a lovely lantern ceremony at night that you simply must—”

  “Magnus,” Ashen interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll head to Havenford and see what we need to do from there. We don’t know where this will take us yet.”

  Magnus grinned, undeterred. “Fair enough, fair enough. Havenford it is, then. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you regret missing Caelora’s lanterns.”

  Ashen shook his head, and Sylvi stifled a quiet laugh as the group prepared to continue their journey.

  Preparing for the Journey Ahead

  After returning to the manor and finishing his spirited recounting of the Mirror Library, Magnus agreed to negotiate with Lord Griffin for transportation to Havenford. A cart or wagon would be essential for the long journey ahead. However, the party hadn’t anticipated an encounter with the elven harp player, Elara, who greeted them with a piercing gaze that seemed to see right through them.

  Elara wasted no time addressing the truth. “You’ve taken the amulet,” she said bluntly, her voice calm but weighted with meaning.

  The party exchanged wary glances before sharing what they’d learned from the sword about Zarathrax. Elara listened intently, then introduced herself. Through her music and magic, she explained, she had been keeping Lord Allistair Griffin alive far beyond his natural lifespan to preserve his bloodline. One day, she knew, the Griffin line would be needed to protect the amulet again. But now that they had removed the artifact, the protections tied to it were gone, and the spell was irreparably broken.

  “I lack the strength to restore the protections alone,” Elara admitted, her voice tinged with regret. “The power in Lord Griffin’s blood is too faint to fuel such magic anymore. You must find another way to protect the amulet.” She fixed the group with a stern look. “I will stay here to keep Lord Griffin alive as long as I can. Father Orin was right—if you seek knowledge of Zarathrax beyond the reach of ordinary priests, you’ll find it in the Hall of Lore in Havenford.”

  Lord Griffin, grateful for their help, provided them with a cart and arranged for a farmer named Berf to accompany them and return the horses once they reached Havenford. Berf was a tall, burly man with wild red hair, a barrel chest, and an axe slung across his back. His brown overalls fit snugly over his open shirt, giving him the appearance of a man who worked hard and carried himself with confidence.

  Berf wasted no time preparing the horses, jogging ahead to hitch them to the cart as the group concluded their business with Lord Griffin. They deliberated over their route and the looming dangers ahead. The road to Havenford was a five-day journey, fraught with potential threats from cultists or assassins who might have learned of the amulet’s removal. Magnus, uncharacteristically quiet, couldn’t shake the weight of the responsibility. Ashen, by contrast, was eager to set out, though Magnus suspected the drow was less than thrilled about traveling in broad daylight.

  As the discussion turned to safety, Ashen suggested bringing more people along for protection. Sylvi, ever the voice of reason, quickly shot the idea down. “Look around, Ashen. These are farmers. This is a cult we’re dealing with—possibly assassins, rituals, shades. We’re already risking Berf’s life by bringing him with us. Dragging a group of farmers along would just get them killed.”

  Magnus smirked. She’s the heart of the group, he thought to himself.

  As they prepared to leave, Magnus proposed a plan. “We should leave town publicly,” he said, “but with a bit of misdirection. Make it known we’re heading somewhere else.”

  The cart trundled down the road from the manor, catching the attention of townsfolk as it passed. Magnus waved to the crowd, calling out cheerfully. “Off to Slynn for our next adventure!” he shouted, making sure as many people heard him as possible. “Anyone know where to get good sausage there? Or perhaps a map?” The townspeople waved back, their curiosity fading into the distance as the cart rolled on.

  Ashen shot Magnus a sideways glance. “Slynn?”

  Magnus grinned. “It’s just a town north of here. If any cultists are planning an ambush, they’ll be waiting on the wrong road.”

  Ashen gave a short nod of approval.

  The road straight in front of them was lined with quiet farms throughout the morning. As they climbed out of the valley, the scenery changed. Trees grew denser, and the road crested a hill before splitting at a T-junction. One road led to Slynn, the other to Havenford. Without hesitation, the party turned toward Havenford, their resolve firm despite the dangers ahead.

  The journey from the manor began uneventfully, the cart rumbling along the dirt road with Berf at the reins. The morning was clear and sunny, the kind of weather that begged for easy conversation. Berf, sitting tall with his axe slung proudly across his back, seemed eager to talk, even as Ashen’s quiet demeanor suggested he wasn’t.

  “So,” Berf began, leaning back to glance at Ashen, “what’s a fancy fella like you doing with that there crossbow? Don’t seem like you’d need it much, what with all them magic tricks you pull.”

  Ashen raised an eyebrow, his dark red eyes glinting faintly under his hood. “Magic doesn’t always solve problems,” he replied simply. “Sometimes a bolt through the heart is the most effective solution.”

  Berf let out a hearty laugh, his voice booming. “A bolt through the heart, eh? Not bad, not bad. But it ain’t got the same satisfaction as feeling the weight of your axe cleaving through a tree—or, you know, something less polite.”

  Ashen tilted his head, his gaze flicking to the massive axe strapped across Berf’s back. “You seem rather fond of that weapon. Is it special?”

  Berf’s chest swelled with pride, his grin widening. “Special? This here’s the best axe you’ll ever lay eyes on! Forged by ol’ Delmar Ironwill himself up in Blackrock Forge. I tell ya, no finer smith in the region. Cost me a year’s worth of crops and then some, but she’s worth every copper.” He patted the axe lovingly, his voice lowering almost reverently. “Cuts clean through a tree in two swings—one, if I’m having a good day.”

  Ashen smirked faintly. “And if it’s not a tree you’re cutting?”

  Berf chuckled, his hand gripping the reins tighter. “Oh, she does just fine with that too. Had to chase off a pack of wolves last winter when they tried sniffin’ too close to the barn. This beauty sent the lot of ’em running back into the woods, tails tucked between their legs.” He leaned closer to Ashen, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “She’s got a name, you know. ‘Molly.’ Don’t tell the missus, but I reckon Molly’s my favorite girl.”

  Ashen blinked, his expression betraying a flicker of amusement. “You named your axe... Molly.”

  “Sure did!” Berf said with a firm nod. “Every great weapon’s gotta have a name. Don’t yours?”

  Ashen glanced at his crossbow, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “No,” he said flatly. “But I’ll consider it.”

  Berf slapped his knee and laughed again, the cart jostling slightly as the horses shifted. “Ah, you’ll come around! A weapon with a name’s a weapon with a soul. You just wait. Molly’ll keep us safe on this road, you’ll see.”

  Ashen’s gaze shifted back to the road ahead, but his tone softened slightly. “Let’s hope so. We may need her before this journey’s done.”

  The journey from the manor began uneventfully, the cart rumbling along the dirt road with Berf at the reins. The morning was clear and sunny, the kind of weather that begged for easy conversation. Berf, sitting tall with his axe slung proudly across his back, seemed eager to talk, even as Ashen’s quiet demeanor suggested he wasn’t.

  “So,” Berf began, leaning back to glance at Ashen, “what’s a fancy fella like you doing with that there crossbow? Don’t seem like you’d need it much, what with all them magic tricks you pull.”

  Ashen raised an eyebrow, his dark red eyes glinting faintly under his hood. “Magic doesn’t always solve problems,” he replied simply. “Sometimes a bolt through the heart is the most effective solution.”

  Berf let out a hearty laugh, his voice booming. “A bolt through the heart, eh? Not bad, not bad. But it ain’t got the same satisfaction as feeling the weight of your axe cleaving through a tree—or, you know, something less polite.”

  Ashen tilted his head, his gaze flicking to the massive axe strapped across Berf’s back. “You seem rather fond of that weapon. Is it special?”

  Berf’s chest swelled with pride, his grin widening. “Special? This here’s the best axe you’ll ever lay eyes on! Forged by ol’ Delmar Ironwill himself up in Blackrock Forge. I tell ya, no finer smith in the region. Cost me a year’s worth of crops and then some, but she’s worth every copper.” He patted the axe lovingly, his voice lowering almost reverently. “Cuts clean through a tree in two swings—one, if I’m having a good day.”

  Ashen smirked faintly. “And if it’s not a tree you’re cutting?”

  Berf chuckled, his hand gripping the reins tighter. “Oh, she does just fine with that too. Had to chase off a pack of wolves last winter when they tried sniffin’ too close to the barn. This beauty sent the lot of ’em running back into the woods, tails tucked between their legs.” He leaned closer to Ashen, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “She’s got a name, you know. ‘Molly.’ Don’t tell the missus, but I reckon Molly’s my favorite girl.”

  Ashen blinked, his expression betraying a flicker of amusement. “You named your axe... Molly.”

  “Sure did!” Berf said with a firm nod. “Every great weapon’s gotta have a name. Don’t yours?”

  Ashen glanced at his crossbow, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “No,” he said flatly. “But I’ll consider it.”

  Berf slapped his knee and laughed again, the cart jostling slightly as the horses shifted. “Ah, you’ll come around! A weapon with a name’s a weapon with a soul. You just wait. Molly’ll keep us safe on this road, you’ll see.”

  Ashen’s gaze shifted back to the road ahead, his tone softening slightly. “Let’s hope so. We may need her before this journey’s done.”

  The conversation faded into companionable silence as the cart moved steadily forward. The morning journey passed uneventfully, the road stretching straight and bordered by fields of quiet farms. As they climbed out of the valley, the scenery shifted. Trees grew denser, and the road crested a hill before splitting at a T-junction. One path led to Slynn, the other to Havenford. Without hesitation, they turned toward Havenford, their destination clear, though the dangers ahead remained unknown.

  While the weight of their mission lingered, it was hard not to enjoy the ride. The weather was fair, the sky bright, and the gentle sway of the cart made the journey almost pleasant. But as dusk fell, Berf rode back from his position at the front, pointing ahead enthusiastically. “Oh, I think we should stay here for the night!” he said, gesturing to a sign with a rusted lantern. “The Rusted Lantern, it’s called.”

  Magnus tilted his head, squinting at the sign. The Iron Lantern. Berf, as confident as he was mistaken, didn’t seem to care much for details. “Well,” Magnus muttered, “a lantern’s a lantern.”

  Berf, already dismounting, made his way into the inn without waiting for agreement.

  The stable boy, Jamie, took the horses as Magnus struck up a short chat, paying the boy for his work. Sylvi, uninterested in the inn’s commotion, headed straight for the cart to settle in early. Inside, however, Berf’s booming voice carried above the din.

  “And there they are now!” he roared, pointing at the group. “Drinks are on them tonight!”

  Magnus exchanged a narrow look with Ashen. Putting on his brightest smile, he stepped forward and began spinning the tale of Greymoor. Part of him hoped the story would distract the patrons long enough to forget Berf’s declaration, but the tavern owner, Gwelga, had already started pouring drinks. Still, Magnus relished the chance to immortalize the tale. Travelers would hear it, spread it, and the story would live on beyond Greymoor.

  After ensuring Gwelga was paid—and firmly reminding her not to put anything else on their tab—Magnus settled into a hearty stew. The evening might have ended peacefully, but Kaeric’s sudden approach to the bar hinted otherwise.

  Magnus caught Gwelga’s eye, mouthing “big… big, big” as he gestured toward Kaeric. “Let me introduce you to my good friend Kaeric,” he said with a grin.

  Kaeric leaned in, his voice low but audible. “You make me hungry, like a warg seeing a rutting pig,” he growled. Gwelga’s cheeks flushed crimson, her giggle betraying her flustered delight.

  Kaeric’s hand moved faster than his words. As he leaned closer, two fingers slipped between Gwelga’s blouse and retrieved four copper pieces. Straightening up, he smirked. “Just proving a point, ma’am.” With that, he walked out the door, leaving Gwelga sputtering as he disappeared into the night.

  Back in their room, Ashen gestured to Berf’s axe in the corner. “You should check on that axe, Berf. Jamie might steal it.”

  Magnus, reclining in his hat, raised an eyebrow looking at the axe sitting in the corner of the room but said nothing as Berf stormed out to the stables. He returned three times that night, muttering each time about his axe.

  It wasn’t a restful night. But they got some sleep.

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  The Oadean Farmhouse: The Arrival

  Morning gave way to afternoon as the cart rattled along worn tracks, passing through golden fields dotted with grazing cows. The warm light of the sun stretched lazily across the landscape, but by the time dusk began to settle, a modest farmhouse appeared on the horizon.

  Berf perked up, his broad shoulders straightening as his eyes lit with recognition. Nearly bouncing in his seat, he waved enthusiastically toward the house. “Missus Oadean! Missus Oadean! It’s yer ol’ Berf!” he bellowed, his booming voice carrying over the hills.

  Without waiting for a reply, Berf dismounted in a flurry of gangly limbs and sprinted toward the house, his long strides almost comical in their enthusiasm.

  A plump, cheerful woman with flour-dusted hands emerged from the doorway, her face breaking into a wide smile as she caught sight of him. “Berf, you big fool! Don’t you ever knock first?” she laughed, just as he swept her into a bear hug that lifted her clean off the ground.

  “Missus Oadean!” Berf cried, holding her tight as if she weighed no more than a feather. “I couldn’t wait! Had to see if ya still make that stew!”

  The woman let out a hearty laugh as she patted his back. “Oh, Berf, I haven’t seen you in a bear bug’s age! Why, you missed my fresh tomatoes by a month, and I don’t even think I’ve got any jarred beets left. I know how much you love beets.” She wagged a finger playfully. “But I’ve got carrots. Would you like some carrots, Berf? And what brings you all the way out here? Surely not just for my stew?”

  Berf, overwhelmed by her barrage of words, opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by her noticing the rest of the group approaching in the cart. Her gaze shifted, her smile widening. “And you brought friends! Well, you must be in a way if you’ve dragged this lot out here.”

  Berf puffed up with pride, his voice filled with importance. “Oh, Mum, I got me a real big job, yes ma’am. These fine folk here, they’re on their way to Havenford, and—”

  “Havenford, you say?” she interrupted, eyebrows raised.

  “Yes, ma’am!” Berf said eagerly. “And I been guardin’ them the whole way. Nothin’ gets by ol’ Berf, you know. I’m clever, see? Been ridin’ up front, like one of them scoops!”

  Missus Oadean blinked. “A scoop?”

  “Yeh, you know,” Berf said, gesturing animatedly, “like them army things that go out front and make sure everything’s safe!”

  Her eyes lit up with realization. “Oh, you mean a scout!”

  “That’s what I said, missum!” Berf declared proudly. “So I told ‘em, it’s real dangerous ‘round these parts, and best they not get caught off guard. Let ol’ Berf run up and… uh… scoot—uh, scout—the road for ‘em. Watch for invaders.”

  “Invaders?” Missus Oadean repeated, her expression both amused and incredulous. “When have you ever stopped an invader, Berf? Last time you were here, the only thing you invaded was my carrot patch!” She gave him a playful swat on the arm, her laughter bubbling up like warm stew on the stove.

  Berf rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, but his grin didn’t falter. “Well, reckon I’m more of a carrot invader than a bandit-stopper, but you can’t blame me for tryin’, Mum.”

  She waved the group toward the house, her warmth immediately putting everyone at ease. “Come on, then. If Berf’s brought you all this way, you must be half-starved. Let’s see what I can put together.”

  The party exchanged glances, suppressing smiles as Berf followed Missus Oadean inside, his pride in “scouting” shining brighter than ever.

  Introductions

  Seizing the moment, Magnus stepped forward with a dramatic flourish, tipping his hat with practiced ease. “Mrs. Oadean, it is an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he began, his voice warm and theatrical. “My name is Magnus, and these are my esteemed companions: Ashen, Sylvi, Kaeric, and, of course, your dear friend Berf. We’ve been on the road all day, and I must say, I’ve heard tales of your legendary stew all the way back in Greymoor.”

  Mrs. Oadean’s chest swelled with pride, her smile widening as she placed her hands on her hips. “Have you now? Well, Magnus, you and your lot are more than welcome in my humble home. Let’s get you all fed!” She spun around with cheerful energy, calling into the house over her shoulder. “Put on more stew! We’ve got a big crew tonight—and one of ’em’s an orc!”

  Kaeric let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if used to such remarks, while Sylvi raised a single brow, her lips twitching into the faintest of smirks. Magnus, basking in the success of his introduction, turned to the others with a grin and gestured grandly for them to follow Mrs. Oadean inside.

  The Dinner Table

  Inside the farmhouse, the warmth and aroma of stew enveloped the party, a comforting contrast to the chill of the evening air. Mrs. Oadean ushered them to a long wooden table, her daughter following closely behind with steaming bowls of stew. As the hearty aroma filled the room, her son—a boy of about ten—peeked out shyly from behind her skirts, his wide eyes fixed on Kaeric.

  The group dug in eagerly, the rich flavors of the stew immediately lifting their spirits. Mrs. Oadean stood nearby, her hands on her hips, beaming with pride. “How is it?” she asked, her tone expectant.

  Magnus, always the charmer, wiped his mouth with an exaggerated flourish and grinned. “Mrs. Oadean, your stew is everything I’ve heard and more. A symphony of flavors, a culinary masterpiece! I must ask—what’s your secret?”

  Before she could answer, Kaeric, seated at the far end of the table, grunted and set his spoon down with a heavy clink. “Yeah,” he said, eyeing his bowl suspiciously, “what is in this stew?”

  Mrs. Oadean’s eyes narrowed, but her smile didn’t waver. “Now, that’s a family secret,” she said firmly, placing her hands on her hips. “And it’s staying that way.”

  Kaeric leaned forward, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. “I’ve got ways of getting secrets out of people,” he rumbled, his voice low and threatening like distant thunder.

  The room fell silent, the air thick with tension. Even the boy behind her skirts froze, his eyes darting nervously between the towering orc and his mother.

  But Mrs. Oadean didn’t flinch. With a quick, decisive motion, she grabbed a cleaver from the counter and slammed it into the table with a resounding thunk. Leaning forward, she locked eyes with Kaeric. “Not in my house, you don’t,” she said, her voice steady and unyielding.

  For a moment, no one moved. Then, slowly, Kaeric leaned back, a sly grin spreading across his face. “I like you,” he said, his tone almost approving.

  Mrs. Oadean smirked, resting a hand on the cleaver. “Good. Now eat your stew.”

  The tension dissolved into chuckles and smiles as the party continued their meal, the farmhouse filled with warmth and camaraderie once more.”

  Bedtime in the Barn

  After the meal, the group thanked Mrs. Oadean and her children, who beamed with pride from the generous compliments. As they prepared to head to the barn for the night, her husband—a grizzled farmer with calloused hands and a sun-worn face—trudged in from the fields.

  “Oh, is that Berf? Thought I heard your nonsense from halfway across the land,” he joked, shaking Berf’s hand firmly before nodding a greeting to the rest of the group.

  Once inside the barn, Magnus set about making a bed in the hay, carefully arranging it for maximum comfort. With a satisfied sigh, he tipped his hat down over his eyes, ready to enjoy the simple luxury of rest. Kaeric dropped his gear beside him with a thud and lay down heavily, letting out a low grunt.

  Magnus tilted his hat back slightly, raising an eyebrow. “This is… awfully close, Kaeric.”

  Kaeric propped himself up on one elbow, his tusks catching the faint moonlight streaming through the barn slats. “You said not to be too far away in case of trouble. Is this within 100 feet?” he said, his tone dry but playful.

  Magnus rolled his eyes, though a chuckle escaped him. “Yes, Kaeric. It’s within 100 feet.”

  As they settled in for the night, the sound of crickets filled the barn, and for the first time in what felt like ages, Magnus felt a sense of camaraderie with this unlikely group. Tonight, at least, they were safe.

  The next morning, the group was stirred awake by the rhythmic sound of wood chopping in the distance. Magnus sat on a bale of hay, strumming his mandolin lightly. A tune lingered in his mind like a half-remembered dream:

  With sunlight break and shadows flee,

  A new day stirs its melody…

  But no matter how many times he stopped and started, the next lines wouldn’t come. The dream lyrics drifted further and further from his grasp, leaving only a faint echo of what might have been.

  Meanwhile, Sylvi wandered into the house to chat with Mrs. Oadean, asking politely about coffee. The two women sat on the porch, sharing a quiet moment while the cool, damp air lingered. Fog clung to the ground, and a chill hung on Sylvi’s shoulders, though she didn’t seem to mind.

  Mrs. Oadean handed her a steaming mug, her cheerful tone breaking the quiet. “Here you go, dear. It’s not much, but it’s hot. Perfect for mornings like this.”

  Sylvi took the mug with a small smile. “Thank you. It’s just what I need.” She sipped quietly, her gaze drifting over the fields beyond the farmhouse.

  Mrs. Oadean settled into a rocking chair, her hands resting on her lap. “So, you’re heading to Havenford, are you? Bit of a trek from here. Dangerous roads these days, from what I’ve been hearing.”

  Sylvi nodded slowly, her eyes still on the fog-shrouded fields. “Yes, it’s a long journey. We’ve had... trouble already, but nothing we can’t handle.”

  Mrs. Oadean chuckled, rocking back and forth. “You’ve got a good group with you, I can tell. Berf talks like he’s a one-man army, but I reckon you’ve got the brains in the bunch.”

  Sylvi smiled faintly, unsure how to respond. “Berf is... enthusiastic,” she offered diplomatically.

  “That’s one word for it,” Mrs. Oadean said with a laugh. She studied Sylvi for a moment, her tone softening. “You’re not much of a morning talker, are you, dear?”

  Sylvi glanced over, startled, then let out a quiet laugh. “No, not really. Mornings aren’t my best time.”

  Mrs. Oadean waved a hand dismissively. “That’s all right. You’re sweet enough without saying much. But I’ll tell you this—watch yourself out there. Whatever you’re carrying, or whoever you’re chasing, it’s best to keep your wits about you. The world’s a lot darker than it used to be.”

  Sylvi nodded, her fingers tightening slightly around the mug. “We’ll be careful,” she said softly.

  The two women sat in companionable silence for a while, the fog slowly lifting as the sun began to rise higher in the sky. The quiet was broken only by the distant sounds of the others stirring in the barn and the rhythmic chopping of wood in the distance.

  Kaeric’s eyes narrowed as a sudden urgency overtook him. Without a word, he stood and began marching toward the forest. Magnus glanced up from his mandolin, startled.

  “Kaeric, where are you—?” Magnus hurried to his feet, grabbing his walking stick. “Where are you going?” He braced the stick like a weapon, anticipating trouble as Kaeric’s stride grew more determined.

  Kaeric grunted over his shoulder. “I sleep no more than 100 feet. Go to woods now. Morning.”

  “Wait, what? Where are you going?” Magnus demanded, struggling to keep up with the orc’s long stride.

  “Woods. I go in woods. In morning, I go in woods,” Kaeric replied gruffly, his pace quickening until it was practically a jog.

  Magnus scrambled to keep up. “Wait, wait, wait! You can’t just wander off alone. We need to stick together! What if someone tries to take the amulet?”

  Kaeric didn’t break stride, his voice steady as ever. “Sylvi—necklace. Kaeric—woods.”

  Magnus was practically sprinting now, struggling to match the orc’s feverish pace. “You’re just going to the woods without us? We need to get on the road, and—”

  Kaeric came to a dead stop so suddenly that Magnus overshot him, stumbling forward. Bent over, gasping for air, Magnus turned back to see Kaeric squatting in the middle of the road.

  At first, Magnus thought it was some sort of battle stance. Then it hit him.

  The stench was overwhelming—a putrid mix of rotting meat and swamp muck, left to stew in the sun for weeks. It assaulted his senses like a physical blow. The warmth followed next, clinging to his face and filling his mouth with a taste so foul he gagged.

  “Aaaaaahhhhhhh,” Kaeric groaned, his voice low and drawn out as he exhaled with palpable relief. Looking up, he grinned broadly, tusks glinting in the morning light.

  “Good morning,” he said, his tone as casual as if he’d just enjoyed a pleasant stretch.

  Magnus stared, wide-eyed and struggling to suppress his gag reflex. “Good morning? Really?”

  Kaeric chuckled as he straightened up, completely unfazed. “Yes. Morning is good. Let’s go.”

  Magnus groaned, waving his walking stick in front of him to clear the lingering stench as they made their way back to the group. It was going to be a long day.

  An Ominous Road

  Magnus and Kaeric walked back to the barn to find Ashen standing right up in the face of Berf. “I don’t. Prep. Horses.” Ashen said” And if you say another word about it I’m going to break enough bones in your body that you won’t be able to either for the rest of your life. So get your job done and shut the hell up.” For the first time, Berf was stunned. Ashen turned around and caught my eye as he walked out of the barn. “Magnus, Kaeric, get your crap. We leave as soon as he’s got the horses prepped. We have to get through the swamp by morning dusk”. He stomped out of the barn as he walked into the cool air.

  Kaeric walked over to Berf as he struggled to regain composure from the full dressing down he’d just received. “You don’t want his help. We don’t know horses. You tie horses. Can you show me? You teach?” Kaeric looked keenly interested as he asked Berf for help.. Berf’s mood brightened.

  “Why yes I can mister Kaeric. Ropes is simple. Can you tie knots? Knots is simple-” They trailed off they began to get the horses ready.

  Once out on the road, it was a matter of minutes before they got to the edge of the swamp lands. Berf paused his horse for a moment as we caught up. He seemed to be lost in thought as the cart caught up. “Something wrong up ahead Berf?”, Ashen called out.

  “Nothing wrong sir. No nothing wrong. It’s just - “his voice trailed off as he looked off back along the road we’d come from and back to the swamp. He hopped off his horse and picked up a rock from the ground and put it in his pocket. “It’s nothing sir. Just waiting on you.” With that, he climbed back on top of his horse and began into the swamplands ahead.

  As the party continued into the swamp, the sound of bugs flitted around. Tiny birds flew occasionally between mostly dead trees finding little bits of grass or plant to pick from before taking flight.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about the Mirror Library since we talked about it yesterday”, Magnus began.

  “Since you talked about it,” Ashen said. Stressing how much it was more of a monologue than conversation.

  “Yes well, I met someone when I was there. One of the assistants that was from Havenford. I told you about how wonderful the riddles were. Well there was this one section of library that I had just solved and when I did, I was immediately rushed out by this assistant. Not just that but she kicked me out. I didn’t even have time to get my notes from my table from that day. When I got back to the tavern some of my things were gone and my notes as well. It wasn’t too much of a trouble since I could write them back from memory but I couldn’t sleep that night.

  “Something just kept troubling me. Something was familiar about that woman. I had seen her before. Somewhere was locked in my brain. And It hit me - I saw her in Havenford. As I thought more about it, there were other faces that I had seen in Havenford as well. I was researching something and making quite a bit of progress up until Havenford,and I began getting a little bit of push back from some of my contacts about it. And this… this was was big. My notes had been stolen. Somebody was working against me.

  “It was clear to me then and the pieces started fitting together. I’d heard only rumors of them before, but this seemed clear. This had to be the work of the Shadowed Veil.”

  “What’s Shadowed Veil?” - Kaeric Said.

  “It’s a … secret organization. I’m not sure exactly what they do, but they operate in secret and I’ve heard some rumors about how powerful they are,” Magnus said.

  “And they’re coming for you?” - Sylvi asked.

  “Oh no. I’m not that important. But I was close to something… I know it. My leads just dried up as soon as I got to that room. And maybe they’d been following me for longer. Certainly since Havenford.”

  “Is that why you were going to Havenford?” - She asked.

  “No, I’m actually looking for information about something. But I have to try to stay on the low key while I’m there. Someone isn’t very happy with me.”

  “Go figure. Someone doesn’t like Magnus” - Ashen Called over his shoulder and laughe gruffly.

  “Oh hush,” Sylvi admonished. “Go on”

  “Well… Once a wealthy merchant with a thriving empire, Kaelen Thorne now holds a bitter grudge against anyone he sees as responsible for his ruin.I, being a charismatic and well-traveled storyteller, once…. publicly exposed Kaelen’s hypocrisy in a tale that spread throughout the city. It pretty much cemented Kaelen’s disgrace.” I said.

  “You were running your mouth Magnus,” Ashen said.

  “I only spoke the truth. No embellishment about anything. Seriously. He’s a hypocritical prick and he deserved what was coming to him. But he certainly likes to try to run my name through the mud. Some people won’t work with me in Havenford because of that lousy stick in the mud.”

  As Magnus finished telling his story, the fog grew denser and a quiet came around them. No more bugs. No more birds… It was silent. Berf slowed his horse so it was no more than 20 feet ahead of the group as they continued on. Kaeric went on alert, seeming to sense something.

  “It’s real foggy up ahead,” Ashen said. It was like a wall of it had come in a moment.

  They continued on slower into the fog with less visibility. Still silent. In the distance Sylvie heard hooves from in front of them. “Guys?” she shouted. Heavy, galloping hooves getting louder and louder. Ashen Moved the cart to one side as a warhorse came barreling towards them. Hoofbeat after hoofbeat ever louder in their ears, neighing like a scream as it came and past. Ashen let out a sigh of relief, not realizing he’d been holding my breath.

  Ashen signalled for us to continue and Berf led us forward. As they moved through the fog they could see something in the distance. Multiple dead horses and a carriage. Berf sped his horse to a gallop and Ashen pushed the cart to keep up.As they approached, they heard the sound of a woman screaming loud in terror. In a few minutes the arrived to find three dead horses and the bodies of two dead guards.

  “My baby, my baby! They’ve taken my baby!” She screamed. An arrow was buried deep in her chest.They hopped off the cart and rushed to her. Magnus demanded which direction. “That way,” she screamed pointing directly into the swamp. He didn’t think. He don’t know why. He just started running in the direction she pointed. His heart pounding. He could hear behind himm as Ashen and Kaeric followed behind him. Below their feet it was clear that there was some sort of manmade path directly from the road and into the swamp lands.

  They ran straight into the swamp. The ground grew drier as they pressed forward, and a clearing opened before them with a lone building standing ominously at its center. Magnus came to an abrupt stop, his breath catching as Ashen and Kaeric skidded to a halt behind him. Something was wrong.

  “I’ve heard stories about places like this,” Magnus said, his voice low and wary. “Hags in the swamp, tricking people into coming to their lairs… doing awful things. Horrible things.” He extended an arm, motioning for the others to stop. “Don’t approach. Nothing’s waiting for us—or guarding this place. That’s suspicious. Let’s wait for Sylvi and Berf.” He took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the unsettling scene.

  A minute or two later, Sylvi and Berf arrived, their hurried steps crunching through the brittle underbrush.

  “Where the hell were you?” Ashen asked, his tone sharp.

  Sylvi’s frustration flared. “I was trying to save the mother! She had a fucking arrow in her chest. Did you not notice that before you went running off?”

  “But… there was a baby!” Magnus countered, incredulous.

  “Yeah, like twenty minutes ago!” Sylvi shot back, exasperated. “Meanwhile, a mother was dying, and you just ran off. What good is saving a baby if it comes back to find its mother dead?”

  Magnus opened his mouth to respond but faltered, unable to muster a defense. Ashen sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose as the two bickered.

  Berf, meanwhile, had wandered toward the building, his curious gaze fixed on its weathered door. Ashen moved to peer through one of the windows.

  “Hey, if you two could shut the fuck up for a second,” Ashen growled, his voice cutting through their argument, “there’s an altar in here. And not much else. Remember the baby?”

  Sylvi and Magnus turned their attention to the building, the weight of Ashen’s words settling heavily on them.

  Magnus’s eyes narrowed as he spotted Berf reaching for the door. “Wait! Berf! What if this is a trap?” His voice rose slightly with urgency. “What if the Hag tricked us into coming here? The path leading from the road to this place was practically better than the main road. It wanted us to find it!”

  Berf froze, his hand hovering near the handle. “The Hag? Do Hags… eat babies?” His voice trembled.

  Magnus hesitated, then straightened, feigning certainty. “I… think so? Yes! Hags eat babies. They most definitely eat babies.”

  Berf’s face paled. “Hags are… witches?”

  “Yes,” Sylvi answered calmly.

  “My mother’s a witch,” Kaeric interjected, his voice flat and factual.

  Magnus pivoted toward him, adjusting quickly. “Absolutely. There are good witches, bad witches, and witches who lure you into swamps to eat babies. This is a bad witch.”

  Kaeric simply nodded, his expression unchanged, while Sylvi rolled her eyes and began circling the building with Ashen, scanning for anything suspicious.

  As they moved cautiously, Berf, either emboldened or oblivious, pushed the door open and stepped inside. Magnus stiffened, his earlier warnings about hags echoing ominously in his mind.

  “Berf!” Magnus hissed. “We don’t know what’s in there!”

  But Berf was already inside, leaving the rest of the group to exchange wary glances before following suit.

  Into the Darkness

  “It’s dark, Magnus. I can’t see,” Berf muttered as he put away his battle axe and fumbled to light a torch. Kaeric and Magnus exchanged glances, scanning the room. Across the way, a closed door loomed, its edges faintly illuminated by Berf’s flickering torchlight.

  Magnus approached it cautiously, dagger in hand. He opened the door and stepped into the hallway beyond. It stretched long and empty, the faint echoes of distant voices bouncing off the walls. “I think I hear something,” Magnus whispered. “Voices, coming from the next door.”

  He crept forward, his darkvision letting him see clearly into the next room as he opened the next door.

  “Magnus,” a voice whispered, soft and eerie.

  He froze. “Did you hear that?” he asked over his shoulder.

  The voice came again, louder this time, reverberating through the room. “Magnus.”

  Magnus frowned, glancing back. “Where is it coming from?”

  “Magnus!” The voice suddenly boomed, and Ashen stepped out from behind a pillar, a smug grin plastered across his face.

  Magnus jumped back, dagger raised. “Oh, goddammit, Ashen!”

  “Gotcha,” Ashen said with a chuckle, clearly pleased with himself.

  “Is there anything over there, or are you just trying to give me a heart attack?” Magnus snapped.

  “Nothing,” Ashen replied, his smirk unshaken.

  Magnus shook his head, muttering, “Back down the hallway, then.” He motioned to the others, allowing Sylvi to take the lead this time, followed by Ashen, himself, and Kaeric, with Berf bringing up the rear.

  They came to another door. Sylvi opened it cautiously, revealing a simple bedroom. Claw marks marred the wooden floor, leading ominously toward the bed. The group stepped inside, their eyes scanning the room.

  “Hey, guys?” Sylvi called, pointing toward the closet. A single boot stuck out awkwardly from beneath the door. She stepped closer, muttering an incantation under her breath.

  Suddenly, the closet door burst open, and a man in black robes stumbled out, screaming as purple faerie fire ignited around him. He flailed wildly, his terror mounting as he stumbled onto the bed, futilely trying to extinguish the harmless flames.

  Kaeric tilted his head, crossing his arms with a bemused expression. The cultist’s panic shifted into bewilderment as he realized the fire wasn’t actually burning him. His gaze darted to the party, his fear reigniting as he reached for a dagger and backed into the wall.

  “Hey there, buddy,” Magnus said soothingly, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “We’re friends. Let’s talk about this.”

  Kaeric, clearly out of patience, pulled a crowbar from his pack and swung it with precision, striking the man squarely across the neck. The cultist crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

  Magnus blinked, glancing at Kaeric. “Well… that works too.”

  “Less talk, more action,” Kaeric replied with a shrug.

  Magnus bent down, inspecting the scratches on the floor. “Guys, you need to see this.” He pointed to a trapdoor beneath the bed and began to move the mattress. “A little help here? Come on, a bit more action?”

  “Less conversation, Magnus,” Ashen grumbled, stepping in to shove the bed aside.

  Sylvi’s expression darkened as she drew the hilt, which transformed into a gleaming dark sickle. “Guys, the sword warned us about a witch earlier. If this is her, we won’t stand a chance.”

  “Wait—that’s your sword now?” Ashen asked, his brow furrowing. Kaeric stared in awe as Magnus, ever theatrical, snapped his fingers to cast a bright purple light onto the sickle.

  Sylvi chuckled. “It’s a sickle now, but yeah.” Her tone sobered. “If the hag is down there, we’re in serious trouble.”

  Magnus turned to the unconscious cultist and lightly tapped his cheek. “Hey, buddy… you awake? Where’s the witch, huh? Seen her?”

  The cultist groaned faintly. “Witch? What witch? There’s no—” His voice trailed off as he passed out again.

  “Well… no witch, I guess,” Magnus said, standing. “So, do we go in, Sylvi?”

  She sighed, rubbing her temples. “You’re going to go in even if I say no, aren’t you?”

  Magnus grinned. “Absolutely.”

  They pried open the trapdoor, and a freezing chill spilled out, carrying the pungent smells of moss, yeast—and blood. A lot of blood.

  As they descended the creaking wooden steps, the stench grew overwhelming, clawing at their senses. The narrow corridor ahead was lined with stone sarcophagi, the flickering torchlight barely piercing the suffocating darkness. From deeper within, eerie chanting echoed, demonic tones blending with an unnatural rhythm.

  At the corridor’s end, they peered into a large chamber. Five black-hooded cultists chanted around an altar, where an infant screamed, held aloft by the leader. Above them, a grotesque creature clung to the ceiling, its pitch-black skin gleaming like wet oil. A barbed tongue hung from its mouth, dripping saliva between rows of jagged teeth. Red eyes locked onto the party as they approached.

  “Berf,” Ashen whispered, “put out the torch and grab your axe. We’ll need you.”

  Ashen cast a booming voice spell, his illusionary words amplified to mimic Zarathrax. “I am Zarathrax, and you displease me!” he roared, feeding lines Magnus whispered to him.

  The ruse bought Magnus just enough time to slip into the room. But the creature’s gleaming red eyes tracked him, and with a powerful leap, it hurled itself off the ceiling, closing the thirty-foot gap in seconds. Magnus dodged at the last moment, the creature smashing into the stone wall with a thunderous crack.

  “Keep chanting! This isn’t the real Zarathrax! Finish the ceremony!” the cult leader shouted, his dagger still raised.

  The battle had begun.

  The air grew colder, and the oppressive weight of the darkness pressed down on them like an unwelcome shroud. Before anyone could speak, the shadow beast lunged, its claws slashing across Kaeric’s shoulder. Pain surged through him, but he held his ground, gripping his sword tightly. With a roar, he swung the blade in a wide arc, cutting into the creature’s shadowy form. The beast screeched in rage and retaliated, its claws raking across Kaeric’s arm and drawing blood.

  Behind them, Sylvi raised her hands, her voice steady as she cast her spell. Vines erupted from the ground like serpents, coiling around the legs of two cultists. Their chants faltered, their robed figures writhing as they reached for daggers. With a flick of her wrist, Sylvi cast faerie fire, bathing the cultists in a shimmering purple glow. “No escape for you,” she muttered, her sickle gleaming in her grasp as she took a step back.

  Ashen, positioned near the doorway, whispered an incantation. A bolt of energy crackled from his hands, striking the shadow beast squarely in its side. The creature hissed, its glowing red eyes narrowing as it turned its attention toward him. Ashen quickly ducked into the shadows, his crossbow at the ready.

  The two ensnared cultists fought against Sylvi’s vines. One broke free, charging toward Kaeric with his dagger raised high. Kaeric met the attack head-on, parrying the strike with his sword. The sharp clang of metal echoed in the chamber as Kaeric countered with a powerful downward slash, his blade cutting deep into the cultist’s shoulder. The man staggered but remained standing. The second cultist, still trapped, hurled a dagger at Berf. The blade grazed Berf’s arm, leaving a thin trail of blood.

  Berf roared in fury, his form shifting mid-charge. His limbs lengthened, muscles bulging as his hands transformed into hooves. His face elongated into a horse-like snout, his eyes blazing with wild intensity. In his new were-equine form, Berf charged the free cultist, his axe swinging wide. The cultist dodged, but the sheer force of Berf’s attack sent him sprawling to the ground.

  The cult leader raised his hands, chanting with fervor. A wave of magical darkness swept over the room, extinguishing all light. “Stay close!” Magnus called, his voice cutting through the black void as he gripped his dagger tightly.

  The cultists used the cover of darkness to strike. A dagger whizzed past Magnus’s head, narrowly missing him, while another struck Berf’s side. He let out a pained whinny and stumbled to the floor gasphing as blood dripping from his flank.

  The shadow beast darted between Magnus and Kaeric, its claws slashing Kaeric’s side and tearing through his armor. Gritting his teeth, Kaeric retaliated, his sword slicing through the creature’s shadowy form. Magnus lunged forward with his staff, aiming for the beast’s chest, but it twisted unnaturally, evading the blow.

  From across the room, Ashen raised his hand and unleashed a hex bolt. The dark energy struck the beast directly in its center. With an ear-splitting screech, the creature disintegrated into wisps of shadow, leaving behind only a chilling silence.

  Kaeric drove his sword into one of the remaining free cultist, the blade sinking deep into his torso. The man gasped, blood bubbling from his lips as he crumpled.

  The second cultist, still trapped in Sylvi’s vines, screamed and thrashed in a futile effort to escape. His glowing figure was an easy target. Berf, still clutching his axe, roared and brought it down with unrelenting force. The blade cleaved through the cultist’s body, ending his life in a crimson spray.

  Only two cultists remained. The leader barked a command, and the pair charged forward, daggers in hand. Magnus dashed through the dissipating darkness, his dagger flying into the cultist leader’s chest. Blood poured as the man staggered backward, collapsing to the ground. Sylvi ignored them as she sent vines erupting once more, ensnaring both the leader and Magnus. Sylvi advanced on the leader, her sickle raised high. The leader’s chants turned desperate, but his words were cut short as Sylvi plunged the blade into his skull as she released the vine spell. The magical darkness lifted as his body felt limp.

  As the vines released Magnus, he rushed to Berf’s side, casting Cure Light Wounds to stabilize him. Berf’s breathing steadied, and he gave Magnus a weak nod of thanks before staggering to his feet.

  Meanwhile, Sylvi turned her focus to the final cultist. With fierce precision, she swung her sickle, decapitating him in one fluid motion. The room fell still at last, save for the sound of the baby’s cries echoing from the altar.

  Magnus approached cautiously, scooping the child into his arms. Its tiny face was scrunched in fear, but it was alive. Sylvi stepped forward, her expression softening as she took the infant from him, cradling it gently.

  Ashen, ever pragmatic, searched the bodies and the altar. He uncovered a dark grimoire brimming with forbidden knowledge, along with a suit of finely crafted half-plate armor, a glowing green amulet, and two rubies. Ashen claimed the armor, trading Magnus his chain shirt. The money was divided evenly, though Magnus handed his share to Berf in recognition of his bravery.

  On the ground, they found a circle of runes etched in intricate patterns. Magnus sketched a copy of the markings as Sylvi translated the text aloud:

  From the void where light dare not tread,

  I call forth the beasts of shadow and flame.

  Writhe and rise from the veil unseen,

  Obey my will, creatures of the in-between.

  By the pact of dusk and the night's cold breath,

  Come forth, servants of shadow and death!

  The grimoire bore the same symbol of Zarathrax they’d seen before. Magnus couldn’t resist its allure, tucking it away for further study. It would remain their secret, protected from any outside party. If the cultists were indeed connected to Zarathrax, their mission had grown far more dangerous.

  The battle was over, but the weight of their actions lingered. The cult had been defeated, but the knowledge they sought to summon something far darker left the party uneasy. Their journey was far from over.