The Strega, the longest river in Udoris, holds paramount importance as Algrim's primary waterway. Winding its way through the kingdom, it originates at an elevation of approximately 300 meters in Quilton's Treilleauzo territory within the Aiga mountain range's northwestern regions. From there, it spans a distance of 832 kilometres before emptying into the Ignis basin east of the Morgan Channel.

  Despite freezing over for nearly two months annually, the Strega remains crucial for Algrim's inland transportation, facilitating trade with neighbouring Quilton. Its rich ecosystem sustains towns and communities along its banks, fertilizing land and supporting marine life, which in turn fuels trade and sustenance for the populace.

  …

  Excerpt from Milburga Leah's Speculum universale - 'The Voltulian Philosophica', located on the coordinates 00.03.45.01.01; Udoris/Diyias/Geography/Great rivers, lakes, streams and tributaries.?

  ???

  Mallowston, 2nd Moon, 20th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

  The slums of Mallowston stood as a wretched testament to the gulf between power and poverty. Where the rest of the town bustled with merchants and the clean-limbed artisans who serviced the needs of their betters, this festering underbelly offered only ruin. Lovell picked her way carefully through the narrow, twisting alleys, her keen senses assaulted by the squalour around her. The buildings leaned drunkenly against one another, their roofs sagging with rot, their walls crusted with filth that had long since hardened into something resembling armor. The muddy paths beneath her feet were a slurry of garbage and sewage, and the air carried a stench so ripe it felt like a slap.

  Children darted barefoot between the hovels, their faces smudged with dirt, their ribs as sharp as blades beneath too-thin skins. Lovell’s gloved hand dropped a single Lin into the lap of one hollow-eyed wretch who squatted by the path. The man grunted, his hand reaching out, but Lovell deftly avoided his touch, her skirts raised just enough to avoid the muck beneath her boots.

  "Where is the apothecary?" she asked, her voice cutting through the din of the slum. The beggar pointed down the lane with a bony finger, and she moved on without another glance.

  The apothecary’s hut sat at the end of the street, a sorry thing of teak wood and daub, its roof a patchwork of thatch that barely kept out the rain. A crooked chimney jutted from one side like a broken tooth. Lovell knocked once on the splintered door, then pushed it open with a gentle shove.

  “Hello?” she called into the dim interior. The room was more shadow than light, the single candle burning on a cluttered shelf doing little to fight the gloom. A pungent aroma filled the air—herbs, damp earth, and the faint tang of something medicinal. “Hello?” she called again, her knuckles rapping against the edge of a wooden table as her eyes adjusted.

  “I’m coming! I’m coming!” The voice was hoarse and irritable, muffled by the door to the back chamber. Moments later, it opened to reveal a woman of middling years with auburn hair streaked with grey. Her sharp eyes narrowed as she took in her visitor. “What do you want, lassie?” she barked. “If it’s a refund you’re after, no, no, no! I don’t give refunds!”

  Lovell couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped her lips. She lifted her veil, letting the older woman see her face. “It’s me, Morgvy.”

  The apothecary froze, her weathered face scrunching up in puzzlement before delight bloomed there. She broke into a laugh that was half a cackle. “Lovell! By all the gods, look at you! Big as a willow and twice as pretty. What in blazes are you doing here? Where’s that sharp-tongued aunt of yours? Is Her Holiness with you?”

  “Easy, Morgvy!” Lovell giggled, taking a step back from the apothecary’s clutching hands. “One question at a time, or you’ll overwhelm me. Yes, Lady Vaiu is here, but she’s a guest at the young lord’s keep.”

  “Ah, the keep.” Morgvy’s voice grew wistful, though her hands didn’t still as she tugged Lovell toward the inner room. “Come, come. Let me make you some tea. The gods know it’s been years since I last set eyes on you.”

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  The back room was as meagre as the rest of the hut. A single cot lay shoved into one corner, its straw mattress bulging beneath a tangle of threadbare blankets. A hearth smouldered in the opposite corner, its coals glowing faintly in the dim light. Morgvy pushed Lovell down onto the edge of the cot, fussing over her like a mother hen while she rummaged through a hidden stash beneath the floorboards.

  “This isn’t necessary,” Lovell protested lightly, though she made no move to rise.

  “Hush, girl,” Morgvy chided, setting a porcelain cup before her guest. “A simple cup of tea isn’t necessary, she says! What nonsense have those abbesses filled your head with?” She cackled again, stirring a small pot over the coals. “I’ll not hear another word of it. Sit, and let me see what’s become of that sharp tongue of yours.”

  As the tea steeped, the conversation turned to darker matters. Morgvy spoke of the chaos that had engulfed Mallowston in recent months—of the young lord’s madness, the bloodshed, and the terror that gripped the town. “The Gryphon’s boy has gone mad,” she said, shaking her head. “Burning forts, torturing nobles in broad daylight. He’s set his dogs loose on the slums, looking for spies. Half the couriers I relied on have fled or been strung up in the square.”

  “And you?” Lovell asked quietly. “Were you harmed?”

  “Not I,” Morgvy said with a wry smile. “The slums take care of their own, and the ribalds here know better than to let harm come to me. More importantly, I know Her Holiness might find the young lord, strange as he is, intriguing, but please plead with her on my behalf to take due caution when dealing with him.”

  “I will,” Lovell promised.

  Morgvy stood from her crouch carrying with her a small kettle of boiling water. The older woman dusted a small spoon of tea leaves into the kettle before stirring it around and sieving it into Lovell's cup with a fine copper mesh. "Here," she said, passing Lovell another jar from the basket, "have some honey."

  "Thank you."

  They spoke some more, the conversation turning back to the matter of the young lord. “Alas,” Morgvy said, “it’s only a matter of time before worse comes. You and Lady Vaiu should leave, my dear. The Lion of Khule marches east at Sean’s behest, and the Gryphon will not suffer it lightly. Either way, there’s war in the wind and I would feel at ease knowing you both are a few dozen leagues away from it…"

  ???

  The Woods East of Mallowston

  Lord Josh stumbled through the sodden undergrowth, his breath hitching in sharp, ragged gasps. The early spring rain fell in sheets, soaking him to the bone, and the cruel remnants of winter rode the winds, slicing through his tattered garments. His boots squelched in the mud, his legs trembling with exhaustion, and every desperate step seemed heavier than the last. Three days had passed since he’d been forced to beach the Dandelion, abandoning the safety of her decks for the hostile embrace of the wilderness. Three days of running, always running, with no food, no shelter, and no sign that his pursuers were willing to relent.

  He cast a wild glance over his shoulder, though he knew he’d see nothing but the dark, dripping forest. Fear played tricks on him, and the rustling of leaves seemed louder, closer, more menacing with every passing moment. He pushed on, though his lungs burned and his limbs ached. He dared not stop. The cruel truth was etched deep into his mind: if he faltered, if he fell, he would be caught.

  Whomsoever they were.

  The first day had been a frantic blur, driven by raw panic. He had plunged into the forest like a cornered hare, heedless of the branches that clawed at his face and the rocks that tore at his boots. He had run until the daylight faded, drinking greedily from a muddy stream before pressing on through the night. The second day had been worse. Hunger gnawed at him like a starving wolf, and the ache in his feet had spread to his back and shoulders. He slowed, for he had no choice, scouring the forest floor for anything edible—a bitter leaf here, a few stray berries there. It was not enough. The nights were longer than the days, colder too, and when dawn came, it brought no comfort. Only the grim certainty that they were still behind him.

  By the third day, he could hear them. The heavy, deliberate crunch of boots on wet leaves. The baying of hounds, their voices sharp and eager. They were closing in.

  "There he is!" A shout rang out, sharp as a dagger.

  Josh’s heart lurched, and his legs betrayed him. He stumbled on some unseen root or stone and fell, face-first, into the muck. The cold mud clung to him as he struggled to rise, but his body, battered and drained, refused to obey. He managed only to lift his head as they descended upon him.

  The hunting party emerged from the trees like wolves out of shadow, their cloaks dark and heavy with rain. Riders on horseback circled him, the snorting of their mounts mingling with the snarls of the hounds. The beasts strained against their leashes, their teeth bared, their eyes wild with the promise of blood.

  Josh let his head fall back into the mud, staring up at the grey, weeping sky. His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest heaving. He had lived long enough to know when a fight was no longer worth the effort. The forest seemed to close in around him, the sound of rain and hounds fading to a dull roar in his ears.

  Despondent, he lay there, waiting for the inevitable.