I awake to the soft, metallic tang of blood in the air — not from a wound, but from sleep-breath that lingers like a promise. Morning light filters through the thin curtains of the boarding room I rented in Blackfen, a low, fog-choked port on the edge of Eldoria's Mirrored Marshes. The room is small and sparse: a narrow cot, a wooden chest bolted shut at my feet, a rickety table with a candle stub and a chipped clay cup, and a window that looks over the street where morning markets are waking. My dagger rests on the bedside table within easy reach; my component pouch and scholar's pack are tucked beneath the bed.
Outside, the town murmurs to life. Blackfen is a place of traders, cutpurses, and mariners — and of secrets. It sits where the marsh's fog gives way to the stone road that leads to the old Weavers' road, now a ruin-scarred track that some whisper still hums with ancient magic. I chose this place deliberately: whispered rumors reached me here of a library-crypt beneath Saint Mavra's, where a dusty, forbidden ledger called the Hemalcodex might be locked away. Even in a town like Blackfen, such rumors don't travel for free.
A knock comes at my door — a measured, polite knock, not the rough rap of commoners. A woman's voice calls from the other side in a soft, cultured tone. "Mr. Thorne? The innkeeper asked me to check if you require breakfast. I'm Merea—I handle the rooms while she manages the bar. If you need anything, I can—"
I notice, through the half-open door, the narrow corridor lined with faded tapestries and the inn's common areas beyond, where a few early risers chat over tea. From beneath the door, the smell of fish and peat smoke drifts in.
I push the door open a fraction and study her.
Merea is in her late thirties, lean and neat, with the sort of posture people use when they spend long days arranging other people's lives. Her hair is a tight coil of dark-brown pinned at the nape, threaded with a single faded ribbon the color of old wine. Her face is narrow but not unpleasant — a pair of keen, grey eyes set under slightly arched brows; they miss little. Fine laugh lines crease the corners of her mouth, and there's a faint, pale scar that runs along the left cheekbone, half-hidden by a dusting of powdered flour or ash. Her skin has the windworn pallor of someone who works inside and out; her hands are calloused at the tips.
She wears a simple, well-pressed dress of dull green and brown—serviceable, not fancy—tied at the waist with a plain leather belt that holds a few keys and a small pouch. A plain silver band is on her left ring finger. Around her neck, tucked inside her collar, is a tiny locket the size of a fingernail: no ornament, but clearly cherished.
Her voice, when she speaks, is quiet and practiced—used to smoothing tempers and remembering orders. She studies me with a flicker of guarded curiosity, the way someone used to dealing with strangers, and checks them for coin and temperament.
I step back into the corridor and offer Merea a small, easy smile—one I know can be tuned to warm or faintly predatory as the situation demands. "Any news from the dock this morning?" I ask, letting my voice ride the edge of casual interest.
Her eyes flick to me, then to the street beyond as if weighing whether to indulge me. "Fresh fish, a broken sail, and the same old gossip," she says, meeting my gaze. "But there was talk of something else last night — a scholar from the Everspire was here at the bar late, and he mentioned Saint Mavra. Said there've been whispers about bones being moved in the crypt, and an old ledger... Hemalcodex, was the name he used. Said it's been sealed for generations, but some in the town think someone's been looking for it."
She pauses, clearly aware of the weight of what she's said. "Most folk reckon it's superstition, or the talk of drunk scholars trying to make themselves sound important. But the scholar seemed... anxious. Paid his tab in silver and left before dawn."
Merea folds her hands, posture practical again. "If it's the Hemalcodex you seek, you'll find more accurate talk down at the docks — sailors see everything that comes and goes. The bookseller on Wharf Street, old Bramwell, might know more. He likes unusual things and keeps late hours. If you want, I can set aside a warm bowl and a bit of bread for you before you go."
I accept Merea's offer with a slight incline of my chin. "A bowl would be appreciated," I say, and she nods, disappearing down the hall with the efficiency of someone who has done this countless times.
She returns with a shallow wooden bowl of thin stew—fish, barley, and a few limp greens—and a hunk of dense, dark bread. The stew smells of peat and salt; it's not fine food, but it fills the belly. I set the bread against the rim and eat with slow, deliberate bites, savoring the warmth more than the taste. My hands move with practiced economy; there's no rush. As I eat, I listen to the low murmur of other patrons through the door: a pair of fishermen trading nets, the clink of coin, and the far-off sound of a hawker calling his wares in the street.
When I finish, I set the bowl aside and take a moment to center myself. I close my eyes and extend my senses inward, feeling the familiar tug of the crimson tide beneath my skin. Lifeblood hums quietly at my fingertips if I reach for it, but I choose Blood Spark to practice—small, precise, and useful if I need to startle or threaten, even better for committing violence.
I nod once, feeling the aftertaste of magic like copper on my tongue. The practiced motion of summoning and snuffing the Blood Spark has sharpened my nerves—enough to move through the town without fumbling.
I rise, gather my dagger, component pouch, and pack, and move toward the door. The street smells of salt and tar; the fog hangs low over Blackfen, blotting out the farther buildings into a soft gray. Wharf Street runs down toward the docks — narrow, cobbled, and rimmed with stalls and weathered shopfronts. The bell tower she mentioned stands like a crooked finger against the mist, its iron bell half-ruined and used by sailors to mark shifts.
I push through the narrow doorway beneath the faded painted codex and step into Bramwell's bookshop. The bell above the door gives a thin, tired jingle that seems to frighten no one. Shelves lean like tired sentinels, overflowing with brittle tomes, rolled maps, jars of insectile curios, and a ragged pile of pamphlets stamped with seals I don't recognize. Dust motes swim like tiny stars in the slanting light from a high, grimy window.
Behind a cluttered counter stands Bramwell himself. He is shorter than I expected, stooped over a ledger with the intensity of a man who inventories grief. His hair is a salt-gray that clings in thin wisps; spectacles sit crooked on the bridge of a long, careful nose. His eyes are pinpoints of blue — sharp, suspicious, used to measuring coin and truth in equal parts. He wears a stained apron with ink and what might be the faint shadow of old candlewax. Around his neck hangs a string of odd little charms: a cracked bone, a chipped rune stone, and a brass tooth from some animal I don't recognize. His fingers are ink-stained, and when he looks up, there's the briefest twitch of habit — a hand going to the charms, as if to reassure himself.
He straightens and offers a polite, guarded smile. "Can I help you? We have atlases, nautical charts, and—" He eyes my clothing and the way I hold myself, then his gaze flicks to my hands and the component pouch at my hip. "—specialist volumes by request, at a reasonable price."
I adopt the easy, interested smile of someone with a taste for rarities and lean closer to the counter, letting my voice drop to a conspiratorial murmur. "Bramwell," I say, letting my words slide like oil, "I've an appetite for the odd and the forbidden. I've heard whisper of a Hemalcodex—an old ledger bound in strange leather, perhaps tied to Saint Mavra's crypt. Would you know anything of such a thing? Or does your stock hold anything remotely like it?"
"Now, that's the kind of curiosity that keeps a shop drownin' in ledgers," he says, voice low and creaky. "Hemalcodex, you say? Name's been muttered round these parts before. Not normally sold—if it exists, it wouldn't be the sort of thing I'd keep for open trade. Saint Mavra's crypt... people like to tell stories about bones moving and books that hum at night. Most of it's superstition."
He leans forward, fingers steepling. "But between you and me—" he glances to the door and lowers his voice — "last week some cloaked fellows came in asking odd questions about the crypt. Paid in coin, but not coin from here. They seemed... hurried. Took a map of the crypt from an old pamphlet I had and left a note—said they'd be back in a few days. I kept the note, but I'm not keen to be mixed up in whatever that is."
He reaches beneath the counter and produces a folded scrap of parchment, the ink blotched where salt has kissed it. "I can let you see it for a small fee. Or, if you prefer, I could tell you which of the docks folk were seen with cloaks like those the day they arrived." He taps the counter impatiently. "So—what'll it be? Fee or gossip?"
I nod, letting my interest show. "If there's a fee, I'll buy it," I tell him.
Bramwell's eyes glitter. He folds the scrap of parchment open with careful fingers and lays it between us. The ink is cramped and hurried; there's a quick sketch of the crypt's outer wall and a brief note: "Two markers removed. Meeting beneath the bell at dusk. Bring iron coin." A thin smudge stains one corner as if hurriedly sealed.
"I'll take ten silver for the scrap and the note," Bramwell says, setting a small wooden box between us as though for payment. "Less and I keep it. More and I might add the names of the men who asked for it."
I reach into my coin pouch and draw out the silver. I press the coins into the box; Bramwell counts them quickly, tucks the money away, and slides the parchment toward me.
The scrap gives me what it promised: a small, hurried map, the note about two markers removed, and the meeting at dusk beneath the bell. Bramwell adds in a low whisper, "They left in a small skiff towards the southeast pier. If you're planning to follow, be careful—those men weren't the sort to parley."
I look up from the scrap, letting the question hang between us. "Have there been sightings of any Weavers around? Even fledglings? Someone who gave off... unusual magic?" My tone is casual, more curious than accusatory — fishing, careful to read his face.
Bramwell's fingers pause on the counter. His gaze flicks to the charms at his throat as if counting them, then back to me. He studies my expression a long moment, and I can feel him measuring truth against coin and risk.
"A Weaver," he says slowly, voice low. "Rare folk, those. Not the sort to advertise themselves unless they've got somewhere to hide or a crowd to prop them up. Haven't seen anyone here in Blackfen in years who'd admit it. But..." He leans in, lowering his voice further. "There was a young woman, came through about a month past. Said she was a traveling scribe—thin, kept to shadows, liked to buy old inks and bone nibs. Folks thought her odd; she had a silvered tear-shaped pendant and kept touching it when she thought no one watched. Sat in the corner three nights at the inn, wrote in that tiny hand of hers, and left before dawn the fourth morning. No one could tell where she went."
He taps the scrap again. "Also — and this is only talk — an old salt told me he saw a pale man with ink-stained hands out by the eastern reed marshes a week back. Looked like he hadn't slept in days, muttering to himself about 'the ledger' and how something in the crypt 'answered.' But sailors spin yarns. Take it how you like."
Bramwell's expression hardens a touch. "If any Weaver's in town and sniffing around Saint Mavra, they'd be the sort to avoid attention. If you want names or directions, that'll cost a little more. Otherwise, keep your ears at the docks and your eyes in the shadows."