Part I: The Storm Arrives
Faelan picked up the newly activated adventurer's plate. It felt heavier than he remembered, a solid weight of a life he had forsaken and was now forced to reclaim. He was no longer Captain Faelan. He was an adventurer once more. The hunt could now truly begin.
He was about to turn, to scan the vast, crowded hall for any sign of Ingrid, when the world snapped sideways. A forearm like a steel bar locked across his throat, cutting off his air and lifting him from his feet. He was on his knees before his brain had processed the attack, his vision already starting to swim with black spots. The cheerful Beastfolk receptionist, Lilia, let out a terrified gasp, her hands flying to her mouth.
Through the roaring in his ears, Faelan heard a low, throaty laugh that was achingly familiar.
"Lyra…" he gasped, the name a pained, desperate wheeze. "You godsdamned… brute… whore… Let go!"
The pressure vanished. Faelan collapsed to the floor, greedily sucking in air. A pair of worn, steel-toed boots entered his field of vision."And a good evening to you too, Fae," a woman's voice, rich with amusement and crimson as her hair, replied. "Still as slow as ever, I see."
Faelan looked up, a grin spreading across his face as he took the offered hand and was hauled to his feet. He was met with the fierce, beautiful, and utterly infuriating face of Lyra Magellan. They stood for a moment, two old comrades taking each other's measure, and then they embraced. It wasn't a gentle hug. It was a collision of old friends, a clash of leather and stored memories, a fierce, bone-deep affirmation that they were both, against all odds, still alive.
"It's good to see you, Fae," she said, her voice softer now.
"You too, Lyra. You too."
Lyra pulled back, her sharp eyes scanning him.
"You look like hell."
"You look like you just wrestled a Wyvern," he retorted.
"A-rank Wyvern," she corrected with a proud smirk. "And I won." She gestured with her head towards a large, rowdy table. "Come on, the Dawnbreakers just got back. First round is on you for being gone for a decade."
Her party was a study in contrasts. A petite archer with knife-sharp eyes who was cleaning her nails with a dagger; a dour-faced Dwarf leaning on a greataxe that looked like it could fell a fortress; a slender Elf who observed the entire chaotic reunion with an expression of profound, cosmic boredom; and two identical human twins who were currently engaged in a very serious arm-wrestling match.
They claimed two tables, a large one for the party and a smaller one for just the two of them. The ale came, and the stories began to flow—tales of past glories, of shared battles, of Alistair's ridiculous antics back in their first party, The Gilded Vagabonds. Faelan, for the first time in weeks, felt a genuine warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the alcohol.
"...so the Wyvern dives, right?" Lyra was saying, her eyes alight with the thrill of the hunt. "And Brimor,the stubborn blockhead forgets the net and tries to catch it with his bare hands!"
Their shared laughter was cut short by a resounding CRASH from the second-floor hallway, followed by a furious string of curses.
A moment later, a figure burst from the stairwell and into the taproom, moving with the speed of a cornered animal.
It was Ingrid.
Her hair was wild, her eyes burned with a cold fire, and her knuckles were white where she gripped the hilt of a small knife.
She scanned the room, looking for an escape, and then her eyes locked with Faelan's.
Faelan's heart sank. His brief respite was over. He saw the confusion, the anger, the betrayal in her gaze.
"Ingrid!" he called out, his voice a mixture of relief and dread. "There you are! I was beginning to think you were late!"
The crimson-haired woman at his table didn't look at Faelan. Her head turned slowly, her sharp, intelligent eyes fixing on Ingrid. One of the twins at her table, Elvin, leaned in. "That's the girl, Lyra. The one I told you about."
Lyra's expression didn't change, but a dangerous stillness settled over her. She raised her voice, not in a shout, but in a clear, resonant tone that sliced through the Guild's roar and plunged it into an immediate, dead silence.
"Thorgar. Downstairs.Now"
From the second-floor landing, a strangled, "Yes, Ma'am," was heard, and a moment later, the big adventurer came thundering down the stairs.
He skidded to a halt near Ingrid, his face pale, before scurrying to stand before his captain, head bowed like a sinner at the headsman's block.
Without breaking her intense gaze from him, her hand shot out, reflexively grabbing the heavy Dwarven axe.
She didn't speak. She stalked him. With each slow, deliberate step she took forward, Thorgar took a terrified step back. The patrons of the Guild scrambled to move their chairs out of the way. The silent, menacing procession continued until Thorgar's broad back hit the far stone wall of the taproom. He had nowhere left to run.
Lyra crowded him, her smaller frame somehow towering over him as he began to cower, the polished head of the axe gleaming in the lantern light. She leaned in, her voice a low, dangerous hiss.
"I hear," she began, her voice dripping with venom, "you've been attacking refugee children." As she spoke the last word, she swung the axe in a terrifying arc.
The entire exchange happened in a flash of desperate energy. As the axe whistled towards his head, Thorgar, squeezing his eyes shut, screamed his frantic, high-pitched defense.
"—IT WAS A SHAPESHIFTER DISGUISED AS A GIRL I FAILED THE MISSION SHE GOT AWAY—"
The massive axe-head slammed into the wall an inch from his ear with a deafening CRACK
The hall held its breath, Thorgar's panicked words still echoing in the air.
Lyra let her posture relax, a look of mild surprise on her face as if she were just now noticing the axe in the wall. She turned to the stunned crowd, a small, self-deprecating smile on her lips.
"Well," she announced to the room. "That was an overreaction, wasn't it?"
A wave of relieved, raucous laughter swept through the Guild, and just as quickly, the roar of a hundred conversations resumed, eager to drown out the memory of the tense silence.
The performance was over; the rumor was dead,the reputation restored. Lyra wrenched the axe from the wall and flipped it back to the dwarf.
She then turned to the pale, trembling Thorgar and offered him a hand, her voice now warm with a leader's compassion.
"Come on, you big lummox. Join us for a drink. You look like you need one."
As Thorgar gratefully followed her back towards the table, she stopped, her full, undivided attention falling upon Ingrid.
Her gaze dropped from Ingrid's fierce, determined eyes down to the small knife clutched in her white-knuckled hand.
"That's a butter knife," Lyra stated.
The words were spoken quietly, a simple, matter-of-fact observation. There was no mockery in her tone, no sarcasm or patronizing pity. It was a diagnosis, delivered with the blunt awkwardness of a warrior who simply did not possess the social graces to soften the truth for a child.
She then glanced over her shoulder at the Dawnbreakers' table, where the Dwarf was already hacking off a large piece of a roasted boar. Her eyes returned to Ingrid, a glint of something—a challenge, perhaps—within them.
"The boar at our table is tough," she said. "That knife will be useless against it. But you're welcome to try."
The invitation was not in her words, but in the space between them. It was a summons, a test, and a stark, unpitying affirmation of Ingrid's own desperate reality. The knife was useless. She was powerless. Lyra's bluntness wasn't an insult; it was a truth Ingrid had been living with since the fire.
A drunk Faelan, oblivious to the nuance, waved his stein enthusiastically. "Come on, Ingrid! There's boar!"
Ingrid stood for a moment, her mind racing.
This woman, this living storm of power, had looked at her, seen her weakness, and had not cast her aside.
She had, in her own strange, intimidating way, offered a place at the table.
Under normal circumstances, an invitation from such a figure would have been cause for ecstasy.
Now, in the shadow of her grief, it felt different. It was a lifeline. It was a chance. It was the first step on the path to the power she so desperately craved.
Ingrid followed, her eyes fixated on the woman who was a whirlwind of contradictions. Her mind, trained by Sybill to deconstruct and understand, raced to assemble a portrait of the woman named Lyra.
The first and most overwhelming sensation was of power. It was an aura, a quiet pressure in the air around Lyra that Ingrid could feel on her skin, a silent promise of violence that made every adventurer in the hall give her a wide berth.
Ingrid had no doubt that if Lyra truly wished it, she could unmake every person in the Guild, except, of course, for the quiet Elf at her table, and still be the last one standing.
Her crimson hair, unbound from its battle-tie, seemed to float around her head in a fiery halo, enhancing the fierce, beauty of her face. As a swordmaster, she was built for nimble power, not a brute's bulk.
Her figure was a study in toned muscle and potent curves. She had the strong thighs of a lifelong warrior, and full, womanly hips that curved with a power that was sensual, not heavy. Her breasts were bound tight in practical leather straps, yet the proud, full curve of them was unmistakable—a size that spoke of a lush femininity beneath the hardened warrior's exterior.
Though Ingrid did not know it, Lyra hailed from a noble family, and it showed in the fine lines of her face and her innate, commanding grace. But this beauty was stained with the grime of a recent battle, and the few silver scars that traced her arms and slim waist were not blemishes; they were accents, testaments to a skill so profound that a lifetime of fighting had barely managed to leave its mark.
Ingrid, though her face remained a stoic mask, was utterly in awe. This was not the remote beauty of a sheltered lady, but the breathtaking, functional beauty of a perfectly honed weapon. This was what power looked like. They finally reached the others, and Ingrid took her seat.
Part II: Table of Miseries
They settled at a huge, round table in the center of the hall, a chaotic island in a sea of noise.
The Guild was in full swing.
Young women, both Beastfolk and Human, bustled between tables, their arms laden with frothing steins of ale and plates of steaming food.
Ingrid watched them, her gaze distant. She noticed how their Guild uniforms, though clean, were ill-fitting—a cost-saving measure, perhaps, that had the side effect of clinging to their bodies in a way that drew the leering eyes of patrons.
She saw the forced brightness in their smiles and recognized it for what it was: a mask, worn by those whose circumstances gave them no choice but to please. Their stories were unknown to her, but their quiet desperation was a familiar language.
The recent commotion had left a strange, expectant silence hanging over their table. Lyra, ever the leader, broke it, her voice pulling them all into the present.
"Well," she began, a wry smile on her lips. "Since we have unacquainted members at the table, introductions are in order." She gestured to herself. "I'm Lyra."
The rhythm went around the table, each name a declaration.
"Brimor, from the Runic Pass," the Dwarf grunted, his voice like grinding stone.
"Elwin," said one of the twins.
"Edwin," said the other.
"—from Mistvale," they finished in unnerving unison.
"Thorgar of Stonewillow," the big man boomed, having recovered his good cheer.
"Faelan. Formerly of Frostpine's End," he said, his voice quiet.
"Maeve, from Briar's Dell," the petite archer added, her eyes sharp and assessing.
All eyes turned to the short, blonde Elf. She seemed to exist in a bubble of quiet detachment from the rowdy Guild hall. When she spoke, her voice was a near-whisper, soft and distant.
"Aeris. Disciple of Silvanus."
The formal, almost reverent title passed over the heads of most at the table, but it was a clear declaration of her identity in the truest Elven sense. Finally, all eyes turned to Ingrid. Her voice was quiet but steady, cutting through the lingering cheer.
"Ingrid. Disciple of Sybill, from Frostpine's End."
For the first time since the commotion began, a flicker of something—not quite interest, but a focused, analytical curiosity—passed through the Elf Aeris' placid gaze as she looked at Ingrid. The human girl, whether by accident or design, had introduced herself in the proper Elven manner.
The name 'Sybill' landed on the table with a tangible weight. A flicker of recognition lit up every face, except for Aeris'. For Thorgar, Maeve, and the twins, it was a name of reverence, a legendary hero from the Battle of Veridian Fields.
But for Aeris, the name held no weight. Elves cared little for the fleeting glories of human battles. The girl's introduction had been a momentary, pleasant curiosity, but the name 'Sybill' itself, and the stories of its owner's heroism, were of no more interest to her than the chatter from the next table. While the others reacted with awe, Aeris had already returned to her natural state of quiet detachment.
Thorgar , Maeve and the twins had all grown up reading the heroic accounts of the Battle of Veridian Fields.
Thorgar burst out, his voice full of genuine awe. "Sybill! By the forge, that explains it! With a master like that, no wonder you're so strong at such a young age!"
A slow, knowing smirk spread across Lyra's face. She let the awe hang in the air for a moment before casually adding, "She was his mother."
The cheerfulness at the table instantly fractured. Thorgar's jaw dropped. Maeve and the twins exchanged looks of stunned disbelief. Only Brimor remained impassive, taking a slow drink of his ale as if the fact was old news to him—which, of course, it was.
Lyra's grin widened, her eyes fixed on Faelan, enjoying the sudden, delicious tension she had created.
"So, Fae," she said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial air. "Now that you're back, I have to know. Did you finally gather up the accolades to face your mother? How did the grand reunion go?"
The question was an unknowing blade, and it slid perfectly between Faelan's ribs. The faint smile on his face vanished. The boisterous energy of the table evaporated, replaced by a sudden, heavy silence.
Lyra's grin faltered, her sharp instincts sensing the immediate shift.
Her playful tone melted away, replaced by genuine, curious concern. "Fae? Is everything alright?"
Faelan took a long, slow drink of his ale, his knuckles white around the handle of the stein. He then placed it down with a soft, final thud. When he spoke, his voice was flat, stripped of all emotion, which made the story he told all the more horrific.
He laid it all bare. The fate of Frostpine's End. The savage, Beastfolk warrior. His mother's head on a pike, presiding over a mountain of her slain neighbors. His decision to leave the army. Securing Alistair's help for a bounty. And Ingrid. Her story, her loss, her vow.
As the last, grim details of his tale fell into the silence, a profound shift occurred at the table. The Dawnbreakers were warriors, accustomed to violence and loss. But the nature of this tragedy, and the two survivors it had created, was something different.
The boisterous Thorgar was uncharacteristically silent, his knuckles white around his stein. Maeve's sharp, assessing eyes had softened with a deep, sorrowful empathy. Even the twins seemed to have lost their shared smirk, their faces grim.
Brimor, the dwarf who had been part of Faelan's old crew, did not look surprised by the history of estrangement; he had known of the rift between Faelan and his mother for years. But his face, usually a mask of dour impassivity, had hardened into something far grimmer as he heard the tale of her end. His hand rested on the handle of his ale stein, but his knuckles were white, and a low, almost inaudible growl rumbled deep in his chest. This was not the sorrow of hearing a sad story; it was the contained rage of a warrior hearing that the mother of a shield-brother had been murdered.
Aeris, true to her nature, remained a placid lake on the surface. Her expression was unchanged, and at some point during the commotion, she had produced a small, leather-bound book, her eyes scanning its pages as if the heart-wrenching confession at her table was of no more consequence than a passing breeze. To the others, she seemed as disinterested as ever. Elves, after all, have seen empires rise and fall, and the tragedies of short-lived races can seem like ripples in a vast ocean.But beneath that ageless calm, something had stirred. Faelan's grief, born of a mortal lifetime of pride and regret, was a complex, self-inflicted wound she could understand but not truly feel.Ingrid's tragedy, however, was different. It was absolute. It was the pure, elemental grief of a world being annihilated, a pain so fundamental it bypassed the walls of Elven composure. Though her face and her conscious mind refused to acknowledge it, Aeris's ancient heart felt a quiet, profound pang of sympathy—not for the soldier wrestling with his ghosts, but for the girl who had been forced to watch her entire world burn.
Their eyes, one by one, turned to Ingrid.
In Faelan, they saw the complex, bitter grief of a man haunted by regret. His was the pain of a broken pride that could never be mended, of a hero's return that came too late. His quest for revenge was a desperate attempt to find redemption, to prove to a ghost that the path of the sword was as worthy as the path of the spell.
But when they looked at Ingrid, they saw the abyss. They saw a girl whose entire world—her past, her present, her dreams—had been burned to ash in a single night. Her grief was not the complex sorrow of a fractured relationship, but the raw, absolute agony of total loss. Her quest for vengeance was not for redemption; it was the only thing she had left.
They saw the impossible strength it took for her, at fifteen, to choose a path of fire and competition over the quiet safety of an orphanage; to honor her teacher's last wish to save fifty other children, even as her own siblings were dragged away.
In that moment, their respect for her was forged—not for the power she had or the potential she held, but for the iron core of character she had already shown.
Part III: Even she has tears
The table was silent for a few moments after the revelations, the air thick with unspoken grief. Lyra, ever the leader, took it upon herself to steer the conversation back to the grim shores of reality.
"The Wolf is on the throne, the Beastfolk are running wild, and Sybill is dead," she summarized, her tone flat and hard. She turned her gaze to Thorgar, who was trying to make himself small while still reaching for a piece of meat. "What about the Phoenix?"
Thorgar froze, a piece of boar halfway to his mouth. "The… Phoenix, boss?"
Maeve let out an exasperated sigh. "The Halfling, you oaf. The spymaster. She told you to get a report on her brother."
A look of dawning horror, followed by profound embarrassment, spread across Thorgar's face. "Ah… with the shapeshifter… it, ah… slipped my mind."
Lyra shook her head, a look of fond, weary disappointment in her eyes. "Ask this one to wrestle a Troll into submission, he'll do it with a grin. Ask him to clip a Gorgon's toenails, he'll come back with the whole foot. But ask him to have a simple conversation with a Halfling…"
She sighed and gestured to one of the twins. "Edwin. You'll see Pip tomorrow. Get the report." Edwin gave a sharp nod.
As the hours wore on and the night deepened, the Guild hall began to empty. The roar of a hundred adventurers dwindled to a few scattered conversations, then to the lonely clatter of mugs being collected by the staff.
One by one, the Dawnbreakers took their leave. Aeris departed with a silent nod, followed by Maeve and the twins. Thorgar, after a final, mumbled apology to his captain, trudged up to his room.
The table had gone quiet again. Only Lyra, Faelan, Brimor, and the silent Ingrid remained in the cavernous, echoing hall. The alcohol, which had earlier fueled boisterous memories, now began to dredge up ghosts.
"My father…" Lyra slurred, raising her stein in a mock toast. "The glorious King Magellan… was a rotting son of a bitch." She let out a wet, humorless laugh. "But," she whispered, her gaze lost in the past, "he wasn't always. Before… before she died… he was a man. A king. My father."
Her voice cracked. "She died in childbirth… his birth." Lyra wouldn't even say the name. "And he never forgave him. The gods damn his soul, he never forgave a newborn child for the crime of being born." The pieces clicked into place for Ingrid with the force of a physical blow. The Phoenix… my brother… haven't seen him in a decade… This was Lyra Magellan. The runaway princess. And the boy she mourned was the fugitive prince.
Lyra slammed her stein on the table. "So he drank. And he wenched. And he let the wolves like Vorlag run his kingdom into the ground. I had to leave, Fae!" she looked at him, her eyes pleading. "What else could I do? Watch him destroy my brother with his silence?"
She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with wracking sobs. "I haven't seen him in almost a decade. He's just a boy…"
Faelan and Brimor moved closer, their hands resting on her shaking shoulders, old friends weathering a familiar storm. Ingrid watched, stunned. The indomitable warrior was gone, replaced by a heartbroken sister.
The quiet of the near-empty hall was broken by the creak of the front doors. Two small silhouettes stood framed against the dark street. Lilia looked up from her counter.
"The Guild is closed for the night, sirs. My apologies," she said, her voice soft but firm.
"Our business is with the people at that table," the smaller of the two figures replied.
Lyra lifted her head, her vision swimming in a haze of alcohol and tears. She couldn't make out their faces. But then she saw it. A soft, crimson pulse of light on the wrist of the taller, boyish figure. The Crimson Compass. Her own blood, calling back to her after a decade.
The alcoholic haze evaporated in an instant, replaced by a shock so profound it was like an electric current snapping her sober. Her breath hitched. Her voice, when it came out, was not a shout, but a strangled, desperate, disbelieving whisper, full of a decade of fear and hope.
"Arthur?"
Part IV: The Reunion
The name, a strangled whisper from Lyra's lips, hung in the suddenly quiet air.
The indomitable warrior was gone, replaced by something far more fragile.
She rose from her seat, every eye at the table tracking her as she walked toward the two figures at the entrance.
Her steps were unsteady, not from the ale she'd consumed, but from the tidal wave of a decade's worth of fear and hope crashing down upon her at once.
Though nine years had passed, she recognized the ghost of her little brother's face instantly.
For Arthur, the world was a disorienting haze of strange faces and muffled sounds. The only clear, undeniable thing was the Crimson Compass on his wrist. It now blazed with the brilliant, steady light of a true ruby, the teardrop of blood inside a sharp, perfect point aimed directly at the approaching woman. Her crimson hair was a familiar echo of his own reflection, a trait of the Magellan line, but the face… the face was a ghost from a half-forgotten dream.
She stopped before him, her fiery eyes now soft and swimming with unshed tears.
"Thank the spirits," she choked out, her voice thick with emotion. "Oh, Arthur… you're alive." She knelt, pulling him into a fierce, desperate hug that smelled of leather, steel, and wine.
Arthur remained stiff in her embrace. This was his sister, his goal, his only hope, but the sibling connection he was supposed to feel was a dead wire. He was being held by a powerful, familiar stranger in a land of unfamiliar ones.
Pip, ever the pragmatist, stepped forward to ground the emotional moment. "He's a brave lad, I'll tell you that, Lyra. Made his way from Bluemoth through gods-know-what to find you."
Lyra released Arthur, wiping at her eyes as she stood. She looked from the boy to the Halfling, a flicker of confusion on her face. "Pip? How do you two…?"
"Barnaby," Pip said simply.
"Barnaby?" A look of genuine surprise crossed Lyra's face. "Our steward?"
"My uncle, Barnaby," Pip said, with no ceremony. "He gave the lad our family's sigil to find me."
"Your uncle?" Lyra let out a short, weary laugh, a look of genuine surprise on her face. "It seems even after a lifetime, a good man can still hold a few secrets."
Relieved that her brother had found his way into such trusted hands, she turned back to Arthur, her expression softening into the comforting smile of an older sister. "Come, Arthur. Join us. We have much to talk about."
Arthur, still caught in a haze of shock and emotional exhaustion, simply nodded.
There was no bond of sibling love he could tap into, no immediate comfort from this woman he barely remembered. There was only a sense of safety, a feeling that this particular storm might, for a moment, pass him by.
He followed her command and took a seat at the table next to her, finding himself facing the solemn, quiet girl, Ingrid. Pip sat beside Arthur, across from the stoic dwarf, Brimor.
At a gesture from Lyra, Lilia the receptionist quickly brought over fresh plates of food and drink for the two new arrivals.
Just then, Maeve, the petite archer, appeared at the top of the stairs, now dressed in simple sleeping clothes, a water jug in her hand. She stopped, surprised by the new additions to their table.
Before she could speak, Lyra's voice, now stripped of its grief and full of a bright, bubbling excitement, called out to her.
"Maeve! He's here! My brother is here!"
Part V: Collision of Relaities
The table was silent for a few moments, the ghosts of Faelan's and Ingrid's story still lingering in the air. Lyra, ever the leader, knew they couldn't afford to drown in grief. She took control, her gaze shifting from her brother's pale, exhausted face to the shrewd eyes of the Halfling.
"Pip," she began, her voice low and firm. "I will not make Arthur relive that nightmare. But you... I gather you've already put the pieces together."
Pip's gaze met hers. "As many as can be found in this city, yes."
"Then tell me," Lyra said, her tone that of a commander demanding a battlefield report. "How does a five-hundred-year-old dynasty die in a single night? Why is there an ocean of refugees outside my city? And how does a girl from the northern frontier," she gave a slight nod to Ingrid, "end up sharing a tragedy with my brother from the capital? The whole kingdom seems to have crumbled from north to south, leaving the gates open for the Beastfolk. It makes no sense."
Pip took a slow, deliberate sip of his cider. "Information of that quality has a price, Lyra."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "The Dawnbreakers have a deep purse. You know this."
A small, professional smile touched Pip's lips. "Very well then," he said, setting his mug down.
"To begin with, the coup was not the work of a single night. It was the culmination of a month of plotting, built on a foundation of sixteen years of decay."
He looked directly at Lyra. "Sixteen years ago, if I recall, you left your home in opposition to your father's overcentralization of power."
"He was handing the empire to his favorites," Lyra confirmed, her voice tight. "The treasury was already bleeding."
"Exactly," Pip continued, his voice calm and measured. "And in the last two years, that slow bleed became a hemorrhage. The King sank deeper into his vices. He was no longer just an absentee father, but an absentee king. The corrupt nobles he favored ran the state into the ground. Food shortages, skyrocketing prices, poverty... the kingdom was rotting from the head down."
The others listened intently as Pip laid out the facts. "The well-meaning members of the council—your uncle Tybalt included—saw the ruin. With Commander Vorlag on their side, they planned to censure the king, restore power to the council, and eventually place young Arthur on the throne as a nominal ruler. With Tybalt and Vorlag united, the King's favorites had no choice but to agree. But, as Arthur has told me, Vorlag betrayed them all at the final moment."
Pip stopped. It was Faelan who broke the silence, his brow furrowed, the soldier in him snagging on a tactical inconsistency. "But the Beastfolk," he said, his voice a low growl. "That's what makes no sense. The Imperial Army is structured to contain border raids. For the entire frontier to collapse like that..."
Pip looked at the unfamiliar, intense man. "And you are?"
"Faelan," he introduced himself. Lyra added, "An old friend."
"Faelan," Pip acknowledged with a nod. "On that, I have no certain answer. The northern attacks began twenty days ago. The southern ones, thirteen. It is... convenient for Vorlag. Too convenient."
Lyra turned her gaze to the petite archer. "Maeve. What do you make of it?"
Maeve, who had been silently whittling a piece of wood, set down her knife. In addition to being a peerless archer, she was the party's grand strategist. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, but each word was placed with the precision of an archer setting an arrow to the string.
"I cannot be certain. But if I were to guess," she began, "Vorlag played the board on a grand scale. The Magellan army is divided into four theaters. North is the weakest. South was under his direct command. The Eastern and Western theaters are controlled by the noble Houses of Vicant and Caprice."
She paused, collecting her thoughts. "There are two likely paths. First one is Vorlag under the pretext of the 'unprecedented' northern attack, ordered the Eastern and Western armies to send forces north, thinning their own numbers and leaving the capital, which lies in his southern territory, vulnerable for his coup. Or the seconde one is that Houses Vicant and Caprice were already in his pocket, making their inaction a part of the plan."
She looked around the table. "He also would have used the southern raids to get rid of Tybalt's loyalists, sending them on suicide missions while he secured the palace. Either way, the conclusion is the same. Vorlag either had foreknowledge of the Beastfolk attacks and exploited the timing perfectly... or he conspired with them directly."
The table went silent, the weight of Maeve's assessment settling over them like a shroud. This was no longer just a story of a bloody coup. It was a conspiracy of breathtaking scale, one that had used monsters and armies as pawns to steal a kingdom.
Part VI: Charting a future
The heavy silence at the table was finally broken by Pip. He leaned forward, his sharp, analytical gaze fixed on Lyra.
"There's a piece that doesn't fit," he began, his voice low and thoughtful. "When young Arthur was fleeing, he overheard Vorlag's men. They wanted Lord Tybalt alive, not for leverage, but for the Royal Treasury. Vorlag is a soldier who just seized an entire kingdom. Why would he risk a messy capture for what amounts to the crown jewels?"
A grim, knowing look passed over Lyra's face. "Because you're thinking like a merchant, Pip. You assume the Treasury is full of gold." She shook her head, her expression hardening. "It's not a vault. It's an armory."
She let the word hang in the air before continuing, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Forbidden spellbooks from the First Age. Cursed artifacts that could level a city. All the terrible things our ancestors had the good sense to lock away from the world."
A new, more chilling understanding dawned on the faces around the table.
"It is sealed," Lyra continued, her voice heavy with the weight of the secret. "Bound with ancient Elven blood-wards. Only the true, living blood of a Magellan king can command it to open."
Her gaze drifted from Pip to Faelan, and then, with a look of profound, sorrowful revelation, it settled on her brother.
"Vorlag killed my father," she stated, the fact now carrying a new, horrifying logic. "He must have thought Tybalt, as his brother, could open it. He was wrong. The magic is… specific."
She didn't need to say another word. In the sudden, crushing silence, every eye at the table slowly shifted, coming to rest on the small, unassuming boy at the center of it all. Arthur, who was no longer just a fugitive prince, but a living key to unimaginable power.
A cold, analytical silence fell over the table. The full scale of the coup, the betrayal, and Maeve's chilling strategic analysis hung in the air between them.
Lyra, after a long moment, let out a sigh that seemed to carry the burden of it all.
"The coup, the usurper, the hunt, the tournament ,my brother the fugitive prince," she listed, ticking off the disasters on her fingers.
"Fate has dealt us a truly terrible hand this time." She took a deep, fortifying breath, her pragmatic nature taking over. "Well, we can't solve it all in one night. But one thing must be dealt with before sunrise."
Her gaze fell on Arthur, her expression softening.
"That hair and eye color, little brother." She continued, her tone now that of a calm instructor.
"In Bluemoth, there are enough noble branches and their bastards that a boy with crimson hair is a stone in a river. But out here? Especially outside Magellan? You're a ruby in a mud pit. You'll be noticed."
She paused, her expression turning calculating. "And even if the news of your escape didn't come out… I was thinking of spreading the rumor myself."
A collective gasp went around the table. "What are you saying, Lyra?" Faelan protested, his voice sharp with anger. "He's your brother, not a chess piece!"
"He's both, Faelan," Maeve interjected, her voice cutting through his anger with its usual calm precision. Lyra gave a slight nod, letting her strategist continue. "She wants to plant a seed of doubt against Vorlag's legitimacy. The people may have hated the old king, but they fear chaos more. A rumor of a living heir is a weapon for the future, should we need it."
"Exactly," Lyra said, taking back the conversation. "But for that weapon to be of any use, the real boy needs to be invisible. We need to do something about that hair."
Her voice took on a tone of command. "Brimor."
The dwarf grunted, "Understood," and got to his feet, heading for the stairs without another word.
"But what about you, Lyra?" Faelan challenged. "You have the same hair."
Lyra gave him a weary look. "Yes, but I'm not the direct heir to the throne. Besides, I'm strong enough to handle any trouble that comes my way." a wry, self-deprecating smile touched her lips, "And between my manners and my profession, I doubt many look at me and think 'royalty'."
As she spoke, Brimor returned, a very sleepy and very annoyed Aeris slung over his shoulder like a sack of rare herbs.
"Why," the Elf mumbled protestingly into Brimor's beard, "did you wake me from my slumber, you full-bearded demon? The waking world is a crass and noisy affair I have no wish to partake in."
Brimor gently placed her on the chair beside Arthur, remaining standing at her side to make sure she didn't topple over.
Lyra's voice softened into a pleasant, pleading tone. "Aeris, my friend. Could you please work a little magic for us? Change the hair and eye color of this young man."
Aeris opened one eye, peering at Arthur. She began to murmur the words of the spell, her voice thick with sleep. Halfway through, she paused. "Which color?" she asked, her tone utterly flat.
"Huh?" was the first sound Arthur had uttered since entering the Guild, startled by the direct question.
"Brown, then. It's practical," Aeris said with a yawn, about to finish the spell.
"Black hair! Brown eyes!" Arthur blurted out, a panicked reflex of a boy suddenly given a choice in his own erasure.
A few seconds later, a shimmer of pale light washed over him. His crimson hair darkened to the color of jet, his eyes shifting to a simple, unassuming brown.
"This…" Aeris yawned, "…spell will only be undone if I choose to undo it. Or if I die."
As she finished the statement, Brimor scooped her back up onto his shoulder. She was already asleep again before he reached the first step.
"Well, that settles that for tonight," Lyra said, stretching her arms above her head. "We'll worry about the rest tomorrow." She began issuing her final orders.
"Ingrid, the room Thorgar put you in is yours for as long as you need it. I'll send him for your things from the inn tomorrow."
She looked at her archer. "Maeve, show Arthur to the empty room next to yours. He's staying with us."
"And Faelan?" she asked, a knowing look in her eye.
Faelan stood, a faint smile on his lips. "I'll be at the manor."
Lyra returned his smile, a look of sly, shared understanding. "Fair enough. Send my warmest regards to the Greyoaks. And apologize on my behalf for not visiting lately."
"Should I tell them what we've discussed tonight?" Faelan asked earnestly.
Lyra's expression grew weary again. "No. Why bother them? Alistair has the tournament, the refugee crisis, and his ailing father to worry about. He has enough ghosts to deal with without us adding ours to his collection." She stood, her body aching with the day's fatigue. "Well then. That settles it for the night."
One by one, they dispersed. Pip gave a small bow and headed back to his shop. Maeve gently led a dazed Arthur and a silent Ingrid to their rooms. Faelan gave Lyra a final, meaningful look. "See you tomorrow."
Lyra watched them go, then stretched her body and marched towards the Guild's baths to wash off the grime of a long, long day. Behind her, Lilia began to extinguish the lanterns, finally closing the guilds' doors, plunging the now-silent hall into a welcome darkness.