Part I : The Departure
Faelan was gone from the Greyoak manor before the first hint of dawn. He moved like a ghost, leaving the warm bed of his lovers without a sound and slipping out of the estate unnoticed. He wore a simple servant's shirt and trousers he'd "borrowed," a perfect disguise. In his arms, he carried the four large, empty luggage bags Helena had arranged, their hidden compartments for daggers, a longsword, a bow, and arrows a secret known only to them.
By the time he reached the Guild, the sun was a pale, promising line on the horizon. Lyra, Maeve, the twins, and Pip were already there, a small, grim knot of figures in the pre-dawn chill.
The transformation was remarkable. These were not the formidable Dawnbreakers. Maeve, the deadly archer, was swimming in a set of Lilia's old, oversized clothes, the ill fit instantly marking her as a struggling merchant hanging on by a thread. The twins, Elwin and Edwin, wore the threadbare tunics from their life before the Guild, a stark, personal reminder of the poverty they had escaped and were now using as a shield.
"You're here," Lyra said with a curt nod as Faelan dropped the bags.
Without a word, the twins began their work, efficiently loading the bags with a curated selection of common trade goods from Pip's cart—bolts of cloth, sacks of spice, cheap tinware—all to create a perfect, functional disguise. Their weapons vanished into the hidden compartments, buried beneath the mundane. A single, sturdy horse was laden with the luggage; a party of poor merchants could not afford a mount for each rider.
Lyra gathered them close, her voice a low, sharp whisper in the quiet morning.
"You'll take the North Road out of Oakhaven. It's a day's hard march to the Weeping Woods. You'll know the entrance by a trio of great stones that look like a claw," she instructed, her eyes darting between them. "From there, head east. Follow the path of least Mana flow to avoid the worst of the beasts. But be careful. The Weeping Woods is an anomaly. A low mana reading can mean safety, or it can mean an Elderwood Treant or a Giant Verdant Basilisk is hiding in plain sight. Two days inside the woods should bring you to the borders of Bluemoth. From there, you know the way."
They all listened intently, a team of professionals absorbing their orders. When she finished, Pip stepped forward, pressing a small, carved wooden sigil into each of their hands.
"Once you're in the city, try to find Barnaby. He may be able to help," he warned. "These sigils are not sanctioned by the Merchant's Guild. A close inspection will blow your cover. They'll get you through a lazy checkpoint, but not a thorough one. Be smart."
Faelan sighed, the weight of the mission settling on him. "I guess it's time."
Lyra stepped forward and pulled him into a tight, fierce embrace. She spoke into his ear, her voice a raw whisper full of a decade of shared history and a night of newfound burdens. "Don't you dare die, Fae. We have two kids to raise now."
Faelan chuckled, a low, rough sound as he pulled away. "I know."
As he turned to leave, his eyes found Ingrid, standing alone in the shadows of the Guild's doorway. He said nothing, but a faint, reassuring smile touched his lips, and he gave her a single, slow wave. Then, the four of them—the ghost of a soldier, a master strategist in rags, and two twins returning to the poverty of their past—turned and melted into the morning gloom, leaving only the city's quiet hum behind.
By the end of the day, they had reached the edge of the Weeping Woods. The trio of great stones loomed like ancient, skeletal claws against the twilight sky, marking the entrance to their perilous shortcut. They made a cold camp in their shadow, deciding it was wiser to face the forest with a full night's rest.
Maeve coaxed a small, disciplined fire to life while Edwin returned from a quick hunt, four freshly caught rabbits in hand. As the meat began to roast, a tense quiet settled over the group, broken only by the crackle of the flames and the distant, mournful sounds of the woods.
It was Elwin who finally voiced the question on his mind. "So, what's the plan when we get to the city? We don't exactly have a sketch of Lord Tybalt or this Barnaby fellow."
"We should have asked for one," Edwin added, ever his brother's echo.
"We won't need them," Maeve said, her voice calm and certain. "Vorlag is holding Tybalt for the Treasury. He'll keep him somewhere secure and close—the palace's dungeon is the only logical place. As for Barnaby," she continued, "a Halfling of his standing would have gone to the one place in the city no one would dare touch him during a coup: the Merchant's Guild. Attacking the Guild is an act of economic suicide. He'll be safe there."
"The Guild it is, then," Faelan said, though his expression was grim.
"It's been years since I was last in Bluemoth," Maeve mused.
"Us too," the twins said in unison.
"I was there two years ago," Faelan said quietly.
"How was it?" Maeve asked.
Faelan stared into the fire, a haunted look in his eyes. "Don't ask. It was a rotting corpse of a city. Rampant poverty, crime out of control. You couldn't walk two streets without a hand on your purse. The only places the King's law still meant anything were the palace grounds and the army garrison. A complete state of anarchy."
"And I'd wager it's only gotten worse," Elwin muttered.
A heavy silence fell over the camp. Both Maeve and Faelan looked restless, as if wrestling with unspoken thoughts. They turned to each other at the same instant.
"Hey—" they both began, then stopped.
Faelan managed a weary smile. "You first."
Maeve took a moment, choosing her words carefully. "When Lyra agreed to this hunt, Arthur wasn't in the picture. Now he is. Do you think it's right for her to leave him behind for what could very well be a one-way trip?"
Faelan sighed. "I was planning to have that very discussion with her when we get back. But… I needed to ask all of you something, too." He looked at Maeve and the twins. "I understand Lyra's and Brimor's loyalty to me. But you three… you don't owe me anything. You don't have to—"
"Are you stupid?" Elwin cut him off, not even pausing as he chewed on a piece of roasted rabbit. "Where Lyra goes, we go. It's that simple." He gestured vaguely with the rabbit leg. "Well, except for Aeris, maybe. You might need to convince her. She only joined the Dawnbreakers on the condition that we stay in this region. She's writing some book."
"The Mana Beast Compendium of Qesh," Maeve clarified.
Faelan was genuinely puzzled. "But why? Why is your loyalty to her that absolute?"
Maeve met his gaze, her expression clear and unwavering. "For the same reason she chose to join your hunt without a second thought."
The simple, profound rationale silenced Faelan. It was a debt of loyalty, paid in kind. He finally understood.
They ate the rest of their meal in a quiet, renewed sense of purpose. "We should get some sleep," Faelan said at last, and without another word, they settled in for a long, cold night under the stars.
The next morning, the fresh air of the plains was a distant memory. They entered the Weeping Woods, and it was like stepping into a stinking, stagnant maw. The air, trapped beneath the dense canopy of Griefwood trees, was thick and pungent—a foul cocktail of swamp water and the cloying, rotten-egg stench of the perpetually dripping sap.
"Gods! It smells like something died in here," Elwin exclaimed, pinching his nose. It was the twins' first time in the infamous forest.
"Something is always dying in here," Maeve replied, her voice a low whisper, her eyes already scanning the gloom. "That's why it weeps."
Faelan, his hand resting near his sword hilt, addressed the twins. "Stay vigilant. In this forest, the trees have eyes, and the roots have teeth."
Maeve, a master scout, took the lead, her senses attuned to the flow of Mana. She chose a path of least resistance, a route Lyra had described where the magical energy was weakest, hoping to avoid the forest's more powerful inhabitants. But the woods were a nightmare even in their quietest moments. Giant, man-sized centipedes skittered high in the branches above, and the undergrowth rustled with the movements of unseen predators.
They moved in a tense, practiced silence for half a day before Maeve suddenly froze, signaling for them to take cover behind a massive, moss-covered log. A moment later, the source of her caution became apparent. A herd of twenty Thornback Grazers crashed through the trees, their armored hides like moving boulders.
"What are they?" Elwin whispered.
"Territorial, B-rank herbivores," Maeve whispered back. "Their hides can turn a longsword. Better to let them pass than to blunt our blades and waste our time."
The beasts began to gnaw on the bark of the Griefwood trees, their powerful jaws stripping the pale wood and causing the foul-smelling sap to gush out in thick, black streams. The air became almost unbreathable.
"We should move," Faelan urged, his hand over his mouth.
"And have twenty tons of angry armor charge us?" Maeve countered. "We wait."
And so they waited, suffocating in the stench, until the armored river of beasts had finally moved on.
They camped that night in a small, dry cave system, taking turns on watch. The next day, they rose early, a shared, unspoken desire to escape the oppressive forest driving them forward. It was near afternoon when they came across it.
Four soldiers, their armor bearing Vorlag's insignia of the three howling wolves, were marching seven children in chains. The children, a mix of human and Beastfolk, were destitute, their clothes in tatters, their faces blank with exhaustion and terror.
The team melted into the trees, observing. One of the soldiers, clearly weary, was arguing with his captain. "Sir, we have to rest. They'll be worthless if they die on their feet. We won't be able to fight off anything in this state."
The captain spat on the ground. "We don't have time. We have to clear this inventory before the Lord Commander's new decree outlaws the trade. Now move!"
Faelan's hand went to the hidden compartment in his pack where his sword lay.
"What are you doing?" Maeve hissed, grabbing his arm.
"Freeing those children," he growled back.
The twins, seeing his intent, already had their hands on their own hidden daggers.
"Are you insane?" Maeve whispered, her voice a furious, controlled rasp. "And then what? Take them back to Oakhaven? We lose four days. We risk the mission. We cannot solve every problem we come across, Faelan. We have a greater duty."
Faelan looked at the soldiers' uniforms, so much like the one he had proudly worn for a decade. "That uniform is supposed to mean something, Maeve. Protection. Not… this."
He was almost convinced by her cold, hard logic, but then the captain yanked hard on the chains. One of the smallest human children tripped, falling face-first into the mud.
"Keep walking, you little shit-stain," the captain snarled.
That was the end of it. The debate was over.
A violent purple Aura flared to life around Faelan's legs. In one instant, he was behind the tree; in the next, he was a blur of motion, his longsword singing through the air. The captain's head left his shoulders before his body had time to register the attack.
The twins moved with a synchronized, lethal grace, their daggers finding the throats of two other soldiers in the same heartbeat.
The last soldier, his face a mask of pure terror, turned to flee. Maeve sighed, a sound of profound, weary resignation. She drew and loosed her bow in a single, fluid motion. An arrow sprouted from the back of the fleeing man's neck, and he collapsed into the mud without a sound.
Silence fell over the clearing.
Maeve stalked over to the scene, her face a thundercloud of controlled fury. She didn't shout; her silence was somehow more damning as Faelan moved among the children, the sound of his sword striking their chains echoing in the quiet clearing. He looked at their faces—the vacant, hollowed-out stares, the complete absence of relief—and he saw the same ghosts that haunted Ingrid, the same ghosts he had seen in the children of Frostpine's End.
"What now?" Elwin asked, his voice a nervous whisper that broke the spell.
Maeve's eyes swept the area. "Now, we move," she commanded, her voice cold and clipped. "The noise and the Mana fluctuations from your little… outburst… will have attracted every predator in a two-mile radius. We find a defensible position."
She took charge, her pragmatism overriding her anger. The twins gently guided the silent, shuffling children. Maeve placed the three smallest on their single horse, and they moved out, leaving the bodies of the slavers to the forest.
They found a rock alcove near a small, still lake. Maeve tasted the water and spat it out. "Brackish. Unfit to drink."
The twins set the children down on blankets Faelan had laid out. The children huddled together, a small island of silent, frozen trauma, their eyes following every movement without expression.
"Elwin," Maeve ordered, "find some cupped ferns. They'll hold clean rainwater. Edwin, stay with the children. Keep them calm." She then turned, her sharp gaze pinning Faelan where he stood. "You and I are going to talk."
She led him a short distance away, out of earshot of the children.
"Did you hear them?" she asked, her voice a low, furious hiss.
"I heard them," Faelan replied, his own voice grim. "Sounds like Vorlag is about to outlaw the slave trade."
"A ploy to win public sympathy after the raids," Maeve countered dismissively. "Good for him. But that's not my concern." Her eyes bored into him. "My concern is that Lord Tybalt's head might be on the chopping block as we speak, and you decided to stop and play babysitter to a group of strays!"
"I couldn't just leave them, Maeve," Faelan said, his voice quiet but unyielding.
"I know!" she snapped, taking a moment to rein in her temper. "I know. And Lyra would have my hide if we had. It doesn't make it any less stupid." She began to pace. "What's the plan, Faelan? None of us are healers. We can't take them with us, and we can't enter Bluemoth with a train of seven children. They'll think we're the bloody slavers and we'll have the city guard on us before we even find the Merchant's Guild. We don't have time for this!"
"We leave them outside the city, then?" Faelan shot back. "For the next slaver with a cart to find them? No." He shook his head. "Not all of us need to go in at once."
Maeve stopped pacing, understanding his suggestion. She looked at the children, then back at him, her expression one of weary resignation. "Alright," she conceded. "You rescued them. You take responsibility for them. The mission comes first."
Faelan accepted her terms with a solemn nod. Just then, Elwin returned. "Water, Maeve. And I bagged a few tree lizards."
Maeve's focus snapped back to the immediate problem of survival. "They can't digest that," she said, walking back to the camp. "Crush our travel biscuits into a powder, mix it with the water until it's a thin paste. Feed them that." She looked at the darkening sky. "We camp here for the night. We move at first light."
Her eyes finally settled on Faelan, a glint of cold discipline in them. "And since you were so eager for a fight, you can take the first watch. And the second."
"Yes, Ma'am," Faelan replied without a hint of protest, accepting the deserved punishment.
Sleep did not come easily to Maeve. In the dead of night, she was startled awake by a sound that didn't belong—a soft, unnatural rustle from the canopy above. She sat up, her eyes scanning the darkness. The twins and the children were asleep. Faelan was on watch, a silent statue perched on a rock, his sword across his lap.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered, her voice a sharp, questioning hiss.
Faelan didn't turn. "Hear what?" he whispered back, his own ears straining. A moment later, the leaves at the top of a Griefwood rustled again. "It's just the wind."
"Not in here," Maeve replied, her voice dangerously certain. "The wind in these woods doesn't stir the high branches."
Before the words had even fully left her lips, she was in motion. In a single, fluid movement, she drew her bow, nocked an arrow, and pulled the string taut. A faint, green light flared for an instant as she infused the arrowhead with a Mana Bolt. The bowstring twanged, and the arrow hissed into the darkness. A strangled, avian shriek was cut short, followed by the heavy thud of a large body hitting the forest floor nearby.
Maeve and Faelan cautiously approached the kill. It was a Glimmerwing Griffon, its beautiful, hypnotic feathers still shimmering faintly in the dark, an arrow buried perfectly in its eye socket. It had likely been drawn by the scent of their cooking fire, preparing for a silent, deadly strike from above.
Maeve looked from the dead beast to Faelan, her expression cold and unreadable in the gloom.
"My watch," she said, her voice quiet but leaving no room for argument. "Get some rest, soldier."
The word, and all it implied, landed like a slap. Faelan felt a hot flush of shame creep up his neck. He had put them all in danger. He had been so focused on the threats on the ground that he had forgotten to listen to the whispers in the air. He gave a curt nod, unable to meet her eyes, and retreated to the relative safety of the camp.
As he lay down, sleep was a distant country. The truth was a bitter pill: ten years in the army, fighting men in predictable formations, had made him strong, but it had also made him deaf and blind. The subtle, predatory senses of an adventurer, the ones that kept you alive in a world of monsters, had dulled to a useless, rusty edge.
Maeve woke everyone before dawn. The children, still exhausted, were gently placed on the horse and carried by the twins. With Maeve acting as the silent, hyper-vigilant scout and Faelan as the grim-faced rear guard, they moved with a renewed, tense purpose.
They faced no other major threats. By sundown of the second day, they finally broke free from the oppressive, stinking gloom of the forest.
Before them, in the distance, lay the sprawling, walled city of Bluemoth. The Weeping Woods were behind them. The true battle was about to begin.
Part II: The Arrival
Once they were clear of the woods, Maeve pulled the team into the shadow of a rock outcropping for a final briefing. Her voice was a low, precise whisper.
"Alright, here's the plan. We split up. Faelan, you take the horse and the children and enter through the West Gate. It's closest. Find the city's main church and leave them there. Be a ghost."
She turned to the twins. "We can't have you two walking around together; you'll draw attention. Elwin, you're with me through the North Gate. Edwin, you take the South. We find separate inns for the night, no contact. We all meet at the Merchant's Guild tomorrow morning." She fixed her gaze on Elwin. "Except for you. Your job is to scout the palace. I want a full report on its defenses by the time we meet."
"Understood," the three of them replied in unison. They quickly and efficiently hid their weapons in the hidden compartments of their luggage and, with a final, grim nod to each other, went their separate ways.
Faelan approached the West Gate, his posture transformed from a warrior's coiled readiness to the weary slump of a traveling merchant. The seven children trailed silently behind him, the horse laden with their luggage.
"Halt!" a guard called out, his hand immediately going to the hilt of his sword. His eyes narrowed, taking in the travel-worn man and the train of silent, destitute children. "State your business. You're not a slaver, are you?"
Faelan's face broke into a wide, folksy, and utterly disarming smile. "Oh, no sir, heavens no!" he exclaimed, his voice suddenly full of a haggler's fluctuating cadence. "Just a simple merchant, I am, trying to do my part in these terrible times. The beastfolk raids, you know. A terrible business! Throws the whole country into mayhem. I always tell my own boy, I say, no matter how hard the times…"
"What does that have to do with the children?" the guard cut in, his patience already wearing thin.
"Apologies, good sir, apologies!" Faelan said warmly, as if the guard had just done him a favor. "A bad habit of mine, getting lost in a story. As I was saying, I was passing through Averi Village, and the old church there, bless their hearts, was running clean out of provisions for these poor orphans. The head nun, she asked me personally, 'Good sir,' she said, 'could you see these little ones to the grand church in Bluemoth where they might find a hot meal and a safe bed?' And what's a man to do? The children are the future, I always say…"
The guard held up a hand, his face a mask of profound irritation. "Enough. Go in, go in, before my ears bleed from your blabbering."
And so, with another grateful nod and a final, folksy blessing, Faelan led his small, sorrowful caravan into the city.
Elsewhere, Maeve and the twins also made their way through their respective gates. The guards gave their unsanctioned merchant sigils a cursory glance, their eyes too lazy or untrained to spot the forgeries. One by one, the four members of the infiltration team were swallowed by the sprawling, hostile city of Bluemoth, vanishing into the crowds like ghosts.
Part III : The Church
The chaos of the Weeping Woods gave way to the chilling, disciplined quiet of a city under a new master. Faelan led the children into Bluemoth, and the change from his memory of two years prior was stark and immediate. The boisterous, chaotic energy of the capital was gone, replaced by an eerie, enforced order.
The streets were unnaturally empty for this time of night. The usual throng of merchants, revelers, and beggars had vanished. The citizens they did see scurried along the walls, their gazes fixed on the cobblestones, unwilling to meet anyone's eye. Faelan noted that no pickpocket even glanced at them; perhaps his own merchant's disguise was effective, or perhaps the city's thieves had learned a harsh lesson from the new regime.
The city's new heartbeat was the rhythmic tramp of iron-soled boots on stone. Patrols of Vorlag's soldiers were everywhere, their armor clean, their movements synchronized. This was not the anarchy Faelan had witnessed two years ago; this was the cold efficiency of a military dictatorship. Scars of the coup were visible in the skeletal, burnt-out remains of shops and homes, the scent of old smoke still clinging to the air. From every major building hung the new banners: stark flags of black and grey, bearing three howling wolves before a stone fortress. It was a promise not of prosperity, but of brutal, lupine order.
Faelan navigated the familiar streets, his small, silent charges trailing behind him like a line of ghosts. They soon reached their destination: the Grand Church of the Five, a massive, imposing edifice of dark timber and stained glass.
He pushed the heavy doors open and led the children inside. The air was cold and heavy with the scent of old incense and a thousand unspoken prayers. The vast, echoing hall was empty but for a single priest, kneeling in quiet prayer at the far end of the room. Before him, a grand mural depicted the five major deities of the realm, their painted faces serene and indifferent.
Faelan's voice, though quiet, echoed in the vast, empty church. "Excuse me, Father."
The priest at the far end of the hall rose and glided towards them, his movements smooth and practiced. He had the kind of constant, serene smile that never quite reached the eyes.
"Yes, my son," he said, his voice a warm, melodic hum. "How may the gods' house serve you?"
Faelan gestured to the silent, exhausted children. "These children are orphans of the recent raids. They need shelter."
The priest's smile widened, a perfect picture of compassion. "You are a good man to bring them here. They have come to the right place. We will take good care of them." He raised a hand, and a subordinate emerged from the shadows. As the man approached, the priest knelt before one of the smallest boys. "Don't you worry, little one," he cooed, reaching out to wipe a smudge of dirt from the boy's cheek. "You are safe now."
The boy, who had been a statue of silent obedience throughout the terrifying journey, flinched—a small, almost imperceptible recoil away from the priest's touch. It was a tiny, animalistic rejection, but Faelan, a hunter of men, saw it clear as day. The serene smile of the priest suddenly seemed predatory.
The subordinate gently herded the children away towards the attached orphanage. Faelan knew he should leave, but a cold knot of suspicion had formed in his gut.
"Father," he began, adopting the persona of a weary, simple merchant. "A final kindness, if I may. The hour is late, and my purse is light after a long journey. I'd be eternally grateful for even a bench in this holy place to rest my head for the night."
For a split second, the priest's serene mask tightened, a flicker of profound irritation in his eyes. Then, the smile returned, as warm and hollow as before. "But of course, my son. The house of the gods is always open to the weary traveler."
"Thank you, Father," Faelan said with a grateful bow.
"What name does our guest go by?" the priest asked.
"Marcus," Faelan replied. "And you, Father?"
"You may call me Father John." With a final, benevolent nod, the priest turned and glided away, leaving Faelan alone in the echoing hall. The investigation was about to begin.
The moment Father John's footsteps faded, the weary merchant persona fell away from Faelan. A faint, violet shimmer of Aura wreathed his boots, silencing his steps on the cold stone floor. He was a hunter now, moving through the vast, silent nave of the church. The air, heavy with old incense, carried another, fainter scent beneath it—something metallic and unpleasant. High above, the vaulted ceiling of dark, ancient timber swallowed the candlelight, creating a heaven of deep shadows.
He found a hallway behind the main altar that led to a covered, arched breezeway—a cloister walk connecting the grand church to the more austere orphanage next door. On either side, through the open stone arches, lay perfectly manicured but unnervingly dark gardens. The only sound was the whisper of the night wind through the sculpted hedges. The orphanage itself was a simple, two-story building of stone and wood, every window dark.
Faelan slipped inside. The silence in the orphanage was different from the church's solemn quiet. This was a dead, hollow silence. He moved through the common rooms, finding them unnervingly clean and empty. He peered into a long dormitory; two dozen small cots were lined up in perfect, military rows, each with a thin blanket folded neatly at its foot. Not a single toy, not a stray piece of clothing, not a sign of the messy, vibrant life of children was anywhere to be found. It was a cradle without a baby, a place scrubbed clean of all life.
At the far end of a long hall, a narrow staircase descended into a stone basement. It was from here he heard the muffled, angry whispers, illuminated by the faint, flickering light of a single lantern. Faelan flattened himself against the wall, listening.
"I thought you offloaded the last batch," Father John's voice hissed, stripped of all its holy warmth, now cold and sharp as a shard of ice.
"I did, Father," a nervous, younger voice replied.
"Then explain to me why seven of them are back upstairs in my city, courtesy of some 'lowly merchant'!" John snarled. "You think a man like that takes out four of our contacts by himself?"
A pause. John's voice dropped, becoming even colder. "How many do we have now, with the new arrivals?"
"Twenty, Father," the subordinate stammered.
"And the next pickup?"
"The day after tomorrow, by morning."
"Too risky," John snapped. "The Magellan nobles are crawling all over the city. The Commander could issue his new decree any day now." He fell silent for a moment. "If the buyers aren't here by tomorrow night… you know what to do with the excess inventory."
"Understood, Father."
"Now," John ordered, "clean up one of the new ones—the quiet ones Marcus brought. I need to know how they escaped and who this 'Marcus' really is. After that, go to the Rookery. Find some sellswords on our payroll. I want that merchant dealt with before he becomes a bigger problem."
Faelan's jaw tightened, a cold fury settling in his heart. He melted back into a darkened room as he heard the two men begin to ascend the stairs.
Faelan trailed the subordinate like a ghost, his Aura-wreathed boots making no sound on the stone. The man led him down a hidden stairwell to a dungeon beneath the church. The air was cold and stagnant, thick with the smell of damp stone, mildew, and human despair. A lantern in the subordinate's hand cast flickering, monstrous shadows against the walls of small, empty cells. The silence was eerie, profound.
The subordinate stopped at the very last cell, unlocked the gate, and gestured. A small, hollow-eyed boy came forward without opposition, his movements slow and resigned. He led the boy not back up the stairs, but to a small, grim washroom attached to the dungeon.
He made the boy sit on a rough-hewn table. "Father John wants you clean," the man cooed, his voice a sickly sweet poison that made Faelan's blood run cold. "He has some questions for you. And after… well, he might show you some wonderful things." He leaned closer, his shadow engulfing the child. "I can show you, too, if you'd like. It will be easier for you later if you already know what to do."
The boy said nothing, his stance one of a creature that had already surrendered to its fate.
Faelan had seen enough. He moved from the shadows, a specter of silent vengeance. Before the subordinate could register his presence, Faelan's hand, now glowing with a faint, deadly purple Aura, clamped around the man's throat.
"Why don't you show me?" Faelan whispered, his voice a menacing growl directly in the man's ear.
"I-I… I was just—" the man stammered, his body rigid with terror.
"Take me to his office," Faelan commanded. It was not a request; it was a threat.
The terrified subordinate obeyed. They moved back up the stairs, Faelan a silent presence at his back. They passed a small, dark kitchen, and Faelan's free hand darted out, plucking a long, sharp butcher's knife from a wooden block. He pressed its cold, flat edge against the subordinate's throat, a silent promise of what was to come.
They reached the priest's office. "Knock," Faelan whispered.
The man's trembling hand rapped weakly on the door. Faelan pulled him back into the shadows, the knife still held steady.
"It's open," John's voice called from within, unconcerned. "Leave the boy and get out." He was facing the window, his back to the door.
As the door swung inward, Faelan didn't hesitate. He pulled the subordinate back, and the kitchen knife opened the man's throat in one smooth, silent motion. He held the gurgling man for a second before letting him drop to the floor with a heavy, wet thud.
The sound made John turn.
As John spun around from the sound of the falling body, his eyes met a sight so impossible it froze the scream in his throat. The merchant, Faelan, was already there, perched on the edge of his grand oak desk as if he owned it. One of his boots rested casually on the chair's armrest, but there was nothing casual about the bloody kitchen knife in his hand, its tip resting with surgical precision against the soft flesh just below John's eye.
Absolute, primal fear washed over the priest. His mouth fell open, and a cold sweat instantly beaded on his forehead. He was about to speak, to beg, to haggle for his life.
"You will speak only when I ask," Faelan intervened, his voice a low, menacing whisper that was colder than the steel at John's eye.
"What is this place?" Faelan asked.
"We… we…" John stammered.
"Plainly," Faelan commanded, the knife pricking the skin, "or this conversation ends."
"We facilitate!" John blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in a desperate torrent. "A commission! The soldiers handle the logistics, they bring the children and take them away. We only provide shelter!"
"Why?" Faelan's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "Is this the work of men of God?"
A wild, hysterical laugh escaped John's lips before he choked it back in terror. "Men of God?" he gasped. "Have you seen this city? There is no charity, no money! Did you not find it odd that only two men run a place this large? We cannot serve gods or men on an empty stomach!"
Faelan's expression didn't change. "The nobles. You said they were in the city. Why?"
"I don't know for sure! I swear!" John cried, his composure shattering completely The talk in the city is that the Commander summoned them. To swear fealty, a show of force!"
Faelan was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he lowered the knife. A sliver of hope, desperate and pathetic, flickered in John's eyes. He thought he was going to live.
"This," Faelan whispered, his voice soft as a prayer, "is for the children."
He drove the knife up, under John's jaw and into his brain. The priest's eyes went wide with a final, silent surprise, and his body went limp in the chair.
Faelan pulled the blade free, wiping it clean on the priest's fine robes. After a few seconds of listening to the quiet of the church, he methodically wiped the blood from his hands, went to the priest's closet, and exchanged his own simple clothes for a set of better, unmarked traveler's attire. His work here was done. Now, he had children to save.
Faelan made his way back down to the dungeon, the priest's clothes feeling strange and foreign on his skin. He lit a lantern, and its flickering light revealed the full scope of the horror: small, cramped cells, in which thirteen other children were huddled in the oppressive, silent dark. They ranged in age from as young as seven to as old as fifteen.
He moved from cell to cell, the sound of the old iron locks groaning open echoing in the dungeon. The new children cowered at the back of their cells, their eyes wide with terror. It was one of the older girls from Faelan's original group who built the first, fragile bridge of trust.
One by one, the others followed their lead.
Soon, twenty children stood before him in the flickering lantern light. His gaze fell upon the last one, a fierce-looking Beastfolk boy with feline features. Across his chest were three pale, circular scars, and his eyes burned with a cold, angry fire. He was the only one who looked more angry than scared.
Faelan looked at the twenty pairs of wide, terrified eyes looking back at him, and for a moment, the weight of it all was suffocating. He was a soldier, a hunter. He knew how to kill, but how to save? He wished Lyra were here for her indomitable will, or Maeve for her cold, clear strategy. But they were not. It was up to him.
He knelt, bringing himself down to their level, trying to soften the hard, warrior's edges of his presence.
"My name is Faelan," he began, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't hide. "I know you're scared. I know you've been through hell." He paused, letting his gaze meet as many of theirs as he could. "The men who brought you here… they can't hurt you anymore."
A flicker of something—not hope, but a grim, final understanding—passed through the older children's eyes. Their own eyes welled up, but no one cried.
"But we can't stay here," Faelan continued, his voice shifting, becoming the firm, steady tone of a captain giving a briefing. "And I need your strength. I need your courage." His gaze found the seven oldest. "You seven. Your job is the most important. You will each take charge of two of the little ones. You are responsible for them. You keep them quiet, and you keep them close. Am I clear?"
The older children, startled to be given a duty, straightened their shoulders and gave sharp, determined nods.
"Good," Faelan said, his voice now a low, urgent whisper. "First, you will go upstairs. Wash your faces. Find new clothes in the priests' quarters—take whatever you like. Then, we are going to start a fire. A big one. The kitchen has oil, the office has parchment and spirits. Be quick and be silent. Douse everything that will burn. When you are done, meet me at the back gate."
He pointed to a resourceful-looking girl of about thirteen. "You are in charge of the younger ones. Get them cleaned and changed first."
She nodded, her face grim but resolute, and began to gently herd the smallest children up the stairs. The others, now with a task to focus on, a purpose to distract them from their fear, moved with a quiet, unnerving efficiency.
Faelan himself took to the roof, pouring flasks of oil and alcohol onto the ancient, dry timber structures of the church and orphanage. Within thirty minutes, they were all gathered at the back gate, a small, desperate army of ghosts ready to burn down their own prison.
They were all gathered at the back gate, nineteen children and one exhausted warrior, their faces lit by the single lantern Faelan held.
"Alright, listen," Faelan whispered, his voice a low, urgent command. "We'll hide in the alley across from here. Once the fire takes hold, the street will fill with people. That chaos is our cover. We will move in teams of four. I lead the first, you," he nodded to the thirteen-year-old girl, "lead the last. Keep your eyes on me. Older ones, you are responsible for the younger ones. No one runs. No one shouts. We become ghosts in the crowd. Understood?"
He did a quick, final headcount. Nineteen. One was missing. The Beastfolk boy.
A cold dread washed over Faelan. He handed the lantern to the girl. "Stay here."
He moved back through the dark, empty orphanage, his senses on high alert. The basement, the rooms, the kitchen—all empty. A horrible suspicion led him back to the priest's office.
The room was a slaughterhouse. John and his subordinate had been… unmade. Carved into pieces with a savage, ritualistic artistry that spoke of pure, unadulterated hatred. Standing in the center of the carnage was the Beastfolk boy, his small claws dripping with blood, his face a mask of serene, terrifying contentment.
Faelan's stomach churned. "We have to leave," he said softly.
The boy looked at him, his burning eyes holding no fear, only a chilling finality. Without a word, he turned, slipped out the open window, and vanished into the night. Faelan didn't chase him. The sight of that savage artistry was a sickening echo of the pyre at Frostpine's End.
He returned to the children, his face a grim mask. They didn't ask about the missing boy. They already knew this was a world where people vanished.
With a final, shared look of resolve, they put the church to the flame.
The old, dry timber caught with a hungry roar. They hid in the alley as the flames climbed into the night sky, a great, angry orange beacon. The city erupted. Shouts echoed from the surrounding inns and shops as a panicked crowd poured into the streets.
"Mages! We need water mages!" a man yelled. "It's the Grand Church!" another screamed.
Through the chaos, an old woman's voice rose in a hysterical shriek, her eyes wide with terror. "It's a bad omen! The gods are angry! The Phoenix is burning! The world will burn in its flames!"
"Get her out of here!" a soldier commanded, trying to restore order. "We need to form a bucket line!"
This was their chance. Faelan gave the signal. They slipped into the panicked throng, small groups of ghosts moving through a sea of chaos. Faelan led the way, his hand never far from his sword, the children following his shadow through the dark, winding backstreets of Bluemoth until, finally, they reached the quiet, imposing facade of the Merchant's Guild.
Miles away, in her quiet inn room, Maeve was jolted awake by the sudden, bright orange glow that filled her window. She went to it and saw the panicked crowds pouring into the streets below.
"What's happening?" she called down.
"The Grand Church is on fire!" a man shouted back.
The soldiers were now active, trying to contain the chaos. Maeve watched the orange glow, watched the direction of the panic, and her mind, a precision instrument of strategy, connected the dots in an instant. There was only one person on her team with the tactical subtlety of a forest fire.
She sighed, a long, weary sound that was equal parts frustration and grudging admiration.
"That idiot," she whispered to the empty room.