"Before gods clashed in the heavens, men danced in sin. And the wind that once carried prayers began to carry blood."
— The Scrolls of Tharn, Verse III
The wind blew south that night—cold and low—brushing the grass in waves that whispered like restless spirits. The road was a ribbon of mud and old hoofprints, glistening under a sickle moon.
"Over here!" Gareld called, his voice cutting through the dark. "Where in the gods' name have you been?"
Eric turned at the sound, boots heavy with muck. He had wandered again, drawn off the path by the sound of running water and curiosity he couldn't name.
"You lads never listen!" Ser Dorgwin barked, riding up and seizing the boy's collar. "Every march you drift off like a dreaming calf."
"Leave him," said Captain Maraek. His voice was gravel rubbed smooth by command. "We're near Calvanry. Regroup. We ride."
The column of twenty-two closed ranks. Armor clinked, horses snorted clouds into the chill. The wind smelled of iron and rain, the kind that never quite ends in these borderlands.
Gareld spat. "You think we'll make the gates before dawn?"
"Not if you keep flapping your mouth," Jarek said.
"That mouth's kept you alive more than your sword, old man," Gareld answered.
Their laughter rolled along the road, rough but human, a thin warmth against the cold.
Eric pulled his cloak tighter. He could still see smoke far behind them—villages burned weeks ago and left to ash. Wars' End, they called this frontier, but nothing truly ended here; war only slept, twitching in its dreams.
He rode beside Dorgwin, who chewed on a strip of dried beef like it had wronged him.
"First time this far south?" the knight asked.
Eric nodded.
"Then remember what I tell you: never trust a quiet town. The loud ones are honest with their sin."
"What about Calvanry?" Eric asked.
Dorgwin grunted. "Calvanry's been loud since the first tavern went up. Too loud lately. Means trouble."
From the rear came a call. "Captain! Tracks!"
Maraek halted them. They gathered round a puddle of moonlight where the mud showed prints—massive, three-toed, pressed deep as a man's hand.
"Beast?" Jarek asked.
"Could be a trick of the rain," Maraek said, though his tone lacked faith. "Keep moving."
As they rode on, the men whispered. Some said it was a wild drake come down from the high moors; others swore the tracks were carved by smugglers to scare patrols. Eric said nothing. The sight of them made his skin crawl in ways he couldn't reason.
The night thickened. Mist crept from the marshes, curling around legs and hooves. When they reached a ruined milestone, Maraek called a halt.
"We'll rest an hour," he said.
They dismounted, lit a small fire of wet wood. Smoke hugged the ground.
Jarek pulled off his gloves, rubbing his hands before the flames. "You know what I miss most?"
"Baths," Gareld said.
"Wine that ain't vinegar," another grumbled.
"Women who don't charge coin."
Laughter rippled again. Eric smiled faintly, saying nothing.
Dorgwin poked the fire with his dagger. "You'll get all that in Calvanry, if the coin holds."
"What of the beasts, Ser?" Eric asked quietly. "Those tracks—"
"Tracks mean nothing," the knight said. "Men tell tales when they've seen too much blood. Beasts keep to their hills. They've sense enough to stay away from us."
The others murmured agreement, though one muttered, "Aye, till they don't."
The fire cracked. Far off, something answered—a low moan of wind, or not wind.
They looked at one another.
"Fox," Maraek said. "Or the wind in the reeds."
No one argued. They finished their bread in silence, each pretending to believe him.
When they mounted again, the mist was thicker, turning their torches into dim halos. Calvanry's lights flickered on the horizon—gold specks trembling like dying stars.
"City of sin and comfort," Jarek said. "You'll like her, boy. She's kind to fools and cruel to the rest."
"I'll take kind," Eric said.
"Then be a fool quick," Jarek laughed.
They rode the final mile at a trot. The gates of Calvanry loomed tall and blackened by age, guarded by men too drunk to notice them pass. Inside, the streets pulsed with life—music, perfume, the sizzle of meat. The world changed in a breath: from mud and silence to color and noise.
The first thing Eric noticed was the heat. After hours of wind and rain, Calvanry breathed warmth—foul, sweet, alive. Smoke hung between the crooked houses, fat with the smell of roasting meat and cheap oil.
A minstrel plucked strings near the gate, singing a ballad of kings long dead. His voice cracked halfway through a verse but the crowd still clapped, drunk enough not to care.
"Smells like paradise if you've never had one," Jarek said.
"Smells like piss and perfume had a child," Gareld answered.
"Then kiss her quick," someone called, and laughter spilled down the street.
Captain Maraek kept them moving. "Keep your cloaks drawn. The night guard here'd sell their mothers for a cup of spice-wine."
They passed stalls still open despite the hour: lantern-makers, spice peddlers, gamblers hunched over dice that clicked like insects. A pair of women leaned in a doorway, painted lips parting into practiced smiles.
"Calvanry's still breathing," Dorgwin said.
"For now," the captain replied.
Eric's horse snorted at a beggar crouched by a fountain. The man's eyes were white with blindness; he muttered to himself, rocking gently.
"Pray for mercy, boys," he rasped. "Storm's coming, and it's got no name."
"Pay him no mind," Dorgwin said, tossing a copper anyway. "They all talk storms when the ale runs dry."
Eric looked back once, but the beggar had already melted into shadow.
They reached the square. Lanterns floated on strings, turning in the breeze like lazy moons. Soldiers off duty drank from pewter cups. Somewhere above them, a woman laughed—too high, too sharp.
Captain Maraek dismounted. "We stay till dawn. No fights, no debts, no dead bodies I have to explain. Understood?"
"Yes, Captain," came the half-hearted chorus.
"Boy!" the captain called. "Find us a brothel before dawn catches us."
Eric hesitated. "A—A brothel, my lord?"
"That's what men call a house of rest around here."
Laughter again. Eric flushed and went, boots slapping on wet stone.
He walked narrow lanes where the air grew thick with incense and rainwater. The windows glowed red or gold, the doors guarded by women with smiles sharp as knives. He passed one house where music spilled out—drums and laughter—and another where only whispers came, soft and dangerous.
At the end of the lane he found it: a hall painted crimson, curtains of gold thread stirring in the night breeze, the scent of roses and ale heavy in the air. A lantern swung above the door, painted with the sign of a white fox.
He went inside.
Inside, the heat struck him first. The air shimmered with wine-sour breath and the smoke of half-burnt candles. Music thumped from a corner where a lute player sat with one missing string, making the tune limp like a wounded bird.
A woman in green silk drifted toward Eric. "Looking for work or warmth?" she asked, voice soft but used.
"Both, maybe," he said, trying not to stare.
She smiled. "Then you've come to the right wrong place."
He gave her a coin from Maraek's purse and left with directions to the back hall, where the others could drink themselves numb.
When he returned to the street, the regiment waited outside the gate, horses stamping, impatience rolling off them like heat.
"Well?" Jarek called.
"Found one," Eric said. "Name of the White Fox."
"Then may she bite gently," Jarek answered, and laughter followed them in.
The hall swallowed them whole—twenty-two men, loud and smelling of rain and steel. Tables scraped, chairs groaned, voices rose. The women glided between them, faces powdered, smiles painted, laughter rehearsed but convincing.
"Wine!" Gareld shouted. "The red kind that burns!"
"And meat!" cried another. "If there's a goat left in this city, kill it for me."
Eric stood near the wall, refilling cups as ordered. He watched them lose themselves: Dorgwin roaring at a dice game, Jarek flirting with two women at once, Maraek sitting apart with his back to the wall, eyes on everything.
"You don't drink?" a girl asked him.
"I serve," Eric said.
She laughed lightly. "That's dull work in a place built for forgetting."
He almost smiled. "Some of us can't afford to forget."
The girl tilted her head, studying him. "You're too clean for a soldier."
"Give me time," he said, and she moved on, humming under her breath.
Later, when the wine began to thin, the door opened again. A girl entered carrying a small barrel in her arms. She was young—no older than Eric—her hair dark, her face unpainted. Her dress was plain linen, clean but worn. She set the barrel down carefully and turned to go.
She never made it.
Haskiah, already heavy with drink, lurched into her path. The barrel rolled from her hands and burst open, ale flooding the floor.
The room froze.
"What do you think you're doing, you clumsy wretch?" Haskiah barked.
"I'm sorry, my lord," she whispered.
Her voice trembled, small and human in the noisy hall. That sound changed the air; laughter died to a hush, replaced by something uglier.
Haskiah grinned, teeth yellow in the lamplight. "Pretty for a servant." His hand closed around her wrist. She tried to pull away.
"Let her go," Eric heard himself say.
The words surprised even him. The room turned. Dorgwin lowered his cup; Jarek grinned like a wolf.
"What did you say, boy?" Haskiah asked.
"She's no whore," Eric said, voice thin but steady. "You'll not touch her."
"Look at him!" Jarek jeered. "The little knight defends his maiden!"
"Step aside," Haskiah warned.
Eric didn't. The slap came quick, a crack that sent him sprawling. Blood filled his mouth.
"Teach him respect!" someone shouted.
Boots thudded against him—ribs, shoulder, head. The room cheered. The music, absurdly, played on.
The girl screamed and ran for the door, but two men blocked her path. Haskiah grabbed her again, laughter spilling out of him, ugly and triumphant.
Maraek's voice cut through the din. "Enough!"
For a heartbeat the room stilled, but then the captain's chair scraped back, and he stood. "You shame your own steel," he said quietly.
Haskiah's grin faltered. "We're just having sport."
"Sport ends before blood," Maraek said. "Let her go."
The big man hesitated, then shoved the girl aside. She fled, vanishing into the corridor.
Maraek looked at Eric, still on his knees. "Get up, lad. You've got more courage than sense."
Eric rose unsteadily. "She—she didn't deserve—"
"No one here does," Maraek said. "That's the curse of places like this."
He turned away, muttering for more wine, and the moment died as quickly as it had come. Laughter returned, thinner now, forced. The music limped on.
Eric wiped blood from his lip and stared at the door where the girl had gone. The sound of her sobs still echoed in his ears.
Rain began again before midnight—thin, uncertain drops that whispered on the roof. Inside, the White Fox breathed like a dying thing: laughter sputtering, songs faltering, wine running low. The air was thick with sweat and smoke, the floor sticky with spilled ale.
Eric sat apart near the doorway, ribs aching from the beating. The pain kept him awake; it was cleaner than the laughter behind him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the girl's face—the terror in it when Haskiah's hand closed around her wrist—and heard again her trembling apology. The memory would not leave him. It clung like the smell of iron in a forge.
He rose and pushed open the door for air. Outside, the alley shimmered with rainlight. Lanterns swung lazily on their hooks, throwing long, crooked shadows that moved like figures in a dream. The city beyond was still singing, yet here the sound came muffled, as though the street itself was holding its breath.
Behind him, another cheer went up. The men had found new amusement. Eric turned, meaning to stop them, but his courage faltered at the threshold. He could not go back in. He leaned against the wall, eyes shut, telling himself that Captain Maraek would keep order, that the girl had escaped far away. Lies are sometimes the only mercy men can afford themselves.
Then the first sound came—a woman's cry, quick and small, swallowed by laughter. Another followed, sharper, pleading. The music stuttered, then began again too fast, too loud. The rhythm was wrong now, fevered. Eric pressed his palms to his ears, but the walls seemed to breathe the noise. The smell changed—wine to smoke, perfume to sweat, then something heavier.
He whispered, "Stop," though no one could hear him. His whisper turned to prayer, to curse, to nothing.
A sudden crash split the night. A table overturned, glass broke. Someone shouted orders—Maraek's voice—but it was drowned by a roar of panic. Horses screamed in the stables. The door bulged outward as if from a blast of wind. Then silence—complete, unnatural, a silence that rang in the bones.
Eric backed into the street, trembling. Overhead, the clouds coiled into strange shapes. Lightning flickered without thunder, painting the rooftops white for a heartbeat. On the second flash he thought he saw a shadow cross the moon, vast and swift, wings or storm or nightmare—he could not tell. The air itself seemed to shiver.
A low thud struck the roof above him, followed by another. Tiles slid free and smashed on the cobbles. Eric stumbled back, heart hammering. He could smell burning now, though there was no fire to see. He wanted to run, but his legs refused.
Then came the scream—long, final, tearing the last of the night apart. It ended in a sound like a sigh, and everything went still. Even the city's distant music stopped for that breath of time.
Eric waited in the rain until his teeth ached from cold. The door to the White Fox stood shut. No smoke, no flame, no movement within—only the quiet hiss of rain on stone. When at last he dared to push it open, the hinges moaned but nothing answered.
He stepped back into the alley, too afraid to look, too hollow to weep. Whatever had happened in that room had gone beyond men's doing. The gods—or things like them—had danced there that night, unseen and merciless.
Dawn crept slow over Calvanry, pale as a sickly flame. The rain had passed, leaving the streets slick and shining, the gutters running with thin threads of red. Smoke drifted above the rooftops, not from cooking fires but from places where lamps had overturned and burned through the night.
Eric pushed the door inward. The hinges groaned. What waited inside did not breathe.
Chairs were scattered like bones. The tables looked clawed, the walls blackened by soot. A lute lay broken in two beside its player, his hand still curved for a final chord. Jarek's laughter would never fill a room again; he slumped near the hearth, eyes glassed and wide, a cup overturned beside him. Dorgwin hung half-fallen across a bench, mail torn, one gauntlet still clenched around his dagger. Even Captain Maraek, steady as stone, sat upright against the wall as if keeping watch, but the line of blood across his throat said otherwise.
No battle could have done this so quickly. The air felt burned clean of sound, as if the night itself had swallowed every cry.
Eric walked between them, boots whispering in the ash. He wanted to speak—to call their names—but his voice had gone somewhere beyond reach. Only the wind answered through a hole in the roof, moaning like a memory. The stench of iron and spilled ale mixed until he could no longer tell one from the other.
He searched for the girl. She was not among them. Hope struck sharp, foolish and bright. He stumbled into the yard calling softly, "It's over. You can come out." No reply. The inn's sign creaked above him—the white fox headless now, swinging slow on its chain.
He found her by the stables.
The rope cut deep into the beam, the morning light turning the fibers to gold. She hung motionless, hair lifted gently by the dawn breeze. Beneath her feet the earth was dark with tears that were not rain. Eric stopped a few steps away, unable to move closer.
He understood then, without words: she had fled the men's cruelty only to meet it in silence. The shame and the defilement they had forced upon her had broken more than her body—it had emptied the world of every safe corner left to her.
His hands shook as he untied the rope. She was lighter than she had been in life, as though whatever made her human had already flown. He carried her through the gate, beyond the walls where the city's noise could not follow. The fields there were washed clean by the night's rain, green and innocent as things newly born.
He laid her beneath a willow bent over the road. The ground was soft; he dug with his hands, the mud closing around his fingers. He thought of the stories soldiers told—of ghosts who walked until someone remembered to cover them with earth—and so he buried her carefully, whispering that she was remembered.
When the grave was smooth, he sat beside it until the sun rose fully. Steam lifted from the wet grass, and the air smelled of soil, smoke, and the faint sweetness of crushed blossoms. Behind him, Calvanry lay still, a single column of smoke twisting upward like a prayer no one would answer.
He mounted his horse at last. The world seemed emptied of sound; even the hooves struck softly, respectful of the dead. He rode toward Wars' End without looking back, the wind in his ears carrying all the voices he could no longer bear to hear.
Thus began the silence before the storms of men, and the gods who would one day answer them.