Chapter Seven - The Rook in the Shadows

Before we followed Mara's lead, we had questions for Mori and Amityria about the figure they had encountered during the night. The name Amityria gave us was Rikcla. He had once been her childhood friend, though their friendship had ended badly. When they were young, she had taken one of his eyes. The details surrounding that act were not yet entirely clear to me, but one fact made the story difficult to accept: it had happened centuries ago.

Amityria believed Rikcla should have been dead.

She had not seen him for all those years, and whatever she had encountered during the night bore enough resemblance to the friend she remembered for her to recognize him, while being different enough to make her doubt what she had seen. Mori's account only deepened the uncertainty. Between them, we had little more than fragments, but one possibility seemed increasingly difficult to ignore. If Rikcla truly was the same man Amityria had known as a child, then he had somehow survived centuries beyond the span of an ordinary mortal life.

We began to suspect that he might now be a vampire.

If that were true, then his appearance was perhaps not coincidence. The loss of an eye, followed by centuries of undeath, left an obvious possibility: vengeance. I have seen beings in Heaven carry grudges longer than mortal kingdoms, but there was something particularly strange about the idea of a childhood wound surviving for centuries inside a mortal soul. Mortals are brief creatures. Their lives are measured in decades, their loves and hatreds often compressed into a handful of years. To preserve hatred for centuries requires becoming something other than what one once was.

Perhaps that is what undeath does. Perhaps it preserves not only the body, but the unfinished things inside it.

For now, however, Rikcla remained only a suspicion. We had his name, Amityria's memories, Mori's observations, and little else. There would be time enough to discover whether the dead had truly returned to settle an ancient debt.

Mara Veyr gave us something more tangible.

She told us that Rook had changed during the past year. Not simply that his methods had become different, but that the difference was so profound that Mara could scarcely reconcile the man she knew with the man represented in his more recent dealings. She had examined his ledgers closely and found herself thinking that she was reading the records of another person. The same name appeared on the pages, the same organization, the same business, yet the decisions recorded there seemed foreign to the Rook she remembered.

I understood what she meant better than I wished to.

There are changes that come slowly, like age upon a mortal face, and there are changes that replace something essential while leaving the outward form intact. During my first days in Etharis, I had looked into my own reflection and wondered whether the creature staring back at me was still Samael. The face was mine. The memories were mine. Yet the wings were ruined, Heaven was gone, and whatever I had been before my fall could no longer exist in precisely the same way. Perhaps Mara was seeing something similar in Rook. Not merely a man who had changed, but the remains of one identity being occupied by another.

She directed us toward Gull's Knee, an underground warehouse from which Rook was believed to have operated.

We found the corruption before we found its master.

Those dreadful vines had spread through the compound, twisting through the chambers and rooting themselves into the structure as though the stone itself had become fertile ground. There was something deeply wrong in the way they grew. Plants should seek light. These things seemed to seek life. They spread toward warmth, flesh, decay—anything that could sustain them. I have seen gardens in Heaven that would have covered entire valleys, but even the most exuberant growth there obeyed a harmony I could sense without needing to understand it. These vines possessed no such harmony. They grew as though hunger itself had learned to take root.

Then the Corpse Flower came.

The battle was brutal and close. The creature had made the dead part of its existence, and zombies moved around it like extensions of the same corruption. We fought our way through the chamber, destroying the undead and the monstrous plant until at last the thing fell silent. There was no triumph in its death. Only the absence of movement, followed by the unsettling realization that the chamber was not yet finished with us.

A hidden mechanism revealed a secret room.

And inside, we found Rook.

Or what remained of him.

His corpse lay concealed within the compound, hidden away from anyone who might have stumbled upon it. For a moment, none of us spoke. Mara's words returned immediately: a different person. She had not been imagining the change. The man she had known was dead, and someone, or something, had been operating under his name.

That knowledge changed the nature of the mystery.

We were no longer searching for a man who had altered his methods. We were looking at the remains of one man while another had assumed his place.

And the evidence around us pointed in the same direction. The vines, the undead, the hidden corpse, the transformation of Rook's organization—all of it led back toward the Healer.

I find myself increasingly uncomfortable with that name.

Not because healing is unfamiliar to me. In Heaven, restoration was among the most natural expressions of celestial power. To mend what was broken was not considered extraordinary. It was simply part of the order of things. Here, however, the word healer has begun to acquire a different meaning. Whoever this being is, their work leaves traces that are difficult to reconcile with the simple act of saving lives.

Perhaps that is what troubles me most. Not that the Healer possesses power, but that I cannot yet understand the purpose behind it.

We left Gull's Knee with the certainty that Rook was dead and that the person now acting in his name was connected to the same corruption we had been following since La Esperanza. The mystery had grown, but at least the shape of it was beginning to emerge.

Outside the compound, we were approached by a messenger.

Njall, the surviving stevedore, was looking for us.

Chapter Six - The Hand That Heals

We returned to Silas with the hides of the carvaloths, and he kept his word. The armor he had fashioned from them was rougher than anything made for ceremony, but strong, light, and well suited to those who expected to spend more time fighting than standing in court. There was something appropriate about it. We had come to Rivergate chasing answers, and increasingly those answers seemed to lead us into places where polished appearances mattered very little.

Amityria and Skara went to High Mage Ellandra in search of information concerning the Ashen Creed. Mori and I went to Captain Lyria, hoping that her knowledge of the city's underworld might lead us closer to the Ebon Syndicate. She directed us toward Zephyr Quay and the Golden Market, places where information changed hands more readily than coin. Alvaro, meanwhile, sought the counsel of Inquisitor Severin. I did not ask what passed between them. There are conversations between men of faith that belong to faith alone, and I have learned that not every silence needs to be broken.

Amityria spent some time with Lyria as well, looking into the various bounties and names circulating through Rivergate. That same night she found Marrik, one of the men she had been hunting, and killed him. She did not speak much about it afterward. I have begun to understand that there are things Amatyria carries inside herself that she does not yet know how to put into words. Perhaps that is why she prefers the certainty of a pistol. A gun does not ask what happened before the moment in which it is fired.

Our own investigation led us again toward the docks. We went there after dark and found a man named Njall, a dockhand who had survived the destruction of La Esperanza. His survival was strange enough, but what troubled us more was his condition. He had been sick, afflicted by the same corruption that had killed the crew, yet he was alive and apparently healed. According to Njall, the one who had saved him was the same mysterious figure we had come to know only as the Healer.

There was, however, something else inside him.

A parasite had taken root within Njall. It was not killing him. Quite the opposite: it seemed to be keeping him alive. We decided to spread word that the healing had failed. That Njall was deteriorating. That whatever had been done to save him was no longer sufficient and that he was dying, trying to goad the Healer to reveal himself.

Unfortunately, we had misunderstood the nature of the parasite.

The Healer knew that Njall was not dying because Njall knew it himself. Whatever passed between the two of them was enough for our deception to be exposed before it could accomplish anything. The bait failed. The Healer did not come.

Instead, we attracted a hungry mob.

Members of the Ashen Creed appeared, drawn by the rumours surrounding Njall and the supposed failure of his healing. What had been intended as a quiet attempt to lure one person into the open suddenly threatened to become something much uglier. There is little distance between religious conviction and violence when a crowd believes that it has found a cause worth defending.

Alvaro's convictions served us well. Rather than allowing the situation to descend into bloodshed, he managed to calm the crowd and prevent the confrontation from becoming a fight. I watched him as he spoke, and I was reminded that zeal and wisdom are not always enemies. Much depends on whether a man is capable of mastering the first long enough to exercise the second.

Before we left, High Mage Ellandra arrived to take Njall with her. She intended to study both his condition and the parasite within him, hoping that whatever had been done to him might reveal more about the Healer and the strange corruption spreading through Rivergate. I did not envy Njall. He had survived where others had died, but survival had not returned him to the life he had known. He was now a living question, and powerful people wanted to know the answer.

When we returned to the inn, we found another message waiting for us. Mara Veyr wanted to see us. 

I could not help but notice the pattern.

The Ebon Syndicate had been involved with La Esperanza. The cursed plants had appeared again and again. The Healer had somehow cured Njall, while leaving behind a parasite that connected them. The Ashen Creed was becoming increasingly active. And now Mara, a woman who had already agreed to feed us information about the Syndicate, had come forward again.

Each thread seemed to lead toward another, yet I could not see the shape they formed.

In Heaven, before the gods died, I had lived in a universe that seemed to possess an order beyond question. There were mysteries, certainly, but mystery was not the same as uncertainty. There was always the assurance that somewhere above us stood beings who understood the greater design.

That certainty died with them.

Here in Etharis, I have learned to live without it. We follow signs, compare fragments, question witnesses, and hope that the pattern we discover is real. Sometimes we find answers. More often, we find another question waiting behind the first.

Chapter Five - Of Faith and Consequence

“Doubt begets understanding, and understanding begets compassion. Verily, it is conviction that kills.”

The creature in the Verdant Ring proved every bit as formidable as the stories had suggested. The Pot Belly fought with the desperation of a starving thing, but desperation is not enough to overcome those who stand together. We brought the giant down, and with its death the attacks upon the caravans should cease, at least for a time.

The creature had been carrying a wagon, however, and its contents proved far more interesting than the beast itself. The wagon was bound for Silas, the craftsman who had agreed to fashion armor from the carvaloth hides we had given him. Among the cargo we discovered another vial containing the cursed plant that has been appearing throughout our investigation. It seems the corruption is being moved across the countryside with far greater purpose than we had first imagined.

Alvaro and Amytiria immediately argued that the vial should be destroyed. I could understand their reasoning. We have already witnessed what these plants can do, and allowing another such specimen to remain intact carries obvious risks. Yet destroying every dangerous thing we encounter is not the same as defeating the danger itself. If we are to understand what we are fighting, we must sometimes be willing to study that which frightens us.

I therefore argued that the vial should be taken to the Arcane Enclave.

The discussion that followed was not a pleasant one. Alvaro was particularly firm in his opposition, and eventually made it clear that if we kept the vial, then I would be personally responsible for whatever consequences followed. I accepted this. Responsibility is the price of making a choice when others would choose differently.

In the end, the party agreed to keep the vial.

High Mage Ellandra and the alchemist Jorem from the Arcane Enclave examined it and, to my relief, proved considerably more useful than simply telling us that we had made a foolish decision. Through a ritual of their own, they transformed the vial and its contents into something resembling a beacon. It now reacts to the presence of its creator, allowing us to detect when we draw near to whoever is responsible for these cursed plants.

This may finally give us a way to find the one we have been calling the Healer.

There are rumors that the Healer is in truth a powerful spellcaster named Eldarast. Whether that is his true identity or merely another layer of the mystery, I cannot say. But for the first time, it feels as though we possess something more than fragments of a trail.

Later, when we were alone, Memento Mori confronted Alvaro about what had passed. He spoke with a firmness that surprised me, though perhaps it should not have. He made it clear that while Alvaro's beliefs were his own, his insistence that his judgment should prevail over that of the rest of us was unacceptable. If we are to call ourselves a party, then difficult decisions must belong to all of us, not to the most zealous among us.

Alvaro listened.

He did not surrender his convictions, nor should he. Faith that disappears at the first disagreement is not faith at all. But he accepted the decision of the group and, in doing so, demonstrated something that I suspect is more important than certainty: the ability to live with those who do not share it.

I have spent much of my existence serving beings whose word was absolute. In Heaven, there was no need for debate when the will of the gods was known. But the gods are dead, and certainty died with them. Perhaps this is one of the burdens mortals must now carry: the necessity of choosing together without any divine voice to tell them who is right.

It is a difficult burden. But perhaps it is also a form of freedom.

Chapter Four - Of Prophecies and Hungry Things

 “Faith is the truth of passion. Since no passion is more true than another, faith is the truth of nothing.”

The antidote was finally prepared at the Arcane Enclave, and those of us who had been affected by the spores were spared whatever further corruption they might have brought. I am grateful to the alchemist who prepared it, though the experience has left me more cautious than before. It is an uncomfortable thing to know that something so small as a cloud of spores can overcome the mind of a creature that believes itself strong. I have spent much of my existence surrounded by beings of immense power, and yet the gods themselves were brought low by weaknesses they could not recognize until it was too late. Perhaps power has always been less important than knowing where one is vulnerable.

We were given some time to ourselves while we waited for our next lead. Amityria used the opportunity to visit the smith and have her pistols reforged, an undertaking she approached with considerably more seriousness than I expected. Skara, meanwhile, sought out Lady Zephyra. Alvaro and I eventually did the same. I remain uncertain what to make of the fortune-teller. Her words are always difficult to grasp, as though she speaks from a place where the present and the future have become tangled together. She offered us little that could be understood directly, yet I could not shake the impression that she saw troubles ahead for both Alvaro and me. I have never been particularly interested in prophecy. Knowing that something may happen does not necessarily grant one the power to prevent it. Still, there are some warnings that remain in the mind long after the person who delivered them has gone.

Our attention soon returned to Mara Veyr, the warehouse manager whose name had emerged in connection with the Ebon Syndicate. We found her and questioned her about the organization's activities, presenting the vial containing the cursed vine as evidence of what we had uncovered. I had expected fear or denial. Instead, the plant answered for her.

The vine burst from its container and rapidly transformed into a living creature, its tendrils twisting and striking with a violence that seemed almost purposeful. We destroyed it before it could harm anyone, but the incident confirmed what we had already begun to suspect: these cursed plants are not merely dangerous substances being traded by criminals. They possess a vitality of their own, and whatever force has corrupted them seems capable of turning them into living instruments.

Mara eventually agreed to cooperate with us. She will provide information concerning the Ebon Syndicate's movements whenever she learns something of value. It is not an alliance built upon trust, but I have come to accept that trust is a luxury rarely available to those who investigate conspiracies. Sometimes it is enough that two people have interests that temporarily point in the same direction.

While we waited for further information, we turned our attention to another problem outside the city in the Verdant Ring. Caravans had been attacked by some enormous creature, apparently driven by nothing more complicated than hunger. There was something almost reassuring about that. A hungry beast is easier to understand than a man who commits atrocities for reasons he believes noble.

We prepared a trap and used food as bait, hoping that whatever had been preying upon the caravans would be unable to resist it. Our plan succeeded, and the creature eventually emerged from the forest.

It was a giant, but not one I had ever seen before. The curse upon it was immediately apparent. A grotesque marsupial growth had formed from its belly, a swollen and unnatural organ that gave the creature its name among the locals: the Pot Belly. The sight was difficult to reconcile with the simple explanation of hunger. Whatever this thing had once been, the curse had reshaped it into something grotesque and dependent upon the very appetite that now drove it toward the roads.

I find myself increasingly troubled by the pattern.

The fungus aboard La Esperanza. The cursed plants being cultivated and transported by the Syndicate. The vine that became a living creature in our hands. Now a giant twisted by some corruption that has transformed its body and driven it to feed upon travelers. These things may appear unrelated when viewed individually, but I have lived long enough to know that patterns often become visible only after one has collected enough pieces.

When the gods were dying, the first signs of their madness were similarly scattered. A strange decision here, an inexplicable act there, each one dismissed until the pattern became impossible to ignore. I wonder whether I am witnessing the beginning of something similar once again.

The difference is that this time there are no gods left to fall.

Chapter Three - Of Fire and Burdens Shared

“Where no paths exist, a man strays only when he misses his destination. There is no crime, no transgression, no sin save foolishness or incompetence, and no obscenity save the tyranny of custom.”

The trail left by the Ebon Syndicate finally yielded something more substantial than abandoned buildings and cryptic ledgers.

One of their agents fled through the streets of Rivergate the moment he realized we were closing in. There was a time when no mortal could have escaped my sight, but those days ended with the fall of Heaven. What remains of my former nature is less magnificent, though no less useful. My body has become swifter through discipline, and the strange telekinetic gift that awakened after my exile has become an extension of my will. Together they proved enough. Before long, the fugitive found himself lifted from his feet and brought to the ground, where my companions secured him.

Victory, however, was short-lived. Even as we restrained the prisoner, smoke rose from a nearby warehouse toward which he had been running. Whatever awaited us there had already begun.

We forced our way inside and found a lone man setting the building ablaze with unwavering purpose. He named himself Brother Matthian of the Ashen Creed. There was no panic in him, nor hatred, only absolute conviction. He believed the fire to be an act of purification, and every word we offered in the hope of dissuading him was met with the calm certainty of one who had long ago accepted his own death.

I have seen that certainty before.

The gods wore it during the final days of Heaven. They had ceased listening to one another because each believed themselves incapable of error. Once conviction hardens beyond reason, there remains little room for mercy.

Brother Matthian did not survive the encounter.

I cannot say I rejoice in his death, though neither can I condemn those who struck him down. There are moments when every path forward demands a sacrifice, and wisdom lies only in choosing the lesser one.

The warehouse yielded what the flames had failed to consume. Hidden among the remnants were further signs that the Ebon Syndicate had been cultivating and transporting the cursed flora responsible for the corruption aboard La Esperanza. Whatever purpose these plants serve, they are neither accidental nor isolated. Someone is nurturing them with deliberate care.

Our prisoner was delivered to the Bastion, where a more patient interrogation followed. Faced with mounting evidence and dwindling hope, he finally spoke. Two names emerged from his confession with enough frequency to command our attention: Rook, whom we had already begun pursuing, and another figure known only as the Healer. Whether the title conceals a physician, an alchemist, or something altogether stranger remains unclear. Before the questioning concluded, he directed us toward Sapphire Quay and a woman named Mara Veyr, who may prove to be the next thread in this tangled web.

Not every encounter that day concerned the Syndicate.

We sought out Silas, the craftsman to whom we had entrusted the hides of the carvaloths slain upon the road to Rivergate. He had already begun his work and promised to fashion armor worthy of the beasts, provided we first investigate a series of attacks within the Verdant Ring. Witnesses spoke of a hulking creature stalking the woodland paths, leaving destruction in its wake. It seems that even as one mystery unfolds, another quietly awaits our attention.

Before the day came to its end, Amityria approached me with a request that surprised me more than any revelation concerning the Syndicate.

She asked me to accompany her to the library.

Her purpose was not research for our investigation but something altogether more personal. She wishes to learn about her family, and for reasons she did not fully explain, she chose to ask for my company. I accepted without hesitation.

I have noticed that mortals rarely reveal themselves all at once. Trust is built in quiet moments rather than grand gestures. A shared conversation often accomplishes more than a shared battle. Perhaps my words to her outside the Arcane Enclave planted the first seed of that trust. If so, I am grateful.

The longer I walk among these companions, the less I see them as strangers bound together by circumstance. Each carries wounds that cannot be closed with steel or prayer alone. Skara buries herself in action, Memento Mori pursues the Ebon Syndicate with a determination that borders on obsession, Amityria searches for fragments of a past she fears to confront, and Alvaro continues to place unwavering faith in Empyreus despite living in a world where certainty has become a rare commodity.

Perhaps I am no different.

I began this journey believing I sought only purpose after the fall of Heaven. Yet purpose is not found as one finds a lost relic buried beneath stone. It is built, choice by choice, in the company of others. The gods are gone, and with them the certainty that once governed my existence. What remains are these roads, these companions, and the countless decisions that define whether this wounded world sinks further into darkness or endures another day.

For now, that is enough.

Chapter Two - The Ship Called Hope

“History. Language. Passion. Custom. All these things determine what men say, think, and do. These are the hidden puppet-strings from which all men hang.”

Our investigation into the cursed vessel continued this day, though it began with an incident that had nothing to do with ships, curses, or the Ebon Syndicate.

As we made our way through Rivergate toward the Arcane Enclave, Amityria suddenly became distressed. Whatever composure she normally carries abandoned her for a moment, and she seemed trapped within memories invisible to the rest of us. I have seen similar expressions before. During the final years of the Aetheric War, some angels carried horrors within them that could not be healed by any celestial art. They continued to fight, continued to serve, yet part of them remained imprisoned by what they had witnessed.

Mortals are no different in this regard. Their wounds are merely less visible.

I spoke with her for a time and managed to calm her enough to continue. The exchange was brief, but it reminded me how little I know about the companions with whom I now travel. We have faced danger together, yet most of us remain strangers carrying private burdens.

Upon reaching the Arcane Enclave, we were introduced to Captain Lyria, who would assist us in our investigation. She immediately struck me as a practical and disciplined woman. Unlike many officials, she seemed uninterested in appearances or political maneuvering. Her attention remained fixed upon the welfare of Rivergate and the threat posed by the cursed ship. In a world increasingly defined by ambition and self-interest, such dedication is refreshing.

The survivor of the vessel was being held there as well. When I examined him, it became clear that his condition was not the result of any ordinary illness. The corruption spreading through his body resembled a form of poison, though one born from fungus or plant matter rather than alchemy. It was not merely consuming him. It was changing him. Even then I suspected that whatever had afflicted the crew originated from something carried aboard the vessel itself.

As the day progressed, we learned more about the ship and its captain. His name was Garrick Voss, master of a vessel called La Esperanza. The irony of that name was difficult to ignore. Hope is among the most powerful forces known to mortals. Entire kingdoms are built upon it. Wars are fought for it. Faith survives because of it. Yet this particular vessel had arrived in Rivergate carrying only death and corruption.

Its cargo manifests revealed several legitimate goods alongside a collection of mysterious medical supplies. Someone had paid Captain Voss handsomely to transport these items without asking questions and without attracting attention. Such arrangements rarely lead to anything honorable.

During our inquiries, we also crossed paths with a woman named Lady Zephyra while searching the markets. The encounter was brief, yet it remains lodged in my thoughts. She appeared to possess some gift of divination and addressed us with cryptic observations that revealed little and implied much. Ordinarily I have little patience for prophets who speak in riddles, but there was something unsettling about her certainty. She looked upon us as though she perceived threads invisible to everyone else.

I find myself wanting to seek her out again. Whether she possesses genuine insight or merely the appearance of it, I cannot yet determine. Still, there was a time when beings in Heaven could perceive the currents of fate. Those beings are gone now. If even a fragment of that sight survives among mortals, I would understand it.

Our investigation eventually brought us aboard La Esperanza itself.

The ship felt diseased long before we discovered the source of its corruption. Fungus had spread across the timbers, the rigging, and even portions of the cargo hold. Disturbing the growth released clouds of spores into the air. The infestation appeared almost deliberate in its spread, as though the vessel were being slowly reshaped into something else.

The spores proved dangerous in ways beyond simple sickness. Exposure altered perception and clouded judgment. Several members of our company felt their effects, though at the time we did not fully understand the danger. While searching the ship, we uncovered a hidden ledger that finally connected the mystery to a familiar name.

The Ebon Syndicate.

The secret medical supplies had been destined for them, and the records pointed toward a local contact known only as Rook. The trail led to a place called Lantern House, which had apparently served as a meeting point for Syndicate operations within Rivergate.

The discovery raised several questions. I noticed Memento Mori's continued interest whenever the Syndicate was mentioned. Likewise, Amityria seemed particularly attentive whenever new information surfaced. Neither volunteered much explanation. I did not press them. Every traveler chooses when to reveal the contents of their own baggage.

Once our search of La Esperanza was complete, it became clear that the vessel could not be saved. The corruption had spread throughout the ship, and no one was willing to risk leaving it anchored in Rivergate's harbor.

The authorities chose to tow it out to sea and burn it.

I watched from the shore as the flames consumed the vessel. There was something melancholy about the sight. Whatever crimes had been committed aboard her, La Esperanza had not been built for such a purpose. Like many things in this world, it had begun as something useful before corruption found its way inside.

When the burning wreck finally disappeared beneath the water, I found little satisfaction in its destruction. We had eliminated the source of the spores, but not the hands that had brought them to Rivergate.

Armed with our discoveries, we returned to the Arcane Enclave to question Captain Voss once more.

What followed was perhaps the most unsettling moment of the investigation.

The spores we had encountered aboard the ship had not left us untouched. While standing before the captain, I suddenly found my thoughts shifting in ways that felt entirely reasonable at the time. Suspicion became certainty. Certainty became anger. Before I understood what was happening, I was moving to attack the very man we had come to question.

At nearly the same moment, Memento Mori succumbed to a different compulsion and attempted to leave altogether.

Fortunately, our companions intervened before either impulse could lead to disaster.

The experience has troubled me more than I care to admit.

Since my fall, I have accepted many limitations. I no longer possess the strength I once commanded. My wings bear the scars of Heaven's destruction. I hunger, tire, and bleed as mortals do. Yet some part of me has always clung to the belief that my mind remained fundamentally my own.

This incident challenged that assumption.

The flesh I inhabit is vulnerable. It can be poisoned, manipulated, and deceived. More troubling still, those manipulations can feel entirely natural while they are occurring. Looking back upon the moment, I recognize the influence of the spores. While under their effect, however, my actions felt justified.

I cannot help but wonder whether the gods themselves experienced something similar during their final years. Madness rarely announces its arrival. It convinces its victim that nothing is wrong.

Our final destination was Lantern House.

Unfortunately, whatever operations the Ebon Syndicate had conducted there were already concluded. The building stood abandoned, its occupants long gone. Nevertheless, traces of their presence remained, confirming that we were following the correct trail.

We ended the day with more questions than answers.

The cursed cargo remains unaccounted for. The Ebon Syndicate continues to move unseen through Rivergate. A poisonous fungus spreads wherever these mysteries intersect. Somewhere at the center of it all stands a figure named Rook, whose shadow grows larger with every clue we uncover.

For now, all we can do is continue the search.

The dead gods taught many lessons through their failures. One of the most important is that corruption flourishes when ignored. Whether it takes the form of fungal spores, hidden conspiracies, or ambition masquerading as virtue, the principle remains the same. Left unattended, it spreads.

Rivergate is already infected.

The question before us is how much of the city can still be saved.

Chapter One - Of Roads, Beasts, and Silent Omens

The roads of Etharis are filled with travelers.

When I dwelt in the heavens, I believed movement belonged to the stars and the celestial spheres. Mortals seemed rooted to the earth below, their lives bound to fields, villages, and graves. Yet since my fall, I have discovered that they are constantly in motion. They travel in search of trade, safety, purpose, and sometimes simply because remaining where they are has become impossible.

I now find myself among such wanderers.

Our caravan made its way toward Rivergate, winding through the countryside beneath gray skies. Of my companions, only Alvaro is familiar to me. He is a dragonborn inquisitor in service to Empyreus. There is a certain irony in our companionship. Once, I served powers far greater than any Arch-Seraph. Yet now I walk beside one of Empyreus' faithful, while the being he worships sits upon a throne built from the ruins of a dead heaven.

Still, Alvaro possesses conviction, and conviction is a rare thing in this age.

The others remain strangers, though the road has begun the slow work of revealing their natures.

There is Skara, a wolven warrior whose words are few and carefully spent. During the long hours of travel, she seemed content to let silence accompany her. Yet when the carvaloths attacked, that silence vanished beneath a storm of violence. She hurled herself into battle with a ferocity that reminded me of the celestial warhosts of old. Not disciplined as an angel, nor orderly as a soldier, but fierce in the way of a wildfire. Some beings speak with words. Others speak with action. Skara appears to belong to the latter.

Then there is Memento Mori, a dragonborn paladin whose loyalties lie far to the east, among the vampire lords of Ostoya. Had I encountered such a servant during my days in heaven, I might have considered him a contradiction. Yet Etharis is a world built upon contradictions. He carries himself with the conviction of a holy warrior, even as he serves masters many would call monsters. More curious still is his constant interest in an organization known as the Ebon Syndicate. Their name emerges in conversation often enough that I suspect they occupy his thoughts more than he cares to admit.

Amityria is perhaps the most difficult to read. An elven woman with green hair and twin pistols resting at her side, she moves through the world with the confidence of someone accustomed to danger. Mortals often wear masks invisible to one another but obvious to those who know what to look for. I suspect she wears several. Though she speaks little of it, I sense threads connecting her to the same Ebon Syndicate that interests Memento Mori. Whether those threads bind her willingly or unwillingly, I cannot yet tell.

It is a strange fellowship.

A fallen angel.

An inquisitor of Empyreus.

A silent wolven warrior.

A paladin sworn to vampire lords.

An elven gunslinger carrying secrets.

Had such a gathering appeared before the gates of heaven in ages past, the scribes would have mistaken it for a riddle.

* * * 

The journey should have been uneventful.

Instead, the beasts came.

Carvaloths emerged from the wilderness and hurled themselves against the caravan. There was a desperation to their attack that troubled me. Predators understand risk. Even animals possess the wisdom to distinguish between prey and danger. Yet these creatures attacked armed travelers with reckless abandon, as though driven by some unseen hand.

We slew them.

Steel, spellcraft, and faith proved stronger than fang and claw.

The merchants celebrated their survival, but I found little comfort in the victory. The dead beasts lay scattered beside the road, and as I looked upon them I was reminded of the final days of heaven. There, too, I had witnessed creatures driven beyond reason by forces they could neither understand nor resist.

The world often reveals its wounds long before it reveals the knife that made them.

We later arrived at the farm of a man named Thomas. He, too, remarked upon the strange behavior of the carvaloths. The concern in his voice lingered with me. Mortals spend their lives studying the rhythms of nature because their survival depends upon it. When a farmer tells you that something is wrong with the land, wisdom demands that you listen.

At the farm we met a villager named Lia, who joined us on the remainder of our journey. She spoke of ordinary concerns, ordinary people, and ordinary hopes. Once, I would have considered such matters insignificant.

Now I wonder if they are the only things keeping this broken world alive.

We reached Rivergate without further incident.

The city sits beside the water like a patient sentinel, watching the river carry both fortune and misfortune through its gates. We found lodgings at the Drifting Feather Inn, where weary travelers gathered beneath a common roof to share food, drink, and stories.

I have always found inns fascinating.

In heaven, every being knew its purpose. There was certainty in all things.

Mortals possess no such certainty.

Yet they gather together regardless, finding comfort in one another despite the darkness pressing in from every side. Perhaps that is a kind of courage angels never needed to learn.

Alvaro and I paid a visit to the local chapter of the Inquisition. There we met Captain Severin, who offered his support in whatever troubles might lie ahead. The Inquisition remains a curious institution to me. Once, the servants of the divine received guidance directly from the heavens. Now they seek truth in a world where the gods are silent and the Arch-Seraphs speak with voices colored by their own ambitions.

I do not envy their task.

The following day we turned our attention toward the docks.

Every city reveals its soul at the water's edge. Rivers and seas carry more than goods; they carry stories. At the harbor we met the harbormaster, and from her we learned of a mystery that now draws our attention.

A ship had arrived carrying death.

Its crew was dead.

Its cargo had spoiled.

A curse, she said, seemed to cling to the vessel.

Such tales are common in taverns. They are less common when spoken by officials whose livelihoods depend upon separating truth from rumor.

Most curious of all was the fate of the ship's captain. He survived where his crew did not, and now he is being held by the Arcane Enclave for questioning.

A dead crew.

A living captain.

A curse borne across the water.

The world has a way of whispering before it screams.

I have learned to listen.

For though the gods are dead, darkness remains very much alive.