The wind was sharp and unrelenting across the plains. Snowdrifts like curled parchment whispered over the ground, half-burying old fenceposts and the skeletal remains of summer's green. Cairvish trudged forward with purpose, his cloak gathered tight, his face angled down to avoid the biting gusts. Behind him followed Krashina, head high despite the weather, her expression unreadable. Lady Syboril was less stoic, muttering each time her silken boots sank into a drift, and Harnok the dwarf marched on like a squat, determined ox, his pack jangling with salvaged gear.
They were not alone. As they moved south and west, away from the shattered remains of Morin's Stand, survivors found them—peasants with bundled children, old men leading carts of salvaged grain, injured soldiers limping alongside wooden crutches or homemade splints. Cairvish welcomed them all with the bearing of a nobleman accustomed to responsibility, while Krashina walked among them with silent purpose, offering no comfort but never leaving their side.
"What city is ahead?" a gaunt man asked them, clutching a makeshift spear.
"Shireen," Cairvish said. "A day's march, maybe less. Imperial stone walls. Church hall. Monster hunters."
The man blinked at that last point, then nodded.
By dusk of the fourth day, the land began to flatten more completely, the rolling prairie giving way to sparse pasture and crooked fence lines. Flocks of hardy winter birds wheeled above, their cries lost in the ever-present wind. Then, through the golden mist of a dying sun, Shireen appeared.
"Almost there," Cairvish said, adjusting his cloak over his rapier.
"About time," muttered Harnok, eyeing the horizon. "I've no taste for another fight without a proper roof over my head."
Syboril adjusted her silk shawl, now wrapped tightly around her head like a scarf. "Shireen," she said wistfully, "I've not been in years. A lovely city once. Hope it hasn't changed too much."
Krashina said nothing, walking at the front of the group, eyes fixed.
The city was old—ancient, really—its foundations laid in the twilight of the Tremharin Empire. The walls were high, heavy with soot-blackened stone, their foundations sunk deep into the plains on either side of the river Shalmar. Two great gates stood open but well-guarded, one on the eastern road they now approached, and another across the river to the west. The Shalmar itself flowed beneath the city's central bridge, a wide, triple-arched span that connected the old Imperial sector to the newer mercantile ward.
Banners fluttered along the battlements: the crimson-and-steel emblem of Shireen, the golden flame of the Church of Erathmus, and a dozen lesser house and merchant standards, all bleached from years of sun and wind.
As they neared the gate, a line of travelers was already forming—merchants, drovers, a handful of foreign traders with shaggy-haired horses and lacquered chests strapped to their wagons. The guards were grim-faced but not cruel, garbed in thick boiled leather over mail, halberds slung with casual professionalism.
"Toll's two silver per head," one announced as Cairvish stepped forward.
"We're refugees," Cairvish said, voice measured but firm. "We bring word of the sacking of Morin's Stand. The horde—goblins, and worse—have crossed the plains."
"Still two silver. Orders."
Harnok gave a snort. "Lemme guess, goes straight to the grain coffers, eh? That or your captain's wife's wardrobe."
"You got coin or not?"
Lady Syboril stepped forward with a flourish, removing a glove with delicate irritation. From her inner coat she withdrew a thin, rectangular tablet of polished wood, marked with silver leaf and a braided silk cord.
"Trade note from the House of Twelve Sails," she said coolly. "Issued in Saerlyn. Signatories include Viscount Boren and Mistress Pell. You may lodge it with the city registrar and collect the toll from our trade credit."
The guard squinted at the note, then waved over a superior. After a tense exchange and some side-eye glances, they were waved through.
"Register at East Ledger Hall within three days," the guard barked. "If your note isn't confirmed, your names go on the debtor rolls."
They entered quickly, without looking back. Once inside, the smells hit them—baking bread, roasting meat, woodsmoke, river mud, unwashed bodies. The city teemed with life. Merchants hawked wares from wagons and stalls, beggars clutched tin cups, guards walked the streets in pairs. Dogs barked and children darted between carts.
They paused at a corner where a stone fountain burbled. The refugees from Morin's Stand expressed their gratitude, shaking Cairvish's hand before explaining that they would seek shelter with the church.
"Where to now?" Krashina asked.
"The adventurers' guild might give us shelter," Cairvish said. "They owe my family a favor."
"I've business in the merchant quarter," Syboril added. "I'll speak with the Guildhall. See what contracts remain unclaimed."
"Let's stay together," Krashina said. "Until we understand the city."
The streets of Shireen were paved in frost-cracked flagstones, lined with tightly packed stone and timber buildings—some still bearing the high, arched windows and domed roofs of Imperial make. Smoke curled from chimneys and braziers alike. The city bustled with winter activity: butchers shouting, smiths hammering, children scampering through snowmelt gutters with rag-wrapped feet. Yet beneath the noise was tension—a city wary, huddling against rumor.
Krashina's eyes moved constantly. She took note of the adventurers' guild hall, a tall stone edifice with the eight-tiered guild crest hanging above the entry. A pair of steel-ranked hunters lounged outside, their boots muddy and their weapons lean and sharp.
Grey stone temples to Erathmus dotted the city's inner tiers, their smooth facades devoid of iconography save the eternal flame—real fire, kept alive within a brazier that stood in every public shrine.
The group pressed on through the south ward, a sprawl of inns, boarding houses, and guild-sponsored shelters. Overhead, Imperial stonework formed graceful arches between buildings, and occasional copper plaques bore old runes too faded to decipher.
"Ever wonder what all this meant?" Harnok asked, tracing a finger along one such plaque.
"The old city's bones," Cairvish said. "It's said there's another Shireen beneath this one. Full of secrets."
"Don't say that too loud," Syboril added. "Some say the Black Spore came from that undercity."
Krashina turned to her. "You think he's real?"
"I know he is," Syboril replied. "A man. A broker of secrets. Powerful, terrifying. The guild fears him. The nobility courts him. Only the fools deny he walks among us."
"I don't think he walks anywhere," Harnok said. "I think he grows."
"What?" Cairvish asked.
"Grows," the dwarf repeated. "Like a shadow cast too long on a wall. My cousin said his friend once saw a patch of black mold that looked like a man's face—weeks after a noble vanished."
The conversation drew quiet as they entered the bridge district. Towering stone statues guarded the river crossing—heroes of a forgotten empire, their weathered faces staring down at the water. The river surged below, wide and fast, dividing the city like a scar.
They passed into the slums—if not by choice, then by flow. The buildings leaned closer here, the snow dirtier, the shadows deeper. It was here the name of the Black Spore came again—whispered by urchins hawking spoiled dates and women who leaned from broken shutters.
"Spore's breath is in the fog tonight," one muttered.
"Shadows move like fungus here," said another.
Cairvish stopped once to ask directions of an old woman who watched them from a cracked doorway.
"We need rest," Krashina said quietly. "And food."
Harnok grunted. "And a drink. I'll take my chances with this Spore ghost."
They emerged near the old Imperial baths, now a sprawling boarding house filled with transient laborers, hunters, and smugglers.
On the other side lay the merchant quarter, gleaming with glass windows and lacquered doors. Syboril guided them down a winding avenue to a triangular plaza filled with vendors, buskers, and scribes. A brass bell rang somewhere overhead.
"I'll return shortly," she said to the others. "Find shelter. We'll regroup at sunset."
She approached a pair of gaudily dressed older men haggling over the contents of a cart parked in front of a white bricked building.
The party moved on, passing deeper into Shireen's labyrinth. Cairvish led them through a quieter street, stopping at a tall building of soot-blackened stone: the Adventurers' Guild. A wooden sign above the door depicted a sword and lantern crossed in front of a wyvern skull.
Inside, the hall was warm and well-lit. Trophy heads lined the walls, and a bulletin board was thick with notices—missing persons, monster bounties, trade escorts. A clerk in a white and blue smock looked up from a scroll.
"Looking to register?" he asked.
Krashina paused beside a wall where a ranking plaque hung. Ranks gleamed in brass: Copper, Bronze, Iron, Steel, Gold, Mythril, Adamantine, Rune.
"The highest is Gold," she whispered.
"Only one member holds it," the clerk said behind them. "No one's seen them in months."
"Let me guess," Harnok grunted. "They went looking for the Black Spore."
The clerk's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Wouldn't be the first."
"We're survivors," Cairvish said. "We seek lodging and perhaps information."
"The Oar and Chisel is the closest inn." The clerk held his face tight. "The guild doesn't have vacancy even for most members this time of year. The larger companies have lodgings reserved until spring, and they pay with solid Calondrian Gold".
Cairvish nodded, dismissing the group with plans to report the details of the Fall of Morin's Stand in the morning. Hopefully to a less hostile clerk.
They agreed to quarter at The Oar and Chisel, a stone-built structure near the bridge with warm hearths, high-beamed ceilings, and narrow leaded-glass windows. The proprietor, an aging woman with dark, lined eyes, offered them a small common room upstairs.
The room was larger than they expected, with chairs and couches arranged near a small fireplace. There was one bed, but plenty of floor- and they were used to that.
As they dropped their packs and stripped off damp cloaks, silence filled the room for a time.
"I wonder if Nixor and Grey made it out," Krashina said, sitting at the edge of her chair and unwrapping her feet.
"They were clever," Cairvish replied, setting his sword against the wall. "Nixor's a rat. He'll survive."
"Grey…" Harnok muttered, warming his hands by the fire he had just barely started. "That one's deeper than he lets on. If he made it, he'll be where trouble is. Or where books are. Probably both."
Cairvish moved to the window. Frost laced the edges of the glass, and beyond it, snow began to fall over Shireen's rooftops. Firelight flickered along the walls spilling passed him, casting long shadows that danced through the mist.
He stood there for a long time, watching the night come down, his breath fogging the glass. Somewhere in the city's underbelly, trouble waited. And the Black Spore, whether ghost, idea, or demon, waited too.