'If you dare to pursue a lofty honor,
Then be content with nothing short of the stars.
For a thrust into the heights of a tender age,
Nourishes it with the tips of spears.
I am the one whose literature the blind has seen,
And my words have reached those who are deaf.
The horses, the night, and the desert all know me,
As do the sword, the spear, the parchment, and the pen.
I've wandered alone through wilderness and beasts,
Until even the mountains and hills were amazed by me'
Saren the Desert head knight of marfan Sultanet
Sif stepped into the Inquisitor's home, the heavy oak door closing softly behind him. The air smelled of rosemary and hearth-smoke, a stark contrast to the frostbitten streets outside. Warmth seeped into his bones as he took in the room: polished wooden beams overhead, tapestries of vineyard landscapes, and a long table set with glazed pottery and flickering candles. A fire crackled in the hearth, its light dancing across the face of the woman who stood to greet him.
Lysia Valen was every bit the noble daughter of Skyreuth—her dark hair coiled in an intricate braid, her gown a cascade of emerald silk. Her smile was warm, though her eyes held the sharpness of someone who'd navigated courtly intrigues long before marrying a man who interrogated souls for a living.
"Welcome, Signore Sif," she said, her voice melodious, tinged with the rolling cadence of Skyreuth's Italianate nobility. "We are honored to host the Fox of Blackreach under our roof."
Behind her, a boy of twelve peered around a chair—Campbell, with his father's dark curls and his mother's keen gaze. He stared at Sif as though he'd stepped from the pages of a ballad.
The Inquisitor, Theodoric Faln, clapped Sif's shoulder with a grin, his speech slow and deliberate to mask his lisp. "Th-sit, . Let the hearth thaw your bootth before the wine thawth your tongue."
As they settled at the table, Lysia poured crimson wine into clay goblets. Campbell leaned forward, unable to contain himself. "Is it true you slew a hundred Dominion knights at Berthol? Father says you fought like a demon!"
"Campbell," Lysia chided gently, though her own curiosity glinted in her eyes. "Let our guest breathe before you besiege him with tales."
Sif shifted, the weight of their expectations pressing like armor. "The numbers... grew in the telling. But the battle was... long."
The Inquisitor chuckled, raising his glass. "Modethy. A rare trait in a man who carveth hith name into hith-tory."
Dinner unfolded in a blur of roasted lamb, crusted with herbs from Lysia's garden, and bread still warm from the oven. With each course, Campbell lobbed another question—Did you duel an elven warlord? Is it true you outran a blizzard?—while Lysia deftly steered the conversation toward lighter fare: the upcoming Festival of Dawning Lights, the vineyards blooming south of the city.
Then, as servants cleared the plates, Lysia fixed Sif with a playful smile. "Tell me, Signore—does the Fox of Blackreach have a sweetheart waiting in some far-off keep? Or has war left no room for softer conquests?"
Sif nearly choked on his wine. The Inquisitor barked a laugh, thumping the table. "Lysia, mia stella, spare the man! He'th been too bu-thy saving empireth to dally with debutanteth."
"All the more reason!" Lysia countered, undeterred. "Skyreuth is a city of light and wine—and women who appreciate valor. I could introduce you to my cousin's circle. They'd swoon over a hero with your... quiet charm."
Sif's ears burned. "I'll... keep the offer in mind."
Campbell groaned. "Madre, he's blushing!"
"Enough," Theodoric interjected, though his eyes crinkled with amusement. "Let the man thleep before you marry him off to the entire Medici clan."
Later, as the fire dwindled to embers, Theodoric led Sif upstairs to a guest chamber. The room was simple but clean, with a featherbed draped in linen and a copper tub steaming near the hearth.
"Lysia inthithted on the bath," Theodoric said, nodding to the tub. "She thayth even legendth need to thcrub off the road."
Sif hesitated. "Your family... they're kind."
The Inquisitor paused at the door, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Kindneth ith a luxury, amico. One we guard clo-thely in thith world."
Alone at last, Sif sank into the bath, the heat seeping into scars old and new. Laughter echoed faintly from downstairs—Campbell pleading for one more story, Lysia's melodic rebuttal. For a moment, the weight of shadowed forests faded. Here, in this room steeped in hearth-smoke and humility, Sif allowed himself to wonder: Could a man like me ever belong to such a world?
Sif sank deeper into the copper tub, the steaming water lapping at his collarbones. For a fleeting moment, the heat soothed the ache in his muscles—until the cursed sigil on his neck flared to life, burning like a brand pressed fresh from the forge. He hissed, sloshing water over the edge as he slapped a hand to the mark.
"Six Gods, is a single moment of peace too much to ask?" he muttered, glaring at the ceiling as if the deities themselves might answer. They didn't, of course. They never did.
When sleep finally claimed him, it was anything but restful.
Lightning split a sky the color of bruised plums, illuminating a storm-lashed horizon. Below him, the earth crumbled into an abyss, but Sif stood suspended on a jagged rock, staring upward. Through the tempest, a colossal structure loomed—a castle carved from thunderheads, its spires piercing the heavens. It floated impossibly, glowing with an eerie blue light that pulsed in time with the sigil on his neck.
"Come home, Fox," whispered a voice that sounded like wind through bones.
Sif took a step forward—
THUD.
"Wake up! Papa says you'll miss the carriage and then I get to ride your horse and name it Sir Turnip!"
Sif jolted upright, sending a tidal wave of bathwater onto the floor. Campbell stood in the doorway, grinning like a gremlin who'd just discovered fire.
"You look like a drowned cat," the boy observed cheerfully.
"Out," Sif growled, clutching a sodden towel to his chest.
"Papa says now—"
"Out."
Sif's hands shook as he fumbled with his boots. The dream clung to him like cobwebs, his heart hammering as if he'd sprinted up Drakamount. His crossbow strap tangled with his sword belt, and by the time he'd wrestled both into submission, his hair resembled a windblown haystack.
Campbell reappeared, holding a crumpled hat. "You forgot this. Also, Madre says you smell like a wet dog. Here." He tossed a vial of lavender oil. It shattered at Sif's feet.
"Campbell!" Lysia's voice echoed up the stairs.
The boy fled. Sif stared at the glittering puddle of perfume. "Perfect."
Downstairs, Lysia stood by the hearth, holding a platter of honey-drenched pastries. Her smile was a weapon.
"Signore, you cannot face the day on an empty stomach—"
"Thank you, but I'm—"
"Nonsense. Sit."
Sif sidestepped a chair. "I'll eat later. Faln's waiting—"
"A hero who skips breakfast is a hero who faints mid-swordfight," she countered, advancing with a pastry like a knight with a lance.
Sif backpedaled toward the door. "I once fought three days in a blizzard on half a biscuit!"
"Ah, so that's why you're so grumpy before noon—"
The door slammed behind him.
Outside, Faln leaned against a carriage that had seen better centuries. One wheel listed sideways, and the horse looked like it had been resurrected during the Great Conflict.
"Y-you look... refreshed," Faln said, eyeing Sif's lavender-scented boots.
"Let's just go."
The carriage lurched forward with a groan. Faln handed Sif a dossier. "The c-case. Duchess Benka de Medici's —stolen during transit from the capital. Along with a chest of Vanyir silks and gold and, oddly, six barrels of pickled herring."
Sif blinked. "Herring?"
"Prioritieth," Faln deadpanned.
"And why am I here?"
"B-becauthe everyone in thith city ith either a known thcum, a known thlut, or a known bore. You're... mysteriouth." He winked. "Altho, you owe me for the bathwater you flooded my floor with."
As the carriage creaked up a winding mountain path, Sif squinted at a distant peak. There, gleaming like a diamond lodged in the clouds, stood Skycastle—a fortress of ivory and gold, its towers defying gravity.
Faln gestured with a flourish. "The Duchess'th rethidenthe. Don't p-poke the art. Or the herring."
Sif stared. "You're joking."
"Only about the herring.