The knowledge Cædmon now possessed was a poison with no antidote. It was a single, terrible truth that invalidated every other truth he had ever known. The weaver's murder, the framing of Guthred the Crow, the city's misplaced sense of justice—all of it was merely the opening gambit in a game so vast and horrifying he could barely comprehend its scope. The Circulus Serpens was not just a resurgent death cult; it was a conspiracy of terrifying ambition, and he was the only soul in Dunholm who knew it.
He sat in the cold, oppressive silence of his chamber, the weaver's cipher-thread lying on the table before him like a dead serpent. He had deciphered its primary message, but the final, cryptic warning haunted him: The Magister's next thread is a thread of silver. Find it at the House of Morgenstern.
It was an enigma wrapped in a riddle. Was House Morgenstern the Serpent's next target? Or were they, somehow, the Serpent itself? Was the "thread of silver" a person, a plot, an object? Speculation was a luxury he could not afford, a form of madness that would lead him down a thousand lightless corridors. He needed facts. He needed history, genealogy, ledgers—the hard, tangible truths written in ink and bound in leather. He needed knowledge that could not be forged by a Scrivener's dark art.
There was only one place in the city that held such truths. He had to return to the Rūn-hord.
He rose, the familiar phantom pains of his curse a muted chorus today, overshadowed by the sharp, clear terror of his purpose. He strapped the grey-bladed dagger to his belt, a cold and unfamiliar weight. He was no longer just the city's Walker, a passive observer of tragedies past. He was now an agent in a war no one else knew was being fought. He was a hunter.
The journey to the great archive was a walk through a city he no longer recognized. The mundane scenes of daily life—a baker dusting flour from his apron, two merchants arguing over a shipment of wool, children chasing pigeons in a square—seemed like a fragile, painted screen, behind which a monstrous reality lurked. Every shadow seemed to hold a watching eye. Every whisper seemed to carry a threat. The paranoia of the weaver's forged echo had become his own.
He reached the imposing, stone facade of the Rūn-hord and, for a moment, simply stood before its great doors, gathering his resolve. He was about to lie to the one person in the city whose intellect he truly respected, to manipulate the very institution that represented his only hope for clarity. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth, but he had no other choice.
He entered the Great Hall, the silence within a welcome respite from the chaos in his mind. Mistress Oriana was at her monolithic desk, a sentinel guarding a fortress of words. She looked up as he approached, her expression one of weary resignation rather than surprise.
"Walker," she said, her voice as crisp as a turning page. "You have become a fixture. I begin to think you mean to take up residence."
"The roots of a single crime can run deep, Mistress Oriana," he replied, his voice a low, steady calm he did not feel. "The weaver's death has… complications. Historical precedents that must be examined."
"Indeed." She peered at him over her spectacles, her gaze sharp enough to dissect a soul. "And what specific corner of history requires your grim attention today?"
This was the moment. The lie had to be perfect. "The weaver's cipher mentioned his patrons. It seems Tomin Fenn had a long-standing, if minor, relationship with the House of Morgenstern. I need to understand the nature of their patronage of the city's master artisans. Their guild affiliations, their private commissions. It may shed light on why he was targeted."
It was a plausible fiction, built around a core of truth. Oriana considered it, her long, thin fingers steepled before her. She knew he was not telling her everything—she was far too perceptive not to sense the deep, dangerous currents running beneath his calm facade—but the logic of his request was sound.
"The Morgensterns," she murmured, the name itself seeming to lower the temperature in the hall. "You seek to stir a sleeping dragon, Cædmon. That is an old house, with a history as deep and as dark as the Flēot's channel. They have not been a force in this city for a century, but their roots remain. Be wary. Some knowledge is a heavier burden than any ghost."
She seemed to make a decision. "The Morgenstern family archives are private, held in a dedicated vault. They are not for public viewing. However, your charter grants you certain… privileges in matters of civic importance." She sighed, a sound of profound reluctance. "I will grant you access."
She reached for the small silver bell to summon an attendant, but then paused, her hand hovering. She looked at him again, a long, searching look. "The last time you were here, you were… unwell. The stain of your work was heavy on you. The presence of an acolyte is standard protocol for the vaults."
"I am well enough, Mistress," he said, keeping his voice steady. "I would prefer to work alone. The material is sensitive. It would be better not to involve a junior archivist."
Oriana's gaze did not waver. "As you wish," she said slowly, withdrawing her hand from the bell. "The vault is on the third level, North Wing. The key is marked with the sign of the morning star. Do not misplace it. And Cædmon," she added, as he turned to leave, "try not to break anything this time. The silence of this place is more fragile than its books."
He gave a curt nod of thanks, his heart pounding with a strange mixture of relief and a sharp, unexpected pang of disappointment. He had his solitude, but he had hoped, more than he cared to admit, to see Leofwynn. He had craved the effortless peace that her presence brought. He chastised himself for the thought. She was a sanctuary he had no right to seek, a light he had no right to stand in.
As he walked away, a thought struck him. He paused and turned back. "Mistress Oriana," he began, trying to make the question sound like a casual afterthought, "your junior archivist, Leofwynn. I had not seen her today. I trust she is well?"
Oriana looked up from her tome, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "She is well. She has taken a rare afternoon for a private lesson. A new tutor her family has engaged for her, a Master Aldred. A highly regarded scholar of philosophy, I am told. He holds his sessions in the old Scriptorium near the Central Market." She waved a dismissive hand. "Now, go. Disturb my silence no further."
He forced himself to nod calmly to Oriana, then turned and walked toward the stairs that led to the North Wing, his every movement a lie. His mind was no longer a quiet archive. It was a screaming vortex. He had to get to the Morgenstern vault. He had to find the truth. And then he had to get to the Central Market.
The Morgenstern archive was a place of deep, undisturbed silence. Unlike the public vaults, this room was furnished with dark, polished wood and smelled faintly of cedar and old vellum. It was the private history of a great and ancient family, a chronicle of power, wealth, and secrets.
Cædmon worked with a frantic, focused energy. He pulled down ledgers, genealogies, histories. He found what Oriana had told him was true: the Morgensterns had once been the city's most powerful family, their influence touching everything. But a century ago, they had withdrawn, becoming reclusive, their name fading from the daily politics of the city into legend.
He found records of their patronage of the Silversmiths' Guild, their sigil—the six-pointed morning star—stamped on every page. He found their family tree. Lord Alaric Morgenstern, the current head of the house. Three daughters: the eldest, Godgifu, known for her piety and donations to the temples of the Old Way. The middle daughter, Aethelflaed, shrewd and ambitious, who managed the family's vast, sprawling financial interests. And the youngest, listed simply as Seraphine. There were no notes beside her name, no records of public appearances, no betrothal announcements. She was a ghost in her own family's history.
His hands were shaking as he worked. He felt as if he were assembling the pieces of a bomb. He turned his attention to the books themselves, the physical objects. He ran his fingers along the spines of the heavy, leather-bound volumes, his senses heightened by a desperate urgency. And then he found it.
On a massive tome detailing the family's history, he felt a familiar, subtle irregularity in the stitching of the binding. It was the same technique Tomin Fenn had used. A hidden cipher-thread.
His breath caught in his chest. He did not have the time to unpick it. He needed to understand it now. He closed his eyes, pushing away the screaming chaos in his mind. He pushed past the rage of Aelfric, past the fear of the merchant. He reached for the quiet, meticulous soul of the weaver. He called on Tomin Fenn.
The world shifted. The frantic energy drained out of him, replaced by a calm, patient focus. The frantic beating of his heart slowed. He opened his eyes, and he saw the world as a weaver sees it. He saw the threads. He looked at the spine of the book, and he did not see a code. He saw a language he understood intuitively. His fingers traced the knots and loops, his mind translating the tactile information into concepts.
The message was not from Tomin. It was much, much older. A warning, left by a long-dead family archivist who must have suspected the darkness creeping into the house he served.
Beware the Serpent in our midst. They seek the Lumin. The Star-child. The youngest daughter is the key. A Pure Vessel for the Magister's ritual. They guard her, groom her, prepare her for the Unmaking. The tutor Aldred is their eye. He is the shepherd. He is the wolf.
The weaver's persona dissolved, leaving Cædmon gasping, the truth a physical weight crushing the air from his lungs.
The youngest daughter. Seraphine. The Pure Vessel. And the tutor… the shepherd… the wolf.
Aldred.
The name exploded in his mind, and with it, the image of Leofwynn's serene face. A private lesson. Near the Central Market.
A wave of pure, undiluted terror, colder and sharper than any echo, seized him. Leofwynn was not a random sanctuary. Her quiet mind, her serene soul… was she like Seraphine? Was she another potential vessel? Or was she simply a tool, a convenience, a quiet place for the wolf to conduct his business while he waited for his true prey?
It didn't matter. She was with him. She was in danger.
All semblance of calm, of the professional Walker, of the quiet scholar, shattered. He was a man propelled by a singular, primal fear.
He shoved the book back onto the shelf with a careless violence that sent a plume of dust into the air. He turned and ran. He burst from the silent vault, his boots hammering on the stone floors, the sound a sacrilege in the hallowed quiet of the Rūn-hord. He ignored the shocked and scandalized faces of the few scholars he passed. He flew down the grand staircase, taking the steps three at a time.
He didn't stop at the great desk. He ran past a stunned Mistress Oriana, who shot to her feet with a cry of outrage. "Cædmon! What is the meaning of this? You will not…"
Her words were lost as he shoved open the great doors and burst out into the afternoon light, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He had to get to the Central Market. He had to get to her.
The Central Market was a maelstrom of life. A riot of colour, sound, and smell. Vendors shouted their prices, their voices a competing chorus. The air was thick with the scent of spices from the southern trade routes, of fresh-baked bread, of sawdust from the coopers' stalls, of livestock and humanity. The crowd was a dense, jostling river of people, and Cædmon plunged into it, shoving his way through with a brutal, single-minded purpose.
He scanned the faces, the alleyways, the entrances to the old Scriptorium building on the far side of the square. He was a man searching for a single, quiet soul in the heart of a hurricane.
And then he saw them.
They were just leaving the arched doorway of the Scriptorium. Master Aldred, his robes immaculate, his face a mask of scholarly benevolence. And beside him, Leofwynn. She was listening intently as he spoke, her face tilted up to his, her expression one of polite, academic interest. She was holding a book.
Cædmon's breath hitched. He started to push his way toward them, a warning cry on his lips.
At that exact moment, Aldred looked up. His gaze swept the square and locked with Cædmon's.
For a fraction of a second, the mask of the benevolent tutor dropped. Cædmon saw the man beneath, and his blood ran cold. He saw the same ancient, chillingly intelligent eyes he had seen in the forged echo of the weaver. He saw the cold, unwavering certainty of a true believer. He saw the wolf.
Aldred did not hesitate. His reaction was instantaneous. He dropped the pretense of the scholar. His hand shot out, grabbing Leofwynn's arm in a grip of iron. He shoved her forward, using her as a shield and a diversion, and then he turned and ran, plunging into the thickest part of the crowd.
"Leofwynn!" Cædmon roared, his voice raw with panic.
She stumbled, catching her balance, her face a mask of shock and confusion. She looked from the fleeing figure of her tutor to the desperate, frantic face of Cædmon charging toward her.
The chase was on.
Cædmon shoved past a cart of apples, sending them scattering across the cobbles. He vaulted over a fishmonger's stall, ignoring the man's furious shouts. His entire world had narrowed to the back of Aldred's dark robes, a fleeting shadow in the chaotic crowd. He could not lose him. This man was the key to everything.
He risked a glance back. Leofwynn was not standing still. Her face, no longer confused, was set with a strange, determined resolve. She had gathered her skirts and was following them, her light form weaving through the crowd with a surprising agility, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and a fierce, protective concern for the man she knew only as a quiet, haunted visitor to her archive.
She was chasing him. She was chasing the wolf.
Cædmon's heart seized with a new terror. He was caught in an impossible triangle. Ahead of him was the serpent he had to catch. Behind him was the sanctuary he had to protect. And all around them, the chaotic, indifferent life of the city churned, unaware of the secret, deadly war that had just erupted in its very heart.
From the Dunholm Compendium: A Fragment from the Private Diary of a Morgenstern Ancestor
(This entry, penned by an unnamed lady of the house circa two centuries ago, was found pressed between the pages of a book of devotional poetry. The script is faded and elegant.)
The new tutor arrived today. Master Penda, recommended by the southern scholars. He is to instruct my youngest sister, Elspeth, in the philosophies. He is learned, his words are like honeyed wine, but his eyes… his eyes are as old and as cold as the stars on a winter's night. He watches Elspeth with an intensity that is not a teacher's. It is the gaze of a prospector who has found a flawless diamond.
My sister is… different. She has the stjarna-blōd, the star-blood, as the old nurses used to call it. A clarity of spirit. A quiet that seems to make the very air around her still. The tutor calls it a gift for philosophical thought. I call it a light in a dark world.
I fear he does not mean to nurture that light. I fear he means to use it as a lantern to guide his own dark path. I have begun to weave my warnings into the bindings of my books. A foolish, woman's magic, perhaps. But it is the only magic I have. May the gods grant that a future eye, a wiser eye, learns to read the threads.