03:10 p.m. - At Ritual Room, High Temple, Dawnspire.
Marcelline (bound to a carved pillar by ward-silk, wrists burning under the tight knots) kept her voice calm. The Ritual Room smelled of old oil and smoke. Gold murals of the Staglord looked down like cold judges. The door had been barred from the inside by the pope's men.
Pope Thaddeus (steps forward, hands clasped behind his back): "High Priestess. I admire your strength. It will be better for everyone if you speak now."
(Marcelline thought): (Breathe. Keep your spine. The gods are quiet, but that does not mean they are gone.)
Pope Thaddeus moved in a slow circle. His vestments were deep crimson with a sheen like wet blood. A faint smile touched his lips, but his eyes were cold. Outside, bells rang again. Screams drifted up through the stone.
Pope Thaddeus (soft): "The city burns. The people run to the Temple. They trust us. Trust is power. And power… is duty."
He stopped beside the low altar. A velvet case sat open. Incense smoldered in a dish. His fingers hovered over a set of temple keys.
Marcelline (breathes): "You do not need my help to speak nonsense."
(Marcelline thought): (He took the inner keys. He has planned this for a long time.)
Pope Thaddeus (tilts his head): "You see much, Golden Vestal. But you do not see enough. Where is the Veilmantle research?"
Marcelline (frowns): "I do not know what you mean."
(Marcelline thought): (He means the old rumor. The king, Lord Draemyr, and Aemond worked in secret. A cloak to bend sight, to hide soldiers at night. I was told only to bless warded cloth for the wounded. I do not know their runes.)
Pope Thaddeus (pleasant tone): "I believe the phrase you want is 'invisibility cloak,' High Priestess. Light-bending. Mirror-thread from Frosthaven. Runes to fold the eye. You have seen it. You have blessed it. You will tell me which sigils hold the seam."
He took a step closer. His voice did not change. Only his pupils did, they seemed to narrow like a wolf's.
Pope Thaddeus (quiet): "You will tell me where the prototype is kept."
(Marcelline thought): (I do not know. Aldric keeps too much to himself. Aemond is careful. The mage vault, perhaps. Or a trove under the Castle of Aurelthorn. It is not in the Temple.)
Marcelline (calm): "No, Your Holiness."
Pope Thaddeus (laughs, low): "No?"
He reached out and tapped the pillar near her face. A small rune there darkened. The air around them grew colder.
Pope Thaddeus (manipulative): "The gods asked me to lead. And to lead, I must see. I cannot lead in darkness. Belm—" He caught himself with a graceful smile, as if he had almost stumbled over a word he should not say. "The world changes, High Priestess. We change with it."
Marcelline (steady): "The Staglord requires not comfort but cleansing. Where we permit rot, the city will rot with it."
She gave him her public voice, the tone that could silence a market.
(Marcelline thought): (Hold the line. He wants me to break so he can call me a hypocrite.)
Pope Thaddeus (steps even closer, voice becoming silk): "You speak of rot. But what if corruption wears a crown? What if a king keeps a cloak of lies that can vanish an army? The Temple must have it. For safety."
He leaned down as if to confide in her.
Pope Thaddeus (whispering): "Tell me which glyph binds the light. Tell me which oil seals the thread. Tell me, High Priestess."
Marcelline (jaw tight): "I do not know. And if I knew, I would not tell you."
(Marcelline thought): (He will try to humiliate me next. Keep your eyes level.)
Pope Thaddeus's smile thinned. He unhooked his ceremonial glove and let it fall. His bare fingers were ringed in cold silver. He lifted his hand toward her chin.
Pope Thaddeus (soft, dangerous): "You make this harder than it needs to be."
He cupped her chin. His touch was not kind. She could smell his breath, sweet with spice and something sour beneath.
(Marcelline thought): (Do not flinch. He is trying to turn this into shame. He wants me small.)
From beyond the barred door came a hammering thud. The stone itself gave a small groan. Somewhere, a woman shouted. Then a child cried. A little sister. The cry arrowed through the stone and cut the room's air.
Pope Thaddeus (does not look at the door): "Ignore it. The city makes noise when it is cleaned."
He let his hand fall. He turned his head, studying her as if she were a puzzle on a chessboard.
Pope Thaddeus (cool): "It is simple. You bless cloth. You bless oil. You know the hymn that steadies the runes. Sing it for me."
Marcelline (cold): "Compromise is the seed of decay. We will prune the rot before it kills the tree."
Pope Thaddeus (chuckles): "Ah. The perfect sermon."
He moved to a chest at the wall, opened it, and took out a coil of dark chain. The links seemed to drink the room's light.
Pope Thaddeus (measured): "This chain comes from a very far place. It holds what other things cannot hold. I would rather not use it. But I will."
(Marcelline thought): (He has allies. From the shadows. Belmara.)
She pulled against the ward-silk. It cut her wrists and drew thin lines of blood that quickly slowed under the last of her morning Benediction. She kept her voice level.
Marcelline (firm): "You do not lead. You covet."
Pope Thaddeus (smiles, teeth small and bright): "Covet? No. Steward. I am a steward of power and faith." He lifted the chain, testing the weight. "But I confess, I enjoy a fine instrument when it sings. And the city will sing for us."
He turned toward her again. His eyes flicked to her face and down in a way that made the air in the room feel dirtier.
(Marcelline thought): (He will use humiliation to break me. He will try. Not today.)
A new sound cut through: a low, thrumming hum, steady and strong, like the ring of a steel bell. Blue light seeped along the edges of the door and traced the mortar lines. Aemond's wards—Elemental Ward from the outer quarter—were singing against a wave of shadow.
Pope Thaddeus (annoyed): "That old scholar."
He set the chain on the altar. He walked to the barred door and pressed his ear against it. His mouth bent in frustration.
Pope Thaddeus (turns back, voice rising with a preacher's lilt): !"Faith without power is a fragile glass, it shatters at a whisper of doubt. I will not let Dawnspire shatter."
He picked up the chain again. He let it coil through his fingers, slow, dark links whispering.
Pope Thaddeus (cold, decisive): "Final time. The glyphs. The oil. The seam."
Marcelline (clear): "No."
He took one long step toward her—
And the Temple bells crashed again, closer and louder, as if the tower itself shook. A ripple passed through the mural light. A crack raced across the gold stag in the wall. Dust fell.
A voice cried from the corridor beyond the door: "Your Holiness! The western transept is breached!"
Pope Thaddeus (snaps): "Hold them. Seal the Choir Gate."
He held Marcelline's gaze. For a heartbeat he stood very still, as if deciding whether to waste time with her or go protect his plans.
Pope Thaddeus (soft, almost tender): "We will continue."
He turned away. He barked orders at the door in a language that tasted of iron. The ward bar clicked back. The door opened a narrow hand's width. Cold wind and the smell of ash slid in. He slipped through with two acolytes—faces blank, eyes wrong—and the door slammed. The bar dropped. The Ritual Room hummed softly with the after-echo of Aemond's ward far away.
(Marcelline thought): (Hold. Someone will come. Or no one will come and I will still hold.)
She leaned her head back against the pillar and closed her eyes for a single breath. Then she opened them and began to sing a very old, very quiet hymn that had nothing to do with cloaks and everything to do with standing.
Marcelline (whispers a private line): "Sometimes I wonder if the gods answer—or if we are only echoing our own fear."
She let the hymn be her answer. She would not give the pope anything else.
03:22 p.m. - At Outer Bailey, Castle of Aurelthorn, Dawnspire.
The outer bailey was full of noise: iron on stone, children crying, the call of horns. Smoke drifted like a low fog. King Aldric stood on the stone stair above the gate, helm under his arm, cloak dark with ash. His steel-grey eyes looked over the stream of people moving toward the inner yard.
Aemond (below him, staff planted, voice steady): "Elemental Ward!"
The air around the gate shimmered. A pale blue dome rose and locked in place like clear glass. Ash hit it and slid away. A thin rain of sparks fell from the shield like little stars.
(Aldric thought): (I am tired. Gods forgive me, I am tired. One month of truce with Drakensvale. One heartbeat of hope. And now Belmara strikes from the dark.)
Aemond lifted his staff again and spoke a low string of ancient words. The ward deepened. Men and women ducked under it, eyes wide. A little brother clung to his mother's skirt. A big sister held a toddler on one hip and a basket in the other hand. A big brother carried an old man on his back.
Aemond (Instructive): "Move through in rows! Do not push! The ward holds."
Aldric put on his helm and raised his voice, not shouting, but strong enough for those below to hear.
King Aldric (measured): "Give the small ones room. Make way for the wounded. Knights, the south lane—clear it."
He watched the line move. He saw faces he knew from the market and from the chapel. He saw fear, and he made himself breathe slow so they would look up and see a king who stood.
Aemond (steps up two stairs, low voice): "Your Grace, shadow-gates are opening in the east streets. The Gloomwood trick bleeds into the city—Belmara's rifts. If we hold the ward here, we can keep the bailey clean. But the Quarter will suffer."
(Aldric thought): (This is the weight. Hold the castle and save the heart, or open the gate and risk all to save the limbs.)
King Aldric (quiet): "Can you expand the ward?"
Aemond (Patient): "Not across streets we do not control. I can throw out anchors—three, no more. With the Mage Council, perhaps more. But I am not a god."
Aldric nodded once. His face was calm, but his jaw was tight.
King Aldric (firm): "Do what you can. Anchor north, anchor east, and one… at the temple steps. If we lose the Temple Quarter, we lose the city's soul."
Aemond (Determined): "I will do everything in my power to safeguard Aurelthorn. We must stand united against the encroaching darkness."
Aldric looked past Aemond to the banners along the inner wall. The Silver Stag leapt on a crimson field. The sigil snapped in the wind. Somewhere below, an Antlersteed reared and cried out, hooves striking sparks. The sound cut through the fear like a blade.
A courier ran up the stairs, breathless.
Courier (salutes): "Your Grace! The Market Square—demons thinned by some… force. Survivors moving toward the Temple."
King Aldric (sharp): "What force?"
Courier (shakes his head): "A man. Some say a demon. He touches the changed and they… break. I do not know the truth. But people got through."
(Aldric thought): (A man who breaks demons by touch? A relic? A curse? Or a miracle I did not buy.)
He made the decision fast, as a young man again on a field of smoke.
King Aldric (to his captain): "Send two companies to the Market Square. Not to fight—extract. Bring women, the little brothers, the little sisters, and the old to the castle. Take food carts. Do not get stuck in alleys."
Captain (bows): "Yes, Your Grace."
Aemond lifted his staff again. He traced a sign in the air. Three sparks fanned out above the ward, cutting lines through the ash-gray sky toward three far places. He exhaled hard.
Aemond (Solemn): "A time of reckoning is upon us. We must prepare our minds and hearts for the trials that lay ahead."
Aldric put his hand on Aemond's shoulder.
King Aldric (low): "You bear too much."
Aemond (Warm): "In the tales of our ancestors, there is wisdom to be found. Let us gather, share, and learn."
Aldric stepped down two stairs and raised his voice to the yard. He did not roar. He did not sermon. He spoke to his people like a father who had no time for soft lies.
King Aldric (calling): !"Dawnspire stands because you stand! Hold each other. Feed the small first. We do not leave anyone to the dark."
The line moved steadier. A big sister handed a piece of bread to a stranger's little brother. A big brother passed his water skin to a tired soldier. The ward dome hummed. Outside it, the air shimmered with a strange shadow, like heat. In the distance, a roar rose, then fell.
Aldric looked at the city. The eastern quarters flickered with red flame. The Temple bells rang again, too fast and too close.
(Aldric thought): (Marcelline. Hold. If you can hear me, hold.)
Aemond glanced that way too, then back to his staff.
Aemond (Determined): "I will anchor the steps. Keep the gate."
King Aldric (nods): "Go."
Aemond moved down the stairs, his robes marked with old sigils of protection, his eyes bright. He stepped through the ward and into the ash-flecked air. He began to run, staff striking stone like a metronome of hope.
Aldric turned back to his people and raised his hand.
King Aldric (calm, exact): "Steady. You have a king."
The words did not heal wounds or stop fear. But they set a spine in the day. It was enough to move the next line forward.
03:28 p.m. - At Market Square, Dawnspire.
Smoke hung low over the square. Ash lay on the fruit carts like dark snow. The Temple doors had slammed. The steps were quiet now, except for the sound of prayer from inside. The square itself felt like a bad dream that would not end.
Marcellus moved along the edge of a broken stall, cloak up, crossbow held low. His face was calm, but his eyes were moving, counting paths. Seraphina towered beside him, hood drawn, crimson hair tucked away. Lyscia kept to shadow, her braid dark against her back.
Marcellus (soft to the two generals): "We go north lane, then cut west. Frosthaven first. Then home."
(Marcellus thought): (Do not waste words. Keep them safe. Do not let Seraphina be seen.)
Lyscia (Cautious): "Let's consider every angle before we move. We mustn't allow impulsiveness to lead us into danger."
Seraphina (impatient whisper): "Come on, let's move! We have battles to win."
She glanced at the sky, at the red bruise that still stained it. Her jaw was set hard.
Seraphina (to Lyscia, low): "Uh huh."
A group of refugees stumbled across the far side of the square, holding each other up. A big sister dragged a big brother who had a bandage on his leg. A little sister sobbed into a shawl. The horror show had passed, for now. The demons that still moved stayed to the alleys, wary of something they could not name.
Marcellus pointed to a tight street.
Marcellus (measured): "That way. Two turns. Keep your heads down."
Lyscia nodded. Seraphina gave him a quick, grateful look she did not say out loud. They started to move.
Ryan stepped out from behind a toppled bench, ash on his tunic, face strained. He looked like a man who had stood in a storm and tried to blade it back with bare hands. He saw Seraphina and some part of him lit, even here.
Ryan (lifts a hand): "Hey, Sera-chan. This place is not safe. Let's go find a hiding place together."
(Ryan thought): (Please look. Please remember. Don't be a bad joke.)
Safe from Spotlight pressed down like a cold hand. The space around Ryan seemed to bend. The trio's eyes slid off him. Sound muffled, as if his voice had to crawl across mud to reach them.
Lyscia blinked and looked past him, eyes narrowing on the lane.
Lyscia (Strategic): "Let's analyze our enemy's movements carefully. Wisdom always triumphs over strength in the end."
Seraphina's eyes passed over Ryan as if he were a cart wheel or a stray dog. There was a tiny frown, like an instinct trying to wake, then it died.
Seraphina (to Marcellus): "Is that really what we're up against?"
Marcellus saw only a man in the wrong place, at the wrong time, making noise that could ruin the line. His jaw tightened. He hated what the job made him sometimes. But he did it.
Marcellus (steady, to the women): "Keep moving. I'll clear it."
(Marcellus thought): (I did not come back with song. I came back because I promised I would. I promised to keep her safe.)
Ryan took a step closer, eyes wet, mouth trembling with a brave, stupid smile.
Ryan (tries again, softer): "Sera-chan…"
(Ryan thought): (If life is a game, I'm pretty sure I got Hard mode without signing up.)
Marcellus raised the crossbow. His hands were steady. He did not aim for the heart. He aimed for the shoulder. Enough to drop. Enough to quiet.
Marcellus (soft, almost an apology): "Hold steady."
He fired. The bolt struck Ryan high in the chest and spun him back. He hit the stones and sucked in air that tasted like metal.
Pain blew white in his head. Safe from Wounds grabbed the hurt and began its ugly work. Flesh crawled. The wound closed with a rough, hungry stitch. He would not die. He would just feel like he had.
He lay on his side and shook. He put his hand to the place where the bolt had gone in and came away slick. Steam rose from the wound for a moment, then faded. He laughed once. The sound was small and terrible.
Ryan (breathes, whisper): "I wanted a love story… and got a story of bad luck."
(Ryan thought): (Get up. Be the moving thing. But I can't make her see me. I can't make anyone see me.)
Seraphina glanced back at the sound without seeing the man. Her face set harder.
Seraphina (curt): "We'll get through this, together."
Lyscia touched Seraphina's elbow, pulling her toward the lane.
Lyscia (Leadership): "Stay sharp, everyone. Remember, tactical advantage comes from the elements we control."
Marcellus stepped to where Ryan lay, not looking at his face. He spoke low, the way he spoke to any wounded stranger he could not save right now.
Marcellus (quiet, to Ryan): "Eat first. Let me worry the rest."
He set the crossbow, pulled a small cloth from his belt, and pushed it under Ryan's hand to press the wound. He did it like a habit. Then he stood.
Marcellus (to the generals): "We had to go. No one will see us."
They moved. They did not look back. They were three shadows slipping through a city of smoke, aiming for the lane and its promise of Frosthaven, and then the black-and-crimson lands beyond.
Ryan rolled to his back. He stared up at the sky. The bruise of red moved slow. He laughed again, then stopped because it hurt.
(Ryan thought): (What a dark joke.)
He pulled himself to his knees. He felt very old and very young, all at once. He touched the place where the bolt had been. It hurt like a truth he did not want.
Across the square, a big brother carried a little sister up the Temple steps. The doors were closed now, but the priest there cracked one open for them. Ryan watched. He did not go.
He stood up on legs that shook and wiped his hands on his tunic. He took one step, then another. He looked at the lane where Seraphina had gone. He looked at the Temple. He chose neither.
(Ryan thought): (If the Authority stays quiet, I will keep moving. I will touch the world until it answers.)
He walked into the ash and the afternoon. He did not look back.