Lawbrin | 18 Leafbloom, 1723 CE

Unlike Whisper, Lawbrin didn’t care for mornings. A good morning would be at noon. However, even considering the rat-infested holes and campsites he and Whisper had been subjected to over the last few months on the road, he wasn’t able to get comfortable. At least in the woods, the sun was muted by the canopy of limbs and foliage. Here, the sun streaming in from the east had a direct line to his face as he lay in the four-poster bed. The intensity of the new day’s greeting had him frustrated before he ever sat up, cursing under his breath at the gall of the sun.

He stood, the chill of the castle hitting him intensely as his bare feet transitioned to the bare stone floor. After a few minutes of mandatory morning ablutions, he began dressing. Sometime in the evening, while he and Whisper had cleaned themselves up, their gear had been tended to. His road gear and armor was arranged neatly on the top of an old wooden dresser of what appeared to be dwarven make. The hard lines and sharp inlays were striking, but not delicate. He took his breastplate up off the pile of cloth, turning it around in his hands. For a moment, he couldn’t recognize it. The harder wear had been stripped down, leaving only faint traces of scuffs and blemishes that were otherwise too deep to resolve. With that exception, the armor was in a finer order than it had been in a very long time. It was one of the perks of the job that he had come to appreciate. After a long, hard assignment, the Brotherhood took care of their people.

He set the breastplate down again, pulling the rest of the clothing from the pile individually. He dressed, feeling the chill beginning to subside. Mechanically, he threw the thick leather belt of his sword sheath around his body, catching the clasp on the other side. He adjusted the positioning, and tightened it into place, looping the end of the belt once for added security. He took the stiletto dagger from under his pillow, and slid it into the smaller sheath that was tied to the outside of his sword scabbard. He tugged on the straps of the scabbard once, satisfied that it was locked in place, and left his room.

It was still quite early, he knew, as dawn had come only an hour or so before. Even with that, the Keep was alive with the sounds of servants preparing the grounds for the day’s tasks. He passed a pair of workers, a young man and woman, who looked anxiously at him as they passed. He knew not to take it personally. Likely they were new to the Keep, sent here by parents unable to provide for them, or as a means of working towards training. They had been no more than twelve or thirteen, about the time where recruits would begin learning the ropes as Inquisitors.

There was a bustle and noise coming from the main dining hall a few flights downstairs from the residential areas of the castle. He meandered in, wiping a particularly stubborn grain of sand from the inside of his eye, and saw Whisper sitting at the table, her face to the door.

Of course, she’d be up at dawn, he thought. 

She was almost religious about her morning training, and even on the road, would wake before the sun to practice repetitions of intricately complex and almost dance-like patterns of movement. Despite being shorter than he was, Lawbrin always had an image in his mind of Whisper as an imposing tower, unyielding in the face of struggle, and overshadowing most people around her through skills, perseverance, and sheer will. It was something he respected about her, even if it did irritate the hell out of him at times. Lawbrin knew his craft, and was diligent to keep up on his practice, but not nearly in the same way as Whisper. He had no doubt that if the situation arose, she would be able to floor him before he could get a fair swing in.

“Good morning.” He sat down across and to the right of her at the table. It was an old habit, allowing both of them to speak somewhat directly to the other, but while also allowing them both clear sight lines behind the other. After years of close work together, it had become an automatic practice now.

“Good morning,” she replied, sipping from a glass of some sort of juice.

He reached to the center of the table, and began serving himself from the arrangement of trays, and pouring himself a glass of what was soon revealed to be blackberry juice. The tangy flavor lingered in his mouth as he bit into a small piece of spiced bread. It was an interesting combination of flavors, but not altogether unpleasant.

“We were instructed to come to the main council chambers before noon, to give our report. Apparently, they have another matter they wish to discuss with us as well. It sounded important,” said Whisper.

“Isn’t everything we do here marked as ‘important’?” he asked, with an exasperated twitch of his eye.

“Typically. But if they felt the need to note it with the messenger, it’s probably something big.”

He nodded his head to the side in agreement, “Fair point.” He took a few more bites of his food before speaking, “How’d you sleep last night? Any more nightmares?”

She looked up at him, mid-cut into a piece of chicken, and then back down to her task. “Yes. Same one as before. I can’t stop seeing those children, dead on those spikes.”

He looked away from her, nodding softly. “For me, it’s the church. All those bodies, just hanging there on hooks. Felt more like a butcher shop, not a place of worship.”

She just nodded. It was something they hadn’t discussed in any real detail since that night a month ago. The memories had haunted them, though, refusing to let up in their dreaming hours. For Whisper, they seemed to be visceral, focused on the details, as was her nature. For Lawbrin, fitting with his own nature, the details mattered less. It was the overwhelming sensation of doom that got to him, leaving him stuck in a feeling of helpless rage and fear that he tried to shove down deep in the recesses of his awareness. Talking about it didn’t help. The placating conversations that others typically tried to give did little to remove the sensation of anxiety, waiting for the next major event. And he was positive there would be another. He wasn’t particularly old, yet in the ten years he had been an inquisitor, he’d never seen anything like that. And given the nature of their cargo, he didn’t doubt for a moment that there would be another incident like the one in that little hamlet. That was the proof of concept.

They finished eating in silence, neither one of them wanting to continue the discussion, given they would spend the next few hours recounting every tiny detail to the Council. However, both were glad that it had been brought up. It set the stage for the next round of questions.

It’s going to be a very long day, a sigh running through his mind in anticipation.

***

A few hours later, they were standing before a set of gilded oak doors that looked heavier than either of them. One was open, leading into the interior of the council chamber, the other closed tight. A pair of thick guards stood at attention on either side of the threshold as Lawbrin and Whisper neared. They gave a curt nod to each, and passed into the chamber. The door began to close behind them without any visual prompting or effort from attendants or guards.

The chamber was not as massive as one would expect from a castle as ornately decorated as this. It was longer than it was wide, built without an intention of an audience to meetings taking place there. The walls were covered in elaborate tapestries that must have taken years to complete, detailing the history of the Brotherhood, from the emergence of the Unhallowed legions from the Void Lands outside Daer Cathos, to Yaelman’s defeat of the Mage Vilhan Dakronias at the End of the Hallowing War. Another showed the formation of the Brotherhood in the ashes of the great conflict, and the establishment of the Inquisitors in the century after the War. Each was richly colored and beautifully preserved in the space. Opposite the grand doors was a curved stone table that ran in a long soft arc. Behind it, sat seven expertly crafted, and impeccable upholstered chairs, filled by the Seven Council members of the Brotherhood of Seven. A long red rug stretched across the otherwise barren floor towards the table, which sat raised on a platform about six inches from the ground.

The Council represented most of the elder races across Emmeron, and each member, holding the honorific of Brother, had about them an air of authority that was hard to put into words. Most of the members bore the weight of responsibility gracefully, often serious in demeanor but approachable by those who worked closely with them. That was, all except one, Brother Chae’di Myatheil. She wore the honorific and authority like a spiked iron wall.

Brother Myatheil was a sharp-featured elf woman, and the only woman on the council. As a descendant of the Ishai’Hen– more commonly known as woodland elves–her sharp features were uncommon, more reminiscent of the Sildar, or high elves in the common tongue. Her cream-colored hair was typically pulled back in a tight bun with three small braids dangling ornately from it like banners. The central braid was the longest, with the braids to either side raised slightly, forming a sort of bannered effect. Her piercing blue eyes always gave the impression that she could see straight through one’s soul, freezing their blood in place as she did. While she appeared to be no more than thirty, Lawbrin knew that she had just ended her second century. Her entire aesthetic echoed the sharp features of her face as well. The black velvet dress she wore was shockingly in contrast to the tone of her pale skin, and to Lawbrin the shoulders had been designed to model thorns. Brother Myatheil sat just to the right of the center seat.

The other members of the Council were far less harshly attired and appeared far more approachable. Sitting in the center seat of the table was the leader of the Council, High Brother Norio Calladan. Calladan was a stately old man in plain robes and vestments layered from brown, to gray, to white. His face had seen the decades come and go, as deep-set wrinkles had taken hold like small canyons in his face. A lifetime of worry and planning would do that.

Brother Rafi’qe was just to Calladan’s left. He sat firmly in position, his arms crossed across his chest in a relaxed pose, looking almost contemplative. To Lawbrin the man never let a moment pass where he did not exude the characteristic of his monastic background. He had come to the Brotherhood nearly twenty years ago, shortly after the sacking of the Monastery of Salk’ir. Whisper had been his ward from then until the day she formally joined the active ranks of the Inquisitors five years ago.

To the left of Brother Rafi’qe sat Brothers Hallivae Anter-a man of obviously aristocratic blood, with apparel choices to match–and Lorenz Myrling, a well-respected middle-aged dwarf in thick blue robes, who was easily identified by his thick white beard, dark brown mustache, and dark hair that was turning silver from his scalp up. He routinely shaved the sides of his head, leaving a very pronounced strip of hair along the ridge, ending in a tall top-knot.

On the right-most side of the table sat Brother Ennius Darya, a younger man of obvious self-absorption and charisma who fancied himself the diplomatic liaison of the group, and Brother Eiravel Raethran. Second only to Brother Myatheil, Eiravel was the most intimidating presence in the room. He was a rarity across most of the continent, a dragonkin. His flesh was hard and covered in small steel-gray scales, which took on blue accents around his eyes. His face was elongated, almost like the snout of a dragon, but still with many elements of a human face. The shape of his skull was blocky, and his eyes were squared off in a similar fashion, the deep orange sclera almost glowing behind the most pigmented yellow irises that Lawbrin had ever seen. He sat slightly forward in the chair provided for him, in order to accommodate a pair of leathery gray wings, tattooed with blue runes and symbols of whose meaning Lawbrin couldn’t even begin to guess. His figure was hulking compared to the others, but having spent time in training with him outside the council room, Lawbrin knew that his intimidating presence was dispelled by a generally patient demeanor. As leader of the Order of Inquisitors, he knew how to push his men and command respect, but he also knew when to lend the carrot.

Lawbrin and Whisper moved closer to the table, taking center stage between the ends of the curved stone surface. As they neared, they could see the items laid out before each of the Council members more clearly, ledgers, parchment and writing supplies. As Master of Records, Chae’di would be in charge of transcribing the events of the session, for which she wore a very elaborate silver earring over her left ear. The silver dangled from the tip of the rounded point and held itself in place by small hooks that wrapped around the edges of the skin. Lawbrin had no idea how this particular magical artifact worked, but he knew that whatever was said here today would be taken from her mind, and the words instantly appeared on the parchment in front of her. It was old magic and something very much outside of his scope of experience.

“Welcome back, both of you.” It was High Brother Calladan, his wizened voice echoing slightly against the vaulted ceiling and bare floor before being muted by the cloth on the walls. “I regret that we were not more formally able to greet you upon your return.”

Whisper and Lawbrin both bowed respectfully, and Whisper began their part of the conversation, “Thank you. As always, we’re grateful for the hospitality upon our return. We were able to settle in quickly last night.”

“I’m glad. The road can be a harsh home.”

“Agreed.” Lawbrin chimed in this time. From experience, he knew to let Whisper take the lead, but he always felt the need to at least remind them he held the same stature in the Order. It wasn’t so much about needing to be seen, but more to avoid being lost in the background.

“As you both well know, this meeting of the council, on today’s date is to discuss the events from Eighteen Frostfall Seventeen-twenty-two until eight Frostmelt, seventeen-twenty-three. If you would, please recount the events of the last two months in your own words.”

Lawbrin turned to Whisper, who produced a leather-wrapped journal that had been tied to the back of her belt. She opened the book somewhere near the middle, and did a quick glance over the words, before looking back to the Council.

“On the evening of eighteen Frostfall, we had concluded our travels, and arrived at the village of Merton outside Venzor, on orders from the Council. We took up temporary accommodations at a local inn, and the next morning spoke with the village Elderman, by the name of Tafi. We spoke about the recent slaughtering of livestock in the area, and the disappearance of three young women–one a month for the last three months. The Elderman led us to the three dwellings where the women had been taken, and I conducted a search of the grounds. The same three dwellings were the site of the livestock deaths, and Lawbrin searched the fields for signs of Unhallowed.”

“And what did your search discover?” The old man asked the question, though Lawbrin knew that it was out of a reciprocal decorum, rather than need. He and Whisper had stood before the council several times to relay findings of a prolonged excursion.

Whisper continued. “In my preliminary search, I discovered that each dwelling had been entered into by force, often with damage to the exterior construction. Obvious signs of a scuffle were found in all three, as we would have suspected, but there was limited other evidence. That was, until my search of the third dwelling. There, I discovered an amulet, carved roughly in wood, but gilded in what I can only assume is silver, and marked in blood.”

She produced the small trinket from another pouch on her hip and respectfully handed it to Eiravel, who began examining it closely.

“I was able to determine that the amulet held no magical properties, and turned my attention to the symbology on the face. After exhaustive searching over the proceeding three weeks, I was unable to locate the symbol in any text, or via any correspondence with Hunters Guild chapters in the area. Unfortunately, that’s when the winter snows came, and travel from Merton became almost impossible.”

Lawbrin remembered the very hastily carved relief on the wooden medallion. The relief appeared as a set of lines that resembled a cross between a large tree and the outline of a woman's body–exaggeratedly wide at the shoulders and as if drawn on a cave wall. The picture was sharp and intimidating, in no way pleasant to look at. The lines of the relief had been gilded in silver, and dried blood in the shape of fingerprints had stained the light wood. Whisper continued to discuss their search and course of events over the following weeks, which was largely uneventful. Lawbrin tuned out that stretch of conversation, waiting to be addressed again for his inspection.

Finally, he heard his name addressed by Brother Calladan.

“Thank you,” he said automatically. “My investigation of the livestock and surrounding area was also largely unproductive, as well. Nothing definitive could be found. However, it was obvious upon inspecting the corpses, which the locals had left in place for the two days since the last attack, that we were not dealing with some sort of beast or Unhallowed presence. The strikes to the animals were too clean and resembled sword cuts made to look jagged like claws. I was unable to locate any trace of inhuman tracks or the presence of non-human attackers, save smaller predators that came to feed on the corpses. What I did discover was compacted footprints from a small group of humanoids, suggesting the validity of my previous claim. I did rule out the villagers, as the Elderman said they had steered clear of the area since the attack.”

The council was unmoving, taking in every word that they reported. Brother Myatheil sat rigidly in her chair, her hands elegantly folded in front of her, occasionally turning over a page of parchment in the thick tome before her.

Whisper took up the story again, “About a week after, we were at the tavern in town, and a traveler entered. We noticed him come in, but didn’t think too much of it at the time, unfortunately. The traveler was obviously not known to the villagers. He approached our end of the tavern, and without warning, he had sent a conjured spike at both of us. I was able to phase in time, and was unimpacted,” she paused.

Lawbrin finished the sentence, pulling his shirt away from his left shoulder a bit to reveal a five-inch scar. “I, however, got grazed fairly well.”

Whisper began again, “The man fled to a mare tied up outside, and we pursued for some time. This was after all our first lead in some time, and we weren’t willing to let him escape. It was during this pursuit that we suspect the ret of the man’s group began setting up a set of Void Mirrors.”

Again, Lawbrin stepped in, “In our pursuit, we were ambushed by the rest of the man’s group. Each wore a black tunic with red stitching displaying the same symbol as on the talismans. We dispatched all but two, with some effort, and began interrogating them.”

“Did you gather any useful information from the men?” It was Brother Karim. The old man’s expression was soft but professional. Lawbrin knew the man well enough to know he already suspected the answer.

“Unfortunately, not. Prisoner in tow, we started back for the village. It was a few miles back down the road before we saw the smoke. The flames were high enough to light up the sky. By the time we got there, it had already begun.”

***

The day had been overcast throughout, and now that the sun had fallen behind the horizon, the glow of the fires reflected off of the sky. Black smoke as thick as tar crept in long billowing columns up to the sky. The screaming had echoed out for nearly a half mile into the dark, as Lawbrin and Whisper raced back to the village of Merton. The horses flew through the dirt and snow, kicking up puffs of white as their hooves danced on the icy ground. Without losing stride, Lawbrin leapt from his horse as he neared the main gate, drawing his longsword in one swift motion.

Two men in thick black robes with crudely stitched red patterns, the same as the symbol on their talismans were standing on the other side of the gate. One had a long blade clutched in his hand, blood dripping from the blade. He was standing over the corpse of one of the gate guards. His companion raised a thick wooden club to strike at Lawbrin. With the momentum from leaping off his horse, Lawbrin pulled his longsword across the man’s stomach at high velocity. Blood spat from the wound, and the man reached to clutch at his flesh and the red river spilling out, already dead.

The second man moved to jab at Lawbrin from behind, and Lawbrin heard Whisper’s voice call out to Lawbrin in preparation. The man behind him was struck by a magical force strong enough to sweep him from his feet. Without hesitation, Lawbrin spun around, kicking him in the face and thrusting the point of his sword through the man’s neck.

Whisper remained on her horse, pulling at the reins of Lawbrin’s mare to calm her. “I’ll see the women and children, go look for more!”

“Good hunting.” With that, she flung the mare’s reins around a wall-mounted torch that had gone out and fled down the road towards the Elderman’s house with great speed.

Lawbrin made haste towards the loudest sounds of clanging steel, nearest the center of town. Men from the village he entered the fray without a moment’s pause, clashing steel hastily with another of the black-clad men. The swords caught near the guard of his blade, as he had intended. Skillfully, his thrust the blade slightly higher in the air, twisting his own sword in a manner to catch his opponent’s blade with the upturned handguard of his longsword. It was a design of his own, and with speed, he twisted the weapon to an uncomfortable angle and landed a blow to the man’s face with a studded leather glove. The man reeled slightly, his nose obviously broken. Lawbrin angled his sword down, exposing the underside of the man’s right arm, and he drove the small dagger from his belt into the man’s side. He stabbed repeatedly until that man began to buckle.

Around him, the air was superheated from the rows of thatched roof huts now ablaze. Everything was bathed in an orange haze that flicked shadows at odd angles across the ground. An arrow flew past his face, and he narrowly dodged it, seeing it from the corner of his eye only a quarter second before. The next one was loosed seconds later, and he sprinted at an angle out of the way, and threw his free hand out, casting a quick force spell that staggered his opponent long enough for him to bring his blade to rest inside the man. He pulled out the bloody steel and moved on, not even waiting for the man to hit the ground.

The battle continued for some time, with robed figures appearing from unexpected parts of the square. Around him, villagers had taken up makeshift arms to defend themselves, and were fighting as hard, but not nearly as efficiently as Lawbrin himself. Somewhere in the mixture of screams and chaos came another noise, one that turned even Lawbrin’s blood cold. The scream was not human, and not from anything on this plane. He caught the blow from his current enemy’s crude sword with his own, pivoted, and slashed the man from behind, in the process, positioning himself to see in the direction of the cry.

Before him stretched two rows of burning buildings, made from crude lumber and thatch. As the flames rose on the roof of one building, so too did the embers spread to the next. The night sky had taken on a deep glow, illuminating most of the street. He narrowed his vision to the slight turn in the road and saw Whisper galloping at full speed toward him. A moment a hulking figure rolled through the turn poorly, slamming into the side of a shop. It regained its direction and charged towards his position, following the promise of horse meat and rider.

As it neared, he could see the figure more and more clearly. It was a hunchbacked humanoid with an elongated skull and a single bloodshot eye. Its mouth opened to reveal several layers of razor-sharp teeth that seemed to undulate and twist like grinding blades when it yelled. Its body was massive, with a shoulder span nearly three times the width of Whisper’s horse, and a height of just under fourteen feet tall. Thick veined muscles rippled out from each limb, ending in ten thick fingers on each hand. It ran on all fours, trying to gain momentum, but clearly, it could stand upright on its massive blackened feet.

Lawbrin focused, wrapping his fingers around the handle in a comfortable grip. He hadn’t thought to remove his shield from the strappings on his saddle. He wished now that he had, though even as the words crept through his mind, he knew it would do little against a beast that big. He switched his stance for mobility, and moved his left hand to the pommel of the sword, ready to leverage the weight of his body into a quick slash at the creature’s leg.

Whisper darted past, the edge of her horse’s mane brushing against Lawbrin’s cheek in the breeze. She threaded the needle and brought the monster to him. The hulking figure barreled past him, still fixated on the horse, and he swung his blade across the back of its knees. That brought the creature down, the weight of it causing the ground in the immediate vicinity to rumble. The roaring scream it let out as it twisted to cradle its now bloodied legs reverberated in a way that wasn’t natural. It filled the night and sent a shudder up Lawbrin’s spine. But before the creature could rally and rotate, he slid into place by its neck and hacked downwards. Once…twice…three times, until the creature’s leg’s began twitching involuntarily with the severing of its spinal cord. Bluish-black blood covered his face, and armor.

Whisper pulled her horse around the other side of the body, having slowed from her pursuit. The rest of the courtyard was empty. Lawbrin wasn’t surprised, one look at the creature, and the men’s resolve to stand and fight had disappeared. To their honor, it was not the first monster like this he had ever fought and had known that they were clumsy, hulking blobs of meat, with little brains, and an insatiable appetite. All-in-all, not a particularly difficult enemy, if you had a distraction. He wiped his blade on the back of the creature’s loincloth, cleaning the dripping gore from the cold iron.

“Any luck with the women and children?”

The look on Whisper’s face was grim. He knew what she was going to say, so she didn’t. He walked on foot beside her horse, to the place where the Elderman and the non-defenders had been set to meet. It was in front of the small church, across the street from the Elderman’s home. It was alight, a deep red and blazing orange cackled triumphantly over the soon-to-be ruins. 

From the rafters, hung the women and children by large hooks and chains. Their limbs and backs had been impaled by the curved spikes that reminded Lawbrin of butcher’s hooks. Some dangled in an upright position, others dangled from one arm. The bodies which were burnt and blackened still clung to the bone, unrecognizable. He stood frozen, staring at the failure. Men from the village were crying hysterically, falling to their knees in the frozen mud.

He wasn’t sure how long they stood, staring at the burning church. It was long enough that the adrenaline from the fight had worn off. His body was left shaking and cold. The cold winter air had finally begun to seep into the muscles of his arms and legs. He began to look around again, finding his vision landing on Whisper, who stood a few feet to his left. He wore the burden of this night heavily, but the look on her face made him feel like that weight wasn’t enough. He had always admired Whisper’s determination and resolve in the face of hardship and grim spectacles. Yet through it all, she wore a layer of compassion and empathy that kept her driving forward towards a resolution. It had been years since Lawbrin had felt that sense of motivated obligation towards anything beyond duty. It was moments–failures–like that night’s, which made him question the futility of their roles in this grand game. As he looked at Whisper now, her face ashen and emotionless, he questioned his own purpose. It was obvious that she was in a kind of pain she would never admit to; a kind of pain born in helplessness. And if she felt helpless, Lawbrin prayed to the Creators that he remain numb.

It took another few minutes for him to muster the energy to move. Realizing that he was still gripping the handle of his longsword, he moved to slide it back inside the scabbard. It would need a good cleaning later, but for now he didn’t allow himself to think about the chore. He rotated, looking at Whisper head-on and rested a hand on her shoulder. 

“We need to verify that was all of the surprises for tonight.”

She nodded her reply, and sharply moved her vision to the ground as she looked away from the spectacle. They began searching the area for anything out of the ordinary for a village of this size. Lawbrin produced a small charm from underneath his collar, and removed it from around his neck. The charm was held out in front of him as he went. He waited for it to vibrate in a high-frequency reverberation, signaling the presence of abyssal magic.

It took nearly an hour to find the source of the large creature. It was hidden in the woods, just outside the perimeter of the village, hidden between two large redwood trees. The object was a silver mirror, approximately four feet in diameter, and edged in a gruesome display of severed animal parts, wood wreathing, and dried tar. The mirror itself was still undulating, the surface of it rippling like a liquid silver pond as it stared toward the stars. Lawbrin had redrawn his sword, keeping it in a low-ready stance as he investigated the object. This was not the first Void Mirror he and Whisper had found, but it was the most expertly crafted he’d seen. It took great metallurgical, alchemical, and magical skill to produce a mirror, let alone to the quality of this one. He knelt before it, wrapping the charm back around his neck. 

Whisper appeared a few minutes later, always seeming to know when he had discovered anything of interest. She began her work immediately, preparing a simple sealing hex over the surface of the silver pond. It was always something that confused Lawbrin. For a monk, not a caster, Whisper possessed an almost natural affinity for elemental magic. He imagined she could have been a druid if her calling had been but slightly different. Lawbrin began carving runic symbols into the frozen dirt with the tip of his longsword, circling the perimeter of the mirror with a series of protective wards. The crude writing was staggered into three concentric circles formed from a central spiral, with the mirror at its center point. The ward would contain the magic of the Void Mirror temporarily, but anything particularly powerful would be able to counter it.

The rest of the night, they spent guarding the mirror, instead of helping the shaken villagers mourn. Shortly, they began constructing a warded crate to contain the mirror for transport, and for the next two weeks, they trekked long frozen roads, to the City of Venzor to sail the mirror to the Vault of the Brotherhood of Seven.

***

When they had finished recounting the tale to the council there was a rushed silence before Brother Myatheil spoke to the pair.

“I am a little surprised at the time it took for the village to fall. What sounds so fast should have taken hours.”

Whisper sighed, “A similar thought crossed my mind, as well, Brother Myatheil. In hindsight, I believe that we fell into a trap that had been set up for us. Unfortunately, the cost of the trap was innocent lives. We should have seen it.”

She bowed her head respectfully, but Lawbrin knew the anger and guilt went much deeper behind the veil of her soul, than she could show to anyone else. She blamed herself for the massacre–blamed them both. It was yet another weight on her shoulders, fair or not. He also wasn’t sure he disagreed with the assessment. They should have known better.