Chronicles of Klept: Chapter XXV
The woodland between the Kashten Dell and the Briars is not dense. It’s not the kind that swallows sound and light alike, but a broad woodland of scattered trees. Enough cover to disrupt sightlines, enough openness that our noise carried unrestrained. And we were not moving quietly.
Trunch huffed as he adjusted his pack, his short legs working double-time to keep up the pace. “When we discussed a faster way to get to the Briars,” he huffed, “this was not what I had in mind.”
The ground broke beneath us in brittle leaves and roots, each step scattering the remnants of summer. Din’s armor groaned with every movement, plates clattering, his breath louder than the rest. He struggled to keep pace, his warhammer clenched tightly at his side.
Wikis, striding easily with bow in hand, didn’t slow. “Hothar recommended it,” she called back from the front, “said, the mules couldn’t handle this route. On foot’s the fastest way.”
Umberto caught his toe on a snaking root and went sprawling. The forest echoed with a string of orcish curses as he hauled himself upright, dusted off his knees, and then brought his axe down in two furious chops. Chips of wood flew. He swore at the root again for good measure, as though it might take the hint.
Din at least had the excuse of being encased in a smithy’s worth of steel. I had no excuse at all – save for the fact that my usual marathons involved piles of parchment scrolls, not woodland countryside. My lungs burned, my legs protested, and still I stumbled on after them, already regretting every time I’d chosen study over stamina.
The woodland pressed in around us, shadows stretching long between the trunks as we moved. My breath came ragged, every step a reminder that I was no creature of endurance. Still, it gave me time to think.
Hothar’s words lingered, heavy as a shroud. Adina. A name that was once a friend’s, now a gaping wound. The Dan’del’ion Court hadn’t needed to take her life; they had simply unmade her, slowly and deliberately. They used a man named Dominic — a false savior who befriended her, rescued her from torment, and delighted in twisting her mind. He was the one who twisted her memories and took her from them. From Hothar’s description, it was the very same individual who pretended to be Jonath.
Svaang had borne the most weight of all. Even through Hothar’s halting, mournful riddles, the truth had been clear: The loss of Adina had shattered him. And when the time came, Hothar had done the only thing he could. He’d pulled the others out. Left her behind. Saved who he could.
He said there had been no choice. And still, the admission had broken him.
But it was not only Adina’s fall that Hothar spoke of. His voice, low and mournful, carried darker revelations still.
He and the others had watched as the Court bent their will upon the crystal through experiments guided by meticulous documents pulled from ages past. The results had been undeniable. The recently dead, raised again. Not as themselves, but as hollow things, stripped of will and bound to service.
The denizens of Castle Ieyoch had scoured the continent for knowledge, desperate to refine and expand the crystal’s reach. They had known of its power for centuries, long before Hothar’s time. There were whispers of crystal fragments, shards, and splinters in history, odd tales of strange survivals or unnatural healings. Many believed those were only pieces, scattered remnants of a larger whole the Court had always pursued.
And then they found it. A lode crystal vast enough to rival the Prophet Rock itself, buried deep within dwarven mines. They had kept it hidden, silenced every whisper of its discovery, pried it from the stone, and carried it back to the castle in secret.
Din had withdrawn while Hothar had spoken of this. He seemed to fold in on himself, as though the words reached into some private corner of memory. Perhaps remembering. Perhaps piecing together a lifetime of questions and searching. Whatever weight he carried, he carried it in silence.
With the crystal, the Dan’del’ion court had begun to shape servants from corpses, twist broken companions into betrayers, and laid the foundation for something far worse. For this was no mere experiment. It was preparation.
Preparation to raise Lord Ieyoch himself.
The name carried centuries of shadow. His return would not simply rattle the valley, it would redefine it.
An obvious decision was made. Find Svaang as quickly as we could, return to Dawnsheart, and make the next move from there.
Hothar had pointed us toward the Briars, toward a place named the Nook, that is where we would find Svaang, if we were to find him at all.
Hothar himself would remain behind to convince Travok to abandon the Stumble Inn and seek protection in Dawnsheart, even if only for a time. Whether Travok would agree was another matter. But that was a burden we left to Hothar.
Time was no longer simply running out – it was being taken from us. That truth marched with us now, more insistent than the cold air or thinning light.
It was Din who finally broke the rhythm. He slowed, planting the butt of his warhammer in the soil with a thud. “A short break,” he gasped. “Five minutes. Water, air.”
Relief washed through me like sunlight. I would not have been the one to ask, but my burning lungs and trembling legs had been begging for the same mercy.
Yak immediately seconded the motion, dropping onto a fallen log with a groan of satisfaction. “Five minutes. That’s all I need.”
Day’s voice cut through before anyone could stretch the time further. “No more than five. Five minutes. Then we move.”
We stood and sat in various states of exhaustion while waterskins were passed around. Trunch leaned back against a short small stump. Yak, Din and myself sat on an overgrown log. Day sat cross legged in the grass, eyes closed in brief meditative thought. Wikis propped herself against a tree. Carrie and Umberto lay on the ground taking in large breaths of air. We were so focussed on refilling our lungs that none of us noticed as an arm curled silently around from behind the tree and pressed a blade firmly against Wikis’ throat. Wikis’ bow slipped from her hand. It clattered against the forest floor – too sharp, too deliberate a sound to be an accident. Every head turned. A heartbeat later came the snap of twigs and the rush of movement.
Hands went to hilts and hafts. Armor shifted, energy crackled through Trunch’s fingers.
“I wouldn’t,” a voice drawled from the trees.
The words landed at the same moment the knife pressed harder against Wikis’ throat. Her jaw clenched but she didn’t move. An arrow hissed from the shadows and struck the log between Yak’s legs with a violent thunk, so close he went instantly rigid.
From the trees they emerged—four in all. With a curt gesture, the one with the blade to Wikis’ throat signaled to the others: one with a bow already nocked, another hefting a crossbow, and the last gripping twin swords with a little too much eagerness.
The one carrying the swords sheathed them and stepped forward. He crouched briefly, laying a swatch of fabric across the forest floor between us before stepping back and unsheathing his weapons once again.
The leader’s voice was steady, almost rehearsed.
“Here’s the offer. Drop all money and valuables onto the cloth, one at a time. Step forward, set it down, step back. Do this, and you leave without a scratch. No fuss. No need for this to get ugly.”
Carrie laughed. An honest, sudden laugh that drew a frown from the man with the crossbow. Realizing herself, she lifted her hands quickly in apology. “Sorry. You’re doing great. Honestly.”
The leader’s jaw tightened.
Umberto, who until that moment had been silent and fuming, stepped forward and hefted his axe onto his shoulder. “Here’s my counter-offer,” he growled. He jabbed his thumb toward Din. “I’ve had a bad day, and they promised I could hit something soon. Start running… or lose some limbs.”
The leader grinned. “I appreciate the banter, and the offer, but I’m afraid you’re in no place to negotiate. In fact,” he took a step forward, blade still firm against Wikis’ skin, “Why don’t you all toss your weapons over there,” he motioned with his head to a rock a few feet away.
Din was first to oblige – he tossed his hammer aside before instructing the rest of us to do the same. Umberto muttered and cursed as his axe clanged to the ground, his eyes seething and never leaving the bandit. More weapons followed. He insisted Carrie’s bagpipes join the pile, much to her disgust. Then his eyes landed on me. Cold, assessing. “No hidden weapons, Reader?”
I raised my hands in the air. “I’m just a scribe.”
He gave me the kind of nod that was less belief than convenience. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Listen, friend,” Day said, his voice calm but edged with steel. “We’re in a bit of a rush. How about you walk away, we carry on our way, and pretend this never happened.”
The bandit leader barked a laugh and glanced at his crew. “You hear that, lads? They’re in a hurry.”
The bandits broke into a chorus of chuckles.
“Well then,” the leader said, still grinning, “don’t let us keep you longer than we have to. Hand over the goods, and we’ll see you on your way.”
Yak took a silent, subtle step back before the crossbow swung in his direction “Don’t even think about it,” was the gruff response from its wielder.
They closed ranks, clustering around their leader, weapons gleaming, all angled toward us.
“Okay. How about we give you five gold,” Trunch said smoothly, stepping forward with both hands open, “and you walk away richer than you came.”
The leader tilted his head, considering. “Tempting. But if you’re willing to give up five gold just like that…” His grin sharpened. “…then I’m guessing you’ve got a lot more on you.” He shoved Wikis forward. She stumbled back into our line as he leveled his glare across us all.
“You know you’re outnumbered,” Din said evenly. His voice was calm, steady, deliberate. “And Trunch’s offer was a fair one.”
The leader groaned and rolled his eyes skyward. “Gods. What is it with you people.” He flicked his fingers toward the crossbowman. “Colin, would you kindly put a bolt in one of their thighs?”
There was a click, a snap, and a yelp. Yak twisted just enough—the bolt sliced across him instead of planting deep. He cursed, sparks of fury flashing in his eyes.
“See?” the leader spread his hands, all false patience. “I tried polite. I gave you the easy option. Here’s my last one: hand over anything worth carrying, and you can keep your weapons.”
“You really don’t want to do this,” Carrie shot back, her tone light but edged.
“That’s true,” the leader said without missing a beat. “In a way, I don’t. But it’s not about what I want. It’s about what I need.” He gestured to his crew, and they all smirked like a single thought had passed among them. “Jobs are scarce, reputations stick, and mouths still need feeding.” He gestured to the cloth on the ground, “Last chance.”
Day stepped forward with a steely resolve, the look of a man who had already accepted what needed to be done. None of us moved to stop him—we hadn’t expected him to act so suddenly. His spell left his hands in a rush of flame. Fire bloomed outward, devouring air and shadow alike, swallowing the bandits in a roar of heat. Trees crackled, leaves curled to ash, the forest itself catching light.
The leader threw himself down, rolling frantically, and managed to smother the worst of the blaze. His peers were not so fortunate. Their screams were brief. Fire consumed them too quickly for anything but a final, terrible sound.
The air stank of scorched hair and charred leather. Smoke clung to the back of my throat, bitter and sour, and though the screams had ended quickly, the silence left behind was worse. It wasn’t just shock at the fire—it was shock at Day. None of us had expected him to unleash that much, that fast.
I watched as Day reached into his robes and pulled out a cigar. He was about to light it on a burning trunk before he caught the look on our faces and thought better of it. With a faint shrug, he slipped it back into the folds of his robe.
“Our five minutes are up,” he said simply. “We need to keep moving.”
Carrie gave a weak cough and tried for levity. “Well. That escalated quickly.”
Umberto spat into the ash, grip tight on his axe. “Too quick,” he muttered. “I wanted to break them myself.”
Din said nothing as he gathered his hammer, but his silence spoke loudly enough.
We collected what was ours from the scorched earth and turned away in stunned quiet. The leader remained behind, on his knees in the ash, rocking slightly as he stared at the blackened husks of his men.
Din paused as he passed, a heavy gauntlet resting briefly on the man’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he murmured, dropping a silver into his hands. “You should have taken the five gold.”
The bandit did not answer. He only nodded, eyes still fixed on the ruin, as the forest burned around him.
We walked in brisk silence for a while after that, the crackle and smell of burning wood and leaves fading behind us. None of us spoke, though more than once I caught someone’s gaze flicking toward Day, then away just as quickly. Whatever words we might have said, we let the silence carry them instead, and pressed on.
By the time the road opened before us, the last of the light was gone, and Brightbriar’s north-east gates loomed ahead. The guards were pointing at the rising plume of smoke.
“We saw a couple of guys further up the road heading into the forest a while ago,” Carrie said with alarming ease. “They were carrying torches and had obviously been drinking.”
“I think they said something about setting up camp for the night.” Day added without missing a beat.
The guards exchanged a glance and nodded. “Campfire probably got out of control,” one muttered, shaking his head before turning back to look us over more closely.
“Don’t think I’ve seen you before,” the other said, eyes narrowing. “What brings you to Brightbriar?”
Trunch nudged me forward.
“Church business,” I managed, suppressing a cough as I brushed at the soot still clinging to my cuffs. “Correspondence from the High Reader, a matter of… parchment and ink. Nothing to trouble the watch with.”
The guards exchanged a glance, one arching a brow. “Church business, sure. Then why’s a scribe like you traveling with this lot?” He nodded toward Umberto, who was still scowling like he wanted to put his axe through the gatepost.
I gave my best tired smile, the kind that suggests both patience and quiet suffering. “Because parchment doesn’t carry itself. And the roads aren’t as kind as they once were.”
That earned a grunt. The guard’s gaze flicked once more over the others – Yak twirling a twig between his fingers, Carrie glaring at the soot on her bagpipes, Trunch smiling far too politely – and then he waved us through.
“Fair enough,” he said. “Still, keep your business short. Briars aren’t gentle on strangers.”
We were part way down the first block when Carrie twirled around me with a grin, her wings catching the last glow of torchlight. “At least you’re starting to be useful,” she said, matter-of-fact. I’m quite sure she meant it as a compliment, though with Carrie it’s often hard to tell. She fluttered away before I could muster a retort, leaving only the faintest trail of soot and smugness in her wake.
The Nook wasn’t hard to find. Just off the Briar Bridge, down a narrow street that smelled of damp stone, sat a building so plain it almost disappeared into the row. No sign hung above its door, no paint on its shutters – just warped timbers, flaking plaster, and a door that looked like it had been kicked in more times than opened.
A scruffy young man, with more gaps than teeth, loitered at a corner. He pointed us toward it without needing to be asked. His grin made it clear what kind of place it was and his finger lingered on the gesture to make sure we didn’t miss it.
Inside, it was easy to see why it carried the name. The Nook was not a tavern meant for pride or pretense. It was a corner to vanish into. A refuge for those who wanted to be unremarkable, unseen. Its clientele were rough and dirty, faces as stained as their clothes. A haze of smoke clung low to the rafters. The unmistakable perfume of stale ale, woodsmoke, and bodies that had given up on bathing as a life pursuit, clung to everything else. And yet, as we stepped into the low light, I saw the truth plainly enough: we didn’t stand out. We looked like the rest of them.
Wikis stood in the doorway, unmoving, her frame outlined by the dim torchlight from the street behind us. Her eyes flicked across the room, sharp and restless, cataloguing shadows and faces the way the rest of us might count coins.
Then she raised a hand to her ear, thumb brushing over a small silver ring. She tilted her head slightly, listening to something none of us could hear, and gave a faint, almost imperceptible nod.
Her other hand dropped immediately to the hilt of her dagger.
We crowded around a barrel turned table, the sort of furniture that looked like it had already lost several fights with time and ale. Most of the patrons ignored us, too sunk in their own drink or dice to care. Wikis, however, did not ignore them. She twitched, eyes darting to every corner, her gaze catching on rafters and doorways, scowling at the low ceiling as though it were a cage closing in.
Umberto, on the other hand, wasted no time. He shouldered his way through to a table where two men were locked in a grunting arm wrestle, slapped a handful of coin down, and grinned. “I’m in.”
Trunch’s warning followed quickly. “We’re not here for that.”
Umberto waved him off without looking back. “I’ll be quick.”
Day leaned against the barrel with arms crossed, his tone low. “None of them match the description Hothar gave.”
Yak had already peeled away toward the bar with Din in tow. The barkeep was a slab of a man with one good eye and a rag so filthy it added more grime than it removed. Din clattered coins onto the counter, ordered a drink, and was handed a mug of something the color of swamp water. He didn’t hesitate – drained it in a single pull, grimaced only slightly, and pushed the mug back for another.
Yak, unbothered by the quality, ordered a round for the table. He turned and carried the mismatched tin cups back carefully, the liquid inside sloshing in a way that suggested it was already trying to escape.
From our table I could hear Umberto’s growl rise and fall with every slam of the arm-wrestle, the crowd around him egging him on as if he’d been a local champion for years.
Day watched the scene a moment before shaking his head. “That’s subtle.”
“Subtle isn’t one of his gifts,” I replied.
Trunch leaned on the rim of the barrel. “He’s blending in better than we are. Look — no one’s staring at him.”
“Because they’re too busy betting against him,” Wikis muttered, eyes still darting to every shadow. She hadn’t stopped scanning the room since we arrived, “And they aren’t staring at us, they’re staring at her.” She pointed a dagger at Carrie who was sprinkling glitter on a nearby sleeping patron’s head.
“What?” Carrie snapped, looking up at us, “He’s going to wake up looking the most fabulous he ever has,” She fluttered back over to our table.
Yak returned with the tray of mugs, sloshing liquid over his boots. He set them down with exaggerated care. “You’re welcome,” he said, raising one in salute before taking a long swallow and instantly regretting it.
Carrie wrinkled her nose after her own sip. “This is vile.”
“That’s how you know it’s real,” Yak coughed.
Day slid one of the mugs away from himself without tasting it. “Look’s like Din’s trying the direct route with the barkeep. Let’s hope coin gets us further than Carrie’s… artistry.”
Carrie stuck her tongue out at him. “I call it morale.”
“Call it what you like,” Wikis muttered, her eyes still scanning the rafters, “but you’re drawing attention.”
Trunch swirled the muck in his cup and grinned. “In a place like this? Attention is often a form of currency.”
Another slam from Umberto’s table drew a cheer from half the room and a groan from the other. He roared in victory, his opponent clutching his wrist and swearing.
“See?” Trunch raised his cup in salute. “Subtle as a landslide, but useful.”
Umberto returned to the table, grinning as he dropped his winnings onto the barrel. “To the victor go the spoils,” he declared, slamming his hand down. A scatter of coins jingled against the wood; two silver, eighteen copper and, inexplicably, a half-eaten apple.
I raised an eyebrow. “Truly, a king’s ransom. Careful you don’t topple the economy with your riches.”
Umberto only smiled. He turned, gave his opponent a surprisingly respectful salute, then tipped the mug back and downed the contents in a single pull.
He slammed the empty down beside the coins and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes bright. “Worth every copper,” he muttered, though whether he meant the wager or the swill in his cup was anyone’s guess. He then turned to me and leaned on the table, voice steady. “It’s not about the money. It’s about the competition,” he said simply. “A fair contest. Win or lose, you give respect where it’s earned.”
He glanced back toward his opponent, who was laughing with the men that had bet against him, and nodded once. He picked up the apple and bit into it. The grin that followed was genuine, not the usual baring of teeth before a fight.
Din returned to the table, setting his mug down with a grunt. Judging by the look on his face, the barkeep had squeezed him for more than just the cost of ale, but there was a flicker of triumph beneath his beard.
“I know where to find him,” he said, low enough that only we could hear. “Small alley, a few doors down from here. Look for the grate against the bridge foundation.”
Yak perked up. “A sewer grate? You gotta love the classics.”
We rose together and were a step away from slipping out the door when it swung inward, banging against the wall.
A figure filled the frame: tall, broad, his hood pulled low. He paused only long enough to sweep his gaze across the room, then his voice rolled out like stone on stone.
“Leave.”
That was all he said. But it was enough. Chairs scraped, mugs were abandoned, and the Nook emptied with remarkable speed. I’ll confess – I didn’t need to be told twice. Even the barkeep had begun to shuffle toward the exit when the hooded man spoke again, sharper this time.
“Not you. Stay.”
The barkeep froze mid-step, eyes wide, rag dangling useless in his hand.
In the space of a heartbeat the room was deserted, save for the glitter-covered patron still snoring happily at his table and Trunch and Day standing unmoved.
I found myself outside, boots on the cobbles, the night air cold in my lungs. It took several steps before I realized I hadn’t chosen to take those last few steps. None of us had.
Umberto swore under his breath, fists already clenching. “I’m going back in. No one throws me out of a bar and gets away with it.” He started to turn.
“Technically, we were already headed out,” I offered, though the look he shot me suggested my timing was not appreciated.
Din caught his arm before he could take another step. “Don’t. If Day and Trunch stayed, they resisted whatever he did to everyone else. They can handle themselves.”
Wikis nodded, eyes still fixed on the Nook’s door. “You saw what Day did in the forest.”
Umberto growled, unconvinced. “And Trunch?”
Yak gave a small shrug. “Plenty of shadows in there. That usually helps him.”
Carrie blinked. “Helps him how?”
Din frowned. “Yes, I’d like to know what that means too.”
Wikis, Yak and I exchanged a quick, disbelieving glance before Wikis said,“Whenever Trunch gets… crackly …”
Yak and I wiggled our fingers in a poor imitation of his usual display of eldritch sparks.
“… the shadows around him get a bit strange.” She looked at each of their bewildered faces.
“You really hadn’t noticed?” I asked.
Apparently, they hadn’t.
Umberto grunted, folding his arms. “That’s why you’re the chronicler. Spotting the little things the rest of us miss.”
“I thought I was the chronicler because I can write. You know — letters, words, sentences. Complicated stuff.” I retorted. Yak snorted and bumped his fist lightly against mine. “Besides, Wikis and Yak noticed it too.”
Din nodded. “Wikis and Yak notice lots of things. It’s one of the many ways they’re useful.”
“I notice things too,” Carrie said, crossing her arms.
Umberto exhaled sharply through his nose and glared at me, “Where’s this Svaang? Let’s find him before I knock out another defenseless bystander.”
The directions Din had wrung out of the barkeep led us to a narrow alley pressed between the sagging back walls of Brightbriar’s buildings. The stink alone told us we were close. At its end, half-hidden beneath the bridge’s stonework, squatted a rust-choked grate.
We gathered there, the shadows heavy around us, and Din rapped his knuckles against the bars. “Svaang?” he called, low.
Silence.
Yak leaned closer. “Svaang. We’re here to talk.”
Nothing. Only the sound of water trickling somewhere below.
Then two enormous yellow eyes appeared in the dark, round and gleaming, staring out from behind the grate. A thin, clawed hand slid between the bars—fingers impossibly long, curling against the metal. He sniffed once, twice, with a sharpness that made my skin crawl.
“What do you need, from Svaang?” His voice was a rasping hiss, like someone testing each word—tasting each syllable before letting it out of its cage. Even the simplest phrase carried unease, stretched and lingering in the air longer than it should.
Din stepped forward, steady. “We want your help. To learn about the Dan’del’ion Court. About the castle.”
At once, the eyes narrowed, and the fingers began to slide back into the dark.
“For Adina,” Carrie said quickly.
That froze him. The eyes lingered, searching her face.
Din lowered his voice. “We know you and Adina were close.”
Svaang’s breath rasped through the grate. His head tilted, the tension between retreat and reply written in the twitch of his fingers.
Carrie pressed on. “We want to go to the castle. We want revenge.”
Still he hesitated.
Umberto, arms folded, growled, “We killed Dominic.”
The goblin’s face shifted in the dark, unreadable. Then he hissed, “Lies.”
“Wikis,” Umberto barked. She pulled a medallion from her cloak, holding it out so it caught what little light there was. The gleam of it reflected in Svaang’s eyes, but still he did not move.
Then Yak stepped forward. His features rippled, twisted, and reshaped until Dominic’s face stared out from under his hood. “He looked like this?”
For the first time, Svaang recoiled. His lips peeled back from sharp teeth, his wide eyes shining with something between fury and grief. Slowly, stiffly, he nodded.
Umberto’s voice was iron. “I cut off his head.”
Din added, quietly, “We still have it. If you want to see it, you’ll have to come to Dawnsheart. Travok, Hothar, Yun – they’ll all be there.”
The goblin’s claws tapped once, twice, against the grate. His gaze flicked between us, measuring, weighing. Then, with a hiss, “I will… come.“
The grate creaked, hinges shrieking, and then he was there — unfolding out of the shadows like a spider from its hole. Too thin, too long in limb, his cloak hanging from him like shed skin. He was short, but his limbs were stretched unnaturally long — arms dangling well past his knees, ending in clawed fingers that clicked lightly against the stones as he moved. His legs, thin and wiry, bent too far before straightening again, giving each step a jerky grace. His skin was a mottled green broken with pale patches, as though the color had been scrubbed from him in places. His eyes, wide and yellow, squinted against even the faintest torchlight, darting from us to the alley mouth and back again, always searching for escape routes. And the smell – stale air, dust, and old stone, clung to him like a second cloak, the scent of someone who had made the forgotten cracks of the world into a home.
Svaang slipped from shadow to shadow as we moved, his limbs folding and unfurling with unnatural precision. He avoided the pools of lamplight like they were poison, every step measured, each blink of his yellow eyes a check of walls, roofs, and alleys. Even in the half-gloom of Brightbriar’s backstreets, he seemed half-vanished already.
We’d barely turned the corner when two figures came striding, almost jogging, toward us. Day’s jaw was set, Trunch’s face uncharacteristically pale.
“We need to go,” Day said without preamble. His voice was calm but edged like a drawn blade. “Now.”
Umberto bristled. “Why? What’s—”
“Eric,” Day cut him off. “That was him in the Nook. The big guy. And he wasn’t… playing. He’s dangerous, powerful.”
Trunch nodded quickly, adding with uncharacteristic haste, “He was looking for Svaang. Tried to get the barkeep to give him up. But the barkeep didn’t budge, even when Eric was clearly making him pay for it.”
For the first time, Svaang’s voice broke the air, soft and mournful. “He… is a good man. A trusted friend.”
“He’s okay,” Trunch said firmly. “Hurt, but alive. We convinced Eric you’d gone across the river, into Briarbright. But we really do need to move before he figures out the truth.”
That was enough to send us surging toward the city gates, boots striking fast against the cobbles. The shadows stretched long, and Svaang clung to them with uncanny ease, keeping pace yet somehow never quite in full view.
At the gate, Wikis didn’t waste a breath. She pointed straight to the C.A.R.T. stand where a bored stablehand leaned against the rail, lantern light swaying in the breeze. “Horses this time. We go quickly.”
Coins hit the boy’s palm before he could argue, and moments later we were bundled into a rattling wooden cart, reins slapped, wheels groaning as the beasts pulled us onto the road.
Behind us, Brightbriar was growing loud with commotion — shouts, the clang of iron-shod boots on stone, the clamor of voices all twisted with the same note: fear. At first, my stomach clenched with certainty: Eric. But the noise was wrong for pursuit. People weren’t fleeing out – they were gathering, pouring into the streets, faces upturned. Fingers pointed skyward.
I followed their gaze and froze.
The stars were going out.
Not hidden by cloud or smoke, but extinguished. Snuffed out, one by one, as though some invisible hand pinched each spark from the sky.
No one spoke for several heartbeats. The only sound was the cart’s wheels striking the stones, the frantic snort of horses.
Then Wikis, her voice thin and brittle: “I don’t like this.”
Carrie shifted uneasily, wings twitching. “That’s… not natural, right?”
Din didn’t answer. His eyes, had fixed not on the missing stars but something else, ours soon followed. A faint beam, a spear of pinkish-purple light rising from the far mountains. It shimmered unnaturally, stabbing upward into the sky, too distant to hear but too wrong to ignore.
The cart jolted forward as Yak cracked the reins harder. We clung to silence as the wheels thundered against the road, Dawnsheart waiting ahead while the night above us unraveled star by star.
The Chronicles of Klept 