Morning in the Lucky Griffon always arrived the same way: the smell of fried bacon and burnt toast drifting up the stairs, the clatter of plates below, and voices already raised in arguments that had started before most people had opened their eyes. Vade Manus came down into it with travel-creased clothes and the stale taste of last night’s ale still lingering, but their table was quieter than the room around them. [[Ellette]]’s note lay on the wood between them, its corners pinned by a mug and a crust of bread. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] read it again while he ate, as if repetition would make the job safer. Ruins between [[Neverwinter]] and [[City of Alexandria]]. Retrieve the relic. Do not tamper with the seal. Fifty gold each on completion. Keep anything else you find. The part that mattered wasn’t even on the page. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] had gone to [[Quintin]] for that, hopeful in the way people get when they want someone older and sharper to tell them the risks aren’t as bad as they feel. [[Quintin]] hadn’t bothered with older-and-wiser. He’d squinted at [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] like he was already a disappointment and said, “Don’t fuck it up.” That was the advice. That was the blessing. [[Béibhinn]] pushed her plate away and glanced at the note. “What are we actually collecting?” “A weapon,” [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] said. “Used to belong to someone in Sordia Vignti.” [[Dallea]]’s eyebrows lifted. “Why are we doing their errands again?” “Because [[Ellette]] pays,” [[Vaerilyn]] replied without looking up from her drink. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] nodded. “And because [[Quintin]] said people who touched it changed. Some died. Some started speaking languages they didn’t know.” [[Béibhinn]]’s expression tightened. “That’s not a weapon. That’s a curse with a handle.” “It’s in ruins that used to have a Death Tyrant,” [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] added, as though that might somehow improve things. [[Dallea]] stared at him. “Why would you add that part last?” [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] shrugged, mouth full. “It was removed.” “Removed,” [[Béibhinn]] repeated, sceptical. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] swallowed. “Three members of Sordia Vignti were there already. They didn’t bring it back. Now we’re going.” That settled into the space between them in the way bad information always did—heavy, unavoidable, and annoyingly short of details. They finished breakfast, collected their gear, and headed for the front gate where the cart waited. A bay mare stood harnessed, ears flicking, shifting her weight like she’d been promised movement and was growing impatient with the delay. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] took one look at her and decided she needed a name. “Michael,” he said. [[Béibhinn]] blinked. “Michael?” [[Dallea]] laughed once, sharp. “Why Michael?” [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] climbed up to the bench. “Because it suits her.” [[Vaerilyn]] swung herself into the back of the cart and settled against the side without comment. That, for her, was agreement. Before they left, they detoured to [[Fizzle the Wizard (Alchemist)|Fizzle]]. His little stall had the look of a place that sold remedies, trinkets, and regret in equal measure. [[Béibhinn]] bought four potions—white, brown, yellow, and gold—holding each up to the light as if colour alone could tell her whether it would save a life or make her vomit. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] watched, unimpressed. “Potions are a gamble. A sword never is.” “Until it breaks,” [[Béibhinn]] said, tucking the potions away. [[Dallea]] smiled sweetly. “Or until someone takes it off you and puts it through your ribs.” [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] scowled. “A sword still isn’t a bottle of mystery juice.” [[Vaerilyn]] reappeared with a bedroll slung under one arm, placed it in the cart, and climbed back in without speaking. The argument tried to follow her; she refused to carry it. At the gate, a guild member met them with the kind of seriousness that suggested someone had already died from ignoring what he was about to say. “The caffor must remain closed once it is sealed,” he told them. “Do not open it. Do not tamper with it. Once sealed, it stays sealed.” [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] nodded. [[Béibhinn]] gave a tight, unhappy smile. [[Dallea]] stared like she wanted to ask what a caffor was and why the word sounded like a threat. They left Alexandria behind and the road unspooled in front of them. Luskan came first, grey and hard-edged, the sort of place that felt like it could turn on you because you breathed wrong. [[Béibhinn]] leaned forward, voice low so the guards and passers-by couldn’t hear. “Don’t offend anyone here.” [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]]’s hands tightened on the reins. “I’m not planning to.” “That’s what worries me,” she murmured. They passed through without incident—no stopped cart, no questions they didn’t want to answer, no sudden need to demonstrate competence with steel. Once Luskan was behind them and the road widened into open travel, something in the group loosened. It wasn’t comfort, exactly, but it was the familiar easing that came when you’d escaped the first obvious danger and your brain tried to pretend that meant the rest would be fine. They began to talk. It started the way it always did on long journeys: a stupid question tossed out to fill the silence, an answer given too honestly, and then a chain of admissions no one would have made around a table with witnesses. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] spoke about when he was a child, and how he’d believed he’d grow up into a humble knight of the Axe of Mirabar. There was a softness in his voice when he said it, like he was describing someone else’s life. “If you had one wish?” [[Béibhinn]] asked him after a while, watching the road over his shoulder. “My family,” he said without hesitation. “To have them alive again.” [[Dallea]]’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you’d wish not to be a coward.” [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] turned his head just enough to glare. “I’m not—” “You are,” [[Dallea]] said flatly, and then, after a beat, she added, “Everyone is. The difference is whether you admit it.” They went around the question. [[Dallea]] confessed her greatest fear wasn’t dying—she’d accepted that as inevitable—but dying poor. “Not just broke,” she clarified, “but forgotten. Like all of it was for nothing.” [[Béibhinn]] admitted that if she hadn’t become an adventurer, she’d probably be married with a child by now, living with her family and spending her days helping the poor. She said it like a confession and not a dream, as though the idea of it was both comforting and suffocating. [[Vaerilyn]], looking out at the passing trees, said, “If I’m dying, my last words to you lot will be: ‘You might as well kill yourselves.’” [[Béibhinn]] stared. “That’s… cheerful.” “It’s honest,” [[Vaerilyn]] replied. [[Dallea]], perhaps to steer them away from the tone [[Vaerilyn]] brought with her like weather, balanced her dagger on the tip of her finger. It was ridiculous. It was also impressive. The blade held steady, perfectly centred, as the cart rattled beneath her. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] glanced back. “How are you doing that?” [[Dallea]]’s smile turned smug. “Natural talent.” [[Béibhinn]] leaned in closer, genuinely intrigued. “That is completely useless.” “Most talents are,” [[Dallea]] replied, still balancing it. Later, when the talk drifted back to Luskan, [[Vaerilyn]] spoke again, quieter this time. She mentioned her father and a fight there. She said she had distracted him and he had been impaled because of it—because his attention flicked to her at the wrong moment. She didn’t dress it up. She didn’t ask anyone to comfort her. The cart seemed louder after that, the creak of leather and the rumble of wheels filling the space where jokes had been. They made camp as the sky darkened. [[Béibhinn]] and [[Dallea]] went to gather sticks for the fire while [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] tended to Michael and [[Vaerilyn]] stayed near the cart. “I’ll take watch,” [[Vaerilyn]] said, as if it was a simple trade. “You lot rest. I’ll sleep in the cart tomorrow.” No one argued. They were grateful enough not to pretend they weren’t. There were howls in the distance that night, but they remained distant. [[Vaerilyn]] sat with her back against the cart, eyes open, listening to the world breathe around them. Nothing came close enough to test her. Morning arrived with dew and grit and the first argument of the day. [[Dallea]] woke like someone had struck her, sitting up sharply and immediately clutching her bag. “Someone was in my things.” [[Vaerilyn]], who had only just closed her eyes, opened them again. “No one touched your bag.” [[Dallea]]’s gaze narrowed. “How do you know?” “Because you spent half the night cuddling it and calling it ‘John’,” [[Vaerilyn]] said, voice dead with exhaustion. “You were very protective of John.” [[Béibhinn]] laughed once and immediately regretted it when [[Dallea]] snapped her head round. “Don’t start,” [[Dallea]] warned. It would have died there if pride had allowed it, but pride rarely did. The argument spun out into other things: suspicion turning into accusation, accusation turning into old resentments, and then into the familiar, ugly territory of faith and what it was worth when you were cold and bleeding. “You don’t know if the priest isn’t murdering women,” [[Dallea]] threw at [[Béibhinn]] at one point, anger sharpening the words. “How dare you question the faith,” [[Béibhinn]] shot back, face flushed. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]], already irritated, muttered, “Your faith won’t buy me new armour.” [[Béibhinn]] rounded on him. “The gods did nothing to help my village. They just laughed.” It became personal. It always did. [[Béibhinn]] and [[Dallea]] found the soft spots and pressed until it hurt, mocking each other’s parentage in a way that was designed to cut and nothing else. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]]’s temper finally snapped like a rope under strain. “Enough,” he barked. “Get in the cart. Both of you. Now.” For a moment it looked like they might refuse, like pride might push one of them into doing something stupid out of sheer spite, but the cold edge in [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]]’s voice surprised them into obedience. They climbed into the back without another word. [[Vaerilyn]] was asleep within minutes of the cart starting to move again, head against the boards, the fight passing around her like weather passing around stone. Later, [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] noticed blood along the roadside—dark streaks, dragged patterns, the sort of trail that suggested someone had been injured badly and moved in a hurry. He slowed the cart, scanning the trees. [[Béibhinn]] leaned out. “Do we stop?” [[Dallea]], still simmering, said, “It’s not our job.” [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] hesitated long enough for the debate to begin, but it ended the way many of their debates did: not with a decision, but with momentum. They continued. The only thing they did stop for was money. [[Béibhinn]] wanted a health potion. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] had them. They haggled the price like the road hadn’t just shown them the likely cost of being unprepared. “Twenty-four,” [[Béibhinn]] said firmly. “They’re twenty-five.” “And I’m the one who’s going to have to drink it if you get skewered,” she replied. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] took the twenty-four with a grimace and reminded himself, privately, that he could live with losing a single gold if it meant not having to argue about it again. By late afternoon, the ruins rose ahead of them, broken stone jutting up through weeds like old bones. The place looked abandoned in the way that never actually meant abandoned. Four human bodies lay outside the entrance. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] climbed down and crouched beside the nearest one. He didn’t have to prod much to see what had happened. “Sword wounds,” he said, voice tighter than before. “And… one of them’s missing a heart.” [[Béibhinn]] swallowed. [[Dallea]] stared at the corpses and then at the surrounding brush as if expecting someone to be watching. “Their pouches are empty,” [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] added. “They were looted.” “There’s only one way in,” [[Béibhinn]] said, eyes on the entrance. [[Vaerilyn]] climbed down last, face drawn. “I didn’t get a full rest,” she warned them simply. “Four hours.” No one said anything. They were all thinking the same thing: that tired meant slower, and slower meant dead. They went in. The entrance tunnel was long and narrow, torch brackets lining the walls like ribs. [[Dallea]] led, lighting torches as they passed with quick bursts of fire. The flames threw uneven shadows across ruined stone, making the tunnel feel too tight even when it widened. The chamber beyond was open and wrecked. The ceiling was cracked. Rubble covered the floor. Two chests sat near the entrance as if someone had placed them there for travellers who thought greed was the same as courage. A fallen pillar lay near the centre of the room. And beside it, half-buried in dust and debris, was the relic. [[Vaerilyn]] didn’t even glance at it at first. She went straight to the nearest chest and crouched, fingers already searching for the slight wrongness that meant a trap. Her movements were calm and precise. She found the trigger, disarmed it, and opened the lid. Inside, on a cushion, sat a golden crown heavy enough to look like it could bruise a skull. Gems were set into it, dull in the torchlight but unmistakably valuable. [[Dallea]] went to the second chest with less patience and more confidence. She jammed the tip of her dagger into the lock and twisted hard. The metal snapped with a sharp crack and the lid creaked open. Arrows burst out and slammed into her before she could pull back. “Ah— you—” she snarled, more furious than hurt, and reached in anyway. She grabbed a bag from inside and yanked it free. Another set of arrows fired into her side as she did. She stumbled back, breathing through clenched teeth, and opened the bag. Fine, glittering dust spilled into her palm, catching the torchlight like ground crystal. [[Vaerilyn]] leaned over, rubbed some between her fingers, and frowned. “Mineral,” she murmured. “Grainy. Smells like stone.” [[Dallea]] flexed her hand, trying not to show how much the arrows had stung. “Worth something,” she said, as if that made it all worthwhile. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] wasn’t paying attention anymore. He’d drifted toward the pillar the moment he’d seen the weapon. The war pick looked wrong in the way a perfect thing looks wrong when everything around it is broken. The metal was astral-sea blue, faintly glowing, and it was impossibly clean—no rust, no grime, not a single mark from time. The handle angled upward, inviting a hand. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] didn’t recognise the metal. He didn’t recognise the feeling it gave him either, a sense that the object was not merely sitting there but waiting. Greed didn’t feel like greed in that moment. It felt like certainty. He stepped closer and closed his hand around the handle. The screech that followed filled the chamber like tearing iron. Sparks of lightning leapt upward toward the ceiling. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]]’s knees buckled and he hit the ground hard, still gripping the weapon. The others spun toward him. [[Vaerilyn]] crossed the room and kicked his leg sharply, not unkindly but without hesitation. His fingers twitched. His eyes opened. He stood. For a moment he looked confused, blinking as if waking from a dream, but when he swung the war pick experimentally it moved as though it belonged to him. Not just as a tool in his hand—like an old habit remembered by muscle. Then the ground around them cracked and split, and [[undead]] pushed up through dust and rubble, clawing their way into the light with the slow determination of things that didn’t know how to stop. [[Béibhinn]] lifted her hands and sacred flame flared, burning into the nearest corpse. [[Dallea]], still smarting from the arrows, moved with angry efficiency. [[Vaerilyn]] fought without flourish, each movement economical. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] turned toward one of the undead and raised the war pick. A pulse of purple energy burst from it, violent and clean, and the undead simply came apart as if the magic had unmade it. [[Béibhinn]] saw it and, even in the middle of combat, felt a cold prickle travel up her spine. When she glanced at [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]]’s shadow, she realised what had bothered her earlier: it didn’t quite match him. It shifted a fraction out of time, like it was trying to imitate him rather than belong to him. They killed the last of the [[undead]] and the chamber went silent again, torches popping softly, dust settling. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] stood with the weapon in his hand, breathing hard, looking too pleased with himself for someone who had just collapsed and risen in a ruined room full of corpses. [[Dallea]] pointed at the war pick. “Drop it.” [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]]’s eyes flashed. “I fell,” he said quickly. “I just grabbed it. By accident.” No one moved. No one believed him. The lie was thin, and they all heard it. [[Vaerilyn]]’s voice was quiet, which made it more dangerous. “Put it down.” [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]]’s jaw tightened. “I said it was an accident.” His voice shifted mid-sentence. Something rough slid into it, a low, ugly tone that didn’t sound like him at all. “Half-breed.” [[Dallea]] went still so fast it was as if someone had frozen her in place. Her expression wasn’t anger at first—it was disbelief, as though she was trying to work out whether she had really heard what she thought she had. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] roared. The sound was wrong too, too deep, too full of fury. He swung the war pick sideways into the wall hard enough to crack stone. Dust rained down. The impact echoed through the chamber. [[Vaerilyn]] didn’t hesitate. She lifted a hand and the spell left her fingers before anyone else had fully decided what needed doing. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]]’s knees buckled. He dropped to the ground with a heavy thud, the war pick clattering beside him. For a few seconds no one spoke. [[Béibhinn]]’s breathing sounded loud in the silence. [[Dallea]]’s hands shook, whether from shock or rage, it was hard to tell. Then [[Béibhinn]] exhaled sharply and said, “Tie him.” They moved quickly. [[Vaerilyn]] bound [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]]’s wrists and ankles with practised speed. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] didn’t wake. [[Dallea]] refused to look at his face as they dragged him out of the ruins. Outside, they hauled him to the cart and shoved him into the box Sordia Vignti had provided for transporting the relic. The anti-magic field inside it was immediate; the strange pressure that had filled the chamber seemed to lift the moment the lid shut. A heartbeat later, muffled shouting came from within. “Why is it dark? Why is it— get me out! Get me out!” [[Vaerilyn]] opened the lid and hauled him out by the collar before he could thrash himself stupid. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] blinked wildly, panicked, his eyes darting as if he didn’t understand where he was or why he was bound. [[Vaerilyn]] didn’t explain. She simply shut the box again, sealed it, and tied it down. They turned the cart back toward Alexandria. On the way home, the bickering resumed, not because anyone felt like arguing but because no one knew what else to do with the fear sitting in their chests. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] rode tied up, simmering between confusion and anger. [[Dallea]] kept her distance from him. [[Béibhinn]] watched his shadow whenever the torchlight or moonlight gave her a chance. [[Vaerilyn]] drove. That night, while the others slept in the back, three bandits approached the cart with the careful confidence of men who thought the world owed them whatever they could take. [[Vaerilyn]] didn’t wake the group. She slid down from the bench, moved into the dark, and dealt with them quickly. When she climbed back up, her hands were steady. She didn’t mention it. By the time the [[City of Alexandria]]’s gates came into view, her eyes were heavy and her patience was gone. “You can handle dropping this off,” she said as they rolled through. “I’m going to bed.” She jumped down and walked away before anyone could argue. They brought the cart to the keep entrance where [[Ellette]] was waiting. The air felt different there—watched, protected, and uncomfortably honest. [[Isolde Veythar|Isolde]] approached soon after, and [[Ellette]]’s expression hardened with professional caution. “You’re under a Zone of Truth,” [[Ellette]] said. “Answer clearly.” [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]]’s mouth opened, hesitated, and then the truth dragged itself out of him. “I touched it.” [[Béibhinn]]’s shoulders sagged like she’d been holding herself up purely out of anger and it had finally run out. [[Dallea]] said nothing, still staring at [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] as if she was deciding whether she ever wanted to speak to him again. [[Isolde Veythar|Isolde]] listened as [[Ellette]] was filled in on the details—the ruins, the corpses, the chests, the weapon, the voice that wasn’t [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]]’s. When [[Isolde Veythar|Isolde]] understood, she nodded once and [[Ellette]] dismissed the spell. [[Isolde Veythar|Isolde]] retrieved the sealed box, set it down, and looked at the group. “Open it. Carefully.” [[Béibhinn]] did, lifting the lid as if the thing inside might bite. They weren’t opening it to look at the relic so much as to watch [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]], to see whether the anti-magic field had truly broken the weapon’s hold on him. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] looked shaken, angry, and not entirely free of whatever had passed through him. There were lingering effects in his posture, in his eyes, in the way his shadow seemed to hesitate a fraction before settling. [[Ellette]] paid them without ceremony: eighty gold and a diamond. The bonus came without explanation, which made it feel like both gratitude and compensation for the trouble they’d dragged back. [[Dallea]] stepped forward with the bag of glittering dust. “This,” she said, “is worth something.” [[Isolde Veythar|Isolde]] took it, examined it briefly, and made an offer. [[Dallea]] accepted without blinking. Four hundred gold changed hands with the smoothness of a transaction that was, for once, uncomplicated. There was a brief discussion about training on the keep grounds—permissions, boundaries, and the quiet implication that if Vade Manus were going to keep doing work like this, they would either get better or die. Then [[Wen]] appeared as if summoned by the very idea of calm, walked up to [[Béibhinn]], and punched her directly in the knee. [[Béibhinn]]’s cry started to tear out of her; [[Isolde Veythar|Isolde]] silenced it with a flick of magic before it could echo. Grubble arrived with a grin and a present for [[Béibhinn]], who opened it warily and was rewarded with fireworks erupting into her face. She staggered back, blinking through sparks and smoke while Grubble looked delighted with himself. Middle chose that moment to try his luck with [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]]’s pockets. [[Lucan of House Easeden|Lucan]] caught him, lifted him off the ground, and shook him hard enough that gold and jewellery fell from Middle’s coat like spilled winnings. [[Ellette]] watched the little shower of stolen goods hit the ground and said, evenly, “Bring that to [[Derek Wulvenhaus|Derek]]. It gets returned to whoever it belongs to.” Middle muttered something that sounded like agreement and gathered the items with as much dignity as a thief being held upside down could manage. By the time it was over, Vade Manus had completed the job. The relic was secured. The box was sealed. The coin was paid. And yet none of them felt like celebrating, because the real outcome of the journey wasn’t the reward or the crown or the dust. It was the knowledge that they had gone into those ruins to retrieve a weapon. The weapon had reached out first.