The Rune-Thief's Gambit
The Rune-Thief’s Gambit
Snow fell in a slow, stubborn drift over Cobblecrest, the kind that didn’t seem to come from any cloud the eye could find. It floated on a wind that tasted of river ice and chimney smoke, settling on slate roofs and market awnings and the black iron rails along the Winding River. The lanterns of Market Square burned as warm blurs through the flurries, their halos trembling in the weather like candle flames behind thin glass.
Featherfoot’s Tales was supposed to be a refuge from nights like this.
It sat just off the square, wedged between a cooper’s shop and a tailor’s, its windows crowded with handwritten cards promising rare scrolls, practical almanacs, and “Approved Arcane Texts for Responsible Study.” Most evenings, the shop held a hush so complete Zola Onyeka could hear the gentle rasp of parchment against parchment as someone turned a page. Tonight, the hush was gone.
Books lay scattered across the floor like the aftermath of a storm. A chair had been tipped onto its side. A stack of vellum folios had slid from a shelf and fanned open in the snow-damp air. Lantern light pooled on the mess in sickly amber, flickering—not with oil’s gentle inconsistency, but with the uneven stutter of magic that had been forced where it didn’t want to go.
Zola paused in the doorway and felt it in her teeth: a faint crackle, like the aftertaste of lightning.
Eryndor Featherfoot stood near the back of the shop, tall and elegant even in panic. His emerald robes were embroidered with silver runes that caught the light when he moved. A fine golden chain hung at his throat, its crystal orb glowing faintly, casting shifting shadows across his chest as if the lantern flame couldn’t decide which way to lean. His violet eyes were too wide, his breathing too fast. When he noticed them, he lifted both hands as if physically holding himself together.
“They took it,” he said, voice thin with disbelief. He looked past them, as though expecting the thief to stroll back in and make a joke of the whole thing. “The Page of Unbinding. From the Netherese Codex. It was—” His fingers twitched toward a heavy iron lock mounted on a narrow door set into the wall, a door Zola had seen before and never been allowed to approach. “It was sealed. Twice. Warded. I did everything properly.”
The lock was no longer a lock. It was a melted, pitted ruin, as if something had dripped on it and eaten it the way salt ate metal in sea air. A dark stain streaked down the iron and into the wood. The smell there was wrong: not the sharp bite of alchemical acid, but something organic, like old ink turned rancid. Underneath it ran a faint scent of sulfur.
Kavaar “The Bronze” Myastan stepped forward, careful not to crunch the scattered pages under his boots. Even with snow still clinging to the edges of his polished chain mail, he looked like a figure out of a chapel mural—white tabard, shield bearing the platinum profile of Bahamut, posture straight as a spear. His gold eyes moved from the ruined lock to Eryndor’s face with a kind of stern gentleness.
“A sanctuary is not a fortress,” he said. He spoke like he was quoting something older than the village itself. “But it is meant to be defended. Tell us what was taken and why.”
Eryndor swallowed. He tilted his head slightly when he listened, a strange habit that made him look like he was trying to hear a whispered confession in a crowded room.
“If that page falls into the hands of the Cult of the Dragon…” His gaze darted to Zola, as if she might be the only one who understood what those words implied. “They could unlock seals we thought were closed forever.”
At the mention of the Cult, Mateo “El Viento” Cruz gave a low whistle, half humor and half warning. He stood with his crimson sash tucked beneath a travel cloak that refused to sit still, even indoors. It rippled at the shoulders as if catching a breeze that wasn’t there, dramatic as a stage curtain. He offered Eryndor a smile designed to soothe people who didn’t want to admit they were afraid.
“Cultists want a page out of a Netherese codex,” Mateo said, easy tone, bright eyes. “That’s not ominous at all.”
Sariel “Shadowleaf” Xiloscient didn’t smile. The ranger lingered near the window, watching the street through the glass. Snow beaded on her braided black hair. Her movements were controlled, quiet, like an animal that had learned a city could be a hunting ground but didn’t trust it. One hand rested near the hilt of a shortsword that gave off a faint moon-pale sheen in the dimness.
“Who knew you had it?” she asked, voice low.
Eryndor’s mouth tightened. “Few. Fewer than you think. And fewer still who could reach it without my keys.” His eyes flicked to his desk, where a griffon-plume quill lay bent and ink-stained. “But knowledge has… ears, even in this village.”
Zola knelt beside the ruined lock, ignoring the faint sting of the magic static. Her fingers hovered a breath away from the black residue.
“Don’t touch it,” Eryndor said quickly. “Please.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Zola replied, and then realized she’d sounded offended. She softened. “Not without precautions. But I can see it.”
She lifted her palm and murmured a quiet phrase to Mystra, more habit than prayer. The air around her eyes seemed to sharpen. Colors deepened. The world gained edges. What had been a flicker in the lanterns became a lacework of strained enchantment still hanging in the room like cobwebs after someone had torn through them.
The residue on the lock glimmered with an unpleasant, living sheen.
“This isn’t alchemy,” she said, excitement and dread tangling in her voice. “It’s… reactive. Like a thing. Like it wanted to eat the ward, not dissolve it.”
Mateo crouched beside her, careful as if the floor itself might steal from him. “So we’re dealing with a thief who brought a hungry blob to a book robbery.”
Kavaar’s jaw tightened. “Blasphemy dressed as cleverness.”
Zola glanced at the scatter of books and scrolls. Eryndor had been right: he treated them like people. Several volumes had been pushed aside rather than trampled, like someone had moved through the mess with an odd, reluctant care.
“Someone was in a hurry,” she murmured. “But not a mindless brute.”
Her gaze snagged on something small near the melted lock: a coin, or something like one, tucked into a crack between floorboards. She reached for it with a slow breath, and this time she didn’t use her fingers. A translucent hand—more suggestion than substance—rose from the air near her shoulder and drifted down, pinching the object delicately.
Eryndor watched, visibly forcing himself to breathe.
The thing was not a coin. It was a token, brass, octagonal, stamped with a precise rune and a tiny mark that looked like a clerk’s notch. Zola rolled it in the ghostly fingers of her spell and felt the faint hum of commerce magic—simple, practical enchantment designed to discourage counterfeiting. She’d seen similar marks in Aurum House’s exchange stalls, where moneychangers weighed foreign coins and stamped paper chits for safe trade in Market Square.
Mateo’s eyebrows rose. “Now that,” he said, “is a lead that smells like money.”
Eryndor nodded, throat working. “A Cobblecrest Exchange token. Used by the exchange stalls and certain… private clients.”
Kavaar’s gaze sharpened. “Private clients.”
Eryndor’s expression went guarded. “People who would prefer not to be seen. I did not ask their names. I did not want to know them.”
Sariel’s amber eyes narrowed. “That’s the city, isn’t it? Everyone keeping secrets until the secrets bleed.”
Kavaar turned toward her, as if about to correct her tone, but Zola beat him to it—not with argument, but with focus.
“This token was dropped near the lock,” she said. “Which means either the thief or someone with the thief had business at the exchange. If they went through Market Square, there are only so many routes they can take unseen.”
Eryndor’s shoulders sagged with the weight of what he was about to admit. “There are tunnels under the square,” he said quietly. “Old sewer lines that the Winding Shadow uses. They call them their… winding shadow. If the thief had help down there, they could vanish before the watch even knew a crime had happened.”
At the name, Mateo’s posture shifted. The humor in his face didn’t vanish, but it turned cautious, like a man gauging the angle of a blade.
“The Winding Shadow doesn’t do favors for free,” he said.
Eryndor’s violet eyes flicked to Kavaar’s polished shield and then away. “I know.”
Kavaar stepped closer to the ruined lock. His gauntleted hand hovered over the scarred iron, not touching, just acknowledging the violation.
“You kept dangerous texts to protect them,” he said. It wasn’t accusation so much as an invitation to honesty.
Eryndor’s chin lifted. “Yes.” He ran a finger along a nearby shelf as if greeting the spines for comfort. “There are works that should not circulate. I would rather bear the burden than let them fall into unworthy hands.”
Zola felt that sentence land like a stone in her chest, because she understood it too well. Her mentor had died in pursuit of knowledge someone else wanted to weaponize. She could still see his blood on cold stone, could still feel the way the world had tilted when she realized a brilliant mind could be extinguished in an instant. She hadn’t come north to Cobblecrest for comfort. She’d come because the rumors here smelled like Netherese fragments and unfinished stories.
“Then we retrieve it,” she said, voice steady. “Before the Cult can use it.”
Mateo straightened, rolling his shoulders like he was putting on a different kind of charm—one meant for narrow alleys, not bookshops.
“And before the Winding Shadow decides we’re trespassing in their home,” he added.
Sariel pushed away from the window. “The square is still busy,” she said. “Snow doesn’t stop trade. We can move without being noticed.”
Kavaar nodded once. “We go.”
Eryndor’s hands trembled as he reached into a drawer and produced a rolled parchment sealed with wax. “Take this,” he said, thrusting it toward Zola. “A scroll. A simple identification charm. I was saving it, but… if you bring the Page back, you will need to know what has been done to it.”
Zola accepted it carefully, as if it might shatter. “Thank you.”
Eryndor swallowed hard. “Please,” he said, and the word held more fear than pride. “Do not let them read it.”
Outside, the snow had thickened, turning Market Square into a shifting field of light and shadow. Stalls were covered in canvas, vendors huddled near braziers, and Henrik the Steward’s booming voice carried across the square as he argued with someone over the weight of a sack of turnips. People moved like dark shapes wrapped in wool, their breaths steaming.
Sariel led them with the efficiency of someone who had learned to navigate by subtle cues: a cluster of footprints that suggested a hurried pace, a smear of dark slush on stone that wasn’t just melted snow. She kept to the edges, avoiding the center where lanterns made everyone visible. It was clear the city unsettled her; her gaze kept snagging on windows, on doorways, on the places a predator could hide if it wore a human face.
Mateo, in contrast, looked as if he belonged in the square. He slipped between stalls with a grin and a murmured word, buying space the way some men bought bread. At one point he leaned close to a fishmonger and said something that made her laugh, and she pointed—casually, as if gossip—toward the exchange stalls near Aurum House’s appointed table, where clerks in thick coats stamped tokens and weighed coins on brass scales.
Zola watched the clerks’ hands, fascinated despite herself. The enchantments there were utilitarian, meant to make trade fair and swift. It was a kind of magic that didn’t end in screams.
Kavaar looked like he was daring anyone to try to cheat him. Several people gave him a wide berth without meaning to.
They found the trail where Sariel said they would: behind a stall where someone had knocked over a bucket of slush and left a thin, black streak through it. The streak sizzled faintly even in the cold, eating into the ice as if the winter itself were a suggestion.
“It’s fresh,” Sariel murmured.
Mateo crouched, sniffed once, and recoiled. “That is not normal sewer rot,” he said. “That is… someone made a deal with something they shouldn’t.”
Zola’s skin prickled. “Or someone carried something alive in a bottle.”
Kavaar’s hand tightened on his sword. “Then it is our duty to end it.”
The trail led them into a narrow passage between warehouses where the lantern light dimmed and the wind sharpened. The alley twisted and narrowed until it became a dead end clogged with refuse barrels and stacked crates. At the far end, set into the cobblestones, was a heavy iron sewer grate, rusted and slick with ice.
And in front of it, lounging as if they owned the world beneath Cobblecrest, were two figures in dark leather. They tossed a dagger back and forth with lazy precision, the blade flashing in the moonlight.
One of them stepped forward when he saw Kavaar’s armor, eyes flicking over the paladin’s polished chain mail with something between appreciation and calculation.
“Private entry,” the lookout said, voice thick with confidence. “Guild business only. Walk away, heroes, before you trip and fall.”
Mateo’s smile appeared like a coin pulled from behind someone’s ear. “Friend,” he said warmly, “if I had a copper for every time someone told me to walk away, I’d own half the docks.”
The man’s gaze slid to Mateo’s crimson sash and billowing cloak. “You talk a lot.”
“I breathe a lot too,” Mateo said. “It’s a habit.”
Sariel shifted her weight, silent, and the lookout’s eyes flicked toward her bow.
Zola didn’t bother with charm. She watched their hands. Watched the way one man’s fingers lingered near the hilt at his hip, the way the other’s stance was angled to block the grate without looking like he was blocking anything.
Kavaar stepped forward until his shadow fell over the men like a judgement.
“The man you allowed through robbed Featherfoot’s Tales,” he said, voice calm enough to be terrifying. “When the City Watch comes, do you wish to be found guarding his escape?”
The first lookout’s expression wavered, irritation battling instinct. “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mateo leaned in, conspiratorial, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “We know you’re not cultists. Cultists don’t dress like you. They dress like they want to be noticed by gods who don’t care. You’re locals. Which means you’re smart enough to know when a job is going to bring heat.”
The second lookout’s eyes narrowed. “You offering us something?”
Mateo spread his hands. “I’m offering you an easy night. Step aside. Nobody gets hurt. Nobody has to explain why they were standing in Rat’s Alley when Henrik the Steward starts yelling for the watch.”
The first lookout’s jaw tightened. “Ten gold,” he said, quick as a knife. “And you never saw us.”
Kavaar’s head snapped toward Mateo as if to protest, like the very idea of bribery was a physical insult.
Mateo met his gaze without flinching. “It’s not a bribe,” he murmured under his breath, just for Kavaar. “It’s the cost of not turning this alley into a mess the watch has to clean up. Sometimes you pay with coin so you don’t pay with blood.”
Kavaar’s nostrils flared. For a heartbeat, Zola thought he would refuse on principle and force the issue, turning a narrow alley into a battlefield.
Then Kavaar’s gaze shifted past the lookouts, to the grate, to the black streak of acid leading down into darkness, to the invisible threat moving closer with every minute.
“Bahamut teaches that a shield is meant to protect,” he said tightly, as if speaking the words would make them easier to swallow. “Not to satisfy pride.”
Mateo flicked a gold piece into the air. It spun, caught the moonlight, and dropped into the lookout’s palm.
“Ten,” the lookout repeated, because greed rarely negotiates with itself.
Mateo sighed theatrically. “Of course. It’s always ten.” He produced the rest with quick fingers.
As the lookouts stepped aside, Sariel’s voice cut through the exchange, quiet but sharp.
“The thief,” she said. “Describe him.”
The first lookout hesitated, then shrugged like he was surrendering a detail that didn’t matter. “Twitchy,” he said. “Paid in old platinum. Smelled like sulfur. Not one of ours.”
Zola felt her stomach tighten.
“Old platinum,” she echoed. “Where would a twitchy thief get old platinum?”
Mateo’s grin faded into something more serious. “From someone who wants him desperate and obedient,” he said. “Or from a vault that should’ve stayed closed.”
Kavaar didn’t speak. He simply stepped toward the grate, set his gauntleted hands under the iron, and lifted. The metal groaned as if protesting being moved after years of neglect. Cold air rose from the opening, sharp with stagnant water.
Zola swallowed against the smell. “I hate sewers,” she muttered, then immediately added, “In a purely academic sense.”
Mateo’s cloak rippled as if laughing at her.
Sariel dropped into the opening first, landing lightly despite the slick stone. Kavaar followed, armor clinking softly in a way that made Zola wince. Mateo went down with the ease of a man who’d climbed out of worse places. Zola descended last, gripping the ladder with one hand and her hat with the other as if the wide brim could protect her from the indignity.
The world below Market Square was not just dark. It was the kind of darkness that felt occupied.
Their lantern light barely pushed back the black. The walls were damp stone, narrow corridors branching and looping, crisscrossing a central sewer channel that ran like a sluggish vein through the underbelly of the village. Phosphorescent fungi glowed faintly in patches, green-blue smears on stone that looked like bruises. On the wall ahead, scratched into the rock, was a symbol: a dagger cast in shadow.
“The Winding Shadow,” Mateo murmured, and for once there was no humor in his voice.
Zola lifted her hand and whispered a word, and a small, pale flame appeared above her palm—steady, obedient. It wasn’t warm enough to comfort, but it was enough to see the black streak staining the stone floor ahead. The trail of sizzling sludge led deeper into the maze.
Sariel moved ahead, her steps barely making a sound. She paused at junctions, listening—not just for footsteps, but for water movement, for the subtle shift in air that might signal an open space or a trap. The city might unsettle her, but tunnels were just another kind of burrow, another place predators lived.
Kavaar walked behind her, shield raised slightly, posture protective even when there was nothing visible to protect them from. His armor never seemed to gather grime, even here, as if the filth of the world refused to cling to him.
Zola tried not to think about how many feet of earth were above her head.
They reached a narrow stretch where the corridor bent sharply left, and the floor stones were scratched in a way that made the hairs on Zola’s arms rise.
“Stop,” she breathed.
Mateo froze mid-step, foot hovering. “What is it?”
Zola leaned closer without moving forward. The scratches were faint, like someone had dragged something heavy across the stones—no, like something had been dragged away, and the floor had been reset.
“A ward,” she whispered. “Not the kind that hums politely when you approach. The kind that’s waiting to punish.”
Kavaar’s jaw tightened. “Coward’s defense.”
“Practical defense,” Mateo corrected softly, eyes scanning the corridor. “Same reason you carry a shield.”
Sariel’s gaze flicked to Zola. “Can you disarm it?”
Zola’s fingers twitched with the urge to solve. “Yes,” she said, and the word came out too eager. She cleared her throat. “Or I can… dampen it. The enchantment is simple. It’s the consequence that isn’t.”
Mateo shifted, pulling a small tool from his belt, but Zola shook her head. “If you scrape the wrong line, it’ll sing.”
“Sing?” Mateo mouthed.
Zola smiled faintly despite herself. “Loudly.”
She breathed out, gathered the threads of magic like pulling on a rope she couldn’t see, and pressed gently against the ward. The air thickened. The faint static in her teeth surged, then softened as if someone had lowered a volume.
For a heartbeat, she thought she’d done it.
Then her vision blurred as the ward bucked like a living thing, offended at being smothered. The corridor rang with a sudden thunderclap that slammed into her chest and turned the world white.
Zola staggered, lungs emptying in shock. Pain flashed behind her eyes. She heard Mateo curse, heard Sariel hit the wall with a grunt, heard Kavaar’s armor ring as he dug his boots into the stone and took the force like a pillar.
The sound rolled away through the tunnels, echoing, multiplying, announcing them to anyone who cared to listen.
Zola blinked hard, vision swimming. “It’s… dampened,” she rasped, trying to salvage dignity through pain. “Mostly.”
Mateo coughed, then laughed once, sharp and startled. “Your definition of ‘mostly’ is going to get us killed someday.”
Kavaar stepped closer, placing himself between Zola and the corridor ahead, as if he could shield her from consequences.
“Are you injured?” he asked, voice low.
Zola shook her head automatically, then winced as her skull disagreed. “No,” she lied, then added reluctantly, “Perhaps slightly concussed. But functional.”
Sariel pushed off the wall, expression unreadable. “We move,” she said. “Before whoever heard that arrives.”
They moved, faster now, but the tunnels had shifted. The darkness felt more awake, more attentive. Zola’s small flame seemed to cast sharper shadows, as if the stone resented the intrusion.
The black trail of sludge led them to a wider section of corridor where the sewer channel ran beneath a rusted grate. The water below was thick and dark, slow-moving, reflecting their light in oily ripples.
Mateo stepped carefully around the edge, eyes on the grate. “If I were a thief,” he murmured, “I’d hide in the water. Nobody wants to chase you there.”
Zola’s stomach clenched at the thought.
Sariel crouched, peering into the darkness. “Something is wrong,” she whispered.
The sludge trail ended here, pooled like spilled ink near the grate. It looked inert, harmless—a stain left by the thief’s passage.
Zola knew better than to trust harmless-looking stains.
“Don’t—” she began, but the warning was too slow.
The pool moved.
It rose like a living sheet, clinging to the underside of the grate, then sliding through with impossible ease, as if the iron bars were suggestions. A pseudopod snapped out, striking for Zola’s glowing orb and the hat on her head like a starving animal reaching for a meal.
Zola yelped, stumbling back. The thing hit the stone with a wet slap and surged forward, a gray-black ooze that smelled of ink and acid. It wasn’t fast, but it didn’t need to be. It was patient, and it was hungry.
Kavaar stepped between it and Zola without hesitation, shield raised. “Back,” he commanded, not to his companions, but to the ooze itself, as if righteousness could intimidate slime.
It answered by spraying a pressurized blast of black ink in a wide arc. The ink splattered across Kavaar’s shield and armor, hissing faintly. Zola felt droplets hit her cheek like cold tar, and for a heartbeat the world went dim as a smear of ink caught her eyelashes.
Sariel moved like a shadow, slipping to the side, bow already in hand. An arrow flew, but it sank into the ooze with barely a ripple, the shaft dissolving almost immediately.
“Not arrows,” Sariel hissed, frustration tightening her voice.
Mateo darted forward, rapier flashing, and stabbed—quick, precise. The blade met resistance like thick jelly, then cut through. The ooze shuddered, and the metal of Mateo’s rapier began to smoke.
Mateo recoiled, swearing in a language Zola didn’t recognize. “That’s going to cost me,” he snapped, half anger, half fear.
Zola wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, fighting the sting. “It’s drawn to magic,” she shouted, voice hoarse. “It wants… it wants anything enchanted. Keep it off your gear!”
Kavaar’s sword came free with a hiss of steel, and when he lifted it, the blade caught a pale radiance, as if answering his will. The light wasn’t bright enough to banish the darkness, but it made the ooze’s surface ripple with irritation.
“By the Platinum King’s grace,” Kavaar said, voice steady, “your transgressions end here.”
He swung. The glowing sword cut into the ooze, and where it touched, the gray-black substance hissed as if the light itself burned. The thing recoiled, then surged forward again, unthinking.
Zola gathered herself, ignoring the throb in her skull. She stretched her hand toward the ooze and spoke a word that tasted like winter. A spear of frost shot from her fingers, striking the ooze’s surface. Ice spread in a crackling bloom, slowing its movement, giving it weight.
Mateo took advantage of the hesitation, slipping around it with dancer’s grace, striking again and then gliding away before the ooze could lash at him. His cloak flared dramatically as he moved, as if mocking the creature with style.
Sariel drew her moonlit shortsword and stepped in, expression grim. She didn’t stab. She slashed, aiming not to pierce but to carve, and the blade’s faint glow seemed to irritate the ooze in the same way Kavaar’s light did. It writhed, trying to engulf her weapon, but she twisted away, fast and precise.
Kavaar shifted his stance, shield angled, then opened his mouth and exhaled.
A line of lightning tore through the tunnel, bright and brutal, striking the ooze like a divine reprimand. The air smelled of ozone. The fungi on the walls flared with startled light. The ooze convulsed, its surface boiling, and for a moment it looked less like a creature and more like a spill being burned away.
When the light faded, the ooze lay in twitching pieces, its motion slowed to faint, pathetic ripples. It didn’t die like an animal. It simply… lost coherence.
Zola exhaled shakily. Her hands trembled, not from fear alone but from the exertion of pulling magic through a space that felt hostile to it.
Mateo stared at his smoking rapier. “I’m going to have to explain that,” he muttered.
“To whom?” Zola asked, trying to smile.
“To myself,” Mateo said darkly. Then his grin returned, quick and defiant. “Also to the blacksmith if this thing melts completely.”
Kavaar stepped toward Zola, eyes scanning her face. “Your eyes,” he said. “Are you blinded?”
Zola blinked. Her vision was clear again, though her head throbbed. “No,” she said. “Just… insulted.”
Sariel sheathed her blade, eyes still on the tunnel ahead. “The thunder,” she said. “Someone will come.”
As if summoned by her words, a faint sound echoed through the corridors—footsteps, distant but purposeful. Voices, low and sharp, carrying the cadence of thieves’ cant.
Mateo’s posture tightened. “Winding Shadow patrol,” he murmured. “Wonderful.”
Kavaar’s jaw clenched. “We do not flee from criminals.”
“We do,” Mateo corrected, grabbing Kavaar’s arm briefly. “Not because they scare us. Because we are on a clock, and the cult is holding a page that can break seals in the Maerthwatch.”
That name made Zola’s heart jump. The Maerthwatch Mountains were a jagged line on every map, a place where old stone held old secrets. If the Cult was aiming for a “bastion” there—if there were wards and seals still standing—then the page mattered far beyond one bookshop.
They moved quickly, following the sludge trail’s faint continuation. Sariel led, silent. Mateo brought up the rear, listening for the patrol. Zola kept her flame small, tight, trying to be less visible. Kavaar walked like a beacon no matter what he did.
They reached a heavy iron door half-hidden behind a collapsed section of wall. A dagger symbol was carved above it. Mateo didn’t hesitate. He pressed his palm to the stone beside the door and tapped a rhythm. The sound was subtle, quick, and it made Zola realize he wasn’t just a charming smuggler. He had lived in systems like this. He knew the language of doors that weren’t meant to open.
The door creaked inward.
Beyond it was a wider passage that sloped down into a large cistern chamber. Warm torchlight flickered ahead, casting long shadows across damp stone.
They slowed at the edge, peering through a narrow gap between stone and pipework.
The cistern was circular, where several sewer lines converged. Sludge water pooled below, thick and dark, with the slow churn of unseen currents. A central platform rose above it, connected by narrow stone ledges and a half-rotted skiff tethered to a ring bolt. Rusted valve wheels protruded from the walls, their handles slick with damp.
On the platform stood three men and a woman—or what passed for a woman in torchlight and menace.
The thief was easy to spot: nervous, leather-armored, twitchy, shifting his weight as if his bones didn’t fit right. His fingers were stained black, and his eyes kept flicking toward the tunnel entrances like he expected betrayal from every direction. He held a small, flat case in his hands, etched with draconic runes and bound with a clasp that looked too intricate to be mere metalwork.
Opposite him stood the cultist.
Purple robes draped over lean shoulders. A hood shadowed the face, but the torchlight caught glimpses of skin marked with faint, scaled tattoos along the neck. The cultist’s posture was relaxed in the way of someone who believed themselves untouchable.
Flanking them were two thugs, broad-shouldered, bored expressions, maces hanging heavy at their belts. Crates sat near their boots, marked with a sigil Zola recognized from rumors around the docks—a thorned emblem, the mark of the Blackthorn Syndicate.
Kara “Red” Thornblade’s people.
Zola’s mouth went dry.
The thief’s voice carried across the chamber, sharp with desperation. “You said safe passage,” he hissed. “You said you’d get me out of Cobblecrest. Out of the region. I did what you asked.”
The cultist’s laugh was soft and cruel. “You delivered a page,” the cultist said. “Do not mistake usefulness for value.”
The thief’s grip tightened on the runed case. “It’s in here. Like you wanted. But I’m not handing it over until—”
“Until what?” The cultist’s voice hardened. “Until you remember you are a worm negotiating with dragons?”
One of the thugs shifted, cracking his neck. The other glanced toward a tunnel entrance as if sensing movement.
Mateo leaned close to Zola, whispering. “We have a moment,” he breathed. “We can try to turn the thief.”
Kavaar’s gaze was fixed on the cultist like a spear point. “There is no honor in bargaining with evil,” he whispered back.
“There’s no honor in letting a page that breaks seals walk out of here,” Mateo said, voice tight.
Sariel’s eyes tracked the thugs, calculating angles. “If we can get the case,” she murmured, “we can run. We don’t need to kill everyone.”
Kavaar’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Zola realized he was making an effort—actually making an effort—to listen to strategies that weren’t just righteous confrontation.
Mateo stepped forward into the open, hands raised in an exaggerated gesture of surrender.
“Friends,” he called, voice echoing off stone, bright with false ease. “I hate to interrupt a business meeting, but I think we’re all here for the same thing.”
The thief whirled, eyes wide. The thugs straightened, expressions sharpening. The cultist turned slowly, like a cat noticing a mouse.
Kavaar stepped out beside Mateo, shield lifted, presence filling the chamber like a storm front. Sariel slipped into a shadowed angle, bow rising. Zola followed, heart hammering, her flame hovering near her shoulder like a nervous companion.
The cultist’s smile was thin. “Ah,” the cultist said. “Cobblecrest’s self-appointed heroes.”
Mateo pointed at the thief. “You,” he called. “They’re going to kill you the moment they have what they want. You know that, right? You smell the sulfur and you think it’s power, but it’s just a leash.”
The thief’s eyes darted to the cultist, then to the thugs, then back to Mateo. His voice cracked. “I—You don’t know—”
“I know exactly,” Mateo said, and for a heartbeat his charm fell away, replaced by something raw and sincere. “I’ve worked for people like those thugs. I’ve seen what the Blackthorn does to anyone who becomes inconvenient. Drop the case. Walk away. Live.”
The thief’s hands trembled. The cultist’s gaze sharpened with interest, as if enjoying the drama.
Kavaar took a step forward, voice ringing with quiet authority. “By Bahamut’s grace,” he said, “you may still choose honor. Surrender the stolen page. You will not be harmed.”
Sariel’s voice cut in, barely above a whisper but carrying like an arrow. “Or stay with them and die.”
The thief’s mouth worked soundlessly. His eyes flicked to the sludge water below, as if imagining escape by drowning.
The cultist sighed theatrically. “This is tiresome.” The cultist lifted a hand, and draconic words rolled off the tongue like a curse. Heat gathered in the air around the cultist’s mouth, shimmering, thickening. A tongue of flame licked between their teeth, contained only by will.
Zola’s blood ran cold.
“They’ll burn it,” she whispered.
Mateo’s eyes widened. “No, no, no—”
The thief jerked, panic snapping him into action. He flung the runed case—not toward the cultist, but toward the edge of the platform, toward the narrow ledge that led to the tunnel.
“Catch!” he screamed, and the word wasn’t for the cultist. It was for them.
The case spun end over end through torchlight.
Mateo moved like wind. He leapt, boots skidding on damp stone, cloak flaring like a banner, and snatched the case out of the air with one hand. His fingers closed around it just as the cultist exhaled.
Flame roared across the platform, a brutal wash of heat that turned the air into pain. Kavaar threw himself forward, shield raised, and the fire struck him like a wave. The smell of scorched leather filled the chamber. Zola felt the heat singe her eyebrows even from behind him.
Sariel’s arrow flew, aimed not at the cultist’s chest but at the cultist’s throat. The cultist twisted, and the arrow glanced off a shoulder, tearing fabric and leaving a line of blood.
The thugs charged.
One went for Mateo, mace swinging low. Mateo darted aside, but his boots slipped on the wet stone. The mace clipped his hip, pain flashing through him. He stumbled, clenching his jaw, and the case nearly flew from his grip.
The other thug went for Sariel, barreling toward her position with surprising speed. Sariel shifted, bow dropping, dagger flashing—then she thought better of it and drew her glowing shortsword instead, meeting brute force with precise steel. The thug’s mace came down, and Sariel caught it on the flat of her blade, the impact jolting through her arms.
Zola raised her hand, words already forming. A web of sticky, shimmering strands burst into existence, spreading across the platform like a sudden spider’s nightmare. The strands latched onto the thugs’ legs, the stone, the crates, anchoring and binding.
Mateo’s eyes widened as the strands nearly caught him too.
“Not me!” he shouted.
Zola’s concentration tightened, and the web shifted just enough, leaving a narrow path clear where Mateo stood. Sweat beaded at her temples. Her mind felt like a clenched fist around the magic, holding it in place through sheer will.
Kavaar surged forward, sword glowing, and struck the cultist’s flank. The blade bit, radiant light flashing. The cultist hissed, stumbling back toward the edge of the platform.
“Do you think you can stop destiny with a clean tabard?” the cultist spat, and then the cultist’s eyes flicked to the runed case in Mateo’s hand.
The cultist raised a hand, fingers curling, and a bolt of crackling energy snapped toward Mateo.
Mateo’s instincts saved him. He dropped low, rolling, the bolt scorching the air above his head and striking the stone with a hiss.
Kavaar moved without thinking. He planted himself between the cultist and Mateo, shield raised. Another bolt struck the shield and splintered into sparks, leaving the air smelling of burned metal.
Zola’s head throbbed as she held the web. The thunder trap’s shock still lingered in her bones. She forced herself to focus on one thought: keep them from reaching Mateo. Keep them from the case.
Sariel shifted her weight and drove her shortsword into the thug’s forearm, a quick, controlled strike meant to disarm rather than kill. The thug bellowed, dropping his mace, and Sariel kicked it toward the sludge.
The other thug tore at the webbing, snarling, muscles straining. The strands held, but they stretched, sticky and tense.
Mateo clutched the case to his chest like a stolen heart. He met Zola’s gaze across the chaos, his grin gone, eyes sharp with urgency.
“Can you open it?” he shouted.
Zola glanced at the draconic runes etched into the case’s surface. “Not like this!” she snapped back.
The cultist laughed, blood on their shoulder, eyes bright with fanaticism and calculation. “It doesn’t matter,” the cultist said. “Even if you flee with it, the page will return to us. Seals break. Mountains open. The Queen rises.”
“The Queen,” Zola repeated, and the phrase crawled under her skin.
Kavaar pressed forward, forcing the cultist back. “Your queen is a tyrant,” he said, voice hard. “And she will not rise here.”
The cultist’s gaze flicked to the valve wheels on the wall. A smile touched the corner of their mouth.
“Then drown with your virtue,” the cultist whispered.
With sudden speed, the cultist lunged for a valve wheel and yanked.
Metal screamed. The valve resisted, then turned, releasing a surge of pressure through the cistern channels. Sludge water below began to churn faster, rising, the surface shifting with sudden, hungry movement.
The platform shuddered. A rush of water slammed against the supports, sending spray up in cold, foul bursts.
Sariel’s eyes widened. “The current—”
Mateo lost his footing as the stone trembled. He slipped toward the edge, boots skidding on slime. For a heartbeat, the runed case slipped from his grip.
Kavaar grabbed him by the collar, hauling him back with brute strength, planting his boots like iron.
Mateo gasped, then looked up at Kavaar with something like astonished gratitude. “Remind me,” he panted, “to insult you less.”
Kavaar didn’t look at him. His eyes were locked on the cultist, who was already retreating toward a shadowed tunnel entrance on the far side of the chamber.
The cultist’s voice echoed as they backed away. “Tell Eryndor Featherfoot,” they called, mockingly precise, “that knowledge always finds its way to those who deserve it.”
Then the cultist vanished into the tunnel shadows, robes dissolving into darkness as if swallowed.
Zola’s concentration on the web faltered for a heartbeat as frustration flared. The strands trembled, loosened—
The thug trapped in them tore free with a roar, swinging his mace wild.
Sariel ducked. The mace slammed into the edge of a crate, splintering wood. Inside was a glimpse of dark cloth-wrapped bundles, the smell of tar and spice and something metallic—contraband, smuggled goods.
Blackthorn business.
Mateo’s gaze snapped to the crate and then to the thug, anger sharpening his features. “Of course,” he snarled. “Of course you’re Thornblade’s trash.”
The thug grinned, spittle on his teeth. “Red pays better than your prayers,” he spat at Kavaar.
Kavaar’s eyes flashed. “Then she buys souls cheap.”
Kavaar struck, sword glowing, and the thug went down with a grunt, his bravado collapsing into wet stone. The other thug, seeing his partner fall and the tide turning, hesitated—then bolted toward the skiff.
Sariel moved like a silent arrow. She grabbed the man’s collar with one hand, yanked him back, and slammed him into the wall hard enough to rattle teeth.
“Where is the cultist going?” she demanded, voice cold.
The thug laughed weakly. “You think I know? They don’t tell us anything. Just pay. Just say, ‘Guard the handoff.’”
Mateo pressed the runed case against the thug’s chest, steel at his throat. “Who hired you?” he asked, and his charm was gone now, replaced by something sharp and dangerous. “Was it Red? Was it a wizard? Was it someone with old platinum and a sulfur stink?”
The thug’s eyes flicked between them, calculating survival. “It was a middleman,” he rasped. “A runner. Didn’t give a name. Said Red wanted the crate moved. Said the cult paid extra. That’s all.”
Sariel shoved him down and stepped back, disgust in her posture.
The cistern’s water surged again, the current rising, splashing higher. The valve wheel the cultist had turned was still spinning slowly back, but the damage was done. The water level was climbing, and the platform felt less stable with every tremor.
“We leave,” Sariel said, voice tight. “Now.”
Kavaar glanced toward the tunnel the cultist had used, jaw clenched with the urge to pursue.
Mateo caught his eye. “We have the case,” he said. “That’s the objective. The cultist ran without it. Let them run.”
Kavaar’s nostrils flared, but he nodded once, sharp and reluctant. “We return the page,” he said. “Then we hunt.”
Zola swallowed against the nausea rising from the sewer air and the pounding in her head. “We still have to open it,” she reminded them.
Mateo tapped the runes etched into the case. “And I’d rather not do it while standing on a platform that’s about to become a raft.”
They retreated into the tunnel they’d entered from, moving fast. Behind them, the cistern groaned under shifting pressure. Water surged through channels with a sound like distant thunder.
As they ran, Zola felt a pulse of magic from the case Mateo carried. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even bright. But it was… eager. Like a thought pressing against the inside of a skull.
The page wanted to be read.
They didn’t slow until they reached a narrower junction where the tunnel walls were etched with more of the Winding Shadow’s dagger symbols. The air here was colder, and the faint voices of the patrol were no longer distant. They were close.
Mateo held up a hand. “Wait,” he whispered.
They heard it then: the murmur of thieves’ cant, the clink of boots on stone, the soft scrape of blades being drawn without drama.
Kavaar’s hand tightened on his sword. “We are not criminals,” he whispered.
“No,” Mateo agreed, eyes sharp. “But we’re in their house, and we just rang the bell.”
Sariel glanced toward a side passage, then back at Zola. “Can you make noise somewhere else?” she asked.
Zola blinked, then understood. “Yes,” she breathed, and reached out with her magic, not toward flame or frost, but toward illusion—small, practical deceit. She whispered a word, and down a different corridor, footsteps appeared. Not real ones. The sound of hurried movement, echoing away from them.
The patrol voices snapped toward it immediately, attention shifting like hunting dogs catching a scent.
“Go,” Sariel hissed.
They moved, slipping into the opposite passage, fast and silent. Zola’s illusion faded behind them as quickly as it had formed, leaving only the damp stone and the pounding of her heart.
When they finally reached the ladder up to Rat’s Alley, the air above tasted like freedom despite the snow and the stink of refuse. Mateo hauled himself up first, then offered a hand down to Zola with a grin that was strained but real.
“Still functional?” he asked.
“Barely,” Zola muttered, climbing. “But my academic curiosity remains uninjured.”
Kavaar climbed last, emerging like a knight crawling out of a dragon’s throat. The snow caught on his armor, hissing faintly where the cultist’s fire had scorched it, but even the soot couldn’t cling for long. The metal seemed to shed grime as if offended.
They didn’t linger in Rat’s Alley. They moved through back streets, keeping to shadows where the snow softened footfalls. Sariel guided them away from watch patrols with uncanny accuracy. Mateo kept the runed case tucked beneath his cloak, holding it like a secret he didn’t trust anyone else to carry. Kavaar’s gaze kept sweeping rooftops and corners, as if expecting the cultist to appear again.
Featherfoot’s Tales glowed ahead like a lighthouse in the storm.
Inside, the shop was still in disarray. Eryndor stood behind his desk now, hands braced on wood, as if he’d been standing there without moving since they left. His crystal orb glowed faintly, casting restless shadows.
When the door opened and they stepped in, Eryndor’s eyes locked on the case in Mateo’s hands with the intensity of a starving man seeing bread.
“You have it,” he whispered.
Mateo set the case on the desk carefully, like it might bite. “We have something,” he said. “We need to open it.”
Eryndor’s hands trembled as he reached toward it, then stopped himself, drawing back. His voice was tight. “That is not mine,” he said. “That case… that is cult work. Draconic cipher-locks. I have seen them before.”
Zola leaned in, studying the four-ring dial on the clasp. Each ring was etched with small runes, symbols that suggested elements, places, flight paths. It was elegant in a cruel way.
Mateo pulled a crumpled note from his pocket. “We found this on the thief,” he said. “Before he ran. Or before he… disappeared into the chaos.” His mouth tightened. The thief had thrown the case to them. The thief had chosen, at the last moment, not to hand it to the cultist. But they hadn’t seen him after the fire and the water and the fight. In the cistern, bodies could vanish quickly.
Mateo unfolded the note and read aloud, voice less playful now, more careful.
“To open the path,” he read, “recall the Flight of the Queen. She rises from the Mountain, flies through the Cloud, burns the Forest, and dives into the Sea.”
Sariel’s expression didn’t change, but her fingers flexed as if she wanted to break the case open with brute force.
Kavaar’s gaze narrowed. “The Queen,” he murmured, and the word came out like a curse. “Tiamat.”
Eryndor flinched at the name, then forced himself to meet Kavaar’s eyes. “It is a mnemonic,” he said. “A memory trick. Not worship. But yes—built from their… mythology.”
Zola’s mind clicked into place, pattern-hungry despite pain. “Altitude,” she murmured. “It’s describing a path. High to low.”
Mateo blinked. “Cloud, mountain, forest, sea,” he said slowly.
Zola’s fingers hovered over the rings. The runes were stylized, but unmistakable once she looked at them with that frame. One ring had a curling symbol that could be cloud. Another had jagged lines like peaks. Another had branching marks. Another had wavy lines.
“Cloud,” she whispered, turning the first ring until the cloud rune aligned at the top. The mechanism clicked softly.
Then mountain. Click.
Forest. Click.
Sea. Click.
For a heartbeat nothing happened.
Then the clasp released with a whisper of metal, and the case opened.
Inside lay a single sheet of parchment, old enough that its edges had gone soft, yet preserved with a kind of stubborn magic. Runes crawled across it in tight, precise lines—Netherese script, archaic and beautiful, the kind of writing that made Zola’s pulse quicken with awe.
And along one margin, near the lower corner, a draconic rune had been burned into the parchment’s edge—a dark brand that looked like a claw mark.
Zola’s breath caught. “They touched it,” she whispered.
Eryndor leaned close, violet eyes wide with equal parts reverence and horror. “That mark…” he murmured. “That is not original.”
Kavaar’s voice was quiet but heavy. “A tracker.”
Mateo’s jaw tightened. “So even when we win, we don’t win clean.”
Zola stared at the page, feeling its pull like gravity. The runes seemed to shift if she looked too long, as if the page didn’t want to be understood at a glance. It wanted time. It wanted attention. It wanted devotion.
She forced herself to look away.
Eryndor swallowed hard. “You saved it,” he said, voice breaking slightly on the word. Then his gaze flicked to the scorched marks on Kavaar’s armor, to the faint bruise darkening Mateo’s hip, to the way Zola’s hand trembled when she reached for her hat.
“What did it cost?” he asked, and for once he wasn’t asking like a collector. He was asking like a man who understood the price of keeping dangerous knowledge.
Kavaar’s gaze held steady. “Pain,” he said simply. “And compromise.”
Mateo snorted softly. “And ten gold to the Winding Shadow just to step into their filth,” he added, then looked at Kavaar with a sideways glance. “Don’t glare. You paid it too.”
Kavaar’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it. “Sometimes,” he said stiffly, “one shields the innocent by enduring indignity.”
Sariel’s eyes were on the brand burned into the page. “And now they can find it,” she said. “Find us.”
Eryndor’s fingers hovered over the parchment, trembling. “Not if I ward it,” he said quickly. “Not if I hide it deeper. Not if—”
Zola reached into her satchel and pulled out the scroll Eryndor had given her earlier. She set it beside the page gently.
“We should know what we’re dealing with,” she said, voice steadying as her scholar’s instincts took over. “Especially now that it’s been marked.”
Eryndor’s gaze flicked to the scroll, then back to the page. His fingers clenched, then relaxed.
“Do it,” he whispered.
Zola broke the seal and spoke the words, letting the magic bloom over the parchment like a gentle veil. The air shimmered. The runes on the page seemed to lift, revealing layers beneath layers, like a story with too many footnotes.
Zola’s breath caught again—not with excitement this time, but with dread.
“This is not just unbinding,” she said slowly. “It’s… a key. It’s designed to loosen wards that were anchored to living stone. Seals bound into mountains. Bastions. Vault doors that were never meant to open.”
Kavaar’s gaze hardened. “Maerthwatch,” he said.
Zola nodded. “And the brand,” she added, voice tightening, “is not just a mark. It’s… sympathetic. It links the page to something else. A signal. If the cultist is close enough, they will feel it.”
Mateo exhaled slowly. “So we have the page,” he said. “But we also have a beacon on our backs.”
Eryndor’s hands shook as he closed the case again, sliding the page inside like putting a blade back into its sheath. His voice was softer now, stripped of the polished calm he usually wore.
“I asked you to protect knowledge,” he said. “And you did. But I did not ask you to carry its consequences alone.”
He reached into a drawer and produced a heavy purse. Coins clinked inside. “Two hundred gold,” he said, and the words sounded like both gratitude and grief. “Stolen from my shop funds. Recovered, I assume, from those crates.”
Mateo’s mouth twitched. “Not all of it was in the crates,” he admitted. “Some of it went into the hands of the Winding Shadow so they’d look away. Some of it might… come due later.”
Eryndor didn’t flinch at that. He simply nodded once, as if the idea of owing criminals was yet another ledger entry in a life spent curating dangerous things.
He set the purse down and then placed another scroll beside it, sealed and neat. “And this,” he said, voice steadier now. “A second identification scroll. For you. Consider it… an apology for the burden I placed on you by keeping that page here.”
Zola’s throat tightened unexpectedly. “You didn’t place it,” she said quietly. “The world did. You just… tried to hold it.”
Eryndor’s violet eyes flicked to hers, and for a heartbeat his composed façade slipped. “Holding it,” he murmured, “was arrogance. I thought I could keep it safe by locking it away.”
Kavaar’s voice was firm. “You tried to do right,” he said. “But right must be defended. Not hidden.”
Sariel shifted, uncomfortable with the intimacy of the conversation. “What happens now?” she asked bluntly.
Zola glanced at the case, at the invisible thread of danger tied to the page. “Now,” she said, “we have to assume the cultist is not done. They lost the page, but they learned something tonight. They learned it exists. They learned it was in Cobblecrest. And they learned who stopped them.”
Mateo gave a humorless laugh. “So we made enemies,” he said. “That’s almost comforting. Means we mattered.”
Kavaar’s gaze went distant, as if he could see the Maerthwatch Mountains through the shop walls. “They spoke of a bastion,” he said. “A seal. If the Cult believes it can be broken, then something is buried there that must remain buried.”
Eryndor’s fingers brushed the edge of the locked door to his forbidden section, and he flinched at the melted scar on the iron. “I will ward this place,” he said. “Stronger. Deeper. I will not let my sanctuary be breached again.”
Mateo lifted his chin toward the window, where snow still fell in soft curtains. “You should also assume the Winding Shadow knows we went into their tunnels,” he said. “Even if they don’t admit it. And Blackthorn crates in a cistern means Kara Thornblade’s people are willing to rent muscle to cultists. That’s not a rumor I like.”
Sariel’s eyes narrowed. “City politics,” she muttered. “Poison in stone.”
Kavaar turned toward her. “Then we become the antidote,” he said, and the conviction in his voice was not naïve. It was forged.
Zola felt the throb in her head again, felt fatigue drag at her limbs. She also felt the page’s pull through the closed case, like a heartbeat beneath wood and metal.
She reached up and adjusted her hat, fingers brushing the brim as if anchoring herself.
“Eryndor,” she said softly. “That brand. It will fade. Not permanently. But it can be muffled. If we move it. If we ward it. If we keep it in motion.”
Eryndor’s violet eyes sharpened. “You mean… take it away.”
Zola nodded. The decision settled like a weight, heavy and inevitable. “If it stays here,” she said, “the cult will come back. And next time, they won’t send a twitchy thief with a bottle of hungry ink. They’ll send something worse.”
Mateo’s grin returned, small but sincere. “Besides,” he said, “I’m already bruised. Might as well earn it.”
Sariel snorted softly, the closest thing to a laugh she’d offered all night.
Kavaar stepped closer to the desk, gaze steady. “Then we bear it,” he said, and the words sounded like a vow. “We carry the page. We carry its mark. And we carry the responsibility of ensuring it does not open what should remain closed.”
Eryndor’s shoulders sagged with relief and fear tangled together. He nodded once, slow, and placed his hand on the case as if blessing it with reluctant surrender.
“Very well,” he whispered. “But promise me this. When the page tempts you to read it—when it whispers that you could solve mysteries, unlock secrets, become more than you are—promise me you will remember what it cost to recover it.”
Zola met his gaze and felt the truth in his warning land like a blade edge. She thought of her mentor. Thought of blood on stone. Thought of the cultist’s flame and the way the page’s margin had burned into a tracking rune like a scar.
“I promise,” she said, and her voice didn’t tremble.
Mateo lifted the case, tucking it beneath his cloak. The fabric rippled dramatically, as if the cloak itself approved of the moment.
Kavaar adjusted his shield, the platinum profile of Bahamut catching lantern light. Sariel turned toward the door, already listening for footsteps outside, for the subtle shift of danger in the air.
Zola hesitated a heartbeat longer, glancing around the shop at the scattered books, the bent quill, the melted lock. Featherfoot’s Tales would never feel entirely safe again. Neither would she.
As they stepped into the snow-choked street, the cold hit Zola’s face like a slap, sharp and cleansing. Her breath steamed. The village lanterns blurred behind flurries.
Somewhere beyond the market, beyond the river, beyond the line of roofs and trees, the Maerthwatch Mountains waited—ancient, jagged, holding secrets in their stone like clenched fists.
Under Mateo’s cloak, the runed case pulsed once, faint but undeniable, like a beacon trying to find its answering flame.
The Cast:
Kavaar "The Bronze" Myastan
Race, Class, Level, Alignment, and Background Bronze Dragonborn, Paladin (Oath of Devotion), Level 4, Lawful Good, Acolyte
Deity Bahamut (God of Justice, Wisdom, and Honor)
Appearance Kavaar is an imposing figure at six-and-a-half feet tall, with gleaming bronze scales that carry the faint scent of sea salt and ozone. He keeps his armor meticulously polished, wearing a pristine white tabard emblazoned with the platinum profile of Bahamut. His eyes are a piercing, solid gold, and his posture radiates quiet, austere nobility.
Personality
Trait: "I quote the sacred texts of the Dragon’s Peak Sanctuary in almost every situation, offering stoic wisdom to those in need."
Ideal: "Justice. The laws of Bahamut are absolute, and they exist to protect the innocent from the wicked."
Bond: "My sanctuary and its elders gave me purpose; I will ensure the light of Dragon’s Peak reaches the darkest alleys of Cobblecrest."
Flaw: "I am rigid in my thinking and often struggle to understand the moral compromises people make to survive."
Character stats
AC: 18 (Chain Mail, Shield)
HP: 36 (4d10 + 8)
Speed: 30 ft.
Ability Scores: STR 18 (+4), DEX 10 (+0), CON 14 (+2), INT 8 (-1), WIS 13 (+1), CHA 14 (+2)
Proficiencies
Skills: Athletics, Insight, Intimidation, Religion
Tools: None
Weapons & Armor: All armor, shields, simple and martial weapons
Saving Throws: Wisdom, Charisma
Languages: Common, Draconic, Celestial
Combat abilities and class features
Breath Weapon: 15-ft line of Lightning (DC 12 Dex save, 2d10 lightning damage).
Divine Smite: Can expend spell slots to deal radiant damage on melee hits.
Channel Divinity: Sacred Weapon (adds +2 Charisma modifier to attack rolls for 1 minute) or Turn the Unholy.
Lay on Hands: Pool of 20 HP per long rest.
Fighting Style (Defense): +1 AC while wearing armor.
Tactics: Kavaar places himself between vulnerable allies and enemies, using Sacred Weapon against heavily armored foes and saving Divine Smite for critical hits or undead/fiendish adversaries.
Spellcasting details
Spellcasting Ability: Charisma
Save DC: 12
Attack Bonus: +4
Prepared Spells: Protection from Evil and Good (Oath), Sanctuary (Oath), Bless, Command, Cure Wounds, Shield of Faith.
Equipment Chain mail, longsword, shield, holy symbol of Bahamut, explorer's pack, 5 javelins.
Magic Item: Armor of Gleaming (Common) - Kavaar's chain mail never gets dirty, symbolizing the untarnished ideals of his faith.
Notable quotes
"A shield is only as strong as the conviction of the one who holds it."
"By the Platinum King's grace, your transgressions end here."
Backstory and narrative flavor Given as an egg to the Dragon’s Peak Sanctuary, Kavaar was raised under the strict, loving tutelage of the Bahamut priesthood. He was taught that the strength of a dragon is not in its breath, but in the shelter its wings provide to the weak. Having completed his martial and spiritual training, he has been dispatched as an errant knight.
Kavaar recently arrived in Cobblecrest to investigate rumors of cult activity and to serve as a beacon of honor. While the sprawling markets and political machinations of the city are entirely foreign to his austere upbringing, his quiet conviction has already earned him a reputation among the local guardsmen as an incorruptible, albeit terrifyingly serious, ally.
Mateo "El Viento" Cruz
Race, Class, Level, Alignment, and Background Human (Variant), Rogue (Swashbuckler), Level 4, Chaotic Good, Smuggler
Deity Tymora (Goddess of Good Fortune)
Appearance Mateo is a dashing, Hispanic-coded human with warm, olive skin, a dusting of dark stubble, and a cascade of thick, dark curls tied back in a leather band. He wears a vibrant crimson sash over his tailored studded leather armor. His smile is quick, asymmetrical, and deeply charming, often serving to distract from the twin blades resting effortlessly at his hips.
Personality
Trait: "I always have a joke or a flirtatious remark ready, especially when things look dire."
Ideal: "Freedom. The sea, the wind, and the markets belong to everyone, not just the corrupt syndicates."
Bond: "The street orphans of the Cobblecrest docks are my true family. I'd give my last gold piece to see them fed."
Flaw: "I have a terrible habit of picking the pockets of arrogant nobles just to knock them down a peg, even if it puts my crew in danger."
Character stats
AC: 16 (Studded Leather + 4 Dex)
HP: 31 (4d8 + 8)
Speed: 30 ft.
Ability Scores: STR 8 (-1), DEX 18 (+4), CON 14 (+2), INT 10 (+0), WIS 12 (+1), CHA 14 (+2)
Proficiencies
Skills: Acrobatics (Expertise), Athletics, Deception, Persuasion (Expertise), Sleight of Hand, Stealth
Tools: Thieves' tools, Navigator's tools, Water vehicles
Weapons & Armor: Light armor, simple weapons, hand crossbows, longswords, rapiers, shortswords
Saving Throws: Dexterity, Intelligence
Languages: Common, Elvish, Thieves' Cant
Combat abilities and class features
Sneak Attack: +2d6 damage.
Fancy Footwork: If Mateo makes a melee attack against a creature, that creature can't make opportunity attacks against him for the rest of his turn.
Rakish Audacity: Adds Charisma modifier (+2) to Initiative rolls. Allows Sneak Attack in 1-on-1 melee combat even without advantage.
Cunning Action: Dash, Disengage, or Hide as a bonus action.
Feat (Piercer): Once per turn, reroll a piercing damage die; crits deal an extra die of damage.
Tactics: Mateo is a skirmisher who darts in to land Sneak Attacks with his rapier, utilizing Fancy Footwork to glide away safely without needing to waste his bonus action on Disengage, leaving it free for an off-hand dagger strike or a Dash.
Spellcasting details None
Equipment Studded leather armor, rapier, dagger, shortbow with 20 arrows, burglar's pack, thieves' tools.
Magic Item: Cloak of Billowing (Common) - A stylish cape that Mateo commands to dramatically ripple in the wind right before a duel.
Notable quotes
"Pardon me, friend, but I believe that coin purse is weighing you down. Let me relieve you of the burden."
"They call me El Viento! You can't catch the wind, mate!"
Backstory and narrative flavor Born in the port districts to a family of impoverished sailors, Mateo learned early that the law in the bustling markets usually favored the rich. He fell in with local smugglers out of necessity but quickly found himself at odds with the Blackthorn Syndicate when their methods grew too ruthless. Refusing to deal in extortion, he struck out on his own.
Now, he operates as a freelance problem-solver and rogue-with-a-heart-of-gold in Cobblecrest. He makes a living taking contracts that hurt the Syndicate's bottom line, redistributing "liberated" wealth to the dockland's neediest families. He's quick to ally with anyone looking to stand up to bullies.
Zola Onyeka
Race, Class, Level, Alignment, and Background Human (Variant), Wizard (School of Evocation), Level 4, Neutral Good, Sage
Deity Mystra (Goddess of Magic)
Appearance Zola is a striking Black woman with deep, flawless obsidian skin and tightly coiled hair worn in neat, shoulder-length locs. Fine, silver geometric tattoos—marks of her arcane initiation—trace the lines of her jaw and hands. She wears practical, heavy traveler’s robes stained with ash at the hems, and she carries a massive, iron-clasped grimoire strapped to her side.
Personality
Trait: "I use multi-syllabic academic words to describe simple magical explosions, and I get overly excited when a spell works exactly as calculated."
Ideal: "Knowledge. Magic is the universe's ultimate tool, and it must be understood to protect the world from those who would abuse it."
Bond: "I am searching for the lost Netherese fragments that my mentor died trying to protect."
Flaw: "I am easily distracted by the promise of uncovering ancient magical secrets, sometimes ignoring immediate danger."
Character stats
AC: 12 (15 with Mage Armor)
HP: 26 (4d6 + 8)
Speed: 30 ft.
Ability Scores: STR 8 (-1), DEX 14 (+2), CON 14 (+2), INT 18 (+4), WIS 12 (+1), CHA 10 (+0)
Proficiencies
Skills: Arcana, History, Investigation, Medicine
Tools: None
Weapons & Armor: Daggers, darts, slings, quarterstaffs, light crossbows
Saving Throws: Intelligence, Wisdom
Languages: Common, Draconic, Primordial, Netherese (ancient dialect)
Combat abilities and class features
Sculpt Spells: When casting an evocation spell that affects other creatures, Zola can choose a number of them equal to 1 + the spell's level to automatically succeed on their saving throws and take no damage.
Arcane Recovery: Recover 2 levels worth of spell slots on a short rest.
Feat (War Caster): Advantage on CON saves to maintain concentration; can cast a spell for opportunity attacks; can perform somatic components with hands full.
Tactics: Zola is the ultimate heavy artillery. She drops Shatter or Web into the middle of the fray, using Sculpt Spells to ensure her melee allies are completely unharmed by her explosive evocations.
Spellcasting details
Spellcasting Ability: Intelligence
Save DC: 14
Attack Bonus: +6
Prepared Spells: * Cantrips: Fire Bolt, Mage Hand, Prestidigitation, Ray of Frost.
1st Level (4 slots): Mage Armor, Magic Missile, Shield, Detect Magic.
2nd Level (3 slots): Scorching Ray, Shatter, Web, Misty Step.
Equipment Quarterstaff, component pouch, scholar's pack, spellbook, ink and quill.
Magic Item: Hat of Wizardry (Common) - A wide-brimmed pointed hat that serves as her spellcasting focus and allows her to try casting a wizard cantrip she doesn't know once a day.
Notable quotes
"According to my calculations, you are standing precisely in the blast radius. Don't worry, I've accounted for the spatial variance. Mostly."
"Magic isn't a weapon; it's a science. The fact that it occasionally vaporizes my enemies is just a highly useful byproduct."
Backstory and narrative flavor A brilliant academic from a prestigious magical academy down south, Zola traveled to the Cobblecrest region following rumors of ancient spellcraft buried in local ruins. Her research heavily concerns the remnants of Cult of the Dragon rituals and the arcane anomalies they left behind.
Though she views herself primarily as a scholar, her studies have repeatedly placed her in the path of ambitious necromancers and dangerous Thayan agents. Recognizing that studying magic in a library does no good if the world burns outside, she has redirected her considerable intellect toward tactical combat. She aids local adventuring parties, providing raw firepower and historical expertise in exchange for a chance to document the magical phenomena they encounter.
Sariel "Shadowleaf" Xiloscient
Race, Class, Level, Alignment, and Background Wood Elf, Ranger (Hunter Conclave), Level 4, Neutral Good, Outlander
Deity Mielikki (Goddess of Forests and Rangers)
Appearance Sariel is an Asian-coded Wood Elf with sleek, raven-black hair braided tightly down her back, striking almond-shaped amber eyes, and a deep, sun-weathered tan. She moves with an eerie, predatory stillness. She wears reinforced leather armor dyed in forest greens and mud browns, blending perfectly into the wilderness. A beautifully carved yew longbow is ever-present in her hands.
Personality
Trait: "I speak quietly and only when necessary. I prefer to let my actions, or my bowstrings, do the talking."
Ideal: "Balance. The wilds have a natural order, and those who disrupt it with dark magic or endless greed must be pruned."
Bond: "The forests surrounding Cobblecrest are my sanctuary. I will defend them, and the travelers passing through, with my life."
Flaw: "I am deeply suspicious of city-dwellers and politics, often assuming the worst of anyone in fine clothing."
Character stats
AC: 16 (Studded Leather + 4 Dex)
HP: 36 (4d10 + 8)
Speed: 35 ft.
Ability Scores: STR 10 (+0), DEX 18 (+4), CON 14 (+2), INT 10 (+0), WIS 15 (+2), CHA 10 (+0)
Proficiencies
Skills: Animal Handling, Insight, Perception, Stealth, Survival
Tools: Woodcarver's tools, Herbalism kit
Weapons & Armor: Light and medium armor, shields, simple and martial weapons
Saving Throws: Strength, Dexterity
Languages: Common, Elvish, Goblin
Combat abilities and class features
Favored Enemy (Monstrosities): Advantage on tracking and recalling info about them.
Natural Explorer (Forest): Double proficiency bonus on forest survival/tracking.
Fighting Style (Archery): +2 bonus to attack rolls with ranged weapons.
Hunter's Prey (Colossus Slayer): Deals an extra 1d8 damage per turn to a creature that is below its hit point maximum.
Tactics: Sariel fights from the perimeter, applying Hunter's Mark to the toughest target and using her massive +6 attack bonus to accurately pepper them with arrows, stacking the Colossus Slayer damage on wounded foes.
Spellcasting details
Spellcasting Ability: Wisdom
Save DC: 12
Attack Bonus: +4
Prepared Spells: * 1st Level (3 slots): Hunter's Mark, Absorb Elements, Speak with Animals.
Equipment Studded leather armor, longbow with 40 arrows, two daggers, explorer's pack, a hunting trap.
Magic Item: Moon-Touched Shortsword (Common) - A blade that sheds pale moonlight in darkness. It was a gift from an elder dryad she once saved.
Notable quotes
"The city walls make you feel safe. Out here, the only thing keeping you safe is me."
"Tread lightly. The forest remembers every broken branch."
Backstory and narrative flavor Sariel is a warden of the untamed expanses bordering the Cobblecrest region. For decades, she has patrolled the dense thickets and trade routes, acting as an unseen guardian for merchant caravans and travelers who have no idea how close they came to a goblin ambush or a hungry owlbear.
Recently, the wildlife has grown agitated, driven from their territories by the sprawling reach of various factions—be it the Syndicate's smuggling operations or the dark rituals of rogue cultists. Realizing she can no longer protect the balance alone, she has reluctantly stepped out from the tree line. She ventures into Cobblecrest only to find allies capable of helping her root out the corruption before it chokes the life from her woods.
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