Bedecked in bone, rapt in raven's wicked plume,

    A brave display, high proof of evil's doom;

    With fierce thorns plucking her flame-licked eyes free,

    Caelum's falsest daughter, strung from its truest tree.

    - 'From the White-Gold Boughs, or A Song on the Purge and Presentation of the Treacherous Death-Witch Isolde of Esterlund', ll. 29-32, in Nel'Eire, Celine, Broadsides, Ballad Sheets, and Ephemera Gathered from the Towns and Provinces of the Kingdom of Caelum, p. 39

*

    Sir Branning Steele was not an individual prone to overt expressions of emotion. That was why Talwyn winced at the slow, sighing removal of his glasses. "And all this business with monster nests and Fey dimensions, this was...this morning?"

    "Yep!" Tangle's skipping steps scattered a row of flaking leaves around Steele's feet. "And we squished more of those bugs too. They were so gross – it was awesome!"

    "I can imagine."

    Hauling a days-old corpse to Steele's estate had been the easy part of the group's return. The guards had barely acknowledged the covered produce crate on Arlo's shoulder, perhaps deterred by the vicious mithril hammer they effortlessly carried in one hand. Such passive intimidation, however, had failed to mask the rubbernecked gawking and blatant heckling the troop's dishevelled appearance received from passers-by. Talwyn had not even stepped inside before she implored Grisha for directions to the guest washroom.

    To his credit, Steele had proved a patient, receptive listener. Haloed by the calm, crackling light of his fireplace, he had followed the group's storytelling thread between speakers, nodding and vocalising his understanding in the right places to keep information flowing. Suspicions of a dockside smuggling operation had failed to faze him, as had the description of Friese's monstrous transformation. He had appeared unflappable, and there had been as much of comfort as of concern to be found in his stoic responses.

    Only upon Talwyn's recount of her meeting with Weiss had Steele's pensive expression dipped into grave sobriety. "This is an unexpected development, and a troubling one," he mused, his armchair creaking as he leaned forward. It was barely late afternoon, yet he was already clad in a light cherry-hued evening robe and plush tan slippers. "It is one thing for a wandering Fey to spread mischief and trickery. It is quite another for them to actively seek to do harm."

    "Maybe he's not wandering." Talwyn's fingertips pinched at the pointed tip of her neck scarf. Tucked in the safe, mundane confines of Steele's abode, her recalled encounter with the Fey better resembled a fluid fever dream than a crystallised memory. The sting that lanced through her mind upon remembering his voice, however, provided ample proof of just how real the meeting had been. "Weiss talked about being stuck with who he's sent, and he didn't think much of the work he did with them. I wonder if he might be working for someone."

    She did not know what reaction she expected from Steele. Perhaps she wanted his ears to prick up, for his eyebrows to cock with intrigue and inspiration for their next move. Whatever she imagined, it was not the slow, solemn sigh the knight released. He eyed the wavering flames beside his chair, his pose statuesque save for the slight shifts of his fingers by his side.

    As his housekeeper passed around another round of hot tea – from the Tirine tundras of the Empire's northern reaches, apparently – Steele broke from his silent contemplation. "For a Fey to serve another, particularly one of our realm, would be extraordinary – but, I concede, not without precedent," he said with a tip of his cane. Though the gesture appeared incidental, fleeting glances from both Tangle and Arlo suggested that its accompanying words were intended for Darius in particular. "There are few on Eilos that could tempt a Fey into their plots, and fewer that would find it worthwhile to do so. This is not merely the ploy of an opportunistic criminal. Whoever is behind this, they are well-established, well-connected, and well-protected."

    Nobles. Coteries. Rival thrones in distant lands. These were the scheming villains of chronicle histories or travelling stage plays, far removed from Talwyn's living, breathing present. Yet with tapping foot and tensing brow, Steele's posture was not that of the fanciful storyteller. This was real. This was now.

    "But I digress. We had an agreement, and I intend to honour it." Steele rose from his seat and, against Grisha's silent insistence, tossed a small chunk of wood into the hearth. The smooth ebony head of his cane twinkled in the growing firelight, its glow matched by the shimmer across his cold marble eyes. "My contact has assured me that they are amenable to your request. Provided you still wish to access the Pallad Library's materials, they shall supply you with the necessary sponsorship."

    "Oh, of course! I'd really appreciate that, sir." It had been mere hours since Talwyn had relievedly accepted the dwarf's favour, yet it already seemed so trivial, so inconsequential. What did the world care for her dreams? Many people likely struggled with recurring dreams in silence, and Vidias's ever-looming presence made it the perfect focal point for a nightmare. That was all it was – a nightmare, with little logic and less insight. It was no basis upon which to claim any ethereal, life-shaping connection to the dreaded moon.

    The dreaded moon that hovered overhead in her dreams as it did in the waking world. The scarred moon whose markings she bore on her own arms. The moon that was always, always watching her.

    Weiss had noticed it too. Moonchild. Another one. The Fey had recognised Talwyn's fixation with the moon, and it captured more than his passing interest. Her connection to the moon was no longer a hopeful whim in her search for her father, but a potential thread in the same plot that threatened Trocari's stability. Whatever tethered her to Vidias, it had brought her here.

    "Is this really it?" Talwyn asked, plummeting back into the moment from the heady heights of her lunar daydream. "Do you expect us to just walk away, after what we've seen?"

    Her unprompted attention caught the dwarf off-guard amidst his pacing before the fire, and he reached for the fireplace's mantel as he reset his train of thought. "I assure you, it is not a course of action I choose lightly, but I fear this is a conspiracy far graver than I first suspected," Steele said as he stared into the flames. Nothing in the crackling firelight erased the stress that sprawled along his hardened, weathered features. "These individuals are driven and ruthless. They have killed already, and I imagine they will not hesitate to do so again. I could not, in good faith, ask you or any other to involve themselves in this conflict."

    "While we appreciate your concern, sir, I think we're in too deep to pull out now." With one hand on his hip, Darius rubbed at the back of his neck as he stepped forward, keeping a respectful distance from his employer by Talwyn's side. He flicked his head towards her, and a fleeting chill brushed its fangs over her legs from his sheathed sword. "I doubt this Weiss is planning to leave Talwyn alone, and whoever he's working for isn't turning people into mould creatures just for fun. If we run, this'll come chasing after us. I can feel it."

    "Pretty boy's got a point," Arlo remarked with a snort. While their allies stood in the room's centre, the dragonborn slouched against the far wall and pressed a wet brown cloth against the bloodied bite marks in their chest. The bulky, splintering produce crate from the bunkhouse cellar sat at their feet. "Besides, even the dock captain herself – Salahara, she's just incredible, you really need to meet her – reckons the Justicars won't get off their asses for any of this. Like it or not, we're all there is."

    As Steele removed his glasses, the weight of his years rained over him without a sound. "You have honest hearts," he muttered between sombre breaths, pressing more of his weight onto his cane. Though he stood no taller than Talwyn's shoulders, the presence of his voice hung over the room as if it stemmed from an imposingly lofty source. "The city could use more individuals like yourselves, and it could hardly do with fewer. If these dark forces were to silence you in death as they have others..."

    A rasping noise suddenly scraped between the walls, the distinctive paper-thin sound that constituted Kerensa's attempts to clear her withered, bone-dry throat. "Not to burst your thought bubble, dear, but I find the dead are rarely silent," she said, smiling to reveal the bubbling black residue that coated her teeth. Twinkling lights pierced the mists of her eyes. "They often have plenty to say to those wishing to listen. And we're all at least a little morbidly curious here, wouldn't you say?"

    At the tip of Kerensa's head, Arlo rose and pushed the crate into Steele's clear view. The dwarf slid the loose lid aside with his cane, the stench of wet rot intertwining with the hearth's earthy, cereal-sweet smoke. Inside, softly swathed in layers of berry-red leaves and wandering ivy, lay Friese's torn, corrupted remains, milky eyes wide open and lower jaw dislodged as if perpetually aghast. The amari was still and silent, yet he was far from at peace.

    Steele met the corpse's eye, a subtle nod of acknowledgement his only visible reaction. "I am aware of the arts to which you allude," he remarked as he returned his gaze to Kerensa. If Friese's distress in death fazed the knight, he buried it beneath a well-rehearsed composure. "My deductions from your distinctive outward presentation, then, were correct, I presume? You are indeed a...necromancer?"

    Hiding a keen smile behind her hand, Kerensa batted her eyelashes. "Why, I had no idea you were so interested in my appearance."

    Without a sound, a light flush crept into Steele's cheeks.

    "I'm only teasing, dear," the necromancer said, running her fingers over her neck. Coupled with her elegant movements, the airy musicality of Kerensa's gleeful chuckle scuppered the grim severity of the eviscerated corpse at her feet. "Although I must ask for this to stay our little secret. Other people haven't always reacted too kindly to my work. They usually end up gathering angry mobs, pointy sticks, and street after street of bonfires – all hideously wasteful, to be honest."

    Cracks formed at the margins of Steele's inscrutable mask, though whatever thoughts or emotions lurked behind remained welled within. What did surface for the briefest second, however, was a dusting of chill recognition.

    Much like the blooming roses of his embarrassment, Steele's shudders evaporated as quickly as they had set in. "I judge an individual on their character and actions. Provided you stay the course of justice, I see no reason that word of your particular talents should leave this building," he said, sharing a small nod with his attentive housekeeper. With the fire's glint in his eye, he cast a glance across each member of the group. "My estate is open for you all to work within as you see fit, individually and as a collective. Both myself and Grisha will endeavour to assist however we may."

    Grisha stepped to Kerensa's side, giving a courteous bow of the head as they approached. A polite smile formed on their maroon lips, and the emboldened firelight revealed substantial chips to their razor-like fangs. In the same vein, one of their broad brown horns came not to a fine point like its peer, but to a blunted stump. While its end had been filed to a smooth finish, deep scars of injuries past plagued its circumference.

    Stroking her chin, Kerensa's brow tensed in concentration. "Speaking with the dead doesn't call for too much preparation. Some sticks of incense, a few candles, and a knife should suffice," she explained with breezy familiarity. As the housekeeper noted her request, she flicked her gaze between Friese's body and the study's close, cosy confines. "And ideally a big room with strong walls. Spirits can be ever so rowdy, especially those that haven't quite realised their predicament yet."

    "See to it that my practice chamber is made available, Grisha." Though his usual cool clarity swilled in his eyes, there was a warmth to Steele's easy, open body language that had not been present on his first introduction. "It is large and specially reinforced with imported Imperial obsidian. I hope it shall suffice for your purposes. Meanwhile, I believe I have a letter to write. Excuse me."

    As the dwarf and his housekeeper left the room, Kerensa rubbed her hands together. "I'd better go loosen up. It's been some time since I worked on anything bigger than half a shrivelled deer," she said, excitement's pale glow emanating from her features. In one move, she crossed to Talwyn's feet and locked their fingers together, bouncing on her heels. "Things are finally coming together for you! I knew someone else would believe in how good you are, how talented you are. Isn't it wonderful, darling?"

    "It sure makes a nice change from being told to get lost all the time." Under the spotlights of Kerensa's eyes, Talwyn could not hold back the laugh that fizzed up from her lungs. She also could not resist the urge to fall into her friend's chest, to cloak herself in the comfort of her companion's cold, calm embrace. She took a breath, immersing herself in her friend's familiar orchid-fresh, vanilla-sweet air as fond tears breached the corners of her eyes. "You're the best, Kerensa."

    Kerensa combed her fingers through Talwyn's hair, and her slow, faint heartbeat pulsed through her dress' creased folds. "Naturally. I couldn't keep up with you otherwise."

    The flapping leather of the necromancer's sandals pattered out into the corridor, shuffling downstairs towards the rumble and thud of shifting furniture. Quiet fell throughout the study, though peace remained at an arm's length from Friese's broken, bundled body. No matter where Talwyn looked, the corpse hovered at the limits of her vision, always too close for comfort.

    Poking through the books beside Steele's preferred armchair, Tangle held no such qualms about the amari's exposed body. "We're really gonna talk to a dead guy," she said as she tossed a book of Caelan myth aside and moved onto a travel diary, a folded map of Zeydal tied to its rear cover. "I don't know why my big sister was so freaked out about all this stuff. Necromancy is awesome!"

    "We're lucky we're in Argent Pact territory for this," Arlo answered, picking at their sharp teeth. They rubbed whatever they found on their vest and, without looking up, released a single forceful laugh. "Back in the Empire, they'd hack our heads off for even looking at a death-witch, let alone stealing corpses for one."

    A jolt of heat fired up Talwyn's spine. "Don't call her that."

    Arlo laughed again, though the flex of their fingers around their hammer's handle was far from playful. "Why not? It's what she is, ain't it? A witch that plays with dead things – a death-witch."

    "Don't you ever call her that!" The term itself was bad enough, yet it was the silent association that tore into Talwyn's heart. To echo, deliberately or otherwise, the language of the baying mobs that hounded Kerensa into the wilds for so many years was an insult too far. "Kerensa's not some bogeyman from a scary kid's story. She's real – she's a person with thoughts, and feelings, and life. Do you hear me? Or do I need to scream it into your thick skull until you wish it was your corpse in that stupid box?"

    "Nobody needs to scream anything, surely," Darius interrupted, moving to block Talwyn's charging advance across the room. While his voice retained its soft, suave syllables, the force of his extended arm was anything but gentle. "Arlo was just appreciating the strangeness of the situation. They didn't mean any harm by it – did they, Arlo?"

    The dragonborn backed away, and the bulk of the room's rising heat dissipated with them. Refusing eye contact with either of their allies, they ran a hand over the scaled strands that rose from their head like hair. "Not if she doesn't mean any harm by those sparks she's spewing at me."

    True to Arlo's word, flakes of fierce green energy fell like snow from Talwyn's palms. Anger burned along her scars in rippling waves, its vivid light glowing through the fabric of her leather gloves. With one flick of her wrist, a lightning bolt would sear the dragonborn's chest and ravage even their formidable resolve – all without Talwyn realising until it was too late.

    Talwyn clutched her hands to her chest, hiding her lowered head behind her hair. "I need some air."

    Somebody – Darius, probably – tried to catch her, yet the winds of Talwyn's flight tossed her beyond their reach into the corridor. Shining wires and humped pressure plates warned of the estate's ample arsenal of traps, thankfully disarmed by Grisha upon the group's arrival. Riding her rapid heartbeat past their illusory threat, Talwyn rushed out into the estate's courtyard and slammed the front door behind her, the cool afternoon breeze stinging against her hot eyes.

    The damage had been done. The spike in Darius' feelings in her mind when he had intervened told Talwyn as much. It was a sensation she knew well from every time she stepped out in public, or lay her head down to rest, or paid a passing glimpse to the night sky. He was afraid of her, and deep down, Talwyn was afraid of herself too.