"This is Ogdensand?"

Regis stood there dumbfounded as a seething mass of people milled past him through the narrow, packed streets. Horses and mules whickered and whined as they trudged past endless rows of high topped wooden houses, each window dimly lit with flickering candlelight. Here and there guardsmen shoved their way past crowds or stopped small groups to ask their whereabouts. And above it all was a noise that made the very heavens rumble. The noise of too many people in too little space, packed in like mice in a warren. It reminded him too much of Byzantia.

"Come along," Olaf said. "Best not to dawdle during the busy hours. Don't want some fool in a cart to flatten ya' now do we?"

Regis shook his head in disbelief as he followed after the old Aulderman. "This place used to be two shacks and a rat infested inn the last time I was here. Where the hells did all these people come from?"

"A lot has changed in your absence. Twenty five years is a long time for a place like Danic. After Copperhaven was burned to the ground the remaining survivors fled west. Most ended up settling here, turning two huts into two hundred in less than a decade." He eyed the place with a wary expression. "It's only gotten worse since."

Despite the Aulderman's age he was still surprisingly spry as he slipped through the crowd with the same practiced ease as old Culter used too. "Don't dally, and make sure you check your pockets. Little fingers have been known to find themselves in places they shouldn't be. "I took the liberty of taking it before they had the chance." He turned, holding up two leather purses.

Regis puffed his cheeks in disbelief as he chased after the man through winding cobbled streets and cramped alleys. A light snow started to drizzle after a while, painting the landscape in greasy streaks of reds and oranges from the reflectant candlelight. With Aurora's sun hidden behind the King's endless darkness, candlemakers had taken on the work for her.

By the time they'd reached their destination Regis was soaked down to his furs. The building they'd stopped for the night was an inn of sorts, a ramshackle two story stone house crammed into one corner of the city. A dingy signpost hung on a brittle chain nearly obliterated with rust, The King's Jewels written on a rotten piece of wood in streaky paint.

"There a reason we're stopping at this particular shithole tonight?" Regis asked, pointing at the sign. He stared over at Olaf, beads of melted snow dripping off the man's mustaches.

"The ale is decent. The stew is good. And the beds are cheap," Olaf said. Then, rather quickly, "Also our contact asked me to meet him here."

"Contact? You didn't tell me we were meeting someone. Hells, you haven't even told me what kind of farking prophecy I've set into bloody motion. I've been following you out of trust so far, my old friend, but I do have my limits."

Olaf sucked in a lungful of cold air and blew it out. "Fair point, my Jarl. Of the prophecy I do owe you an explanation, at the very least. The contact, however, I will explain later when they arrive. Speaking of them now would only endanger us both."

"Endanger?" Regis balked. But the Aulderman had already slipped into The Kings Jewels, leaving him alone to steam outside.

"Oh, I'm being taken for a bloody ride," he grumbled as he marched inside.

The smell of sour bodies and sour ale was the first thing to hit him as he took stock of the place. Then came the heavy aroma of boiled cabbage, biting at his nose like an over eager puppy. He took in a deep breath, eyeing where Olaf had gone amidst the ragged looking crowd. Most were sitting at tables or standing by the fireplace, drinking from weathered mugs or spooning stew from a bowl. A majority were keen enough to avoid his gaze, but a few had eyes on him. Tired eyes. Hard eyes.

"Two ales and two bowls, please." Olaf called, slapping a silver coin down on the bar. He shook his head when the innkeeper reached for change. "I have more need for food and drink than coin right now, my friend."

"You've more need for sense, friend, but I'm still grateful." The man took the silver piece and pointed at a table for them to sit. "Stay the night if you like. Hangovers are by the stables if you're desperate."

The Aulderman bowed in thanks and nodded for Regis to follow. They sat down, food and drink quickly served by what was no doubt the Innkeeper's children. They were small and dirty, but they smiled upon seeing Olaf, gap toothed grins parting from soot stained cheeks.

"I see you're well liked around here," Regis commented as the children left to serve the others. He took up a spoon, eyeing the cabbage stew and realizing it was more akin to cabbage soup. He decided to try the ale instead, wincing as he realized both it and the stew had much in common.

"I am the last Auroran priest in this land," Olaf said as he took a savoring bite. "I've a reputation to keep around these parts."

"The last priest?" Regis braved another sip of the watered down ale. "What in the seven hells happened while I was gone?"

"When light fades, darkness takes its place." Olaf stirred the stew with his spoon. "And King Erik was able to take his time spreading this malaise upon the land. Ever since his ascension as High King, he's fought tooth and claw to uproot Auroran worship from Danic, but he will not have me." He looked up, eyes shining fever bright in his hollow sockets. "Not yet at least."

Regis mulled over the old man's words, thoughts swirling like the bits of cabbage in his bowl. If only he could auger some meaning within the leaves, but superstition was beyond him at the moment. His mind lay elsewhere. "What is the Black Prophecy?" He asked. "And what does it have to do with me?"

"It is the beginning of the end," the priest started to say, voice growing somber and prophetic. "It speaks of an evil thirsting for our blood, swaddled in a cloak of endless night. Hungry for the light. It says the land will be wreathed in fire from the return of a lost son. And at our greatest end, an omen of bright fortune will be born anew."

"That sounds like gibberish spewed from the mouth of a madman," Regis said.

" Oh aye, and it gets worse I assure you, but I'll spare you the details." Olaf cleared his throat and continued. "It speaks of faith growing in the hearts of the many, that all will be tested in one manner or another. Each with their own demons to conquer. Some will have poison clinging to the mind, curdling their thoughts like a miasma. They must be bled of wrongness and washed with tender tears if he is to return. It speaks of the oldest place in Danic where the first ice bloomed, where answers are found and death is given freely. And in our darkest moments, when all hope is lost, a light will guide our way. And we will follow its path and never look back."

The old Aulderman sat back into his chair, face flushed from speaking. He cleared his throat and took a sip of ale. "Quite the tale. Been a long time since I had to recite those words. Leaves me parched as paper, I swear."

"How do you know all this?" Regis asked plainly.

"Simple," Olaf shrugged. " I'm the madman who came up with it in the first place."

The air grew tense for one, agonizing second as realization fell upon Regis like an executioner's ax. "The Black Prophecy is your prophecy?"

Olaf nodded. "Quite so."

" And you think I'm the one who starts this damned prophecy?"

"Indeed."

"You think I'm your bloody, lost son, or whatever the hells you were going on about just now?"

"I do."

"You're bloody mad, Olaf Karth!" Regis gasped, covered his mouth, wondering if the other patrons had noticed his outburst, but they were ignoring him, too engrossed in their own conversation. His brows shot up then. Shouldn't they have heard something? Even with so many people packed together, his voice practically drowned them out. He stared at the Aulderman, seeing the glint in his eyes for the first time. "No, not mad. You've been touched by the Wyrd."

Olaf's smile became a rictus grin. "Twenty five years ago High King Erik tried to kill me with a spear as his first act of treason against Copperhaven. He snuck his way in. Stabbed me in my own bed too, the bastard. Would have killed me had my own daughter not thrown herself on top first. Her body bent the spear back just enough, piercing my stomach instead of my heart. I lay there helpless as a corpse as he left us both there. I was too afraid, too in pain, to try and escape. I heard the city burn as he killed our people, torching their houses, and the terrible screams that always came after."

The man paused to wipe a tear from his eye before it fell into his soup. "The stars kept me company that night when Erik and his wicked riders rode off. Even as the city died, even when the flames came crawling along my rafters, I was spared. For three days I lay there, too weak to live, too stubborn to die. All I had was Aurora's stars to keep me company as I slowly faded away."

"Goddess," Regis breathed. "I had no idea."

"Nor could you," Olaf concluded. "I was found by Jarl Kriggith's men afterwards. By then the wound in my stomach had festered and I was nearly at death's door. I should have died that day."

"But you didn't."

"No. Aurora had other plans for me." The Aulderman tapped his forehead knowingly. "She told me of the Prophecy on the night of the third day and set me down the path I was meant to walk. In a way, Olaf the Aulderman did die that day." He looked up, the glow in his eyes intensifying. "And Olaf the Bright-Eyed was born."

Before Regis could even ask what it all meant, a man slid into the chair beside them, nodding curtly to Olaf. "Is this your guy?"

"Aye," Olaf assured him.

"Is this your contact?" Regis asked back, eyeing the stringy man.

" Hope your little blessing with Aurora still works. I've got three Forsworn tailing my ass right now and I need us gone."

"Olaf," Regis snarled, feeling the familiar, anxious prickle along the backs of his hands, but the man said nothing. He merely smiled and held his palms out.

The door to the inn burst open with a crack of broken hinges as three figures stepped inside. Noisy patrons fell into a disquieted hush as they backed away, sinking into corners or blending into walls in the vain hope of hiding themselves.

There were two men and one woman in total, Regis counted. The first a towering mammoth of meat, swaddled in strange glass-like armor the color of pitch, a ribbed maul cinched to one side of his belt, fashioned from the same material. The second was smaller, rat-like in appearance, bulging eyes scrutinizing the crowd. He held a crossbow in both hands, glass arrowhead poking from the barrel.

But it was the woman who held the most attention in the room. She was tall and lithe as a pike, head shaved save for a long intricate, blonde braid that ran from the top of her head and down the back of one shoulder. A sword lay buckled to her belt, its leather grip stained red with what could only be fresh blood. But it was not her sword that worried him most. It was the wild look in her eyes. The kind Regis knew all too well.

"Have any of you seen a man named Kaylon Vausk," the woman asked, sizing up the crowd like a hungry serpent poised to strike. "I was told he'd be here."

***