“Hans, I want you focused on the speaker and the behavior of the crowd. Do what you do best.”
Hans nodded. My second in command was a master at interpreting coded language. I had yet to encounter a cipher the man couldn’t crack within a day, whether it was in Common, Aetheric, Irrosi—you name it.
“And you’ll be the ghost,” Jeremiah said, more a statement than a question.
“I’ll be the ghost,” I agreed.
This was where my Shadows offered a significant advantage in my line of work. For the most part, I could utilize my arcana to traverse through that tavern from the darkest corners, sightunseen. Observing those who think they’re not being watched. People reveal far too much about themselves when they expect that everyone’s attention is elsewhere.
Our horses were well-rested and fast, so we arrived at the edge of the forest with time to spare.
After dismounting, Jer and Hans made some subtle but meaningful adjustments to their clothing and hair. Jeremiah had even whipped out a small pot of concealer to cover up the slashing scar across his cheek and chin. Personally, I didn’t bother. My Shadows would shroud me soon enough, but my lieutenants were clever. This crowd had seen the three of us before in an authoritative state, so obscuring noteworthy features was necessary if we wanted to successfully infiltrate whatever this “town hall meeting” truly was.
We made it to the Dogwood Inn on foot just as the clock tower in the town square struck eleven. Quiet murmurs began to disperse through a growing crowd of men and women as the bells rang out, and a throng of thirty-something Pyrhhans made their way into an otherwise empty first floor.
While folks situated themselves at various tables and benches, I fell into the Shadows and began collecting information.
“Things in Vindyrst have gotten worse,” a decrepit looking farmhand whispered to the woman at his side. “There’s been talk of banding together. Collectively.”
Interesting.
“They call themselves theBloodborne,” another hushed whisperer confessed. This time it came from a young woman who was deeply tanned with hair like straw—messy and wild.
Her calloused hands and the dirt beneath her fingernails suggested that she, too, was a farm worker. All of that tracked, of course. Freyston and Amaranthe were largely agricultural lands.But what interest did Pyrhhan farmers have in the happenings of Vindyrst, of all places? And who the fuck were the Bloodborne?
I was hoping for answers when a man rose from his seat, his gait confident as he strode towards the center of the room. All eyes in the room followed him now, so he had to be a leader of sorts. As he made his way up to the front, I made a mental note of all of his features.
Approximately 6‘3. Pale. Brown hair, mid-length, wavy. Brown eyes, thick brows. Barrel-chested. Casual attire, clothing well-worn, patches on the elbows of his long-sleeved flannel shirt. Strong posture. Mid thirties.
“My brothers and sisters!” the man called out, extending his arms out in welcome. “I thank you for your time. It has been too long since we last met.”
The crowd murmured quietly, returning the greeting, and various heads bobbed with familiarity as their attention remained affixed to this speaker.
“Just as it has beentoo longsince we have had appropriate representation within the House of Embers!”
Members of the crowd stomped their feet in clear approval of the message, several men raising flagons of ale towards the speaker in acknowledgement.
“We aretired, are we not? Of tilling soil we don’t own? Of harvesting crops we don’t eat? Of paying taxes to the godsdamned Mirkovics while our resources dwindle, our lacking infrastructure left in disrepair?”
I raised a brow while the room nodded out their affirmations. I spent plenty of time in Pyrhhas as of late. I had been all across Freyston in the last several months for various investigations. Their roads were well kept, their people were well fed…
So what was thisreallyabout?
“More importantly, we aretiredof our lives and welfare being dictated by a privileged handful of these simpering servants of the gods. These filthy fuckingConduits.”
The speaker spat out that last word as if it were a slur, and the energy in the room shifted. The people looked bitter, and angry. Worn-down. Exhausted. And there it was.
This was a room full of non-Resonants.
Certain things began to fall into place.
My thoughts immediately returned to the debrief with High General Demitrovic several weeks prior. We had yet tofirmlyidentify the source of this growing movement of discontent, had no leads that had turned up direct evidence that linked these disappearance cases to any one group of disgruntled Atlassians.Was this…?
“The magick in their bastard blood is fading!” the speaker continued. “Fewer and fewer mortals are born with Resonance with every passing generation. I know it. They know it. We all know it! Certain elements are so rare now that they could very well cease to exist within our lifetime. Andmaybe that’s for the best.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end.Blood is thicker than Aether.
The child found in Ithreac, mutilated and strung up in the trees. Our missing students. FuckingAmir.These things were connected, theyhadto be. Buthow? How were these networks communicating between the territories, fostering the same fear and loathing, without leavinga single tracefor any of our respective forces to find?