One evening, after haggling with a shifty-eyed southern baron over the price of a potent neurotoxin, Cyros sought out Elmyra’s companionship, intrigued by her sharp mind and that unflappable poise—an attraction he would cloak in layers of cynical banter and the transactional shield of coin. Elmyra regarded him with an amused annoyance, possibly finding him tiresome, but surely impressed by his intellect and skills.

  After their ‘professional arrangement’ had concluded, they shared a bottle of surprisingly good wine in Elmyra’s chambers, comparing notes.

  "The young Lord Caelen of Summerdown was in my shop today," Cyros mused, swirling his wine. "Wanted to know if I could procure a 'Cloak of Shadows,' Odd request for a young man whose concerns usually revolve around the cut of his doublet and the pedigree of his hunting hawks."

  Elmyra raised an eyebrow. "Summerdown? He’s a close confidant of Beryl. I heard his stewards boasting in The Gilded Griffin how their 'masters' were tired of the King’s 'doom-saying.'”

  Cyros stroked his chin. "Poisoned words, cloaks of shadow, requests for tools of sabotage… It paints a rather unsettling picture, does it not, my dear? Smells rather like treason." He quipped, giving his goblet a sniff.

  A sly gleam entered his eyes. "That old crone Falazar… he may be an insufferable, pontificating fossil, but he is not without his uses. Or his resources." He considered. It was a gamble. Approaching Falazar was like presenting a particularly interesting mouse to a temperamental old cat. The cat might be intrigued, or it might simply decide to bite your head off for disturbing its nap.

  Elmyra watched him, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "You always did have an eye for the main chance, Cyros."

  * * *

  The bailey was a makeshift hospital hounded by the mournful chorus of the wounded. Myanaa moved tirelessly amongst them, her circlet glowing a fierce emerald green. She worked to staunch bleeding, set broken bones and fight the ever-present threat of infection. A faint tremor of exhaustion and a tightness in her usually radiant smile crept in as the hours went by.

  Sabine lay on a pallet in a quiet corner of the keep’s main hall. The goblin arrow had been barbed, as Snik had feared, and its extraction had been an agonizing affair. Her arm throbbed with a persistent ache, and a feverish heat radiated from the wound despite Myanaa’s ministrations.

  Masillius hovered over his daughter with Snik at his side. The scarred goblin seemed to feel an unspoken debt to the tall girl who had first shown him kindness. He would fetch her water in a chipped cup, offer her small pieces of dried fruit from his meager rations, and simply sit by her.

  Despite Sabine’s obvious discomfort, despite the general air of exhaustion and grief that permeated Woodhall, Mage Artholan was a man possessed by a singular, obnoxious purpose. The partial activation of the stone Keepers had ignited his academic fervor to a near-fever pitch.

  "Mistress Sabine, good woman Marta," he declared, bustling over to them on the second morning after the siege, his robes trailing an assortment of dried herbs and what looked suspiciously like chalk dust. "While your recuperation is, of course, a matter of some importance, Archmage Falazar is most insistent. We must attempt to re-establish the ethereal conduit. He requires a full report on the psycho-kinetic resonance patterns during the constructs’ activation. And your subjective experiences regarding the amulet’s sympathetic vibrations, are critical!"

  Sabine groaned, her head throbbing. "Artholan, my arm feels like it’s on fire. Can’t this wait?"

  "Wait?" Artholan scoffed, as if she had suggested postponing the sunrise. "My dear girl, the arcane currents are ephemeral! The residual energies from the activation are already dissipating! We must capture the data while it is still… vibrant! A simple trance-conduit, a brief sojourn into the Chamber of Shadows Falazar has prepared on his end – it will be minimally taxing, I assure you."

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  Masillius looked ready to physically throw the mage out. Marta intervened. "Perhaps, mage, a short report would be agreeable if you can wait and allow us time for rest and some food." She said, her voice weak but firm, then turned to Sabine, and flashed her a wink and an apologetic smile, a youthful expression that offered Sabine a glimpse of the young woman she had been, long ago.

  * * *

  Finn returned to Woodhall under the cover of the next pre-dawn, a ghost slipping through the depleted enemy’s lax outer patrols.

  "They're dug in, Sir Knight," he stated, accepting an offered waterskin. "The main horde is encamped about two leagues north, in the Blackwood foothills. They’re not preparing for a new assault on Woodhall as far as I could see. No siege weapons being built. I counted only one of the Stone-Skins still mobile, the others either dead or too wounded to fight. The goblins are subdued. There’s an atmosphere of… waiting."

  "Waiting for what?" Ronigren asked. "Reinforcements? Or new orders from their shaman?"

  "Couldn't say, Sir." Finn admitted. "The shaman’s pavilion is heavily guarded, even now. The overall posture is defensive, almost listless. Like a beaten dog licking its wounds, but still with a dangerous bite left if provoked, mind you."

  Still deep in thought, Ronigren made his way down to the dungeons and leaned on the far wall as the conduit was re-established. The connection remained fragile, the ethereal Chamber of Shadows shimmering with an unsettling instability. Sabine and Marta sat with Artholan as he guided the link. Ruthiel observed with a trance-like gaze, as if perceiving layers of reality beyond the flickering images.

  Falazar’s voice came strained but clear. "Report. The Keepers’ activation. Sabine, your amulet… what did you feel?"

  Falazar listened intently as they recounted their experience, his ethereal image nodding. "As I suspected. The amulet is a conduit, Sabine, a 'Chain of Command,' yes, but one that requires a powerful emotional catalyst, a deep resonance with the Jotunai imperative to protect. Your own life force, your very lineage, is the key. Marta, your key is an amplifier, a focuser for unlocking inherent earth-energies, but the true will… it must come from the blood of the Terra-Born."

  He shared his own disquieting news. "It seems An-Athame’s influence is not limited to the battlefield, but festers even in the heart of our kingdom, twisting loyalties, preying on ambition and fear. The Chain of Binding, for want of a better term, is a particularly worrying development, a festering rot of which, I am afraid to say, we still don’t know the extent."

  The connection dissolved, leaving a heavy silence in the chamber. Waiting for the enemy to make the next move, waiting for Alkaer to overcome its internal squabbles – these were no longer viable options. They needed an advantage, a breakthrough.

  He found Gregan sitting alone on a section of Woodhall’s battle-scarred wall, overlooking the devastated outer town. The corporal was quiet, looking at the ruins of what had once been a bustling marketplace, a place where he had, in his carefree youth, laughed, drunk and perhaps dreamed of the future.

  "It’s a mess, ain’t it, Sir Knight?" Gregan said, his voice rough with an emotion Ronigren rarely heard from him. "This place… I remember it different. Full of life. Now… just ghosts and ashes." He gestured towards a collapsed tavern. "Had my first proper pint in there. And my first proper brawl." A shadow of a smile touched his lips, then faded. "They didn’t deserve this. None of ‘em."

  Ronigren sat beside him. "No, Gregan. They didn’t." He paused, then started "Falazar believes..." He stopped, searching for words.

  Gregan looked at him, his eyes questioning.

  "Woodhall is secure, for now," Ronigren continued. "Captain Eghel can hold it against what’s left of this goblin horde, especially if they’re biding their time. The additional forces from Tyrell have brought the garrison to full strength, and unless the goblins have a weapon up their sleeve that for whatever reason they haven’t employed yet, I can see this place holding indefinitely if the supply lines from the south are still open or contested. But we can’t win this war by just defending walls. We need something more. Falazar’s 'Office of Northern Concerns' has sanctioned us as a fact-finding mission. I intend to make it more than that."

  He stood, his gaze growing determined. "I’m taking the party out. We leave Woodhall. We head northeast, towards those marshes. We find out who Sabine is, how her amulet works, and if there’s a way to turn these beings into a weapon Argren can wield. It’s a long shot, and a dangerous one. But it’s the best we have."

  Gregan was silent for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over the ruined town below, then he slowly nodded, a new fire animating his features. "Aye, Ron. If there’s a fight to be had, and a chance to hit these bastards where it hurts, then I’m with you. Always have been." He spat over the wall. "Let’s go find some answers. And maybe," a grim smile touched his lips, "deliver a bit of proper Argrenian payback to these bastards."