By the time they were across the border, all of Nerrhavia’s Fallen was talking of them.

The Horns of Hammerad.

This was not solely due to their reputation, but because of the scrying orbs, the history of each adventurer in this section of Chandrar, and the actions of Queen Yisame. It was not lost on the Court of Silks, who attended to her every action and word, that the normally-impassive [Queen] sat up and ordered the Great Sage Etrikah, one of her personal confidants, to make ready for their arrival. In the royal wing.

No guest, even foreign monarchy, would be accorded that respect by virtue of their title alone. Even the King of Destruction, when he had conquered Nerrhavia’s Fallen the first time, had merely stayed in the Silken Wing—a clear snub he had entirely ignored in favor of camping in the palace grounds with the Hemp and Cotton.

That was not just it. It was so many things, from Yvlon Byres’ name being used as an invective in the Coliseum of Monarchs to the ongoing Oresect Plague still ravaging cities. It was the King of Destruction rumored to have hosted the Horns of Hammerad in his tent, sightings of Amerys and Mars meeting with the Horns.

King Perric of Medain’s statue and whisperings of marriage. The King of Duels in Jecrass—and in the south? Illivere had witnessed Ksmvr of Chandrar conquering their Golem Tests and his alliance with Domehead and Empress Nsiia.

Savere had tales of Ceria’s humiliation of the Siren of Savere—even joking about that might earn you a knife in the guts from her people.

As for Roshal…how many caravans had Pisces the Scourge destroyed across the south? The rumor was that he had never left Chandrar except to enter the Crossroads of Izril. There were too many sightings of him that fueled such rumors, destroying a caravan here, freeing slaves meant for the market there.

Yes, it was not hard to see why the largest nation of Chandrar was buzzing with a Gold-ranking team’s name more than any Named-rank adventurer. Had Alked Fellbow ever earned such acclaim, even when he had faced three young Jaws of Zeikhal and driven each one back into the desert over three days—the very feat that had earned him his Named-rank title?

No. There had been celebrations nearly as strong just once—when all and sundry had witnessed an act of heroism and courage when they had least expected it.

Again, on distant Izril, a [Prince] had leapt into certain death to end a mortal threat raining terror on adventurers. Prince Zenol at the Village of the Dead had sprang into the imagination; no mere [Prince], rich and haughty and one of hundreds who could claim royal heritage, but an adventurer—saved by Ksmvr.

The Horns again, you see. But if you looked at that one moment in Nerrhavia’s Fallen, you would have seen true celebration. A Stitch-man who was, for a moment, treated like the hero he deserved to be.

That was a story that could best the Horns’ arrival, for all their fame. But there was no such story now that could unseat them from the public’s consciousness. Not even Prince Zenol himself.

Not right now.

Nerrhavia’s Fallen had a way of diminishing its own stories that was practically unique to the nation. It hungered, every part did, for entertainment. Things to love, to rage at, to obsess over, and it could certainly produce any amount of infighting, gossip-worthy material, and scandal.

But it did not do…heroes…well. It had Named-ranks; more than any nation around it by sheer virtue of its size. It had high-level individuals—again, how could Chandrar’s largest nation not? Hundreds of millions of Stitch-folk called Nerrhavia’s Fallen home, and each region boasted different strengths.

After all, it had been created by the Immortal Tyrant herself, and the Pit Mines of Klehtre might no longer supply her dark armies with Blood Iron, but it still churned out metal aplenty—albeit constantly monitored for the Oresect beetles, which would spread and hatch in the metal in disastrous numbers if even a single one got into a load of raw iron—

As for the Fountain City of Ammersain, it produced enough water, despite being in a seeming desert, to let a million souls drink without ever going thirsty. No more than that, though, which was why the population hovered at 1.5 million souls constantly. The city could not support more, and there was no water to be had anywhere else except for trade. Poverty was thirst in that particular city.

Nerrhavia’s Fallen did not want for unique and special things, you see. And that was the problem: it remembered where it had come from.

Tyrant’s Rest, their capital, was built on the bones of the Immortal Tyrant, one of the greatest monarchs the world had known. Their edifices and greatest works had not yet crumbled to dust nor been looted. If the Kingdom of Nerrhavia’s Fallen was not in its shining days of glory, it was still too large, too powerful, and too fond of recollecting the past.

It did not celebrate its own individuals of note. Alked Fellbow was a Named-rank as worthy as any Izrilian or Terandrian adventurer, but because he was Hemp and because he was of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, there were only one song about him written by a young Hemp-caste [Bard] about how she had seen him saving her city.

Nerrhavia’s Fallen had never submitted entries of his deeds to Tales of Adventure and Woe. Individuals had tried, but the kingdom had never pushed for it, never heralded his achievements. Who could name any of his deeds, even his greatest moment? Why was he called ‘Fellbow’?

Instead, Nerrhavia’s Fallen’s citizens would happily recount to you the tales of the King of Destruction, Mars—who had once conquered the colosseums—or explain that Tottenval the Blooming Plague had once brought his people to Chandrar, hence the presence of Fox Beastkin, those vexsome thieves. Or point to ‘foreigner’ adventurers they had decided to admire.

Not their own. No matter how good Alked Fellbow was, he would never equal the meanest of the Immortal Tyrant’s dreaded vassals. Prince Zenol was unto a flea compared to the Immortal Tyrant’s level and abilities or the founding rulers of Nerrhavia’s Fallen such as Queen Merindue.

And that…was depressing. It was easy to see, then, why Nerrhavia’s Fallen seemed to export its own citizens of note and import foreigners, even other Stitch-folk. A kind of trade in which their children went to find the recognition they could never gain in their own borders, and outsiders came to be the talk of the kingdom until it grew bored or annoyed with them.

Alked Fellbow leaving Nerrhavia’s Fallen for Khelt was a blow to a nation, even one as big as Nerrhavia’s Fallen, for he had been one of the best, but it was not surprising. It had happened. It would happen again.

The Horns were coming to this kingdom, and they would dominate every conversation, dance upon the Court of Silk’s intrigues, and perhaps influence even the Court of Steel’s wars with eight nations—Illivere, Pomle, Tiqr, Choiwel, Droix, Tince, Savere, and Reim—every eye would be upon them. In the Horns’ position, they might well stand to influence Queen Yisame herself or pull the tiller on the great nation’s future. If they so wished.

If they survived.

——

One man didn’t so much as glance up when he heard the name ‘Horns of Hammerad’ in the Court of Silks. He sat, scribing in a faded journal with quill in hand, his newly tanned hand moving with economical flourishes as he started each new sentence.

He did not miss who reacted, of course. Prince Zenol himself spun in his small gathering. House Isphel’s small, beaten-down cortege of nobles and the [Prince] seemed overly weary, but some of that fell away from his expression.

The reaction of Queen Yisame? Even more notable. She immediately called for a scrying orb—the fourth time she’d demanded one since seeing the Horns engaging the Slavers of Roshal. She’d also been visibly dictating [Messages]—no guesses to whom.

Of course, not every face was overly welcoming. More than one of the military-minded members of the Court of Steel grimaced with genuine anger; the death of General Thelican and Nerrhavia Fallen’s disastrous war with Pomle that had seen them counterinvaded had begun with their siege of Pomle, and their failure in one of the pivotal battles was laid at the feet of the Horns of Hammerad—and Khelt’s Scourgeriders.

However, taking cues from the throne meant that there were no overt mentions of that. Just—gossip.

“I wonder if the Siren of Savere will send [Assassins] after the…half-Elf. The Ice Squirrel? I heard she did more than freeze the Siren at the battle for Pomle. The half-Elf apparently stole the Siren’s spellbook, murdered her apprentice in cold blood, and then took the Siren’s staff and sold it on the black market.”

That was just a lie, the last sentence utterly fabricated on the spot to make the other Silk nobles gasp and titter at the Siren’s expense. But it was laced with genuine misinformation too. A nobleman cut in, voice low, too excited by what he’d heard, wishing to share it and have it confirmed.

“I heard the Ice Squirrel seduced the Shifting Alchemist himself.”

“Who?”

“Alchemist Irurx of Shifthold!”

“No! The one who has a ship of bugs?”

“She’s said to eat them. There are stranger tastes…”

“What kind of insects? That’s not much of a boast, although to Izrilians, perhaps it is. I’ll eat candied scorpions from Scaied.”

“Roaches, I’ve heard, or anything that moves.”

Stitch-folk they might be, but the nobility in the Court of Silks were as fastidious about some things as Terandrians. Several turned pale at the thought, and one of them fanned their faces quickly as they turned green.

“Ah…that’s…”

“Excuse me, I am eating. So what if they are returning? Her Majesty is oddly taken with them. Yet the Silver Killer was far tamer than I was led to believe. I watched one of her matches, you know. The honor-duel against Prince Esceit of House Quarein? It was hardly a duel of the ages, and she faced a former [Gladiator] champion.”

A young [Lieutenant] broke into the older gathering, all brash excitement as he shook his head.

“Bah, I remember that one. Where is he? I haven’t seen him in Prince Esceit’s company? Tossed aside; he was but Hemp. The Silver Killer is the most interesting of the lot! There are no recordings of her slaughtering [Guards] like chaff when they first arrested her. She beat an Adult Creler to death with her own arm when she was but a Silver-rank, you know. Tore it off, and the silver ones grew thereafter. There is a Human more beautiful than the rest of the lot. She can change her body, even if just the arms.”

On that, the company agreed; Stitch-folk loved malleability of the form. One of the Silk women fanning themselves sighed.

“I wish Ksmvr of Chandrar were among their company! Instead, there’s some other adventurer they’ve picked up. The one with green hair?”

“Colth the Rookie, I believe.”

There was a snort from the man listening into the conversation. Colth the Rookie. He might well die of outrage…or, knowing him, he’d take it in stride. Few of Chandrar’s nations would remember Colthei’s name, anyways. Roshal would—but he had hardly been advertised until he had come into the Naga’s clutches.

The quill dug harder into the fine paper as the gossip went on.

“The Silver Killer is one to meet though we should all make sure she isn’t given to her ravening furies. The Ice Squirrel too. But should the Court of Silks truly have that infamous Human in our presence? The Scourge of Roshal—that was the first time he was caught slaughtering them, but he lives up to his reputation. Surely it behooves the Court of Silk not to antagonize the Slavers unduly. We are reliant on them for coin in these blasted wars.”

The voice was cautious, but light laughter followed the statement.

“Antagonize Roshal? They are reliant on us, or is Lailight Scintillation’s harbor still not closed and covered in dust? Moreover, I heard that they collared the [Necromancer] unduly. You will have no sympathy from me nor fear. To my knowledge, Pisces the Scourge kills no one but Roshal’s own, yes?”

That came from a rather brash noblewoman with a vivid indigo fan made of some costly magical gemstone lacquer; each time she snapped it open, a cooling field made everyone in a twenty-foot radius sigh in relief.

It was hot and dry, even in the Court of Silks. They could afford cooling spells, of course, but it was a mark of the nature of the game that they didn’t pay for them. Why pay for a luxury for all when the superior could use it against their lessers?

Regardless, the noblewoman’s statement was seconded by everyone around her, if not in such strident language, then the sentiment. No nation was above Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Not Roshal, not Reim. That they were at war and the King of Destruction slowly advancing over their borders? Inconsequential. Not to be spoken of negatively. If an army was broken, they would draw another one up. Nerrhavia Fallen’s hordes could march without end and even the King of Destruction drown in the onslaught of bodies.

There were cracks in the kingdom. Pomle’s victory against one of their great [Generals] was not to be discounted, and the plagues of beetles were shaking a throne that often killed its rulers. But, for now, no one questioned the will of their [Queen] or the Court of Silks itself. At least, not here.

Not in the palace.

Outside of the palace, you’d not hear any rumble of discontent either, the sitting man knew. If you were to walk to the bazaar in sight of the palace, no Cotton-caste merchant or artisan would speak of more than soaring prices or grumble about their favorite [Gladiators] being sentenced to combat-unto-death in the Coliseum of Monarchs or the bugs—never about the war. They were wary of that.

If you got a Hemp-caste laborer to talk, they would nary say a bad word about their superiors. Of course, by the time you were heard asking so many leading questions, someone might well decide you were the problem and arrange for a shadow to slit your throat in the night. Nerrhavia’s Fallen had fine and plentiful [Assassins].

But—if you were a bit cleverer than that and you knew where to go, how to disguise yourself so you didn’t seem out of place, you might hear far more discontent than the surface presented.

The wars against eight different nations were bloodier and more costly than most. It was business as usual in the east; Stitch-folk nations warring with Nerrhavia’s Fallen over slights and raiding each other for gold and [Slaves] to sell.

But Reim in the north and the angry nations of the west? Those wars were vicious and more often than not resulted in a loss for Nerrhavia’s Fallen. The cost in lives to common [Soldiers], especially Hemp who had no ransom and were used as expendable fodder in each battle, was immense.

Nerrhavia’s Fallen had the numbers to recruit more armies without overtaxing any one region—for now—but death or slavery still ripped lovers apart or left families grieving. The late General Thelican had openly dismissed entire regiments of Hemp-caste as ‘necessary sacrifices’. Desertion or evasion of conscription was high in conscripted cities.

They were not happy. But, then, that begged the question: when had they been content to be the lowest caste? If there was discontent, say, from deserting [Soldiers] on a larger scale than the Court of Silks knew, then it was still simmering. Nerrhavia’s Fallen had ways of putting down perceived rebellions that they had kept from the Immortal Tyrant herself. They would make examples of entire towns if they felt like obedience to the order of the kingdom was at stake.

All of this presented a rather prescient image of the kingdom that even a [Strategist] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen might be surprised by. However, you could read it—it was in the journal the man was writing in. Not in so many words; it was in his personal style of notetaking and perhaps more elegant of phrase. Certainly, his handwriting was superb; each first letter of a sentence was a flourish of stylized cursive.

The same for the man himself, really. He sat amidst the peacocking nobility and lesser royalty about him, and he wore simple clothing for such a gathering. A plain white tunic, thin given the heat, and embroidered with Nerrhavia Fallen’s sigil on each arm, tucked into dark britches of silk. Costly, but plain. Simple black and white. His belt carried a visible sword, a bag of holding on one side, a potion bottle and money bag on the other, but the sheath of the sword was simple leather.

Even his features weren’t remarkable amidst the gathering of Silk Stitch-folk. He had tanned skin, whereas those around him had every tone of skin ranging from pearl to ebony, even skin tones like red or faintly blue, though that was highly experimental even for Stitch-folk. He had faintly purple hair, perhaps, but age had turned it grey in places. The long strands of it were tied back in a bun and the rest hung behind his head—oh, and he was Human. So he’d done well with his appearance given he could not shape his features to look like anything he wanted.

Perfect jawlines, shaped noses—be they flat, round, or pointed—or beauty in imperfection, a subtly placed mole here, gaunt cheeks if you thought that was beauty, a rosy heart-shaped head—he was ordinary where they were works of art.

And yet, two things made this man stand out. Made the gossipers sometimes glance at him, or those who fancied themselves rich, powerful, and important turn their heads and give him an annoyed look, as if wishing he would come to them or trying to think of reasons they should come to him and not seem like they were trying to get his attention.

One of these things wasn’t even visible; it was merely a case slung on his back that he rested against, brown and travel-worn as he was. Innocuous, nay, offensive given what it carried. If he brought that instrument out, every eye would fall upon him. But he refused to play, that [Bard]. No one, not even the [Queen], could force him to perform. Like the Horns, he was a foreign story and older, grander, than most.

The thing that marked this Human man in the court, that kept him from being a pauper unfit for their presence, was the half-cloak he wore across one shoulder. It was shabby compared to the pristine dresses hand-tailored for each court appearance, the fabric new and gleaming. It wasn’t even silk, but cotton.

Rich cotton, dyed crimson, true, but faded with age despite the enchantments. A little loop of golden thread secured it across his neck, and it was more important, more valuable than all the clothing in this room, including Queen Yisame’s dress.

You see, it was the little sigils upon the cloak which mattered. Each one was a patch. Just a rounded circle of cloth upon which was sewn a crest. An emblem. The heraldry of a nation.

Each nation he had visited. They were not large, these crests. Barely larger than a gold coin, but they had to be so small; his half-cloak was covered in them. Each time he came to a new nation, he bought or was often given a little crest.

There were nations upon that cloak that had died and fallen into ruin, their flags burned, their memory lost save for the emblem he wore. That cloak had seen more wars than any [General] present. It had been witness to more heroism than any adventurer in the Court of Silks could name. It was no Relic-class item in enchantment, yet it stole the eyes of all who knew it as if it were made by an [Archmage] of old.

It was his cloak, and the Human who closed the journal he had been writing in had a name that eclipsed any other. He was an adventurer. A legend. A purveyor of stories. An entertainer and warrior, guide and mentor all. That was no exaggeration. Not for him.

Barelle the Bard had visited the Court of Silks many times before, and the emblem upon his cloak was the one that Yisame’s grandfather had given to him. He had refused every offer to replace it or add another emblem to the cloak as the seats of power changed hands, and no ruler of Nerrhavia’s Fallen had dared press the point.

Again, not with him. He was a charming man when he wanted to be; his name could pack any theatre in the world if he were playing, and when he spoke, that resonant voice would fill even the Court of Silks, as if he were speaking to you from a stage and up close simultaneously. But he was also the [Bard] who had visited every continent. Seen every great Named-rank adventurer. Fought in so many wars. Witnessed horrors and triumphs alike.

When Orchestra emerged from Chalence with the treasure of a lifetime, he was there to call the news across Izril.

When the Lightning Thief’s final adventure came to a close, it was a young [Bard] who had played an elegy to the weary [Thief].

When the King of Destruction met the Hero of Zethe in battle and fell back, time and again, Barelle the Bard sang Zethe’s defiance for a hundred and thirty days until the [Hero] wearied and vanished. And not from the sidelines, either, but with sword in hand.

He took sides, you see. Not always the winning ones, but mostly. It was why the late General Thelican had thought himself marked for greatness when instead it was Barelle who had witnessed the Strongest of Pomle’s victory.

Stories often worked like that in Barelle’s experience. He never claimed to know who was to win or that a great deed was taking place. People had begun to assume he predicted such things when the truth was he simply looked, listened, and went where his class called him.

It was not as if he’d been present for many of the greatest events in recent history. Not for the Meeting of Tribes nor the Winter Solstice nor this latest incident with the Goblin King. If you asked Barelle, he would unhappily list the many, many events he had failed to be there on time for or just not realized were happening.

But that was his point of view, and he had also found that most people couldn’t understand what he truly meant when he was honest. So he kept his council, and they thought him wise and mysterious.

For instance, the Court of Silks had it in their head that he was here to witness their great triumph in the wars they were fighting. Why else would Barelle the Bard grace them with months of his presence now? In fact, one of the gossipers turned to him, seizing on another excuse to draw him into conversation.

“Sir Barelle. If we speak of famous adventurers, then surely you yourself will be here to witness the Horns of Hammerad’s entrance into the Court of Silks? Will you perform for such an occasion?”

Everyone listening stirred; they had heard Barelle perform a dozen times now, but he had no end of songs, and he was the highest-level [Bard] in the world. Their eyes stole to the case of his magical harp, whose melodies could produce magic.

Barelle sipped from a canteen at his side. This was no insult; poison was often used in the Court of Silks. He spoke, his voice carrying yet mild, devoid of the grand resonance they longed for.

“I do not believe so. My business takes me out of the Court of Silks momentarily.”

He had what he needed; the journal was stowed in his bag of holding. The speaker faltered; the young [Lieutenant] seemed shocked.

“But the Horns…surely if there are adventurers worthy of Barelle the [Bard], it would be them! Or is opening the Crossroads of Izril and challenging the Village of the Dead not enough?”

The [Lieutenant] was surely a fan of the Horns; a few glowers made him flush, but he held his ground as Barelle stood. The [Bard] reached out, and the noblewoman with the indigo fan halted, mid-drink from a goblet she’d taken from a servant’s tray. He touched the bottom of her cup, and she blinked—then offered the cup to him. He took it; handed it to a servant, and she opened her mouth, confused.

Only then did Barelle address the young Stitch-man. He brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes and smiled gently. His eyes were brown and mellow, the color of polished wood, which surprised many who fancied that such an important man should have eyes like the Hero of Zethe, something that marked his level and fame. Barelle shook his head.

“The Crossroads of Izril are no light thing, Lieutenant Felyer. Nor do I make little of their deeds. But the Horns of Hammerad are not the adventurers that I think will make a song worth playing. At least, not here.”

“Not here?”

The dismayed [Lieutenant] was amazed Barelle knew his name. The [Bard] half-smiled as he bowed towards Yisame on her throne, who seemed visibly displeased or dismayed by his answer.

“I mean no disrespect, of course. Yet who or what, in Nerrhavia’s Fallen, could offer such adversity or challenge to such a team with the favor of the crown? Doubtless, they shall have exploits and be worthy of stories to enthrall the kingdom for a month, perhaps a year. But not a lifetime, I think.”

Ah. A sigh ran through the Court of Silks. They understood, then, that his criteria was like theirs. Queen Yisame’s fingers flashed on her throne, and her Speaker voiced her opinion for her.

“There are few stories worthy of such acclaim indeed, Barelle the Bard. Even the King of Destruction himself merits but two such songs. We must content ourselves with passing diversions, however pleasant. You have our leave to pursue the tales worthy of your craft.”

He bowed deeper, and though there were some murmurs of regret, the Court of Silks liked that reminder that the King of Destruction himself was but one more story in Barelle’s saga of the world.

Barelle turned on his heel to go. Of course, he had said what was most expeditious to avoid strife. What he had not said was that there were reasons he was in Nerrhavia’s Fallen after all these months—just not the Horns. He had no doubt they would find trouble and excitement here.

Yet as he’d said, what adversary or challenge would they find in the Court of Silks worthy of singing? Plenty to trouble them. Little Barelle would think worthy of a great song. If the Court of Silks understood what he’d actually meant, they might quickly turn on him. But few had understood the meaning of what he said, and they were content not to make enemies. Not of him.

As the [Bard] strode out of the Court of Silks, the woman with the indigo fan realized he hadn’t done anything with her cup. She searched around for it, but the [Servant] had borne it away already.

“What did he want with your drink, Emira Otelline?”

“I don’t know.”

That was what the Emira said, or tried to say. But she never got the entire sentence out. She was reaching for another cup when her face turned red, and she began to cough. At first, the noblewoman addressing her swayed back, covering her face with a fan. Then she realized the red rash swelling across the Emira’s face was no mere coughing fit.

“Poison. Poison!”

She cried out, and everyone leapt backwards. The Emira collapsed as her servants and bodyguards rushed forwards. Everyone in earshot put down their cups and plates and backed away from the refreshments.

Was that Roshal’s vengeance? If so, how fast! Or some supporter of theirs? Or was it coincidence, an enemy using her statements as bait?

The [Queen] upon her throne barely paid any attention to the flailing Emira; the Emira was not high-ranking, and she would live. If she had downed the entire cup, she would have been dead in seconds. Queen Yisame’s eyes were on Barelle’s back as he walked out of the court.

Even in small ways, he changed fate as it pleased him. A meddler; the sort of man who would draw a blade for the Wind Runner of Reizmelt and challenge the fae to a duel.

Witness and storyteller. A historian the likes of which Satar Silverfang could only aspire to, and whose tales, both sung and written, Yisame herself had read over and over. He rarely penned works, but when he did, the world read them. He rarely made new songs, but his Ballad of the Lightning Thief had been part of what made the series about him so famous.

Why…would a man who had gone into retirement leave his retirement only to spend months here? For the King of Destruction’s war, to record his victory over a great foe, or failure? Some other reason?

It was a worry for any sensible ruler, and Yisame had not lived as long as she had by ignoring such things. But before she could focus on him, another [Message] came in stating the Horns of Hammerad would be at the palace in less than two hours, and Yisame stood from her throne in excitement, forgetting her worries.

Barelle the Bard vanished as the Court of Silks focused on their heroes of the hour.

——

It was a shame, he felt. Nerrhavia’s Fallen remembered legends, but only as a way to diminish new ones. It grew bored too quickly and let the true stories, the old ones, fade, as if they didn’t matter.

Why was he here? Several reasons, the King of Destruction being the least of them. Prince Zenol’s tale ranked higher than that of Flos Reimarch, if only because Barelle had known his father.

In fact, it was the [Prince] himself who caught up with Barelle as the [Bard] left the Court of Silks, albeit in disguise.

He did not do it well; he wore a hood and concealing facemask, but the bevy of his servants and bodyguard around him gave him away as someone of rank to anyone except his peers. Already, the [Cutpurses] had slunk away from such an obvious danger and the [Spies] taken note. Not that Barelle was avoiding them.

“Lord Barelle. You don’t wish to stay for the Horns? They are not as simple as gossip would have you believe.”

“I could ask the same of you, Prince. Leave your bodyguards, please. I wish not to have every eye follow us.”

Barelle slowed his stride as they proceeded down the thousand stairs leading towards the palace’s heart. Once, it was said, the Palace of Tyrant’s Rest had been many times higher, but it had been shattered during the de-throning of Nerrhavia and the rubble reconstituted into this. It was still a pillar of marble to cast all buildings around it into shadow, lofty spires with rounded domes stretching skywards like the hand of a giant.

Zenol motioned a hand at his servants as a wave of [Slaves] and [Servants] came up the stairs, bearing provisions and supplies by hand. Barelle stepped sideways to avoid them; the [Prince] continued onwards as they split around him, then hurried back to Barelle.

“My people, begone. Attend to House Isphel and inform me when the Horns of Hammerad reach the palace. Doubtless, I have time; the greeting will take at least an hour before common conversation can be made, if Her Majesty does not spirit them away.”

“But Your Highness, if you are alone, House Quarein may—”

Zenol colored slightly as one of the cloaked figures protested. He snapped back.

“If I am in danger in Barelle the Bard’s company, I am not safe in any part of the world! Go!”

They fled, bowing, and Barelle raised his brows.

“You were not so royal on Izril’s shores or at sea.”

Zenol flushed deeper. He touched the scimitar at his side and tried to walk like anything but what he was: a [Prince] who had become a Gold-rank adventurer. Still, the two of them were less notable than a group.

“When in Nerrhavia’s Fallen, I am a single lion amongst a vast and bloated pack. Alone, in other lands, I felt freer. More gracious with my entourage. Here they fall into their ways and I mine.”

“Ah, so scarcity of your servants makes them more valuable?”

The [Prince] bit back a quick reply, and Barelle saw him struggle with the sentence before ducking his head.

“—If I embarrass myself in your esteem, then I shall amend my ways, Lord Barelle.”

“Is it because I am Barelle the Bard? If so, that is a poor reason. A [Prince] is arrogant, superior, and above others. It is your class. You did not exactly challenge that here or abroad.”

“Should I have?”

Zenol’s eyes flickered, and the [Bard] shrugged. He whirled his famous half-cloak, swirling it around Zenol as eyes followed the two’s progress down the steps and towards the street. Zenol shivered with longing as the fabric touched his shoulders. Barelle glanced at him.

“Whatever you wish to do, Prince Zenol. I have known [Princes] and [Princesses] who fought every aspect of their class and those that leaned into it. Neither one guarantees a story worth telling. I merely suggest you do not act in order to impress me.”

Zenol was half-nodding as he took a step downwards—then stumbling, his feet suddenly on flat ground. He smacked into a weary Stitch-folk man bearing a stick with two baskets filled with grapes, and the man tripped.

“Watch it, you cottonheaded fool!”

The man snarled, swinging the baskets slightly so they buffeted Zenol, and the [Prince] nearly drew his sword in a snarl. Then he realized he was in the middle of a street and froze.

“Drunk idiot.”

Spit followed the buffet, and the man walked off. He was Cotton, and another man with a similar burden followed him.

“Careful with that temper. He might have been Silk—”

“Not wearing that. Just another idiot with more coin than sense.”

At least the disguise worked. Zenol adjusted the plain clothing he wore and saw Barelle striding around the [Vintners] or perhaps apprentice winemakers. He hurried on, casting around. Then he saw the palace in the distance, miles away.

Zenol refused to let his jaw drop; he strode after Barelle, trying to sound levelheaded. He was a Gold-rank adventurer, even if he had not the time nor the circumstances to adventure in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. But Barelle had ever been his reminder that there was a greater level than even Gold-rankers, nay, even than Named-ranks could dream of.

Though it had been thirty years almost since last they’d met, and Barelle’s current level was far higher than Zenol remembered…even then he’d had powers like these.

“That—was to avoid spies? A clever trick, Lord Barelle.”

“More to speed us on our way.”

“May I ask what Skill it was…?”

Zenol was not quite sure how to address this man, who claimed friendship with him; Barelle had known Zenol’s late father the first time he’d come to Nerrhavia’s Fallen. He did not throw his weight behind Zenol and House Isphel in the Court of Silks, but even his company was an honor that Zenol personally appreciated, and he was loath to ask for more, despite his House’s insistence they needed every hand.

It seemed Barelle was also troubled by the odd relationship they shared, because he frowned as he swept his crimson cloak into his bag of holding and replaced it with a simple traveller’s cloak that made him truly innocuous. Despite his silk shirt and leggings, they somehow appeared to be plain cotton unless you looked closely.

“You needn’t worry about offending me as you would another adventurer or Stitch-man, Zenol. I am not a staunch ally of yours nor someone beyond approach. I am just a [Bard]. If I do not care to answer a question, I will not. The boy who begged me to play upon my harp was easier to speak to than the [Prince].”

“Of course, Barelle. Then your Skill?”

“[Advancing the Narrative: A Swifter Journey].”

A twinkle in his eyes; Zenol’s own widened in disbelief. A Skill like that used to cut a walk in…?

They were almost at their destination, and if anyone could follow them, they were well and true masters. Barelle skirted around a group of children. They had brooms and baskets on their back; street urchins. Zenol watched his pockets around them, noting their coarse skin and ‘rough’ features. It was hard to shape Hemp, so you got blunter features, even if they were sturdy and resistant to damage.

This group of three was combing the streets, sweeping up debris—not to deposit it anywhere, but to churn up the dirt and trash for their true prize. Zenol grimaced as he saw a glint of metal; one of the children pounced on it instantly and swept their little rakes together like claws.

They trapped the buzzing, steel Oresect beetle and tossed it in one of the other children’s baskets. Another child found one of brass and caught it with swift motions.

“For all the Oresects are said to be ‘contained’ in Tyrant’s Rest, there are too many if children earn coins for each. Then again, perhaps it shows there are not so many; it is still a silver coin per bug. It would beggar even our coffers if there were a full plague of them.”

Barelle nodded as the children skirted wide of the adults.

“I have seen entire swarms by the hundreds of thousands in the mines. Locust swarms are deadlier, but only because Great Sage Etrikah has managed to keep a true swarm of Oresects from reaching any city.”

“Something else I fear Yvlon Byres may be forced to answer for. There is no proof, of course, but her arrival and the plague are too similar. Whatever business they have in Chandrar, I hope to help them finish soon.”

The [Prince] said nothing of his own woes or those of House Isphel. Nor did he imply they might help him, that they might owe him a debt for his aid to them in Nerrhavia’s Fallen or from the Village of the Dead.

He was best when he spoke or acted on other’s behalf. In that, he was his father’s son. Believe it or not, but Prince Zenol was far humbler than his father, Prince Ziwar, had been. Barelle was sympathetic to Zenol’s plight, but he was loath to become entangled in politics here.

House Isphel’s woes were nothing as dramatic as a blood-curse or the hand of destiny marking them. They were merely a fading royal bloodline whose last direct scion was Prince Zenol and a handful of fading heirs. His father had made too many enemies, and his death had marked their decline. Now, Prince Zenol was under pressure from his House’s enemies, such as House Quarein, and he had made more by aiding the Horns of Hammerad.

The [Prince] did not complain of that. Not to Barelle, not to anyone, the [Bard] suspected. But he had not seen Zenol smile often since they had landed upon Chandrar.

That was why he allowed the [Prince] to follow along. Barelle reached his destination: a bar that was completely empty of people and, in fact, locked. Barelle tried the handle as Zenol glanced at the ‘closed’ sign.

“If you were looking for a place to sit or listen, I could—”

Barelle knelt down with a pair of lockpicks, and the [Prince] shut up. He heard a click almost before Barelle had finished kneeling, and the [Bard] rubbed at his back ruefully.

“Every time I bend over too long, let alone do something more strenuous, I am reminded why I retired.”

“I had heard you were quite happy in Gaiil-Drome. What possessed you to leave…?”

Barelle smiled ruefully as he pushed the door open.

“I was. Negotiating my way into the half-Elven villages to perform for them was entertaining. In time, I hoped I could work my way through half-Elves’ curious hierarchies to visit the oldest villages. I wished to meet stories older than I.”

“Like the Bladesmaster who cuts but once?”

Zenol grew excited, and Barelle raised his brows as they entered the bar, which was not dark, but lit. It seemed ready for customers, but even the [Bartender] was absent. There was only one guest, and when he saw her, Zenol halted with recognition.

He alone understood something of what kept Barelle here. The woman who moodily sat at the bar, an untouched drink before her, was so tall that she was still of a level with Barelle and Zenol when seated.

Cognita Truestone, the finest creation of Archmage Zelkyr, half-glared at the intruders, but her expression of wrath ameliorated when she saw Barelle. It returned full-force for Zenol, and he halted and bowed deep, but even she listened as Barelle spoke.

“You are referring to the story of the [Bladesmaster] who cut each object with a single slash and bested a Named-rank team? No, I meant older stories than that. I know the story of that half-Elf.”

“Then he is real? Lady Truestone, greetings—”

Zenol haltingly approached Barelle as the [Bard] smoothly sat at the bar. Cognita’s glare made Zenol switch from the seat he intended to sit in next to Barelle. He stood instead, and Barelle nodded to Cognita. He found a glass under the bar and poured his flask into it; it transpired that it was a peach fruit juice. He sipped and spoke.

“It was a Gold-rank team who became Named-rank. As for his mastery with a sword, it was indeed great, but again, it is not the kind of thing I wished to put to song. When I was younger, I think I would have. I become so picky with age. It did not appeal to me to make a story of that half-Elf against his wishes, despite the fact that he could slice a boulder in half with neither Skill nor enchanted blade. It would have sold well, but there was no spark of inspiration in me for it.”

Cognita’s voice was low as she interjected into the conversation. She gave Barelle no greetings; she was, by now, used to his presence.

“Any [Bladesmaster] may cut a boulder with a blade. A child with a Dragonblood crystal sword could do the same. Yet one without Skills is more miraculous than both because…?”

“Because it does not square with our understanding of the world, Cognita. And we are infinitely more forgetful and limited. To a Golem, is it not extraordinary nonetheless?”

Barelle nodded at her, and the Truestone Golem moodily lifted her drink to her lips. She took a sip of the liquid, and Zenol had to wonder if she could even process it. Did she have a stomach? A throat?

He could see the marble of her throat working like real flesh just as her dress, a white gown, moved with her every action. She seemed as mobile as any woman—albeit she was eight feet tall, made of marble-grey stone, and had emeralds, literally emeralds, in her glittering eyes. A sculpture without equal created by the greatest [Golemmancer] of the era.

Zelkyr, the Archmage of Golems. She had been Wistram’s custodian for over a century until she had just…left. Left, ceded it to Archmage Eldavin, and come to Nerrhavia’s Fallen for reasons Zenol didn’t understand. Perhaps Barelle did.

Whatever those reasons were, they had not made Cognita happy. A huge wicker hat sat next to her drink on the bar. Zenol had seen her wearing it often, and she also had…a pot. A clay pot from Khelt. She sometimes stared at it.

Between the pot, the hat, and Barelle the Bard, they seemed to be the only things in this world Cognita acknowledged. And she was a legend as much as Barelle, but, er…not one the Court of Silks would wish to be amongst them as long. Certainly, they’d made overtures to her when they’d first heard of her, but she wasn’t quite as charming as Barelle.

Case in point, the Golem woman placed her cup down at a forty-five degree angle and held it there for a second. Then she left it balanced, somehow. Zenol stared at the liquid, waiting for the cup to move, but it did not. Cognita’s eyes flicked to him, then Barelle.

“This astonishes you, but it is simply perception and movement elevated to its natural conclusion. I can slice a boulder in two without using undue force, for I have seen it done by another ‘master’ who needed no Skills. The levels you take for granted are the extraordinary, the impossible, the unobtainable.”

Barelle did not take offense to her blunt tone. He smiled as he took a sip from his cup; the moment it left the counter, the perfectly-balanced cup Cognita had placed began to tip. She put a finger under it and let it rest normally before a drop could spill out.

Zenol had no words for what Cognita was. He had dealt with Djinni, if sparingly, and even they were more people than she was. Truly, of all the beings in the world, she was unique.

And…alone. Barelle murmured as Cognita waited for his reply.

“So then. Golems envy us what they lack, and we envy Golems what we cannot achieve without great effort. Is that so surprising, Cognita?”

She paused for half a second, but only, Zenol suspected, because that fit a natural style of conversation.

“I have spoken philosophy with [Sages] upon the nature of Golems. This conversation will reveal nothing new to me. Which half-Elves did you wish to meet, Barelle?”

Without missing a beat, Barelle sighed. He gestured, and Zenol took a seat four spaces away from the two. Surreptitiously, the [Prince] checked the bar for a drink and wondered how one mixed a drink. He sloshed a bunch of rum into a cup and added some pale liquid that turned out to be Moonlight’s Kiss after a moment. He took a sip and understood why [Bartender] was a class.

Both Barelle and Cognita stared at Zenol and exchanged a glance before returning to their conversation.

“Ah. Well…Queen Yahne sor Elwyhas of Erribathe, Glade Knight Leila, and Zleyvhas would be my first three. If not them? Perhaps Harpist Sonalei for her songs or Forest King Ellowhil.”

Zenol knew…absolutely none of those names, and he did study foreign nobility. He was familiar with Erribathe, of course, and ‘Forest King’ probably meant Gaiil-Drome’s monarchy. Cognita didn’t miss a beat though.

“Queen Yahne sweeps the capital of Erribathe. She does not require invitation into a Timeless Village. A predictable choice, as is Harpist Sonalei and Forest King Ellowhil. Their age does not make any one of them more intriguing except from a historical sense.”

Barelle nodded evenly. Cognita hesitated, then, just for a second. Her eyes glowed momentarily.

“…I do not know of a half-Elf named ‘Zleyvhas’. A Glade Knight Leila is listed as a member of note in Erribathe’s kingdom in case of emergency, and there is an extant marker on her identity by the Blighted Kingdom. That documentation is only accessible to the Burnished Court, however.”

“How did you happen to see it then?”

Her chiseled brows crossed, and Barelle lifted his cup.

“Please, indulge me Cognita.”

“I read the page with her name on it when I was left unattended for eighteen seconds in a high-ranking [Clerk]’s office in the Blighted Kingdom a hundred and twenty-six years ago. My master bade me read their plans to ensure they were sending their finest warriors to cover our advance.”

“And you remember that perfectly with but the name to prompt you?”

Zenol had to burst out then in awe. He knew Golems were different, but this…! Cognita’s withering gaze made him sip his wretched drink in silence. Barelle smiled.

“Thank you for indulging me, Cognita. That is my mortal uncertainty, I fear.”

“You are welcome, Barelle. Do me the kindness of extrapolating any further conclusions of similar nature. Who are those two half-Elves?”

The [Bard]’s eyes lit up faintly, much like Cognita’s own, and the polished brown swirled with a hint of something more. Cognita glanced at Barelle as she copied him, taking a sip simultaneously with him.

“Older than even Forest King Ellowhil.”

“A boast at least a hundred half-Elves can make in Timeless Villages. My master once estimated the population of half-Elves with ages over a thousand years to be—”

“Older and highly placed, Cognita. At least, I believe Glade Knight Leila to be old enough to be at least four thousand years old. And no shrinking violet or ornamental title either; she was a heroine who fought in Rhir against Demons as well as across other continents.”

“How have I not heard her name?”

“They were purged.”

“Ah, the Ettertree Purge. Intriguing. And the other?”

She didn’t miss a beat. Whatever conclusions Cognita came to were so effortlessly fast that Zenol couldn’t keep up—he was writing down words and keyphrases desperately on the inside of a sleeve; he hadn’t a journal, and Barelle had tossed him a magical quill purely out of sympathy.

The [Bard] was keeping pace with Cognita, which of course meant their conversation was too fast, unnaturally swift without pauses. That was his talent; he could match a [Pirate]’s swagger or a Dullahan’s reserved politeness. Or, at least in part, a Golem’s unnatural speed of thought. Cognita’s speed of thought. She was one of only a few Golems in the world who could speak.

“I do not know. Only that ‘Zleyvhas’ is a name that comes up time and again. A hermit in the northeastern part of Terandria. I heard a half-Elf let slip the name unguarded, whereupon he tried to pretend it was inconsequential.”

“Doubtless a Level 60 [Hermit]. Much like the Herald of the Forests. Another weapon to be called upon in this changing era. Whose name was ill-chosen.”

Cognita’s lip curled. Barelle dipped his head.

“‘The Journey of the Living’ is indeed difficult to work into song. One imagines that the Gnolls had to think on their feet.”

“This world has not ceased to wane.”

That was her cold comment, and again, Zenol had to interrupt.

“What of the King of Destruction, Lady Truestone? Or Archmage Eldavin? Or the rumors of ghosts, the surfacing of Nombernaught? The rising of a New Land and the Crossroads of Izril?”

She didn’t even peer at him. Cognita Truestone lifted her cup, drained the liquid, and pushed it back on the counter. It seemed she had rented this bar to ‘drink’ alone, or the owner was just that aware of her inclinations, because only then did a [Barman], Hemp, appear to fill the cup with the same liquid.

Firebreath Whiskey. Very cheap, very unpleasant. Cognita touched the glass, and it frosted over as the tip of her finger glowed, for a moment, with Everfrozen Ice. Barelle and Zenol watched as the liquid frosted into a cube in the center. How she’d done that without freezing the entire glass, Zenol couldn’t say.

She lifted the drink to her lips. Sipped with no change of expression. Then replied to Zenol flatly.

“A half-Elf predating Zelkyr is not uncommon. Any old [Mage] in a Timeless Village could ‘restore Wistram’s magic’ as he is doing. He is more skilled than most. The world was considered waning when my master was alive. The Crossroads of Izril will provide nothing but ruins. The Walled Cities there have died. The New Lands of Izril are seafloor ruins brought skyward and animated with magic. No revolution has swept this world in industry or magic. The King of Destruction has failed to take more than a dozen nations.”

Her eyes were cold.

“When an empire rules more than a decade across continents and transforms the state of normalcy beyond collapse or restoration, when magic is elevated beyond a mere handful of individuals acquiring Tier 6 spells, when the state of being shifts until the world cannot revert with the death of a [King] or the fall of a handful of nations—then this era will shift. Anything lesser is the frailty of mortal lives demanding meaning in their short span.”

They said that Golems and Stitch-folk were not so different. That once, Stitch-folk had been a kind of Golem until they fought to liberate themselves. But Zenol, as a descendant of his distant ancestors who had won that freedom, felt that the gap had widened since then, because her ruthless comments took his breath away. They did outrage him, but he wondered if voicing his complaints would be dangerous.

She…had no limitations on what she could do. In Wistram, he had heard she obeyed the rules she set out, and she was a custodian, but outside of it? She had no rules against killing. Nor dealing with those who annoyed her. A drunk Emir had forgotten that in one of her visits to the Court of Silk.

She had broken every bone in his hand by crushing them while it was attached as his bodyguards sat on the ground and stared at the limbs she’d ripped off their bodies. It had been considered a mark of Queen Yisame’s wisdom that she hadn’t humbled herself by trying to intervene.

It was Barelle who countered Cognita’s comments, though what he said next stirred Zenol’s heart to racing.

“All of what you say may be true, though it pains us to hear it, Cognita. I myself yearn for the true changing of an era as much as I fear it. I wish I had been at the Meeting of Tribes, but my instincts…”

He shrugged and sighed.

“They are not what they were. I was distracted chasing rumors of the Circle of Thorns, sure that—well, I lost both quarries like a foolish [Novice Hunter]. I would have done just as well to go back to Noelictus and play for the Synphasia, by the sounds of it. At least then I would have witnessed one interesting story. Yes, and none of it is worthy of a new era or your own master’s legend by your estimation.”

“By impartial estimation.”

Cognita corrected Barelle with the only true moment of heat Zenol had heard in her voice. He nodded in agreement, which seemed to annoy her, but then Barelle murmured.

“What about the children, then, Cognita? I don’t believe…we have ever had visitors of their like. Perhaps. Perhaps they heralded some old imperium, but I think I can claim they are entirely new. Or did you find them similar?”

Cognita Truestone hesitated. Zenol swung his head from Barelle to Cognita. How did they know…? It was sealed to only the royalty of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, this intelligence they had gleaned, and even the squabbling [Princes] and [Princesses] knew better than to speak widely of it. Everyone was on the hunt for them, and Nerrhavia’s Fallen had plenty of space. Already, some were in the company of the Mad Ones, though that was a choice in and of itself—

The Golem woman paused for a microsecond, then shook her head.

“They are unique in my estimation as well. My claim stands. They have not revolutionized this world, merely brought ideas forwards. If a gateway were to open to their home…then the era may change.”

“You doubt that isn’t a matter of time?”

“I do. My calculation is that a gateway may form or has been formed. The evidence shall become obvious in time. Regardless, the ensuing conflict may provide a true change in eras. More likely, it will result in destruction of countless nations. If a victor emerges on either side, then the era may change. Whether it is The Long Night and another era of magical darkness or another Rihal Imperium shall depend on which weapons are used. From the descriptions of the children’s home, I am inclined to believe it will be a Long Night indeed.”

She uttered that prophecy of the future without fear or anticipation, just a kind of weary expectation of what was to come. She did not seem to dread the idea of another Twilight of Magic, despite being a being made of it herself, or fantastical weapons from this ‘Earth’. Why would she? Perhaps she could die, and two of her sisters had apparently been created and perished with Archmage Zelkyr, at least one in Rhir itself, but she was still Cognita Truestone.

One of the greatest beings of this world save for Dragons, if any still lived. And her only peer?

Barelle the Bard, perhaps. At least he seemed to say or do things that the Golem could not predict. Indeed, now, he stretched out at the counter.

“Dire talk, Cognita. If that gateway does open, I hope I will be there to be a voice of sanity instead of someone to sing a dirge for the ending of things. I confess…I have not been happy with myself of late.”

Again, there was the slightest pause as Cognita turned to him.

“A mutual condition.”

“Are you out of Merchant…I forget his name. His employ?”

“Yes.”

“That would be the fourth then.”

Barelle did not forget names or faces, so this was tactful. Cognita took a long drink this time.

“Your memory is not failing to that extent, Barelle. I did not find what I was searching for. Again.”

“May I ask…?”

“Inform me what you find displeasing. I may answer, then.”

Barelle nodded, then lifted the case off his back. Even Cognita stopped and glanced at his harp, once, though her memory was impeccable.

It was an old instrument and simple enough; the travelling harp was made of aged wood, and whatever paint was on it had long since flaked away, but that was not what made it extraordinary. It was the strings.

Each string was a different color, each one infused with power and made in ways Zenol could not guess. Barelle regarded the harp, which could play music to soothe an army or change the course of a battle, and spoke.

“I confess, I was annoyed with myself for being lured out of retirement. I tried to rest. I told myself I had seen every great act and that I would weary and find myself with a blade in my chest before long. But then I felt that itch. The Circle of Thorns, the delivery at sea.”

“You have always been drawn to stories. That you have lived this long is, like other Named-rank adventurers, an anomaly.”

Cognita commented, and Barelle smiled.

“Yes, well. Throwing my last decades away by trying to live amongst half-Elves was another foolish way to go. But I missed each story. Even smaller ones. I was in the north, chasing rumors of the Circle of Thorns not being truly dead, when the Meeting of Tribes happened. Then when the Village of the Dead was raided, I was in the south, interviewing Gnoll tribes. In my exasperation, I journeyed to Wistram to see what had happened there when there was the Dawn Concordat’s war. ‘Just another war,’ I told myself until I saw Great General Dioname. And the Winter Solstice…I was busy meeting children of Earth when that occurred, so I have some piece of that.”

Frustration glinted in his eyes. Cognita’s head swivelled.

“What occurred then?”

“Undead. They attacked the children I was with. Not a great force, but there was no [Necromancer] present nor the conditions for them to rise. The true locus was around Liscor and an [Innkeeper]. I…met her.”

“The one who allegedly returned from the dead. I recall several inquiries from a Falene Skystrall to her faction for support. She was merely mortally wounded and—”

“The ghosts coincide with her return. Do you doubt that, Cognita?”

Now they were arguing, and Cognita blinked for a second.

“I acknowledge she may have witnessed, as a bystander, some of the events that occurred. If you are going to cite her connection to the King of Khelt, that does not prove anything other than Khelt’s primacy in those events. And their loss.”

Both of them turned to eye Zenol for a moment, and he got the impression he had heard something he shouldn’t have. Barelle murmured.

“She is important.”

“To your stories, I grant you.”

“It frustrates me at times, Cognita, that no one can be said to have done more, seen more, or be worth more than Archmage Zelkyr.”

She stood so fast that Barelle had to fling up a hand; she was already at the door.

“Cognita, I apologize. I do not mean to inflame tensions. I am merely expressing my feelings.”

“They are ill-taken. Watch your words, Barelle. A [Bard] should learn to charm even stone.”

She came back and sat, literally stony-faced, and the [Bard] tugged at his chin ruefully.

“It is a weakness of mine, I suppose. I once met stone I could not charm.”

“Ah. Those stones. My master avoided Terandria; he wished to have eight of my sisters and I before attempting radical confrontations.”

“Yes. Those ones. And that was wise of him. Let me…allow me to continue. I missed her. Regardless of what we believe she is, I could have been there when she took the [Prince of Men]’s life on that ship. I might understand more of what is going on.”

“You are here instead. The King of Destruction is a boring choice for a story, Barelle. Even Nerrhavia’s Fallen makes for poor song.”

What did she mean by that? But here, Cognita was slightly dense, because Barelle just gazed at her.

“I have followed what may not be the greatest story of our age, but the one I care about, Cognita.”

She glanced past him at Zenol, then blinked and realized who he was looking at. The Truestone Golem took a drink from her cup. She didn’t speak for a moment, so Barelle went on.

“I confess, I am also annoyed. Annoyed at not being able to split myself, at missing great events. The Dyed Lands, the Crossroads, all call to me.”

“You will not find a story here, Barelle. Merely another note in a song that will outlive your ability to sing it.”

Cognita whispered, and the [Bard] dipped his head.

“Allow me my indulgences, Cognita. If I must, I will leave. But I have long since made my peace with failing to capture each story as it is told in the moment. I will not make the mistake of losing another to impatience. Besides—travelling a continent away is no easy task, even with these new teleportation spells.”

She nodded after a moment, relaxing slightly.

“If they are based on old magic, they have a 0.0004% chance of failure. The risk rises exponentially with magical power or the level or strength of aura of the user.”

“Disheartening. And I hate flying on carpets. Ah, well. Perhaps I’ll buy a magical carriage. My point is that I am content to wait here. Though I do find the use of the television irritating. As I do the legend of the Horns of Hammerad.”

His eyes glinted as he leaned upon his harp, and Zenol sat up at the bar. Here, Cognita was surprised and again, curiously, defensive.

“Their team is respectable.”

This time, Barelle raised his brows and leaned forwards.

“I have never heard you defend a team of adventurers in my life, Cognita.”

“I am…merely acknowledging the two [Mages] who are part of the team. Ceria Springwalker and Pisces. I declared them graduates of Wistram.”

That gleam was back in Barelle’s eyes, of sudden interest.

“Ah. Then perhaps I’ve truly misjudged them. You see, I found their legend inflated by the scrying orbs and television. I myself have refused every offer to perform for so many eyes despite the temporary fame. They cannot capture my performance with [Scrying] spells alone. It cheapens the act. Part of that may simply be the convenience, I admit.”

“[Scrying] spells as translated to current magical mirrors do have a loss of sound and visual quality that is perceptible to the mortal eye.”

Cognita offered, and Barelle laughed.

“Yes, well, I am also a [Bard], and I have great sympathy for my struggling class. It is hard to beat the Singer of Terandria’s music. So, my discontent with the Horns…”

Here, Zenol had to break in to defend the team he considered friends, though he had barely met. Comrades, at least, he hoped they might say of him.

“Barelle, I can attest to their bravery. I journeyed with them. You complimented me upon my leap once. I did that and was saved by Ksmvr—and it was in the very same raid the Horns organized!”

The [Bard] nodded at him evenly as he pushed his cup across the counter and the mysterious barman came to fill it.

“I am aware, Zenol. I’m simply referring to truth and lies. My class is [Bard]; I am able to find the truth in ways [Historians] often malign. For instance, the lie King Perric chooses to spread about his marriage to the two members of the Horns?”

“Of course it’s a falsehood!”

Zenol growled. Barelle sighed.

“No, it’s true legally. I have no doubt Medain is capable of manufacturing a way of marrying someone against their will…but of course they never shared a night with him, nor are they infatuated with him. It is a lie Ceria Springwalker once slept with Alchemist Irurx. A lie that makes up the Silver Killer’s reputation for bloodshed. These are not faults of theirs; adventurers attract rumors, and they have been on the scrying orbs more than any other team. It’s just…”

He leaned against the bar and stared at his drink for a while. Cognita and Zenol both leaned in—when she realized she was doing it, she sat upright and glared at Zenol. He tried to hide a smile; her eyes flared red for a moment. He didn’t understand what she’d done until he felt trickling on his lap; there was a hole melted into the side of his cup.

Barelle broke the silence as Zenol got a rag from the [Bartender] and a proper drink.

“Call it arrogance or pride. But they are still not quite the Named-rank team I would choose to follow to see the world shifting. They might well be in time. I’m far more interested in their teammate that isn’t present. Ksmvr of Chandrar. But I…I have been an adventurer, a soldier, a wandering idiot, and a foolish mentor. I know Colthei. He does deserve his rank. But I also remember the day Orchestra emerged from Chalence.”

He ran his fingers across the harp, then, and plucked at a chord of gold. It was in the middle of the harp, and when he plucked it, just once, the room seemed to shift and wobble. Zenol saw Barelle pluck another chord, higher, red like the flames of the Maviola El’s hair, and then a pale white string, short and glittering.

Then, though he sat, though he had no stage and his voice was not a song, Barelle was the [Bard] of stories, and he conjured a vision before Zenol’s eyes. Silver eyes shining like a mane of moonlight. A pair of metal gates that Zenol had seen himself, leading down, down amidst a dredged riverbed—the flash of blonde hair and a weary smile of a man on his knees, then the artificial fake color of dyed hair and a far less graceful smirk.

Barelle spoke, almost like a song.

“The lightest string I play was a gift, neither won nor made of great deeds or mastery in our Waning World. It was given to me by a lonely drinker, a Unicorn fair, though he stopped only long enough to drink a distillery’s worth of brew. To listen to my poor songs, correct them, laugh, and weep. When I talk of true tales, songs worth scribing, that is of which I speak.”

He gestured, and the gates of Chalence opened, and a team stumbled out of it, six strong, not a single part of them unscathed, covered in their own blood, and Zenol saw Deniusth the Violinist falling to his knees.

“I was there when Chalence was conquered. Orchestra was one of the teams that overcame that dungeon and the first to see the sky. I remember the Violinist’s face. That glory he captured here—he never found again. But for a moment, he held it. A battle to end a dozen Named-rank teams, and they dared it. They delved deep and earned that legend and never…never again equaled that day. I’ve played with Orchestra across the years for friendship, for memory, because it is politic among my peers. They never played as well as the music I heard from Chalence that day.”

He played lower now, on that blue string that could sing sadness, and lower still on a black note that hummed and made the floorboards rattle. Zenol’s lips twisted as he remembered his onetime visit to the Adventurer’s Haven when he’d met Deniusth himself and listened to the man’s condescension. The only thing that had taken the magic from that beautiful inn was the guests.

“I was there. By luck, by chance, yes, but I was still there. So perhaps it’s vanity. Perhaps it’s age. Perhaps it is my own failing memory presaged. But I was there when the Forgotten Wing Company was first made. I saw the Labyrinth of Souls’ final test. I have journeyed with Niers Astoragon, Foliana, crewed the Lightning Thief’s ship. The bravest, the best.”

Another flicker of visions. Zenol saw a [Bard] swinging his sword at a Naga, turning as Lizardfolk broke and fled—something. Following a team of adventurers only two of which Zenol knew, only two of which were still living, through a pair of stone gates.

Even Cognita made a sound when the vision cut off, refusing to show what lay beyond. Barelle stopped playing then. He put down the harp in its case and turned to them.

“I suppose I don’t wish to admit a single team has seen more, done more than those old stories. But then, I didn’t see what lay in the heart of the Village of the Dead. Nor do I doubt it was a true legend of the sword that assailed your teams, Zenol. Perhaps they are the sort who will define the stories of adventure for this coming era more than my poor songs. But I don’t see the song I can sing of them. Not yet.”

Zenol looked towards Cognita, hoping she had something to say in the ensuing silence, and she murmured.

“You were one of the auxiliaries of the World’s Founding team?”

“Niers Astoragon treated it like a true company and less an adventuring team. There were hundreds of Gold-rankers who might fight alongside their regulars. Was it a surprise that a [Bard] would tag along? I wasn’t ever a full member of their team, though I did make Named-rank in my own time. Just as well; Jungle Tails and war killed every core member of the team who survived the dungeon aside from the last two.”

Barelle clicked the buckles shut on the harp’s case and slung it onto his back. Silently, the [Bartender] came out to refill his cup, though the [Bard] really didn’t need it. Barelle sat back in his chair, as if nothing had happened.

“Good songs are made of that sort of thing. Deniusth’s bitter triumph, the desperation that made the Titan of Baleros—it isn’t just the heroism or bravery. I think, even now, the Violinist doesn’t understand my song about him is a tragedy. My audience does, but he is willfully, deliberately ignorant. I’m banned from playing it in The Adventurer’s Haven.”

Zenol got his mouth working after a few tries.

“I can assure you, the Horns aren’t merely exaggeration, Barelle.”

“I know. Especially Pisces. And especially if Colthei joined them as a serious member. But I don’t understand them, Zenol. I’ve missed the key, the story that makes their actions make sense. From Albez to the Village of the Dead to the battle at sea…there is a common link. And I only met her once, briefly. Then she died.”

Barelle spread his hands, and there was his frustration written plainly across his face. That of someone who saw the pieces of a puzzle, but was unable to make it work, who missed the key part. He gave Cognita a remorseful look.

“I have failed her tale. And that gnaws at me, Cognita. My guilt is not for the Horns. They’re young. My guilt is for…”

He hesitated.

“Maviola El. Not just her. Torishi Weatherfur. Great women both. No, Shaman Theikha, I am told, also died and came back from the dead, albeit far more quickly  than Erin Solstice. They say her heart beats like the earth itself. These are stories. Even if exaggerated, and part of me doubts they are—in my age, I find myself wishing more and more to capture the weight of a life. Certainly, those two among many I should have captured. Could have.”

“You have never sung of Maviola El? She was certainly the subject of over a hundred different poems and songs over her life.”

Cognita’s eyes flickered as she calmly produced all she remembered of a [Lady]’s entire lifetime. But there was no passion in her eyes, no respect. Barelle was the one Zenol hungered to hear, and the [Bard] ruefully smoothed his hair.

“I confess, no. It’s a funny thing. As a younger man, she was more the subject of romance than a story I thought worth telling. Lady Firestarter playing with hearts like flames, and Gresaria Wellfar.”

“Ah, yes. ‘The Lady of Brine’ by Barelle. A popular sea-shanty at the time. It seems you may have been biased as well. It was not well-received by Lady Gresaria, I believe?”

Zenol had seldom seen Barelle turn red, but he did, and brushed again at his face ruefully before taking a drink.

“It did not endear me, no. Yes, perhaps I was biased. Only later did I have the respect for the long lifetimes both women led, and—and it was her ending that truly made Maviola El’s a story I wanted to tell. The sight of her riding with a burning flag in her final days. Who would not want to tell it? Or to bring a voice to the Doombearers of Izril? To shout how the lies spread about them were wrong, to scream their tales?”

He clenched a fist and then relaxed. Smiled at his clenched fist, as if seeing every wrinkle and spot of age suddenly.

“I can never be everywhere at once, but those are my regrets, Cognita.”

For just a moment, the Truestone Golem wore the faintest of smiles. It vanished after a moment, and she turned her head.

“Your class records history in its own biased ways, but I have always respected it, Barelle. So, you mourn your failures.”

He nodded simply.

“Keenly as I have any other such time I failed to be there. Worse, because I had so many chances. I should have known when I met the Wind Runner’s guests that there was a greater story at play. I thought she had failed. Failed when I met strangers who left my hands quaking and shivering after locking blades with them for but a minute.”

“I do not know…I am familiar with this ‘Wind Runner’ in conjunction with her appearances and relationship with Archmage Eldavin. What guests?”

“Folk like the Winter Sprites, but far more…personable. Far more of everything. I’m surprised you had never heard of them, Cognita.”

Barelle lifted his brows, and Zenol sat forwards again, fascinated. But the Truestone Golem just gave Barelle a long, level stare.

“Winter Sprites? They are a figment of magic. I have never seen objects or creatures matching their description in my existence. My master has issued the same claims as you, regarding these beings, and I must accept they are visible then. But whatever you see, I do not.”

Barelle blinked.

“You don’t see Winter Sprites? Truly? Has one never played a prank on you or…? They’re not magical phenomena, Cognita.”

“I have observed rogue ice magic moving at speed. No…‘sprites’.”

“I swear there have been some on the scrying orb, haven’t there, Barelle?”

Zenol put in, and Barelle nodded. Cognita rolled her eyes.

“I am aware of what you refer to. The Wind Runner is followed by a protective cold spell. It moves erratically, but it is the blessing of a superior [Cryomancer]. Or Archmage Eldavin. If that is what a ‘Winter Sprite’ is, then, like Armored Crawlers, they are a byproduct of old magic.”

Barelle opened his mouth, genuinely flummoxed. He saw Cognita’s annoyed expression, and Zenol bet this wasn’t the first time the Golem had had this conversation. So, Barelle changed subjects.

“I’ve revealed my foibles and failings. What of you, Cognita? Will you tell me what you’re searching for and what you’ve failed to find?”

She hesitated and grew less visibly angry, turning to stare at the racks of bottles on the wall. The Golem touched the hat, then spoke.

“The last [Merchant] was named Itreilld. He was a Drake. As with the others, I attempted to pursue a…system of servitude that I believed would reconcile my memories. My desires. I failed.”

“In what way? You made the first [Merchant], the Stitch-man Boiregon, famous. His Yellat farms…”

Zenol remembered those. A nobody [Merchant] of Cotton growing so rich and profitable with Cognita’s assistance he was accounting for an entire region’s food supply—until she left. He had been elevated to Silk just in time for him to be stripped of his assets by the crown for incompetence. Zenol had heard he’d become a [Beggar] afterwards, unable to even keep his original business afloat.

Cognita struggled for words, and her face was blank, but both men heard emotion in her voice.

“I sought…a replacement…no. I sought a facsimile to my master. A faint—it is impossible to copy what I have lost. What was taken from me.”

She clenched a fist, and again, her eyes flashed. Barelle’s fingers twitched towards his journal. Zenol knew he was longing to take notes, but the [Bard] held still as Cognita spoke on.

“He grovelled in private. He was in awe of me and recognized the value I imparted to him in material and social aspects. Merchant Boiregon begged to touch me. To have intercourse with me, as he so greatly desired.”

Prince Zenol had taken a deep drink from his cup. He held the liquid in his mouth, then slowly let it dribble back into the cup. That was the only sound in the bar. Barelle just exhaled, more tired and more upset than Zenol could remember seeing in him. Perhaps because he knew this story or what came next.

“And eventually, you let him? Or you refused?”

Cognita resumed talking without a break in the flow of words.

“The second man was one said to be kindly, who performed charitable works across his city. He treated me with great esteem, and I was able to fulfill his desires, which were truly charitable. Initially.”

“Initially. What happened—?”

Cognita’s eyes glowed, just a faint spark of light.

“I believe it was exactly fifty-two days, seven hours, and twelve minutes into our partnership when he processed the monetary wealth flowing through his charity’s coffers. It took him twelve days to attempt to reserve a portion of that gold for himself. He lost his nerve. He accepted a dinner invitation with a [Slave Master] Thirez in service to Slave Lady Andra three days thereafter. He may have fallen victim to a Skill. Or participated of his own free will. I dissolved the charity the minute he walked out the door.”

“And the third?”

Zenol asked that. It was like he was being hypnotized. Cognita paused longer.

“A female [Golem Artificer] from Illivere. She had requested my presence to attempt to study and duplicate my creation. Her attentions were obsessive. However, despite her level of 45, she was unable to understand the fundamentals of my creation, a fact which I informed her of. I allowed her to continue her inspection of me despite the increasingly unorthodox nature of her behavior. Her personality grew erratic. She attempted to rewrite my Golem’s heart twice, then to destroy me. I remanded her to the care of Magus-Crafter Femithain.”

“And the last? This Drake?”

The longest silence still.

“It was the work of quite some time to locate and arrange matters such that Merchant Itreilld arrived in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. I had the assistance of a [Secretary] of some renown to effect this. His personality was—domineering, I believe the word was. He considered both Djinni and Golems to be inferior.”

“Even you?”

A smile, then, and Zenol found he was having trouble breathing.

“Even me. He took evident pleasure in subjecting me to menial tasks and to enriching his own station. Of them all…it was the most familiar to me. The most comforting.”

Barelle the Bard’s head had sunk down, and he rested it on the harp’s case. Now he appeared old, as if that youth that clung to him were replaced by the faded grey of his hair. The lines of his face deepening.

“As Merchant Itreilld’s confidence grew, his demands increased. I purchased a lesser Djinni in his service. I believe he was courted by an Emir Pazeral in the process of introducing [Slaves] to Drake society by way of Zeres, a process already underway.”

Zenol was not one possessed by anti-Roshal fervor, but he had travelled from Izril’s soil and understood how only Rhir, Baleros, and Chandrar had [Slaves] of any number, and of the lot, Chandrar by far. More than that, he just regarded Cognita and imagined some lesser Drake [Merchant] treating her like…

That felt wrong. More than any [Slave] he had ever seen except, perhaps, that image of Pisces in chains…he was uncomfortable. Barelle was a statue of his own.

Cognita was smiling.

“His demands increased. It was very familiar.”

“To what…?”

Barelle’s eyes flicked to Zenol, and the glance nearly knocked the [Prince] out of his seat; he sprawled against the bar, and Cognita Truestone hesitated. She didn’t want to say, so Barelle did.

“Zelkyr.”

Then—just for a moment—Cognita flinched and looked at Barelle. Zenol wasn’t sure who was older, that Golem or the [Bard] who stared down at the counter. Cognita’s smile vanished. Came back like the flickering of the lamps around the inn. Only it was broken instead.

“I believe his class changed. That state of affairs continued, but nothing surprised me, Barelle. Aside from the familiarity. He was not my Master. I did not love him like Zelkyr. So, this morning I concluded I found only nostalgia, despite my best efforts. Not in Itreilld, nor any of the others, have I found what I sought.”

“Which is someone to serve?”

“I have never known anything else. Before you speak: my long custodianship of Wistram was not a choice I came to independently. I have been waiting. And waiting. And waiting as he bade me. I…was freed. I lost patience.”

She flexed her hands and stared at them. Then rubbed at something under one fingernail. A bit of red flaked from her fingers onto the bar. Cognita peered up at Barelle and then lost her impassive, perfect posture. She reached out, and her smile was something actually fond. The Golem brushed at Barelle’s cheeks.

“That is the sixth time you have wept for me, Barelle the Bard. Tears do not befit you.”

He didn’t wipe at his eyes as she gently produced a cloth. Zenol himself was rubbing at his eyes, but he heard Barelle’s voice clearly.

“I hoped I had helped, Cognita. That you understood something of…I feel I have failed you.”

“Do not delude yourself, Barelle. I understood your arguments. I have conducted my experiment, and the results are clear. This was my choice. I am a Golem.”

“You do not have to have a master.”

He whispered that, and it would have been treasonous in another era. Perhaps even now in the wrong place. Cognita’s reply was just as heartbreaking as Zenol saw what kept Barelle here.

“I wish for one. That is how he made me.”

She stood wearily in a single motion and pushed herself back from the bar. The wood creaked, and Cognita strode towards the door. Two steps, so fast that Zenol and Barelle could only turn. She peered back from the doorway.

“Even the Archmage of Memories could not free me from that.”

Then she was gone.

Author’s Note:

These are the chapters I wrote prior to the poll winning. I have three Chandrar chapters more or less ready-to-go, and I think it behooves me to clear my backlog rather than to sit on them forever.

Besides, that Rabbiteater chapter…it was good, I think. Reviews have been strong, but equalling that is a difficult task. So! I release this short chapter as a line into Chandrar. On Tuesday, I shall release another chapter since this is too short. All 14,000 words of it.

…No, but I’d feel bad to release this alone. Plus, it is a hard one in many ways. Cognita Truestone is a sad character. And, to be honest, she bums me out a bit. She makes other people angry or upset, but I’ve always said there are perspectives or stories I don’t like writing.

Roshal. You have to get into some kinds of headspaces to write Roshal, and they’re not great. I’m not the kind of author who can write out an outline and just stick to it without caring what happens or adapting. I don’t think you can convey emotions well without feeling them, but perhaps I’m just too near to the tales I write. Perhaps there are authors who can write without a feeling in the world.

Maybe those language-models can do it, but I haven’t seen anything like that yet. Or perhaps Cognita could beat me in writing a story. I’d like to see her try. However, I hope you enjoy this look into her—it’ll be important later. Expect another Chandrar-themed chapter on Tuesday, but never the same angle. On Tuesday, expect the Horns.

In a way, the poll-readers got both their wishes, but after my backlog ends, I do intend to focus on Baleros. Much like Barelle, I always have more stories to tell, but I enjoy that. I’m not old, I swear. He’s old.

Golems of Wistram by Enuryn the [Naturalist]!

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