Date: 9 Neth, 4707 AR
Time: One Hour Before Midnight
Place: The Gray, Near the Weeping Gate, Southern Edge of the Graveyard District, Korvosa

Mist coiled low across the cobbled path, threading through the leaning tombstones and rusted iron fences of Korvosa’s oldest graveyard. The Graywash River hissed beyond the skeletal trees, its dark waters swallowing the faint glow of a shrouded moon. The city’s lights, usually a defiant blaze, seemed muted, as if Korvosa itself had turned its gaze away from the Weeping Gate. Kaelus Shade stood alone at the edge of the half-ruined mausoleum arch, its cracked stone worn by centuries of neglect. A single candle flickered behind a shuttered grate, its light wavering in the damp air, and the faint scent of oil lingered, sharp against the earth’s decay.

He’d left the crew at the crypt, their protests silenced by his firm command: this meeting was his alone. No blades, no ledger, just himself and the cryptic invitation that had burned in his mind for three days: *Come to the place where the city weeps. One hour before midnight. Three nights hence. Bring no lies. Bring no blades. If you bring the ledger, do so knowing you will not leave with it.* Kaelus had brought neither, only his wits and Rule Eight—patience.

Something stirred in the mist. A figure emerged from behind the mausoleum wall, tall and robed, its face hidden by a plain, featureless mask. A single vertical eye was etched across the brow, glowing faintly with an unnatural light. The figure said nothing, merely stood, waiting. Kaelus held his ground, unmoving, his silver eyes steady. They’d called this meeting; the next move was theirs.

Seconds stretched into silence. Then, soft footsteps echoed—deliberate, measured. Two more figures appeared, robed and masked identically, their glowing eye sigils piercing the gloom. Three now, silent as the graves around them. The first stepped forward, the candlelight catching the mask’s stark lines. When it spoke, the voice was low, clear, and eerily genderless, as if honed to erase all trace of the speaker. “You came. That shows sense. Or desperation.”

Kaelus didn’t respond, his posture relaxed but alert, letting their words settle. The figure continued, its tone flat, observational. “You know Korvosa is not what it pretends to be. That beneath the noble crests and bloodied coin, something older moves.” A second figure approached, placing a cloth-wrapped bundle—no larger than a small book—at the foot of the mausoleum steps. “You’ve begun playing a game you don’t understand. We offer one truth. Just one. If you wish to walk this path afterward… we will see.” The voice hardened. “Pick it up. Open it. Read it here. If you try to take it and run, you will never leave this graveyard.”

The words were plain yet maddeningly cryptic, the kind of riddle Kaelus loathed—except when it came from Rhyssa, whose mysteries he oddly welcomed. He stepped forward cautiously, his boots whispering against the damp stone, and lifted the bundle. It was tightly folded, oiled against the mist, and warm to the touch, as if it held a pulse. Inside, it felt like a book, but the weight was uneven, the contents flexing slightly—not paper, not quite parchment. He turned it over, senses sharp, the masked figures’ glowing eyes boring into him. *Read it here,* they’d said. Rule Eight urged patience, but curiosity gnawed. In for a copper, in for a gold.

Kaelus unwrapped the bundle, peeling back three layers of cloth, each folded with ritualistic care. No book lay within, but a slab—thin, rectangular, crafted of dark glass rimmed in blackened bronze. It was cold, yet it hummed faintly, not with recognizable magic but something deeper, older. As he tilted it, pale glyphs bloomed across its surface, not etched or written but emerging, responding to his presence. They were alien, unlike any script he knew—Varisian, Draconic, or the dead tongues of Korvosa’s archives—yet words formed in his mind, clear and chilling:

There is a gate beneath the city.
Older than Korvosa.
Older than Cheliax.
It was sealed not with stone, but with sacrifice.
It stirs now, because the seals are weakening.  
One of the Seven has broken their oath.
Another has died.
The third has gone silent.  
Korvosa will fall if the fourth is not found.

The glyphs stilled, the slab’s hum fading to silence. The central figure stepped closer, its voice cutting through the mist. “You’re marked now, Kaelus Shade. Not by us. By this. You read it. That means you’re already part of it. Now we want to know—will you act, or will you flee?”

Kaelus sighed, the weight of the slab heavy in his hands. Magical, prophetic nonsense—the kind that clung like damp rot. “Run?” he said, his voice dry. “This isn’t the kind of thing you run from, assuming you’re not all bug-nuts insane. The only thing left is acting.”

The figure inclined its head, a gesture of grave approval, as if a door had swung open, unclosable. A smaller figure stepped forward, its whisper laced with age. “The seals were placed by seven. Their oaths bound the gate. Their blood marks the lines of power beneath the city. Three are lost. One has turned. If the fourth is not restored, the gate will open. And what was buried… will walk.” For a moment, Kaelus felt it—a vast, slow pressure beneath Korvosa, not divine or demonic but cold, hungry, a memory with teeth. The voice continued, “We will send word when the time comes. When you are needed. Until then, listen for the name that should not be spoken. When you hear it, you’ll know where to go.”

The slab dimmed, now just cold glass. The figures began to retreat into the mist, leaving no trace on the dew-soaked grass. Kaelus held up the slab, his voice cutting through the silence. “Do you want your magical slab back? Not in the mood to be killed to death leaving here.”

A new figure emerged—an old Varisian woman, her carved walking stick tapping the ground, her yellowed teeth glinting in a grin. “I’ve no use for that slab now, child,” she said, her voice dry as parchment. “It’s served its purpose.” The air grew colder, the slab’s unease seeping into the stones. “If you’re worried about curses or vengeful ghosts dragging your soul screaming into the abyss… I wouldn’t.” She paused, her obsidian eyes gleaming. “Unless you read the inscription. Did you?”

Kaelus’s jaw tightened. “Warnings like that work better beforehand,” he said, his tone edged with exasperation. “No, I didn’t. I read what appeared.” He bowed slightly, a gesture more sardonic than respectful. “If you’ve got nothing else, I’ll be going.” He tucked the slab into his coat, avoiding its surface, and turned to leave, the mist parting before him.

The woman’s chuckle followed, low and knowing. “Of course you read what appeared. That’s how it begins.” The figures vanished, swallowed by the graveyard’s gloom. As Kaelus passed the last moss-covered stone, the city’s noise—light, smoke, life—reasserted itself. Yet the slab’s weight lingered, not just in his coat but within him, a shift he couldn’t name. Something had marked him, and Korvosa’s shadows felt deeper for it.

Date: 10 Neth, 4707 AR
Time: Late Afternoon
Place: The Upper Sanctuary, A Hidden Alcove in the Ruined Chapel, Old Korvosa

The upper sanctuary was a relic of forgotten reverence, a dust-laced loft above the crypt where broken stained glass let the wind whistle through jagged edges. Once a reading nook or prayer chamber, it was now Kaelus Shade’s refuge—a place for thinking, brooding, or the occasional stolen nap. The stone floor was worn smooth, the air thick with the scent of old stone and fading incense. He’d sent for Rhyssa, and she arrived without a sound, her bare feet silent on the creaking stairs. Her silhouette filled the half-shattered arch, her leather satchel slung at her side, her staff left below but her presence no less commanding.

She stepped inside, her head tilting slightly, her dark eyes seeing too much, as always. “You’re back,” she said softly, her voice carrying a weight beyond the words. “And changed.” Her gaze sharpened, cutting through the dim light. “What did they give you?”

Kaelus tossed her the slab, its dark glass catching the fading light. “That.” He leaned against the wall, frustration etching his features. “I thought this was about the ledger, but… it isn’t?” Confusion gnawed at him, a rare crack in his usual confidence. “You’re the master of mysteries around here, Rhyssa. What have I somehow gotten myself into?”

Rhyssa caught the slab, her hands adjusting to its unexpected weight. Her brow furrowed, sensing something unsettling in its hum. She crouched by the broken window, laying the slab across her knees, her fingers hovering above it as if testing for danger—or memory. “It’s not just old,” she whispered, her voice grave. “It’s outside. Other.” She met his eyes. “This was buried in the foundations of something that existed before Korvosa was even a dream in Cheliax’s mouth.” Her fingers traced the air above the slab. “You said it wasn’t about the ledger. You’re right. The ledger brought you to Velindra. This?” She tapped the slab gently. “This found you.”

She muttered to herself, eyes distant. “Seven seals… three broken… the fourth must be found…” Her gaze snapped back to Kaelus. “You read it, didn’t you?” It wasn’t a question. She exhaled slowly. “I don’t know what gate they mean. Not yet. But something’s moving beneath this city—metaphorically or otherwise. And you’re tied to it now.” Her expression flickered with unease. “This isn’t the first time that symbol has shown up.” She tapped between her brows. “The eye. I saw it in a dream that wasn’t mine. Someone else’s memory. And it was watching me back.”

Kaelus nodded, feigning clarity. “I’m going to pretend I understand that,” he said with a confident nod, though his unease was plain. “Yes, I read it. Didn’t have much choice. Whose dream?”

Rhyssa’s wry smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” she said, not unkindly. “It’s witchcraft. Some dreams aren’t mine. I see through others’ eyes—someone dead, far away, or not quite real.” She traced the slab’s edge, her voice hushed. “The dream… I think it was one of the Seven’s. Brief. Fragmented. He stood in a circle of standing stones, far below the earth, a chain of carved bones around his neck, a knife bleeding light in his hand. He wasn’t praying. He was sacrificing. Himself.” Her eyes met Kaelus’s, intense. “Before it ended, he looked at me. No face—just the eye carved into flesh. He saw me, across time, across death.” She held up the slab. “This is bigger than prophecy. Bigger than fate. And you’re not the only one being drawn in.”

Kaelus paced, his mind racing. “What’s the Seven? How does this have anything to do with me?” His voice rose, frustration spilling over. “I don’t need this right now. I’ve got more on my plate than I can handle. I just declared myself a player in Korvosa’s shadows! How do I juggle that with dreams, time, and prophecy? If I screw up, we’re all dead. I don’t need this.”

Rhyssa sat still, letting his storm pass, her hands folded, the slab resting beside her like a coiled threat. When he quieted, she spoke, her voice calm but unflinching. “You’re right. You didn’t ask for this. You don’t deserve it, and it doesn’t come with a rulebook.” She rose, brushing dust from her skirts, and stepped closer—not crowding, just present. “But you’re in it. Because it chose you, or something in you called it, or fate doesn’t care what’s fair.” Her tone softened. “The Seven were wardens, or jailers, or fools who thought they could chain a god. They sealed something beneath the city—something that wants out, stirring when blood spills and oaths rot.” She glanced at the slab. “And now one of the seals is looking back. Through you.”

She leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “But you’re still Kaelus. You’ve got your crew, South Shore, a city full of people to lie to, rob, or protect. That hasn’t changed. So you juggle. Delegate. Scheme. Or ignore it until it crashes through your ceiling. You’re in this, Kaelus. Might as well learn the board.” Her voice softened further. “And if you need someone to watch your back, I’ve got your shadow.”

Kaelus stopped pacing, meeting her gaze. “Rhyssa,” he said, his voice steady but searching, “why are you with me? I’ve never doubted you were… but why?”

Rhyssa froze, her usual cryptic ease faltering. She held his gaze, her hands curling slightly. Then she exhaled, the answer coming slowly, as if she’d guarded it too long. “When I met you, you were building something—quietly, carefully, like you didn’t know you were doing it. Not just plans or scores. You were building people. Pulling them in. Holding them together.” She stepped forward, her boots silent. “I’d spent so long hiding what I was, pretending I was just another hedge witch. You didn’t ask me to prove anything. You didn’t demand secrets. You saw me. And you gave me a place to be.” Her voice wove through the dim light, soft but sure. “You have no idea what kind of man you are, Kaelus Shade. That’s why I follow you. Because one day, you’ll change this city. And when you do, I want to be there—whispering in your ear, saving your ass, reminding you who you are when the world forgets.” She smiled, genuine and unguarded. “Is that enough of a reason?”

Kaelus’s face softened, a rare smile breaking through. “Best reason ever.”

Rhyssa’s smile widened, warm and unguarded, a glimpse of the woman behind the witch. “Good. Then let’s stop pretending we don’t trust each other.” She pressed the slab back into his hands, her touch deliberate. “Whatever this is, whatever you’re pulled into, I’m not going anywhere. Neither is the crew.” Her tone turned dry. “Even if Click keeps trying to trap Caldus for snoring.”

The moment lightened, the air easier to breathe. Outside, the gray evening burned gold with the first hints of sunset, Korvosa’s pulse thrumming beyond the broken glass. The city waited—watching, whispering—but in this forgotten loft, Kaelus wasn’t alone. The slab’s weight lingered, a silent promise of truths yet to unfold, but with Rhyssa’s loyalty and the crew’s strength, he’d face whatever came next.