The next morning broke with a pale sun filtering through thinning clouds, casting golden light across Sandpoint’s rooftops. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, the scent of recent labor clinging to the streets—trenches dug, trees felled, timber hammered into barricades. The town was bracing, holding its collective breath.

I woke to the familiar murmur of a town rising early—boots on cobblestones, the creak of carts near the gate, the gulls crying over the harbor. It was a different sort of morning, less panic, more purpose.

A knock at my door broke the rhythm. Lucian's voice followed, muffled but bright. "Hope you're decent, cousin. Word is Shalelu just returned from her morning patrol. Said she's got something you'll want to hear."

I groaned softly, but only out of habit. The day was already in motion. I pulled on my robes, cinched my belt, and followed Lucian down to the common room of the Rusty Dragon.

The place was already stirring. Ameiko stood behind the bar, pouring coffee with the practiced rhythm of someone too busy to be tired. The hearth crackled. Townsfolk drifted in and out, heads low, conversations quiet. And near the door, Shalelu waited. Her cloak was damp with morning mist, her stance sharp despite the shadows under her eyes.

I crossed the room and nodded to her, then turned toward the bar. "Ameiko, could we get some breakfast? Thank you."

She waved me off with a nod and disappeared into the kitchen.

I gestured to the table and looked at Shalelu. "Sit and eat while we talk. You look like you're overdue for some rest. You also look like the news isn't the best in the world."

She sank into the chair with the weariness of someone who'd been riding hard for hours. Her bow leaned against the wall, her hair wind-tossed and damp.

"Could be worse," she said. "But it’s not good."

Ameiko set down a plate of smoked fish, eggs, and fried bread with practiced ease, followed by a mug of dark, bitter coffee. Shalelu nodded her thanks without a word and took a long drink before speaking again.

“I scouted along the edge of Mosswood this morning. The goblins are regrouping faster than we expected. Not all of them, mind you—some are still squabbling—but enough.” She glanced toward the window, where the morning light cast long shadows across the floor.

“I found a rally point. Looks like they’re being pulled together under one banner. And I think...” She paused, setting down her cup. “I think we’re getting close to learning who’s leading them. I saw her—just for a moment. A woman. Tall. Pale hair. Moved like she belonged there, and the goblins listened.”

She looked straight at me. “I couldn’t get close, but I saw her come and go from Thistletop.”

Lucian let out a low breath beside me. “So it is her.”

Shalelu gave a single, sharp nod. “Whoever she is, she’s pulling them together fast. If we’re going to stop them, it’s going to be at Thistletop.”

I set my fork down slowly, sighed, and rubbed at my temples. “It’s Nualia. Pale hair. Female. Stole Father Tobyn's body. Wants to burn the town. Too many confirmations to be coincidence at this point. That's who the enemy is.”

I paused, letting the weight of it sink in.

“Why... is another question altogether. Also, not sure what happened to her. A shy, divinely touched girl doesn't just wake up one morning and suddenly become someone scary enough to force multiple goblin tribes into an alliance.”

I took a sip of coffee and shoved a piece of fried bread into my mouth, chewing while I thought. When I swallowed, I looked back at Shalelu. “How many are gathering right now, and is it all happening at Thistletop?”

Shalelu didn’t answer immediately. She studied me, then gave a slow, measured nod.

“That tracks,” she said. “The hair, the presence… the way they looked at her. It wasn’t just fear. It was something deeper. Goblins don’t respect much—but they respected her. Or maybe what she represents now.”

She picked at her food absently, her eyes drifting across the room without focus.

“She’s not rallying them all inside Thistletop, exactly. That’s her seat, her stronghold. But the tribes are gathering nearby—in the woods, the ruins, the cliffs. The goblins are anchoring themselves to her presence there.”

Shalelu's voice was steady, but tension lay under every word.

“I’d estimate sixty goblins, give or take. More if the Licktoads commit fully. Mosswood is still divided, but she’s drawing in splinter groups, using them as scouts and messengers.”

She glanced back at me, eyes sharp. “And Thistletop itself… I didn’t get close enough to see inside, but the place isn’t just a goblin hole. There’s something old there. Something wrong. I think whatever happened to her… it started there.”

Lucian leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. “So we’re not just dealing with an angry girl and a horde of goblins. We’re dealing with someone who’s changed—and maybe something that changed her.”

Shalelu gave a small, grim nod. “Exactly.”

And with that, the table fell silent, save for the clink of cutlery and the soft crackle of the hearth. The pieces were moving. The enemy had a name. And the battleground had a shape.

The only question now was whether Sandpoint—and I—could reach it in time.

I let the conversation lapse while I finished my meal, pushing the last of the fried bread around the edge of the plate as I thought. When the cup was empty and the warmth of breakfast had settled into my limbs, I leaned back in my chair and lowered my voice, making sure no townsfolk nearby could overhear.

"We have to remove Nualia. She's the glue that holds everything together. Without her, the tribes are just pests on the edge of civilization. Annoying? Yes. Dangerous? Occasionally. But a true threat to Sandpoint? No. We need to break their momentum and get back to the previous balance of power."

I looked over at Shalelu. "How many scouts do you have, and how good are they?"

She set her fork down with a quiet click and leaned forward, the firelight catching the edge of her expression—sharp and resolute.

“I’ve got four that I trust completely. Locals. Trappers, hunters. No uniforms, but they know the land better than anyone. They’ve already seen signs: smoke, cleared paths, new totems. The goblins aren’t just raiding. They’re nesting. Digging in.”

Her tone matched mine, quiet and focused.

“They’re spread out right now, circling Thistletop, watching from a distance. But I can call them in, tighten the perimeter. Start gathering intel on patterns, sentries, shifts. If we strike, it has to be soon. And it has to be smart.”

Lucian rubbed the back of his neck, eyes narrowed in thought. “A surgical strike. Get in, remove her, collapse the command structure.”

Shalelu nodded. “Exactly.”

Then her eyes settled on mine. Steady. Unwavering.

“If you're serious about removing her, I’ll have maps drawn, scout movements logged, entry points marked. But it’s not just goblins anymore. If she was divine, and she isn’t now—then something else took its place. And you should be ready for that.”

A pause.

“You still in?”

"Of course," I said, meeting Shalelu’s gaze. "I am Cassian Valerius, youngest scion of House Valerius of Taldor. I don't run when my friends need me."

I let myself sink back into the chair, the wood creaking under the weight of fatigue and resolve. "Here's what I think. You and Lucian give me your opinions. We need as many of the goblins pulled away from Thistletop as possible so we can sneak in for a surgical strike. If your scouts can harass them—poke the hornet's nest in the right places—maybe it draws enough of them into a chase, or at least points their eyes in the wrong direction. That might give us a real shot."

I looked between them both, then smiled—tight, humorless, but real. "And here’s the good part: if we can do enough damage to their leadership, even if we don’t make it out, it should delay their plans long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Maybe even force Magnimar to actually respond more forcefully. Even if we die."

Lucian didn’t speak right away. He swirled the last of his drink, watching the liquid spin as if searching for a clearer future at the bottom of the cup. Then he looked up at me.

"You know," he said, voice dry, "for a wizard, you’ve got a real flair for drama."

But his eyes were steady. He nodded.

"I’m in. You’ve already made your mind up. I’ve known you long enough to spot it. And frankly, I’d rather die on the right cause than live watching Sandpoint burn." His grin, when it came, was crooked and familiar. "Besides, I’m far too handsome to be remembered for anything but a heroic last stand."

Shalelu didn’t smile. She just watched me with that keen, measuring gaze of hers. Her fingers tapped once on the table.

"You’ll die if you try to take Thistletop head-on," she said. "But you already knew that."

I nodded.

"My scouts can handle it. We'll stir the pot, draw out the warbands. That should thin the defenses around Thistletop itself. Not enough to make it easy, but maybe enough to make it possible."

She leaned in, voice low and precise.

"But if we do this, we move fast. Get inside before they realize their leadership is under attack. No hero speeches at the gates. No second-guessing."

Her eyes locked on mine.

"I'll get you your opening, Cassian. Just don't waste it."

The door creaked open, and there she was.

Thelenda stood in the threshold with her hair still damp, curls pulled back in a loose braid. She wore the plain linen robes of her order, and the moment she saw me, surprise flickered across her face—only to soften into something quieter, gentler. She stepped aside without a word and let me in.

Her chamber was small but clean and welcoming. A plain wooden bed rested against one wall, opposite a writing desk where an open book lay beside a candle stub. Morning air slipped in through the cracked window shutters, carrying the scent of sea salt and garden dew. The place smelled faintly of beeswax and old parchment—simple, calm, lived-in.

She turned to face me fully, brow lifted in polite curiosity. “Cassian. I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”

Then, more gently, “Is everything alright?”

I shifted my weight, suddenly far more aware of the staff in my hand and the stiffness in my spine. “Yes... and at the same time, no.” I gave her a crooked grin. “There. I’ve now established myself as a man of mystery and intrigue.”

She gave a small, puzzled laugh, but I could see the question still in her eyes.

I looked around the room—at the neatness, the sense of purpose—and then back to her. “In all seriousness, my cousin and I are about to embark on something very foolish and very necessary. I might not have the opportunity to speak to you again. I didn’t want to miss the chance.”

I turned toward her and held her gaze. She had such striking eyes—clear and earnest, framed by a steadiness that I envied.

“I think you are brave, and wise, and kind. I find those attributes incredibly attractive. Your smile—well, I’ve already gone on record about that.” I paused, heart thudding. “If I do happen to return from this singular act of desperate stupidity, I wondered if you would consent to allow me to call upon you as a suitor?”

I winced a little. “I’m not sure how these things are done in Varisia, so I wanted to ask as if I were in Taldor. I know I don’t have much to recommend me at the moment, but—”

I stopped myself, took a breath, and gave a rueful laugh. “I’m going to shut up now and let you answer. I’m babbling like an idiot.”

She blinked once. Then again. And for a few agonizing heartbeats, she said nothing at all. The silence stretched.

Then her lips curved upward—not just into a smile, but into something radiant. Warm. Genuine. A little surprised, too, as if she hadn’t quite expected the world to offer her this.

It reached her eyes.

“You’re not babbling,” she said finally, voice soft. “Though I’ll admit I didn’t think this was how my morning was going to start.”

She stepped closer, folding her hands in front of her, her gaze never leaving mine.

“You’re not just a wizard from Taldor, Cassian. You’re a good man. And you don’t need gold or titles or a tower full of books to recommend you.”

She looked at me—really looked—and then gave a single, solemn nod.

“If you come back, Cassian Valerius, I’d be honored to be courted by you.”

Her cheeks flushed the faintest pink, but she didn’t glance away.

Instead, with a faint, teasing smile, she added, “And if you die, I’ll be very cross with you.”

A beat passed, and then she reached forward, her fingers brushing mine in a touch that was light and reverent—like the beginning of a blessing.

“Come back to me,” she said, very quietly.

The moment lingered, suspended in the hush of the room. The shutters stirred faintly in the morning breeze, letting sunlight dance across the wooden floor in trembling lines. In that sliver of stillness, I had my answer.

I took the hand that had reached for mine and lifted it gently. With care, I pressed a kiss to the back of her fingers. “Then I will return,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected. “I could not bear you being cross with me.”

I straightened, allowing a hint of wryness to soften the intensity. “I don't suppose you'd give me your blessing—and perhaps that of Lady Luck as well—before I go?”

Her smile deepened—not with amusement, but with something warmer, more certain. She didn’t speak at once. Instead, she turned and reached for a silver medallion that hung near her writing desk. The symbol of Desna—shaped like a star, delicate and radiant—rested in her palm as she stepped back toward me.

“I can’t promise her favor,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “but I can ask it… and give you mine.”

She raised the symbol and pressed it gently to my forehead. The silver was cool against my skin, but the touch that followed—her fingertips brushing just above my brow—was soft and sure, like she was memorizing the shape of me before sending me off into danger.

“May Desna guide your steps in the darkness,” she murmured. “May your dreams lead you home. And may you return to me, whole and wiser still.”

The symbol slipped from her hand and rested once more against her chest.

“I’ll be here,” she said, her eyes never leaving mine.

Whatever came next—spellwork, steel, blood, or fire—I knew I would carry that moment with me.

The last glimpse I had of Sandpoint was the silhouette of its walls, growing smaller behind us, swallowed by the arms of the forest.

We rode hard and spoke little. Shalelu led us with practiced ease, slipping along narrow trails and deer paths like she'd carved them herself. Lucian kept close behind her, his cloak pinned back, his eyes scanning everything with that fierce, hungry energy he always seemed to carry into danger. I brought up the rear, my pack secured, my staff across my knees, and my spellbook resting at my side like an old friend.

Thelenda had stayed behind, watching us go from the cathedral steps. The sunlight had caught in her hair like a final benediction. I didn’t let myself look back.

Now, we waited.

The thorns around Thistletop were thick, cruel things—grasping and wet, clawing at boots and cloaks as if the very land resented our presence. The place reeked of damp, salt, and goblin filth. From the rise where we crouched, the crooked wooden palisade came into view, ringing the island like a drunkard’s idea of a fortress. Goblins skittered along the walls, not a horde—but enough to bleed us if we weren’t swift.

Shalelu crouched beside me, bow in hand, voice low and steady. “My scouts did their job. Most of the warbands are miles off now—chasing ghosts and shadows. What’s left is what she keeps close: guards, favorites, lieutenants.”

She nodded toward the ruin, its warped structure just visible through the thorns. “That’s Thistletop. Our window is open. But it won’t stay open for long.”

The magic simmered beneath my skin, familiar and coiled, waiting. My hand tightened around the staff. I could feel the weight of the scrolls in my case, each one a promise of power carefully etched in midnight oil and sleepless ink.

Lucian adjusted the straps on his buckler, flexed his sword hand, and glanced back at me with a grin. “Just like we planned, right?”

I gave him a nod and drew a scroll from its case. A flick of the wrist, a whispered invocation, and the parchment flared with fading blue light. The enchantment settled around me, thin and invisible, but solid as tempered steel. Mage Armor—my first shield and often my last.

Then I turned to the others and kept my voice low. “Get a good picture of where we’re going in your mind. I’m going to conjure us some cover. It'll make sight difficult.”

I raised my staff, whispered the rough syllables of Nebu'rar shathin valmor, and invoked the mist.

The spell surged from the end of the staff in a rolling breath of white. Fog burst low and fast, curling around thorns and coiling through the brambles. It crawled outward like a living thing, wrapping the path ahead in a ghostly veil. Visibility vanished almost at once.

Shalelu moved closer, nodding. “Smart. Goblins panic in fog. Makes them think spirits are hunting them.”

Lucian gave a soft snort of amusement, already sliding forward through the mist. “Let’s make sure they’re right.”

We moved through the mist—slow, careful, deliberate.

The thorny trail became a fading memory beneath our boots, replaced by the whispering gray of conjured fog that swallowed light and silenced our steps. Around us, the world narrowed to shadows and breath. The thorns clawed at my cloak, but I welcomed the scrape. It meant we hadn’t been seen.

Goblin voices drifted through the mist ahead, sharp now, brittle with confusion.

"What’s this? Fog!? Who spit on the sky!?"

"Stop breathing so loud, Mugs!"

They were close. I could hear the faint creak of the bridge—the crude wooden span that connected the mainland to the island fortress—echoing through the damp air. We were nearly there.

But being discovered now, this early, with so many goblins still within shouting distance… that would be ruin.

I listened. Not just with ears, but with every inch of stillness I had cultivated in musty libraries and echoing ruins. The voices weren’t moving. Sentries, rooted in place, confused but not yet panicked. Two, maybe three. Perfect.

I raised my staff slowly, careful not to let it clack against any stone or tangle in a branch. I aimed it toward the sound like a conductor about to call forth silence.

The runes etched into the staff glowed faintly under my fingers as I whispered the words: Somnus, cado, sile.

Sleep.

The spell unwound from me like a silent tide, curling through the fog toward the voices.

A faint thud. Then another.

Then—

Silence.

Not the expectant kind. The kind that settles like a blanket over fallen things.

Lucian leaned in from behind, his whisper low and amused. “That was unnervingly satisfying. You’ve gotten good at that.”

Shalelu tapped my shoulder gently and gestured ahead—one finger toward the shrouded bridge, two fingers curled toward her palm.

Clear.

The guards were asleep. The path to Thistletop lay open before us.

We would not get a better chance.

“Go,” I whispered.

Shalelu didn’t wait. She slipped ahead like a shadow with purpose, her form vanishing into the mist in near silence. I followed close behind, staff low and breath even, the enchantments on my skin still humming quietly. I trusted Lucian to take the rear. He wouldn’t need telling—he never did.

The bridge groaned faintly beneath our weight, but the mist muffled everything, sound and shape alike. Beneath us, dark water gurgled, licking at the supports. Somewhere beyond, a gull called once before the fog swallowed it whole. Every step felt like it stretched into eternity.

Then the shape of the gate loomed—crude and uneven, lashed together with bone, sinew, and planks of scavenged wood. Symbols marked in red—some paint, some not—bled across the surface in erratic spirals. Goblin handiwork. Brutal. Childish. Ugly.

Shalelu crouched, checked the latch, and looked back to me. She gave a small shake of her head—no traps, no lock. Goblins weren’t subtle.

With a slow breath, she pushed it open.

The gate groaned like rusted lungs. The sound set my teeth on edge.

And then… Thistletop.

Inside was a tangle of filth and shadow: ragged huts, towers of garbage stacked like trophies, the charred remains of fire pits. No guards. No shouts. Just the wet stench of rot and the strange, heavy quiet that pressed against the mist.

Too quiet.

This wasn’t peace—it was the air drawn in before a scream.

Shalelu turned toward me, eyes narrow, bow already in hand.

“Where to?” she whispered.

I looked out at the twisted interior of the fortress, heart beginning to pound against the echo of stillness.

We were in.

But the real danger hadn’t even begun.

I paused at the edge of the threshold and pointed to a nearby goblin hut—a crude thing half-collapsing under the weight of fish bones and wet hides. “There,” I whispered.

We slipped into the structure, low and silent, the three of us crouched beneath sagging timber and tattered canvas. It smelled of ash and rot and something worse—blood, maybe. Or fear. The walls creaked softly in the wind, but they hid us from view.

Once inside, I leaned closer to the others, voice still hushed. “Nualia’s not in a goblin hut. I’d wager she’s in the ruins.” I turned to Shalelu. “You’re the quietest of us. Take a quick look around and come back if you find anything promising.”

She gave one sharp nod, then slipped away without a sound, vanishing into the mist like a spirit returning to the forest.

Lucian crouched beside me, near the edge of the lean-to, one hand on his blade, the other bracing his weight. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. We were past the point of nervous chatter—our focus sharpened now, honed to a single purpose.

Minutes passed like falling drops of water—slow, precise, and loud in the stillness.

Then she returned. One moment the doorway was empty, the next it held Shalelu, her eyes sharp and dark.

“Found something,” she whispered. “Stone archway. Half-buried on the far side of the stockade. Not goblin work—old, solid. There’s a wooden ramp leading down behind it. Two goblins standing watch, but they’re dozing. Might be more inside.”

She hesitated, just for a second.

“There were carvings on the arch. Thassilonian, I think. And the air around it… it felt wrong. Cold. Like standing in shadow even when the light’s on your face.”

Lucian’s grin came easy, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He drew his rapier in one slow motion, the sound lost to the weight of the moment.

“Well, cousin,” he said quietly. “Looks like you were right.”

He tilted his head toward the dark mouth of the ruin.

“Time to knock on the devil’s door.”

“Lucian, you take one of the guards. Shalelu, you the other,” I whispered. “Make it as silent as possible. I’ll deal with anything unexpected—or if one of them proves more difficult than we think.”

I gave Shalelu a nod to lead the way.

This was it—the point of no return. Once we went below, we would either emerge victorious… or not at all.

Shalelu answered with a single sharp nod, her expression unreadable. Then she vanished into the fog without a sound. Lucian gave me a brief glance and a quick wink—nothing arrogant, just that familiar flash of steel-backed confidence—and followed her.

Outside, the mist had thinned a little. The morning sun, still trapped behind a ceiling of clouds, sent pale light bleeding across the goblin stockade. The air hung heavy, damp with the scent of rot and salt.

Just beyond the refuse and the huts, the archway waited. A grim sentinel carved from ancient stone, overgrown with vine and smeared with years of goblin scrawl. But beneath it, I could see the Thassilonian lines, curled and deliberate. Older than anything else here.

The goblin sentries were exactly as described—one slumped on a crooked spear, nodding off; the other preoccupied, kicking at some unfortunate rat.

From my cover near a broken wall, I watched it unfold.

Shalelu struck first. One arrow. Straight between the shoulders. The goblin jerked once, then crumpled into the dirt without a sound.

Lucian followed an instant later, blade gleaming in the fog. He moved like shadow, his rapier flashing across the second goblin’s throat. The creature wheezed, gurgled once, and collapsed beside its companion.

I waited for the sound of alarm—for a shout, a scream, anything.

Nothing.

Only the wind at our backs and the distant breath of the sea.

We stepped forward as one, and there it was.

The archway loomed before us, more ruin than architecture, its carvings half-choked by moss and grime. A wooden ramp descended into the gloom beyond, lit by guttering torches stuck into the damp stone at intervals. The air that rolled up from the depths smelled of mildew, old blood, and something darker—something ancient.

Shalelu stood beside me, bow drawn, a fresh arrow nocked and ready.

“This is it,” she said. “Whatever she’s become… she’s down there.”

Lucian tightened his grip on his rapier. His eyes met mine.

“Lead on, cousin.”

“Hide the dead goblins quickly before we go,” I whispered. “Don’t want anyone stumbling onto them.”

Lucian and Shalelu moved with swift precision. The bodies were dragged behind a stack of rotting crates and broken beams, tucked beneath discarded hides and filth. It wasn’t elegant, but it would do. At the very least, it would buy us time.

I took one last breath of salt-heavy air, then gave Lucian a nod.

He returned it with a faint, grim smile and stepped past the ancient archway, leading the descent down the slick wooden ramp. He moved with the confidence of a man who had long ago made peace with danger, his blade held low, steps careful and quiet.

Shalelu took up position behind me, her bow strung, an arrow resting lightly between her fingers. Her gaze flicked constantly from shadow to stone to passageway, never still, never resting. Exactly where I wanted her.

Desna, I thought silently, if you were listening to Thelenda’s prayer… now would be an excellent time to prove it.

We passed under the arch, and the light changed.