When Silver Burned: Chapter 6-8 (Patreon)

6 - A Calculated Matter of Skincuttery

That night, Kalsin hadn't slept well. Time. He figured they had a few odd pieces going in their favor, but time wasn't a resource they had in abundance. It had taken Sinew nearly a week to get back to them, but he had, and told them the meeting was to take place on the morrow around a sparsely populated part of town, inside an out-of-use limner's workshop. The informant having served his purpose, Kalsin had burned Sinew’s drawn portrait in candle flame and they parted in consensual hopes of never crossing lanes again.

Kalsin stepped outside, somber, watching the streets. It was always the same with the month ending and about to roll into Blindlight; as if a relative's half-forgotten day of birth had suddenly come, citizens crowded the roads to make last-minute preparations and shake their businesses in order before the cold sun had a chance to surface and wash the world in uniform white. Kicked up dust welcomed and accompanied Kalsin as he weaved through the throng. Above him, the faithful chanted their chosen god's revelations, standing atop stacks of hoarded deep-fisher's crates and urging the crowds to donate and repent—in that exact order. 

Kalsin followed along the base of Midlane until the fractures that framed the wall bent and disappeared westward. From there, he joined a maintenance road running next to smartly arrayed warehouses and leading farther away from residential areas. The crowds fell away.

After what felt like a stretched hour, he spotted the abandoned workshop. He scanned his surroundings and what he could see from the outside, confirming he was yet alone. Uncorking the vial he had bought in the pitfall, he poured a lick of the colorless liquid into his palm, then started rubbing it all over his skin. His face, arms, chest under his shirt all received a generous amount of the cold substance, but still less than he'd have preferred. With a hint of nervousness he poured a few more doses, eventually emptying the vial to the last drop. He smelled his balmed hands. Nothing. Had to be good enough.

The inside of the limner's workshop was a far leap from the unremarkable exterior, but he had no time to gawk at the half-covered paintings, the extravagant curls of unfinished codex pages. 

The informant hadn't played nice. Armed men were waiting for him.

Not a moment after the door fell shut, a blade tickled the back of Kalsin's neck. Three crossbows leveled on him, held by three neatly dressed men in civilian clothing. And sitting on a foldable chair was none other than the collector of Remallon, the moss-green frock coat of his office spread about his sides as he shuffled through a clipped bundle of papers. He glanced up, his clean-shaven face blank as he assessed Kalsin. 

He was in the fingers of the region-capital’s Clenn law enforcement.

Kalsin didn't move a muscle, becoming acutely aware of his drumming heart and the cold steel resting against his skin.

The collector waved a hand, one of his men replying with a nod and quickly moving toward the back entrance only to disappear outside. A scout, most likely, making to sweep the perimeter to watch and see if he'd come alone. Good. No more than a single man should be fine.

The collector addressed Kalsin. "Please hold out your hands and turn around, if I may be so brazen. Slowly, slowly. Yes, just so. Good man. Now, my associate here is going to restrain you. Relax, you're in good hands, nothing overt."

The slender woman who'd held the blade at Kalsin's neck secured a firm rope around his wrists in quick order, confiscated his sword, and laid out another chair for him facing the collector, all done in a brisk and systematic manner. Kalsin moved carefully, and he didn't have to fake the fear that coursed through his veins. He sat. 

Sweat formed on his forehead. They didn't expect him to struggle, and he didn't struggle because he didn't expect them to kill him. He went into this whole godsforsaken affair based on that expectation. It would be an awful shame if he was wrong.

"Let us share a drink. I despise talking on a dry throat," the collector said, pulling out a bottle from the depths of his frock coat. Not waiting for an answer, he poured its contents into a pair of small glasses resting on the floor at his feet, spilling only the tiniest amounts on the wooden floor boards. "Aqua vitae. You ever had a chance to sample it? No, I imagine vitae doesn't make rounds in Scarrd circles. Strong stuff, though this one has a prime hint of caramel to it."

Kalsin accepted his glass using both his restrained hands and took a sip. Strong didn't begin to cover it, promptly setting his throat aflame. The collector jugged his whole drink down in a single pull.

"Is there a reason why I'm being restrained, Collector..."

"Quin. You're at my service, Quin Bolewár. You may cut the collector honorific. As for the here and now, you're looking at... Well. A frank, lighthearted chat while you've still got your wits strung tight. Then we'll move onto interrogation, and then torture, and then disposition of your body. That's how it usually works with heretics."

Kalsin couldn't stop himself from straining against the rope a bit, testing its limits. They thought he was a heretic, an elusive group of Scarrd who, allegedly, knew about the existence of a cure. Elusive enough that Kalsin had been trying to get a hold of them for years. He was hoping it'd be the heretics Sinew contacted, but seems the rot found it easier to simply report him at the leechouse, the collector's office. 

Ironically enough, Kalsin's one advantage was the fact that his jailors didn't know that he didn't know anything. 

Therefore, he had everything to learn.

Kalsin drew himself up. "Heretic? I would never stray from the teachings of Tűzmother, warmth-giver, the eye who keeps its target in sight and the necessary known—"

"Religion has nothing to do with heresy, as I'm sure you're well aware. Worship away at your leisure." Quin took Kalsin's near-full glass and downed it with a flick of his wrist. He let out a content sigh. "See, I was a little rascal of a kid. I remember when we played tower—you know, a tower made of rectangular blocks is given. When it's your turn, you carefully extract a single block and place it on top, and the condition of defeat is the tower collapsing."

Quin raised the glass again, only to realize it was empty. "When we played, my mother always tried to remove the most crucial pieces, the lower the better. We sat there waiting for a minute, two, five minutes as she kept prodding, poking, making the tower swing and collapse more often than not. Then one day, I had enough of her stalling, and just before she could pull the block, I smashed the whole thing apart. She asked me why I did it. I said she would have ruined it anyway. You know what her next words were?"

Kalsin shrugged as much as his restraints allowed him.

"She said, 'Quin, don't be silly. The only way to stop the tower from collapsing is if you refuse to play.' From that moment onward, I never played tower again." He rotated the empty glass, as if holding the container of a long-lost secret. "You see, the tower's balance is perfect to begin with. It's a functioning hierarchy where every element, from top to bottom, must remain in place. And the lower the piece, the more it can disrupt the balance when it shifts from its allocated spot."

Kalsin didn't need a scholar's degree to see from a league away where the monologue was going.

"Humanity itself is the tower, and you, the Scarrd, are its very foundation. Unappreciated, but certainly essential. You're the mud under our boots, swiped into the rug like a forgotten nuance left on our doorstep. We wash our clothes to be rid of you, sometimes we confuse you with dogshit, but ey, we can hardly walk around with nothing to step on."

"You know how to make a man feel appreciated," Kalsin said.

"What do you imagine would happen if they found a way to cure scars? To grant the opportunity for the pieces at the bottom to rise? None would be content with their position; the lowly would squirm, shift, strain to climb the ladder while the top would use every tool necessary to keep them down, digging the hole under themselves. The Ember Republic would crumble to pieces—while mythos ravage the populace and the Veiled keep invading the eastern border. Can't let that happen."

Kalsin had more personal concerns than the fate of the Republic. His face must've said as much. Quin stared at him, shrugged and tossed the glass over his shoulder. "Let's get started. Xil, dear, shall we?"

The woman who'd disarmed Kalsin had been waiting patiently at Quin's side. She unclasped a leather folder, presenting a collection of scalpels all with differing blades and sizes. The collector brushed a finger over the instruments. He considered one before moving onto the next. "Your heretic friends, the ones you're looking for. Tell me about them."

"Hmh, let's see," Kalsin said. "Friends. Last I checked I counted just about seven of them. Direct lads, if a little crude. Mostly keep to themselves, a group of four, a group of three and some distance in between. You might've heard of them. They go by 'fuck' and 'off'."

Quin smiled thinly, and though Kalsin put on a brave face, the dangerously gleaming razor in the collector's hand sent an arc of fear jolting through him. As did his next words. 

"Jacqueline Thguon. Bodyguard for hire, dirt, scar on her jaw and a hopeless haircut. A childhood friend?" Quin listed. "People bring the most curious tidings to the leechouse. People talk, don't they? Ha, your Jackie might not, but when she's under the scalpel, I'm hoping you'll find yourself more willing to cooperate. It's just a matter of time before the underworld spits something out. It always is." His tongue sneaked out and back. "How many of you are in the city?"

Kalsin didn't answer. His eyes were set behind the collector and lodged onto an empty ivory lectern next to one of the crossbowmen. 

The collector's backhand came from nowhere, rocking Kalsin on the chair and nearly making him topple. He flexed his aching jaw as he tasted blood from a bit tongue. It made him clench his teeth that much more desperately. Too early.

"Ugly little thing, is it not, Xil?" Quin asked, standing above Kalsin and leaning in.

"It is, collector," the woman answered from somewhere behind.

Kalsin shivered as Quin pressed a finger to his scar, pushing at it none too gently. "It is, ey? Rotten through and through, though I fail to see why the overworld acts like it's the plague. Squeamish bunch. I mean, come now. Peeling a dried fruit had never killed anyone." With those words, the collector furrowed his nails into the blackened cavity between Kalsin’s eyes, and scratched. 

This time Kalsin couldn't stop a cry from escaping him as deep-rooted pain raked him. He violently pulled his head away and would've fallen, but he felt rough hands keeping him in place.

"Where did you gather? Who is the seb-hordozó?"

There you go. You can sing if you want to. Kalsin actually laughed out, intercepting a grunt on its passage out and mixing into an odd choking sound as a result. The collector might've taken that as encouragement, because he motioned for Xil to push Kalsin's shirt sleeve all the way up to his shoulder. "What did you mean to accomplish in Remallon? What do you know about the seb-hordozó? Who is it?"

Though he had been determined from the start, it wasn’t easy to watch as Quin, almost casually, swept the scalpel across his upper forearm. Skin parted in artful slowness and blood gushed from the surgically proportioned opening, sending a wave of agony through him. Kalsin glared at Quin, spitting the red gob that had pooled in his mouth and hitting the collector's frock coat with it.

The questions kept coming. "What's the destination of the azTél siblings? The hordozó, where is it?" As if following a secluded treasure map, the collector's blade always sliced with purpose, always making sure to stray from cutting too deep, and the twin-questions always mentioning this strange title. 

Kalsin mumbled something, trying to stay lucid. A fog of merciful drowsiness descended on his mind and dulled the pain, steadily taking hold. He smiled as he felt the effects of the sedative starting to work.

You hear the strangest things among like minded professionals who spend their days hunting the non-human. Like, for example, the curious effects of nocnitsa tears when mixed with blood. Tears, courtesy of the vials he'd rubbed all over himself before entering this trap, and blood supplied by his own surely-to-be-tortured self.

As if on command, the back door burst open and flew through the building like a boulder from a catapult, hitting a crossbowman and sending him under with a crunch. Her large kite shield blocked most of Jack as she marched into the workshop, face covered by cloth from the nose down. She blocked the hastily fired bolt from the remaining crossbowman and she surged, barreling into him with enhanced speed and power. On impact with the shield's hard steel-plate, the man's head banged like a bell and he collapsed in a heap.

Kalsin wrenched his body sideways in the chair and kicked at the collector’s groin, scoring a solid hit on his kneecap to make him buckle. But he couldn’t stop Xil from rushing against Jack.

Or tried to rush. Because the airborne, odorless sedative had done its job; his torturers had been close to him, inhaling the weakening gas for minutes without knowing, without having an inkling about the cause of their reluctant wits and limbs. They could've had the field-leveling powers of the Arches and it wouldn't have mattered when keeping their eyes open was a battle itself.

Preparation and a good plan always beats outright strength and numbers.

Xil was on Jack in a heartbeat, moving with surge too quick to follow as the pangs of sword against shield rang out. In only a second they must've traded a dozen blows while depleting their surges in the short term, going back to regular melee. Jack's shorter sword lashed out from behind her shield, which Xil parried and countered, but could not find a gap in her defense. 

Meanwhile, Quin just kept groaning on the floor as he stared at his hand, a glove of shifting earth coating his fist. That confirmed him being at least spark, overworld. Except his manifestation was winking in and out, pebbles raining and disappearing halfway to the floor. He made a faltering lurch toward the duel—and then promptly passed out. The combination of the airborne sedative and drunkenness must've resulted in an ugly relationship.

Unfortunately, Kalsin wasn’t faring much better. He was off the chair, but he could do little more than act out a sack of peeled potato’s live impression with his wrists tied together and arm bleeding all over the floor. He made sure to grab his sheathed sword, though.

Clenn or no, Xil alone wasn't a match for Jack. After another bout of surge, Jack used her superior mass to barrel past Xil's guard, then bashed her forehead into the woman's nose. There was a crunch, a thud of sword falling on wood, followed by that of a limp body. 

Sounds went soft and distant as the edges of Kalsin's vision dimmed, but still he could make out murder on Jack's face as she stared at the unconscious city officials. Gasping, he strained out the words. "No, Jack. Please. No killing."

And with that, his mind finally winked out.

7 - Picking up the Trail

"Garbage," Kalsin said, wrapping another piece of paper into a ball and tossing it in the dusty corner to add to the forming pile. He grimaced as the movement sent a spike of pain across his bandaged arm. 

Sunlight glinted through the boarded windows, adding to the already considerable heat and making the air oppressive on the lungs. A pair of cabinets yawned empty on the wall, an upturned bench was getting idly picked at by a one-armed rogue, and a moth-eaten mattress was currently supporting two hundred pounds of sullen bodyguard. Jack had found this out-of-place lodging, as it suited their needs to recover and decide on their next move. She also couldn't have possibly carried him all the way back to the inn they were staying at.

"Requesting the investigation and prosecution of Jona Smmith, as well as hasty return of—or compensation for," Kalsin muttered, "the stolen laundry." He looked up at Cinder. "Any chance the azTél siblings operate an underground boutique? Outfit here today, heretic style."

"A fashion sense to die for, that."

Kalsin added the letter to the trash pile. As he thumbed through the remaining papers, he couldn't help but shoot an apprehensive look at Jack. Their plan had worked; they learned a pair of names—seb-hordozó and azTél—as well as access to the collector's stash of intelligence. Generally, letters were sent to the leechouse, but there was a good chance the ones carried by the collector himself would be the freshest, most relevant information at hand. Even the most tame citizen could turn into a spy if the price was right, and the leechouse paid handsomely for anything concerning the law.

As for what this whole affair cost them, Kalsin tried not to think about it. 

He was unsuccessful, thinking about it anyway.

"You could've waited another minute. I had everything in order," he said with a bite to his voice.

Jack, her hair untied and covering her sidecuts, slowly sat up and pinned Kalsin with a glare. After a moment, she shook out her hand, as if trying to spray droplets at him.

"Yes, I was weakened from the nocnitsa tears, but so was everyone else. We—" Kalsin stopped, only then realizing what she meant by signaling ‘weakness’. He swallowed. "We talked about this, Jack. We did, and you agreed. You agreed to it. No killing the Clenn."

In their first years, when she had merely been acting as his bodyguard, this topic was a point of division for them. Tantrums, arguments, painful fistfights followed. Even as their reluctant partnership grew into rock solid friendship, loyalty sealed by drop upon drop of human and mythos blood, they had never bridged this particular gap. Jack insisted his unwillingness to kill Clenn was a weakness, a fool's tenacity. 

But how could he, with clear conscience, kill the very thing he wanted to become? Maybe he didn’t want to admit it… but his parents’ teachings were too ingrained to confront. Let alone change.

Jack put her wrists together as if shackled, they gestured toward the window, at the city.

Kalsin shook his head. "They won't launch a manhunt against us. I doubt even as little as wanted posters will go out, so long as we don’t resort to murder. Catching people is secondary to the secret service; no, they're trying to root out an idea. The whole thing has to be kept in a tight sheath, otherwise our jobs would be a hell of a lot easier. They can’t just announce that heretics exist."

Jack picked up the scribbled note she'd prepared for him when he had woken. Though they had learned to communicate just fine, sometimes more complex discussions had to be conducted through written speech. She frowned for a second, then wrote on the back, flipping it to let him see. I should've killed the collector and his bitch.

“For what, for doing his job?”

She jumped up, screaming at him without sound. He fucking hurt you! 

She then sharply turned away, covering her lips that he couldn’t help but read.

Though it took effort, Kalsin did not reply. That package of stuffed away feelings was better left untouched. Better to pretend he didn’t understand. He refocused his attention on the collector's letters. 

Minutes passed in heavy silence with only the irregular pattern of wind-rattled boards breaking the monotony. Just as he was nearing the end of his patience, Kalsin found something. He read through the paper once, twice, then taking a moment to clear his throat, he read it aloud.

"Heretics primed to flee the city under Blindlight via darkfinder, hive. Intersect at O;NW;two-fifty-two. Optics advised."

Cinder was at his shoulder in an instant, eyeing the note. She let out a snort. "Just our luck. The message we're looking for ends up being the coded one."

"Now, no need to be a sore winner." Kalsin waved the note in the air. "How many darkfinders operate in Remallon, in your estimation?"

"It does say hive, so we can rule out the Clenn side of the business," Cinder mused. "Which makes sense. The heretics being Scarrd, they could hardly approach an abyss to navigate them out of the city. Cuts our potential 'finders in half."

Jack stared at Kalsin with a strange look on her face as Cinder rambled on. 

"People are flooding the city to witness the wedding ceremony. Darkfinders will be looking to make big money smuggling folk inward now that they can crank the rates to high heavens. So passages going the opposite way? Should be scarce. If any."

Kalsin nodded. "Meaning, if there's a single hive darkfinder currently staying in Remallon—which we know there is," he tapped the note, "then we likely have the group we need to find these azTél siblings. And by proxy, follow the trail of the cure. Blindlight is just around the corner. Two days tops." He glanced at his sister, pausing.

Cinder raised a preemptive hand. "Gotta keep my Clenn ass out of this one, I know. As per usual." If there was bitterness in her tone, Kalsin couldn't hear it. It still hurt, though. It pained to see his sister act so casually about being put on the side, time after unending time.

Cinder fished around in their bag until she found the map she'd marked. "I'm leaving this with you. I'll be waiting along the fracture we discussed. You know, to go fossegrim hunting."

As Kalsin reached for the map, Cinder stopped him with a firm stump to his chest, face grim with badly hidden concern. "Careful from this point forward, yeah? You have no more tricks up your sleeve. All resources exhausted, all lines drawn. Only this lead is what we have left. This lead, and our lives. If a crossroads comes, and you have to decide between the two, do not even think about choosing anything but the latter."

Kalsin politely declined the suggestion, though he didn't say it out loud. 

If such a time came, he'd take it all.

8 - Darkfinder

When first hearing the term 'underworld', people might be inclined to think of dark tidings. Mind altering, will-bending substances. Knives under the sleeve. Shady figures dealing in shady goods in shady alleyways. They'd be right to a small extent, but only if you consider the bottom of the barrel as the whole and nothing else besides.

The underworld was a catch-all term for the lower part of society, from the Clenn nails and Scarred dirts, roots and rots, up to abysses and hives. They had the numbers, and most of them had class and enough wealth to get by. Proper citizens, farmers, artisans and entertainers all paying—or pretending to pay—their taxes to fuel the lifeblood of the Republic as the overworld cared for, governed and protected them. You could expect fair treatment as an underworlder even from the Arches themselves. At least, if you were Clenn.

That being said, today Kalsin delved headfirst into the bottom of the barrel.

He started around inns with reputation for trouble, nursing lonely ales as people attended their much needed drinks and brawls, leaving behind bloody teeth and sour gossip. Innkeepers knew much, so he tried winning their favor by refraining from acting like an obnoxious jackass, which wasn't particularly difficult in the given company. He brought up talk of smuggle for people who did not want to be found. He got turned heads and quick retreats.

Next came brothels, though it took Kalsin some effort to keep his lunch in his stomach with men and women trying to drape their scar-ridden bodies onto one another. It would've been a decent place to learn things had he been swimming in coins. But after all that he had spent, his purse was running light. And he still needed to pay for the darkfinder.

A fruitless afternoon past, as torches were being lit along the roads, Kalsin returned to their inn to find Jack tapping her foot impatiently. She made a grasping motion, face impassive but eyes playing the traitor with their spark. She found what they were looking for. And not a moment too soon. 

The coming Blindlight was nearly upon them, marking the end of the month and remaining for a duration of one, two, maybe three days. Barring an éj-lantern and adequate knowledge, travelling under Blindlight was foolish at best and suicidal at worst, and so darkfinders took it upon themselves to herd the fools where they needed to go. Their business wasn't illegal, per say, but it definitely raised questions why one would pay for the service. Reasonable, everyday folk would simply delay their travels and wait until Warmlight returned.

No. If one hired a 'finder, they did so because they wanted the eye-stinging radiance to cover their trails. They wished to be gone, and to be gone quickly and unseen.

Jack had instructed to pack everything on Sap and Hollow as she led them to the outermost edge of a dense residential area, an unassuming brickwork home blending in with the rest, down to the tended flower pots on the windowsill. The mahogany entrance had a miniature wooden sign nailed on, proclaiming the owner was one 'Bellé Treyant'. Jack made the grasping motion again, now at the sign. Found it. Or perhaps it was her way of saying 'darkfinder'. Their communication was an ever-evolving learning process.

Kalsin didn't ask how she found the darkfinder. Either she had used their services in the past, or junkies spilled information better than drunks. At the end of the day, it made no difference.

Kalsin banged on the door for a good minute before it opened. A woman, wrinkles mapping her dark skin like thin fractures, squinted at them with her one visible eye. The other was covered by an opalescent eyepatch, texture scale-like. "Whatchwant?" she asked. A barb-wired whip was a gentle instrument in comparison to her voice.

Kalsin went to speak, but Jack preceded him with a rapid flurry of hand signs that he couldn't hope to follow if he had a dozen decades. The woman's squint of suspicion shifted into a squint of consideration as she followed along, clearly more versed in the language than he was. 

When Jack finished, the woman looked at Kalsin. "And you?"

Kalsin said, "Yes."

The house from the inside had a militant feel with the sparse furniture only covering the essentials and aligned perfectly with the carpet they stood upon. Devoid from color, nothing but the woman's bright eyepatch and long vibrant fingernails borrowed life to the scenery. After brief introductions, the woman—one Darkfinder Treyant—stayed silent as she led them into an office, though Kalsin caught her glance back and down occasionally, as if sizing up their hands. He had the sudden urge to hide them in his pockets.

She ignored her seat, stopping with a rigid posture behind her desk instead. Kalsin found himself looking for her scar, and realized she didn't have it on display. He frowned, instincts kicking in.

"Candy," she proclaimed without a look at the mentioned bowl on her desk. 

Kalsin wasn't partial to sweets, but Jack shrugged, palming half the bowl into her pocket with one move. Something to keep her leaf craving in check, he figured.

"Fee?" Treyant croaked. "You got no money, you get no deal. Not open to charity cases."

As Kalsin counted out the slightly outrageous, though expected amount of payment, he was acutely aware of Treyant's rapt attention hanging on not the coins, but the tip of his fingers. She scooped up the small pile with a that's-that sort of private nod. 

"When—"

"My assistant is leading your bahten to the square as we speak," Treyant spoke over him. "You will stay the night. One, because I don't trust you to rat me out and two, because last-minute arrivals get no leeway in say-so. You will obey me under Blindlight, and you will start practicing now. Those éj-lanterns at your belts, do you know how to use them?"

"We get by under the light," Kalsin drawled with a carefully measured tone. As hunters, they had to learn to navigate under Blindlight. Which meant they mostly avoided getting hopelessly lost.

"Not well enough, or you'd not be weighing my purse."

Treyant rifled through a drawer until she got her rainbow-clawed hands on a key. She lobbed it over to Jack. "Room's upstairs, first door you see, shitter on the right. We leave for the square while it's dark and wait for the rest of my clients until Blindlight rises. You sleep overtime, you lag behind, you're done."

A few hours, a quick nap, and a brief test of the shitter later, Kalsin and Jack were tailing the darkfinder toward the central part of the city. Torches were burning low in the pre-morning air as darkness ruled the empty streets. A creeping cold heralded the coming day, and so they had donned warm clothes to prepare. 

Treyant wasn't strong on words, but when asked, she gave a rough explanation about the route she'd planned. With the city's heart as a starting point, anyone hunting their trails would have a hard time predicting the direction they'd take, let alone their destination. Once outside the walls, the darkfinder’s primary goal would be one thing; put as much distance between them and the city as possible while Blindlight lasts. The length of which, of course, being a toss of the dice. 

In that time, Kalsin had three objectives: discover the identity of the heretics, convince them about his goodwill, and safely part from the group before the lawmen ambushed them. All accomplished with a looming chance of a spy—who likely sent the collector the note—hiding in their midst.

The main square of Remallon stretched out in a long expanse of smooth shellstone, its uninterrupted flow halted only by Midlane, where the dark outline of the wall that separated the two districts seemed small and subdued, as if cowed by the vast openness before it. The square descended into shadow at its center, touched by fading lights that shrank to pinpricks—framing the edges and converging at the far end like frozen fireflies.

They waited under the northmost cluster of torches. Kalsin couldn't see anyone beside their group. It was the same in every city around this time. By now, citizens had their shutters drawn, curtains sewn and reinforced with twice the fabric. The homeless had retreated to find, dig or kick empty the nearest secluded holes. Guard patrols had been postponed as they huddled in their barracks. Even stray cats knew better than to stay outside as they sought refuge in drainage pipes, abandoned crates, hollow floorboards in a terrace.

Boots echoed on stone, drawing closer.

The first arrival came alone, draped in a cloak with not much to cover, his scrawny figure not doing any favors to the scar that was left breathing on his skeletal collarbone. When he approached, Treyant reached in to draw back his hood, gave that private nod, then resumed ignoring them all. It must've been the assistant, because he had Sap and Hollow behind him. The man handed over their mounts without a word and withdrew.

The cold soon invaded Kalsin's ears, but the fur-lining at his neck stopped it from seeping deeper. He let Sap munch on his hair, the bahten utterly unimpressed by the dropping temperature. Jack had her hands stuffed under her arms, cloak draped over bulky armor plates as Hollow's reins dangled free just an inch from her face. The warlander mount stared attentively into the dark, until his scaled ears went flat and he let out a neigh. 

Next came a younger couple with nerves in their gait, keeping close to one another. The man's bald patch gleamed in the flickering orange light and cast a shine to his restless, oaken eyes. The woman, holding strong to her companion, exchanged a glance and what Kalsin could've almost described as a smile with Treyant. It was hard to tell with the grim darkfinder. 

Like Treyant, the pair considered themselves worthy enough to cover their scars. Kalsin had frustration circle him not unlike a buzzing insect. He shifted away when Sap's tongue attempted to soak his already frosty ear.

Over the next hour, seven more people joined the procession, and none of them came alone. An old man with, Kalsin figured, son and daughter supporting him. Two rough looking women, their sun-baked faces dotted by battle scars and each leading a horse. And lastly, two figures wearing large silk coats similar to priest robes, their hulking cowls resembling the followers of Vadász, god of mystery, deception, and the necessary unknown.

Each group stood apart, uneasy, in their respective circles as Treyant unhooked her éj-lantern, fiddling with the glass. Kalsin smoothed a hand through his mane, trying to get the disrupted field of would-be-bahten-grass in order. There was a crunch, startlingly loud in the night, as Jack started chewing on candy that was probably not meant for such toothy consumption. She grinned at the scarred women.

While some people were good at breaking the ice, Jack rammed through glacial seas with the subtlety of an iron hulled fleet.

"Between all of us, we've three éj-lanterns," Treyant said without preamble. She jerked her head in Kalsin and Jack's direction. "Those two will separate, form a line behind me, and the rest sticks to a carrier like moths to light. Hmph. Bad analogy." She scratched her jaw, and Kalsin only now noticed that where her fingernails had been the color of rainbows yesterday, she'd exchanged them for short but oddly thick, azure blue claws.

Kalsin ended up with the family tagging alongside him, which suited his purpose just fine. His most tangible lead was the fact that these azTél figures were siblings—if Quin was to be believed. Feeling in control during the torture session, it was unlikely the collector had been deceiving him with his questions, but the tiny chance couldn’t be locked out.

Another variable was the heretics themselves. If discovered, their true identities thrown in their face, how would they react? Outright denial. Resorting to violence. Flight soon as opportunity presents itself. All were possibilities that Kalsin wanted to avoid. He'd have to tap around with caution first, give away as little as possible and see where it takes him.

Jack already had a back-and-forth going with the warriors and they puzzled over her meaning, then cracked smiles she got it across. Ever silent, Jack always appeared to be saying a hundred things as she shifted her stance, the way she grimaced, using body language to tell tales more colorful than any word could. One simply couldn't help but feel like she'd known them for a lifetime. The lone man, the assistant, stood nearby but didn't socialize.

As for the rest, the couple and the cowled priests remained alongside Treyant. The darkfinder was completely still as she kept attentively facing east. 

And so they waited.

A thin, white line began to open up and expand toward the horizon. Casting a halo around the backdrop of the city, the light grew by jagged increments in no resemblance whatsoever to Warmlight's slow, steady advance. Its rays were not orange, not yellow, but absolutely and consummately white as it relentlessly washed over the lands, stealing the sky's blue, the roof tiles' rustic, the green of brushes. Colors drained to gray, brightening until the uniform white made them one with itself, bit by bit shrinking their field of vision like a choking glove descending around the throat.

In the year 785, marking the transition from Kis of Summer to Köz of Summer, Blindlight rose above The Ember Republic.-----------If you're enjoying the story, check out my Neon Heartbeats series!https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DSCR2JQG