Chapter 13

Strangers in the Night

Mags left the bathhouse feeling more human than she had in days. Her freshly laundered clothes clung to her clean skin, albeit still torn and scuffed from their recent ordeal. The rips and scratches in her attire were a problem for another day. She ran a hand through her curly hair, feeling the smoothness after a proper wash and condition, and allowed herself a rare moment of contentment.

As they walked back towards the orphanage, Sabo beside her, they decided to spend some of Kruno’s coin on provisions. They purchased salted pork, dark loaves of bread, and a selection of fresh fruit from the market. The scent of the salted meat and the sweet tang of the fruit made Mags’ stomach rumble, and she couldn’t resist buying a handful of figs to munch on as they walked.

“Feeling practically empty,” she muttered, patting her purse, now considerably lighter. “But it’s worth it.”

Sabo chuckled, chewing on an apple. “We’ll manage. At least the kids will have something good to eat.”

Back at the orphanage, Mags and Sabo distributed the food, the children’s faces lighting up at the sight of fresh provisions. Mags settled in the kitchen, savoring the leftover savory pies prepared by Vitomir and the others, filled with onion and chard. It was still delicious, despite being no longer warm. The familiar taste grounded her, bringing a sense of normalcy after the chaos of the Deep. Once her hunger was sated, she made her way to her small, familiar bed, letting the down mattress and quilted sheets take her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

She woke to a persistent banging on her bedroom door. Groggily, she sat up, the colors of dusk peeking through her window. She had slept through the entire afternoon. And I feel like I can still sleep more. With a groan, she walked to the trap door that served as the entrance to her room and opened it, finding Sabo grinning up at her.

“Ready to go?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

Ah, right, Pod Starim. She cleared her throat. “Give me a minute,” she replied, rubbing her eyes before slamming the door shut on Sabo’s face.

“Hey!” he sputtered from behind the door.

image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]

They descended the winding stairs together, Sabo recounting how he convinced Vitomir to join them for the evening. Mags laughed, surprised that the grumpy old man had agreed. “I bet he’s just coming to make sure we don’t have too much fun,” she joked.

Sabo grinned. “With you involved, ‘too much fun’ usually means ‘too much trouble.’” He wasn’t wrong there, Mags had to admit.

In the orphanage proper, Vitomir emerged from one of the bedrooms, having just put the last of the children to sleep. The lines on his face deepened when he saw Mags and Sabo. Mags could tell he had probably heard about their venture into the Deep by now and wasn’t pleased.

“Just a moment,” Vitomir whispered before slipping back into the kitchen. He quickly reemerged and the three set off for Pod Starim, otherwise known by its name in the common tongue as The Old Roof Tavern.

The tavern was a warm and inviting haven, with wooden tables spread throughout and two hearths burning on either side. The smell of roasting meat, fresh bread, and spilled ale filled the air. A large, polished bar sat against the back wall where Pavao, the tavern’s owner, poured drinks for the patrons alongside another barkeep. Pavao was an old, skinny Olenish man with a gleaming shaved head and a large gray beard. His wife, Marta, a heavyset, strong woman, bustled around the room with a large tray stacked with steaming meals, laughing and joking with the patrons as she quickly dispensed their dishes, all while collecting empty bowls and plates that were strewn around the tables.

Mags noted with relief that there wasn’t a single article of clothing in Blackfire colors among the crowd. The mercenaries usually preferred the comforts of Blackfire Manor in the evenings, and Mags was happy they stuck to that preference this night. She assumed it was likely at Kruno’s command, not wanting to draw any attention to the Blackfires after the raid of the nearby Deep.

In one corner of the tavern, a band of locals played an assortment of fiddles and horned instruments, filling the tavern with lively folk music. A man stood near the front, singing in the traditional Olenish style. He sang a single line, and the patrons—usually those with a few drinks already in them—joined in a wail for a refrain. It was known as the gangapa, and Mags knew that later in the night, tables would be cleared for dancing.

Against one of the far walls, men and women threw knives at boards with concentric circles, playing games where the goal was to land the knife in the smallest central circle. Losers were penalized with drinking, and plenty of side bets and gambling surrounded the game.

As they entered, Vitomir and the two orphans were greeted warmly by the locals. Pavao welcomed them with a wide smile. Vitomir ordered a mead for himself and two cream ales for Mags and Sabo. Sabo stepped in and offered to pay, placing his gold coin on the counter with a wide grin splayed on his face.

“I can handle this myself,” Vitomir protested. “That’s your hard-earned coin.” He placed a hand on Sabo’s before Pavao could take the coin.

“I insist,” Sabo said, not letting go of his gold and instead pushing it closer to Pavao. He and Vitomir locked eyes for a second before the old man sighed and relinquished his hand.

“Hard-headed youth,” Vitomir grumbled.

Pavao took the gold coin and produced three tankards and a handful of other coins, which Sabo deposited into a purse he had brought with him.

Vitomir leaned back against the bar, his posture relaxed but his expression stern. “I must hear about this adventure of yours,” he said, his furrowed brows foreboding of a lecture of epic proportions.

Before Mags could respond, Frane, the town blacksmith, spotted Vitomir and called him over to a table occupied by other older men. Vitomir gave Frane a warm smile and a nod of his head before turning back to Mags and Sabo, the smile quickly vanishing and his typical frown taking its place. Vitomir sighed. “We’ll talk another time,” he said, sounding resigned. “Sometimes I forget you’re both still young. I also forget that I was young too, and got myself into a fair amount of trouble in my day. Still got the scars to prove it too.” He took a sip of his mead. “Go, have your fun for tonight. We’ll chat in the morning. I’m happy you are both home, alive and well enough.”

With that, he walked over to join Frane and the others.

Mags and Sabo were struck dumb, able to only stare at each other for a moment. Then, with a shared smile, they clinked their tankards together in a cheer. “To surviving the Deep,” Sabo said, his voice filled with relief and camaraderie.

“And to whatever comes next,” Mags added, taking a deep swig of her ale.

They settled at a table near the knife-throwing game, watching as participants tried their luck. Sabo won a few rounds on a bet, his accuracy impressive. Mags joined in, though her aim wasn’t nearly as sharp, only hitting the middle ring once and not even sniffing the central circle. She opted to sip on her ale and watch the lively scene around her.

After a while, Sabo leaned in, his expression thoughtful. “I feel terrible for Bidelia, you know.”

Mags nodded, her thoughts drifting to the Navigator. “I didn’t think much of her situation, given the entire town is under Kruno’s thumb. But yeah, she’s got it rough.” She didn’t know what else to say.

They continued to watch the games and enjoy the music, the worries of their recent past fading into the background. The warmth of the tavern, the camaraderie of the townsfolk, and the promise of a night’s rest without the looming threat of danger provided a much-needed respite.

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As the night wore on, Mags felt a rare sense of peace settle over her. She glanced at Sabo, who was engaged in another knife-throwing contest, his face alight with determination and joy. Thunk! One knife, wobbling as it struck the wooden board, directly in the center circle. Thunk! Another, this time only an inch to the left.

The gangapa rose in volume as more patrons joined in on the chorus, the air thick with laughter and song. Mags leaned back in her chair, letting the music and the warmth of the tavern envelop her. Her mind drifted to that strange egg, and she wondered what the specific plan was with it. Taking another sip of her ale, she let the thought flutter away as quickly as it had drifted into her head. The trials of the Deep were behind her, and for tonight, that was enough.

image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]

The music in the tavern swelled, filling every corner with its lively rhythm. Wood scraped against stone as patrons pushed tables aside to clear space near the center of the tavern, and soon, the traditional Olenish dance began. Two circles formed, one within the other, hands joined and feet moving in intricate steps that had been passed down through generations. Mags found herself swept into the dance, her feet moving instinctively to the beat, the familiar patterns of movement bringing a sense of unity and joy.

For a couple of songs, she lost herself in the dance, her body moving with the rhythm, sweat beading on her brow. The inner and outer circles moved in opposite directions, the footwork becoming more intricate with each passing moment, everyone raising their linked hands at moments where the upbeat music swelled, shouting, “Oh!” The energy in the room was palpable, a shared euphoria that elevated the spirits of everyone involved.

Eventually, breathless and sticky with sweat, Mags stepped away from the dance floor, making her way to the bar for another ale. The cold drink was a welcome relief, and she savored the moment of stillness after the exuberant movement.

That’s when she noticed them—the strangers in the tavern. They sat alone in a shadowy corner on the periphery of the thrum of activity that filled that place, almost invisible amidst the bustling crowd. The three figures wore hooded cloaks of a deep navy, trimmed in silver, their faces obscured by the shadows of their hoods. An uneasy feeling settled in Mags’ stomach.

“Pavao,” she called out to the tavern owner as he passed by, “who are those people?” She twitched her head over her shoulder toward the hooded strangers.

Pavao glanced towards the corner and lowered his voice. “They arrived in Solstice last night. Same cloaks, same corner. Kept to themselves mostly. Heard some folks say they were asking around town for something, but I didn’t catch the details.”

Mags’ mind raced. These must be the strangers that had Kruno so on edge. She took another sip of her ale, trying to appear casual while keeping an eye on the hooded figures. They didn’t look up, their attention seemingly focused inward, but Mags couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

She returned to Sabo, who was chatting with a young man and woman. Mags couldn’t remember their names, but thought they might be a young couple who lived on one of the farms on the outskirts of town. He noticed her tense expression and frowned. Walking over to her, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

Mags nodded towards the corner. “Those three. Remember those outsiders Kruno mentioned.”

Sabo glanced over, his eyes narrowing. “Think they’re Crown Coalition Forces? I don’t recognize those colors. Should we leave?”

Mags thought for a moment. “Let’s keep an eye on them for now. No need to stir up trouble if we don’t have to. But if they’re asking around town, we should find out what they’re looking for and make sure it has nothing to do with us.”

“Kruno’s got everything from the Deep as far as they’d be concerned,” Mags whispered. “I suggest we just keep on as we were and there shouldn’t be any trouble.”

Sabo agreed with a subtle nod, and they rejoined the festivities. Mags danced a few more rounds. She moved with practiced ease, her feet deftly navigating the intricate steps. After a while, she felt the heat rising in her cheeks and the sweat dampening her clothes. She announced to the group she was dancing with that she needed some air and stepped outside the tavern.

The cool night air was a stark contrast to the warmth inside. Mags walked past a group of men and women smoking hand-rolled tobacco cigarillos outside the tavern’s entrance and wrapped around to the side of the building, recalling a window near the corner of the tavern where the strangers were sitting. A few old casks were stacked against the outside wall of the tavern. She moved them closer to the window. Then, climbing atop the casks and balancing precariously on her toes, she peered inside.

She couldn’t see anything from her vantage point, but voices filtered through the partially open window, speaking in Common. One was a deep, basso tone, thick with an unfamiliar accent. The other two were women, their voices distinct from each other but similarly accented.

“If we know it’s at the manor up the hill, why don’t we just go there now and take it? Before too much trouble is stirred up,” the man said, his frustration evident.

A woman responded, her tone calm and measured. “The threads are tangled, crisscrossing this way and that. Something is telling me we are meant to stay put. At least for now. Just let things play out as they may, Rubicante.”

“And what are we to tell Sarto?” the man asked, impatience creeping into his voice.

“Hush,” the second woman interjected. “I think we’ve got company.”

Mags’ heart skipped a beat. Panic surged through her, and she was about to scramble away when a face appeared in the window. The man had ashen gray skin and large, bronzed yellow eyes. His expression was one of disappointment, like a parent preparing to scold a child.

“If you wanted to join our conversation, you could have simply walked over and asked to take a seat,” he said, his frown deepening. The accent made each word a lilting song.

Mags, caught and without a better excuse, grinned sheepishly. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, really. But I would like to have a chat.” She climbed down from the casks, considering running away into the night, but too curious to leave at this point. She headed back inside the tavern and, squaring her shoulders, approached the table where the strangers sat.

As she drew near, Mags noticed that an emblem was stitched onto the chest of the group’s cloaks in the same silver as the trim. An open eye with a tear dripping from it, ending in a sunburst—above the eye, a leaping hound, extended. “Mind if I sit?” Mags asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

The man with the bronzed eyes gestured to an empty chair. “Please.”

Mags spotted Sabo across the room. He had noticed her approaching the table of strangers and a terrified expression was frozen on his face. She settled into the chair, her curiosity bubbling over. “What brings you three to Solstice?”

“Four,” one of the women said. She had icy blue eyes and light tan skin. She pointed a finger downwards and Mags followed her finger, peaking under the table to find a man sleeping there. He was curled up in the cloak as though it were a blanket and snoring soundly as if he weren’t under a table in the middle of a crowded tavern. That’s extremely strange, she thought.

Mags brought her head back above the table. The second woman chimed in, “I find it best if you simply ignore him. Wondering why someone would sleep there of all places is an exercise in futility and he simply isn’t worth the mental effort.” She leaned forward, her chin propped on her closed hand. She was darker skinned and had dark eyes too.

“Erm, so what brings the four of you to Solstice?” Mags asked.

“We’re simply passing through,” the blue-eyed woman replied.

“Where from?” Mags pressed.

“Far from here,” the man said, exchanging a glance with the blue-eyed woman.

“Why Solstice? Are you with the Coalition?”

“Sometimes you can’t choose exactly where your journey brings you, but glad to have a warm tavern instead of roughing it, aren’t we?” said the blue-eyed woman, looking at her comrades.

“We’re looking for something,” the darker-skinned woman added, her voice softer but no less intense. “And it may have found its way into this town.”

Mags felt a prickle of unease. “Anything you’re looking for in Solstice can likely be found anywhere along the countryside. Not much here besides the usual crop.”

“Not olives and lavender we’re after,” the man said. His eyes narrowed slightly. “That big house up on the hill. Who lives there?”

“Oh, Blackfire Manor,” Mags said. “Kruno and the Blackfire Company. Nothing more than thugs who pretend to collect taxes, and subject us hardworking folk to a monthly protection fee.”

“Can’t say I’m familiar with any licensed Company that goes by Blackfire,” said the man. He took a carved, wooden pipe from one of the pockets of his cloak, biting its stem.

The strangers exchanged looks, a silent conversation passing between them. The blue-eyed woman turned back to Mags. “And you? Where do you live?”

“At the orphanage,” Mags replied, noting their surprise.

“A small town to have enough orphans for a full-fledged orphanage,” Blue-eyes said.

“We’re all outsiders,” Mags responded, “survivors . . . of Maldrath attacks.”

“Ah, from the A-M-Z?” the man asked, his tone softening with understanding.

Mags nodded. The Annexed Miasma Zone. Dark memories threatened to surface. She pushed them away, focusing on the present.

“Why were you eavesdropping on us, girl?” Dark-eyes asked, her gaze piercing.

Mags took a deep breath, meeting her gaze. “I was curious is all. Solstice doesn’t get many outsiders, and definitely not foreigners like yourselves.”

The strangers seemed to accept this explanation. “Well, hopefully we’ve satisfied your curiosity,” said the man around the stem of his pipe.

“Enough, for now,” Mags said, smiling. “If you’re in town tomorrow, I think I’ll probably have a few more questions.”

“Happy to answer them.” The man smiled, bronze eyes glinting in the warm glow of the tavern.

Mags wished them a good evening and rejoined the crowd near the knife-throwing boards, her mind swirling with questions.

As the night wore on, Mags felt the weight of exhaustion settle over her. She stepped out of the tavern and into the chill of night, ready to head home. At that moment, the entire town seemed to fall silent, as though all sound were drained from the air. Even the open tavern door behind her was only a muffled buzz, as though she were listening through water. The eastern horizon erupted in a flash of blue light. Then, a beam of light split the darkness, a blue beacon shooting up to the sky from the eastern edge of town. Her stomach dropped, and her blood froze in her veins.

Something had ignited the warding stone.