The next morning dawned hazy, the atmosphere in Amberheart still tense from the events of the day before. Silas, Rowan, and Layla made their way through the bustling market district, heading toward the Elders’ Council Hall. The streets felt heavier than usual, as if the air itself had grown thick with the tension simmering beneath the surface. Vendors spoke in hushed tones, and there was a palpable tension in the air, like something simmering beneath the surface.

Silas caught the furtive glances shared between merchants and buyers, the stiffened postures of the guards who stood at every corner. It was like the city was holding its breath, waiting for the next crack in its fragile calm.

Rowan’s sharp ears caught a snippet of conversation from a group gathered around a trader as they walked. The man was gesturing animatedly, his voice carrying over the murmur of the crowd.

“... I’m telling you, the whole city of Tullamore is in chaos. MarchionessAmelia Remington was lynched by a mob right there at her husband’s funeral! Beaten to death along with her guards!”

Rowan exchanged a quick, grim glance with Silas and Layla. The news was shocking. Was Marchioness Amelia Remington, another of the region’s most prominent nobles, dead? It didn’t seem too far-fetched, given the current circumstances... But beaten to death by a mob?

He stepped forward with an easy smile, trying to slip into the conversation. “That’s terrible news,” he said, voice friendly. “Did you see it yourself?”

The trader looked at him, his expression tinged with annoyance at the interruption but softened by Rowan’s interest. “I didn’t see it, no, but it’s all anyone in the city is talking about! They say she was giving some speech at her husband’s funeral when out of nowhere this mob comes crashing in. Clubs, axes, blades—hell, even kitchen knives. They... cut her apart. Right there in front of everyone! Afterward, they left some kind of message written in blood at the scene and dispersed. Real disturbing stuff.”

Silas’s brow furrowed. “What kind of message?”

The trader leaned in, clearly eager to share the grim details. “It was scrawled on the walls—said word for word as my buddy told me, ‘Unfaithful to husband, to Lord, to the world. A vile harlot who lives for twisted pleasure, reveling in torture and sin. She deserves nothing but a brutal death.’ Can you believe that? Fucking poets turned murderers!”

Rowan frowned, the scepticism clear in his expression. “But the Marchioness was a powerful Soulweaver, wasn’t she? And she would have had her own Soulweavers protecting her. How could a mob take her down?”

The trader’s face darkened at the suggestion of disbelief, his irritation growing. “Are you calling me a liar?” His voice rose, drawing a few looks from nearby passersby. “I don’t care if she had ten Soulweavers—she’s dead! The whole damn city’s gone mad since then. The authorities started chopping off heads in the commoners’ district, thinking they were part of the mob. Then, all the fucking people started rioting. I barely escaped with my life before they locked down the entire city.”

Rowan held up his hands, trying to calm the man down. “No need to get mad. I was just asking.”

But the trader wasn’t having it. “You think you know better than me, huh?” he spat. “Try living through a city on fire and see how sceptical you are then. These self-righteous murderers—spouting their poetry—are making it worse for everyone. I only went to Tullamore to trade and nearly lost my head. I’m never setting foot in that cursed region again.”

Rowan, sensing the rising hostility, nodded apologetically and backed away. He rejoined Silas and Layla, his expression troubled. “It sounds like Tullamore’s in total chaos,” he said, voice low. “But something doesn’t add up. There’s no way a regular mob could’ve killed someone like the Marchioness and her guards.”

Silas’s brow furrowed as he considered the trader’s words. 'If she’s really dead...' He paused, thinking it over. 'It couldn’t have been a regular mob. A Marchioness with Soulweaver protection—someone would have seen it coming. Right?' He glanced at Rowan for confirmation.

Rowan nodded, “Yeah, Soulweavers must have hid in among regular people.”

Layla nodded, her face grim. “And the mob might not have been acting on their own. They could’ve been instigated by the same people who killed the others.”

Silas glanced around the bustling marketplace, the weight of this new information settling heavily on his shoulders. “Fantastic. A fucking rebellion, and we’re all being played like puppets." Silas’s voice was low, laced with bitter frustration. "Whoever’s behind this, they’ve already got the strings in their hands.”

With sombre expressions, the three of them continued their journey through the city, their minds racing with the implications of what they had heard.

They walked the remaining distance to the Elders’ Council Hall in tense silence, each lost in thought about Tullamore’s fate. By the time they reached the building, the air around them seemed to carry the same heaviness that had fallen over the city.

The grand building loomed before them, its stone facade towering over the busy street. Rowan and Layla approached the guards stationed at the entrance.

“We’d like to report on the success of our Soulweaver Trials,” Rowan said, his voice steady. “We’ve completed the investigation in Ironvale.”

The guards, recognising Layla immediately, straightened up and saluted. “Lady Layla,” one of them said with deference. “The Elders are in the middle of something important right now. They’re not taking any meetings at the moment.”

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Rowan and Layla exchanged a glance, unease creeping into their expressions. It was rare for the Elders to be unavailable, especially when reporting the completion of a trial—a fact that only added to the growing sense that something bigger was stirring in Amberheart. But Layla smiled politely and pulled out a sealed letter.

“I understand,” she said. “However, we have a letter of recommendation from Countess Elara, and this also serves as proof that we successfully passed the Trial of the Vanished.

Please make sure it reaches the Elders as soon as possible.”

The guard bowed respectfully and accepted the letter. “Of course, Lady Layla. I’ll ensure this reaches them right away.”

Layla nodded, her calm demeanour never faltering. “Thank you.”

With their message delivered, the three of them stepped away from the entrance, moving out of earshot of the guards.

“What do you think’s going on inside?” Rowan asked, casting a glance back toward the council hall.

“Something big,” Silas muttered. “If the Marchioness is really dead, and if the city of Tullamore is in chaos, it could have far-reaching consequences for the other noble houses. The Elders are probably scrambling to make sense of it all.”

Layla crossed her arms, her brow furrowed in thought. “Whatever’s happening, it feels like things are about to get much worse.”

Silas nodded, his gaze hardening as he looked out over the city. The events in Tullamore were only the beginning, and he had a sinking feeling that the unrest was spreading faster than anyone realised.

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Late into the night, when the moon hung low in the sky, casting its pale light over the slumbering city of Amberheart, Sullivan woke abruptly. A soft but undeniable sensation pulled at his consciousness—an aetheric call, faint but distinct. His senses, finely attuned to such disturbances, recognized the voice within it. Someone, or something, was reaching out to him.

“I am here,” the voice whispered, like a distant echo in his mind.

Sullivan sat up, the remnants of sleep quickly fading as the gravity of the call set in. He rose from his bed and donned a simple, black cloak without hesitation. It concealed him in the shadows, blending seamlessly with the night’s darkness. He slipped silently from his quarters, the manor’s silence following him like a ghost as he stepped into the cool embrace of the night air. The distant murmur of the city reached his ears, but his path lay far from Amberheart’s heart, toward the city's darker edges.

The streets of Amberheart were quiet at this hour, and most of the city’s residents were tucked away in their homes. But Sullivan wasn’t headed toward the heart of the city. His destination lay far from the more respectable districts’ polished halls and cobbled streets. He was heading for the outskirts—a place the locals referred to as “the place of vice.”

Every major city in Amberfell had such places. They were areas steeped in indulgence, where law and order bent to the will of chaos. On the fringes of Amberheart, where the city’s civility bled into vice, the district hummed with the chaotic energy of indulgence. Here, the watchful eyes of the authorities turned blind, allowing shadows to rule the streets.

Noisy taverns spilt their crude laughter into the streets, and the heavy scent of cheap alcohol, burning incense and lust filled the air. Women draped in garish silks and revealing outfits lingered at doorways, calling out to passing men with sweet, sultry voices.

Even in times of uncertainty, when rumours of unrest and violence swirled through the kingdom like a dark storm, these places of vice thrived. People still sought distraction—revelling in drink, women, and gambling to numb the ever-present sense of dread.

As Sullivan passed, one of the women, a prostitute with a painted smile, reached out and tried to catch his arm. “Looking for some fun tonight, love?” she called, her voice dripping with false affection.

Sullivan barely glanced her way, walking with purpose. He didn’t respond. His thoughts focused entirely on his destination. His presence felt like a shadow passing through the revelry, unnoticed by most but unmistakably out of place. Eventually, the district’s bright lights and raucous laughter faded behind him as he turned down a narrow, deserted alley. It was quieter here, the echoes of vice replaced by a chilling stillness.

At the very end of the alley stood an old, broken-down house. Its windows were boarded up, and its door hung slightly ajar as though forgotten by time. This place had long been abandoned by those seeking pleasure or shelter, but Sullivan knew it served a different purpose now.

He approached the door and knocked twice, paused, then knocked three times more. The pattern echoed briefly in the silence before the door creaked open. A man stood in the shadows, his face partially obscured, but Sullivan recognized him immediately.

Without a word, they both stepped inside. The door closed behind them with a heavy thud, the noise cutting off the last vestiges of sound from the outside world. The interior was as decrepit as the exterior—dusty, cobwebbed corners, broken furniture—but it served its purpose. A single flickering lantern cast long, wavering shadows along the walls as the two men settled into the room.

The man, who had yet to speak, turned to Sullivan. His gaze was sharp and calculating. “What of Silas’s mark?” he asked, his voice low yet domineering.

Sullivan hesitated for a moment, thinking back to the mark he had seen on Silas’s body. “It’s the Lonestar Mark,” Sullivan muttered, almost grudgingly. “Incomplete… but unmistakable.

The man’s face darkened as he considered the implications of this. “If that’s true, then Silas may be in danger. If anyone with knowledge of the mark sees it, they’ll know who he is.”

Sullivan leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “That much is certain,” he agreed, his voice calm but laced with concern. “But danger was always part of his fate.”

The man across from him rubbed his chin, deep in thought. After a long pause, he said, “He must bear it, Sullivan. He can’t shy away from his origin just because it’s dangerous. The mark is part of who he is. No one can escape that.”

Sullivan nodded slowly. “Perhaps,” he murmured, though a shadow of doubt passed over his face. “But should we just stand by and leave him to his own devices? You know what the mark means. It could drag him into something far worse than he’s ready for.”

The man’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, a cold gleam in his gaze. “And do you wish for Silas to not stray from his fate?”

Sullivan smiled faintly. “I’d consider it a victory if he walked away from this mess, free of the chains our lineage carries. Hell, if my own wish dies because of it… so be it.”

The man sighed heavily, his gaze softening momentarily before hardening again. “If Silas strays from his fate, then I will take his place. I’ll see your wish fulfilled, Sullivan. No matter what.”

Sullivan smiled, comforted by the promise. “That’s fine too.”

He stood, preparing to leave, but the man’s voice called out again as he reached for the door. The words cut through the silence like a blade. “You need to tell him the truth about his mother.”

Sullivan froze, his hand hovering over the door handle. Slowly, he turned, his expression darkening. “That will only complicate things. You know what it could do to him if he learns her real name.”

The man’s eyes were cold, unrelenting. “Complicate things for Silas, or for the overarching plan?”

Silence fell between them, heavy and tense. Sullivan clenched his jaw but said nothing.

The man’s voice softened, though it held an edge of bitterness. “He deserves to know, Sullivan. You owe her that much.” His glare intensified as he added, “And you owe me this.”

Sullivan’s chest tightened, the memories of Silas’s mother swirling in his mind. The weight of the secret pressed heavily on him, but he forced a weary sigh through clenched teeth. “Fine,” he muttered, defeated. “I’ll tell him… when the time is right.” The weight of the promise hanging in the air like a curse.

“Also, give him this,” the man said, pressing a beautifully ornate amulet into Sullivan’s hand. The amulet resembled a radiant circular medallion, intricately detailed with silver engravings. Nine orbs encircled its centre, each hanging from finely crafted links of chain. The centre of the amulet glowed softly with a golden light as if holding an ancient power within. Eight of the nine orbs rested in a delicate silence, their pearly surfaces gleaming but devoid of light. But one of them glowed faintly with a faint golden hue.

Sullivan’s eyes widened. His grip tightened on the amulet as he stammered, “Y-You’re giving this to Silas? Have you lost your mind?!”

The man exhaled slowly, his expression heavy with understanding. “I understand its importance, just as much as you do. But... Silas might need it one day. Gods willing, that day never comes.”

Sullivan muttered something bitter under his breath, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Fine. I’ll give it to him.”

The man’s gaze hardened as he added, “Tell him to make sure he doesn’t lose it—or the three of us are fucked.”

Sullivan nodded and with that, he turned once more and left the house, stepping out into the cold, silent night.