Bastian was unable to join the mayor’s hunting party, but the morning spent with the natives of High Haven did not reveal much new information. They had forewarned him the day before to expect chaos with a returning caravan, but not so today when none had set off in the morning. Instead they chatted about a recent engagement and other idle gossip, similar to the pilgrims. Just as he had considered at dawn, the details did not match up. Shouldn’t the inhabitants be growing sick and tired of their enforced isolation, seeking to break free of the Vigilant control from within? Bastian gathered that a constant stream of pilgrims provided the town with most of its business, keeping inns full and pay well earned. Here they seemed to be volunteering their services instead to the shanty town at their gate, and inside their families were almost idle waiting for the self-enforced siege to cease. There was frustration, but not the anger there should have been this many months in.

As they returned unsuccessfully to the fire pit, where a downcast pilgrim greeted them and thanked them for their efforts anyway, Bastian finally grew curious enough to outright ask one of the hunters as they trotted back to Clara’s tent to check in.

“I don’t understand, you do this every day for what?”

The hunter looked at him, brows furrowed, “What do you mean?”

Bastian gestured around them, “The pilgrims have used all their coins, they are not paying you. Why help them?”

“You can’t be suggesting we just leave them to die?”

Bastian shook his head, “No, but you must have family too right? Back behind the walls? Shouldn’t you care for your own first?”

There was a tension in the man’s brows that lingered a little too long, a quirk in the corner of his mouth, the question seemed to unleash a trickle of anxiety, “My sister has three children, two growing boys. The rations from the caravans are not enough and the boys cry themselves to sleep hungry each evening… I have said twice now to Gail that we would be better spent bring the meat back within the walls, especially on a day like yesterday where the hunt went well… and yet,” there was a shift in his face again, the building frustration of his words seemed to falter and trickle away and his face became downcast instead, “and yet, we can’t leave them out here either. So we must wait for the Vigilants to open the gate again.”

Bastian glanced at his peers, none of them seemed to register the strange progression of emotions as odd. “And when will that be?”

“They give no answers,” said another of the men.

“And so you do this day in and out with no end? You’ll watch your nephews go hungry?” needled Bastian.

The downcast eyes did not shift, true emotion did not rise like it had before when the cover had slipped, “If that is how it must be.”

Bastian let them be, his confusion growing.

—

After midday, Bastian slipped from the hunting parties to the shadow of the wall again to watch for the encampment guards changing watch. They moved exactly as he guessed they would from observing the morning change, and he crept close via the gate to slip between the tents from their blind spots where they kept their backs to the wall.

He knew which tent he was after and moved within the encampment with ease. Their guard was performatory at best, they had grown relaxed and complacent with the pilgrims as their only company. He found the Prince’s tent and an ear pressed to the side confirmed it empty, so he moved on through the camp in search of his target. A few voices drew him to the edge where the makeshift pasture had been assembled using felled logs. He spotted the Prince chatting with an advisor, sitting at the edge watching the black horse graze.

The Citrine Prince wore black like the day before, his serpent broach clearly displayed upon his chest. He seemed tired by whatever his retainer wanted to discuss, and quickly gestured the woman away with an exasperated expression. He then leant on one knee against the cut log, and brooded over the meadow below.

Bastian snuck forward, and announced himself with a clearing of his throat.

The Prince swung, his facial expression changing from one ready to dismiss an unwelcome retainer to eyes wide with panic in moments. Before he could open his mouth, Bastian raised his hands palm open in surrender, his daggers hooked with two fingers in his left hand for the Prince to see.

“I just want to talk,” he insisted, and with calm, exaggerated gestures tossed his daggers to the Prince’s feet.

“You’re from last night,” he hissed as he regained his composure, he did not call his guard.

Bastian nodded, “May I sit?”

The Prince looked down his nose at him, then sniffed and gestured permission to join him, “You are awfully familiar,” he commented.

Bastian did not give an answer, and instead sat and made a show of disarming his bow and propping on the log next to him.

“I seek the same goals you do, you’ve obviously been here a while. Your guard is lax,” returned Bastian.

The Prince tsk’d disapprovingly, “I see that. What are you?”

Bastian held up a single finger in gentle rebuke, “I’ll not ask your secrets, you don’t ask mine. But I would learn at least why a Prince of the Second has struggled like any commoner to gain access to the Chapel.”

The Prince folded his arms, “Careful of your words. I could call my guard.”

“But you won’t,” replied Bastian blandly, calling his bluff. He had more to gain by hearing Bastian out.

The Prince held his steely stance for a moment longer, then just like the night before, seemed to soften as time passed. Surprisingly he sat with Bastian, albeit at an arm’s length, and folded his arms as he watched his horse.

“There is something foul in the air here,” he said finally, “The Vigilants are working some spell that turns men's minds from the gate. My retainers and guards have one by one become slack and unresponsive to my commands if I urge them too close. I even feel it myself, why else would I sit here and tell you this as if I too am resigned?”

He kicked a meadow weed in frustration, attracting his horse’s attention. It raised its head and put its ears flat.

“You have proof of this?” asked Bastian.

“I have seen it, I do not need proof!” snapped the Prince, “Why else would my own guard hesitate when I tell them to take axes to the gate? Why am I still here waiting like a common peasant if I am not bewitched too?”

Bastian refrained from giving a response. Some Fae magic spun about would explain his own observations, but it was certainly a noble's arrogance that could give an answer like that. Val had something of her own magic, even if she did not fully understand or control it, and she had spoken of a buzzing in the air. The question then was how long would they go unaffected?

“How long did it take to start?” asked Bastian.

The Prince caught his meaning and gestured broadly with his hands, “I suspect within a day, upon reflection. Nothing is right here, and likely you will already be warped by it too. They toy with our minds, as if they think themselves equal to the gods they worship.” He spat these final words with fierce derision. Something powerful must have motivated the Second Pentarchy to come to them then, and motivated the Citrine Prince yet to stay, despite his obvious hatred for the Vigilants.

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“I make no promises then,” said Bastian calmly, picking up his bow again, “But thank you for the information.”

The Prince wrinkled his nose as if disgusted by a bad smell, “I’ll have you killed if you are caught sneaking in again,” he declared.

Bastian nodded briefly, picking up his daggers, “I’ll see myself out. Let your guard captain know to tighten his watch.”

As Bastian passed by the gate on his return, he curiously placed one flat hand to the symbol of the eye emblazoned across it. He searched his feelings for a compulsion to turn away, and felt none. He even thought very hard about breaking down the door, how it might be achieved with a team of pilgrims and the right tree trunk hoisted from a makeshift scaffold as a battering ram, but no thought in his head seemed to slip from his purpose. His resolve felt clear. He rubbed his chin, decided he was overdue a shave, and continued back to Val and Dorius.

—

Val watched Bastian slip through the tent into the morning. She had barely slept, her mind had been preoccupied with the faces of the horned Fae from the night before, and the revelation of the buzzing that now had eased into the back of her head as quiet, harmonic whispers. The fire within her had simmered out with the passage of time, barely a memory of what had awoken the previous day. She was not sure it had the strength for her to even focus on it let alone will it into flame like she had tried the night before. For some reason it did not seem urgent to her, so her mind passed on from it.

Instead she played the image of the horned Fae’s expression again and again in her mind. The first had been clearly shock, they had recognized her and been surprised. That didn’t seem too unusual, she was shocked to see another so alike to her. It would be natural for someone else to have the same reaction. The concern of the second was what worried her. The way they had whisked their companion away, looked back as if to check she really was what he saw. She sensed consternation, even panic. She was terrified of creating hope that there were people like her, only to expose herself anew to the pain of rejection. It was a slow, sad wound that did not close, that she picked at in the quiet moments when she dwelled too long in her own head. You did not need words or fists leveled at you to know rejection, her kind was the type that cut with what was unsaid. The type that welcomed Bastian to a tavern, made a seat for even Dorius, but left her standing at the wall only barely acknowledged because of her company.

But despite herself, that hope had already formed when she had seen them at the back of the convoy.

Val allowed herself a sigh and rose from her guard. Dorius was still huddled in his cot, looking miserably cold in his sleep. She unfolded the blanket she was using as a pillow and lay it over him for extra coverage. She considered adding Bastian’s discarded blankets as well, but as she picked it up and thoughtlessly noted that it still carried some of his lingering warmth, she opted to fold it neatly to one end of the cot instead. She would not join the morning meeting as originally planned, instead protecting Dorius had become a higher priority, so she was not free to roam. He would wake soon, outside the tent seemed a safe distance, so she rose to waken their fire.

The coals from the previous night had a spark of life still, and with tinder, gentle coaxing and a little patience, she was able to bring it back to gentle flame. She retrieved a storage trunk from the wagon and placed it by the fire as a bench. She then sat, chin in her hands, and waited for Dorius.

Pilgrims steadily wakened as the sky grew brighter, most sat despondently in their shelters, nursing strains or bruises from the night before, or otherwise occupied with their own thoughts. A group began to shuffle through the community with a large pot of porridge between them and a collection of bowls. As they approached Val gestured she would take two, and was served a mixture of wheat berries, stewed in fell beast milk and water, sweetened with cut dried fruits.

Dorius finally emerged rubbing tired eyes and carrying a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He stared blankly at her when she offered him porridge, then took the offered bowl with both hands and sat with her on the trunk. He tasted it, pouted, but continued to eat in silence.

Val rose and left him a moment to straighten the tent, somehow in the few moments it took him to rise from his cot and dress for the day he had scattered half their belongings across the floor and cots. When she emerged, he was hunched over the fire, his bowl of porridge discarded half eaten, and appeared to be despondently warming his hands.

They were camped well back from the main roads used through the encampment, so Val noted immediately when a figure dressed like a hunter turned from the road to approach them. She retrieved her axe and leaned on it in an effort to appear casual, assuming it was a hunter coming from the morning meeting when her absence was noted to find her and beg for assistance on the day’s work. When they drew back their hood, their head was bald.

Val’s grip on her axe tightened, as the Vigilant welcomed themself unbidden to the fire and sat cross legged across from Dorius. It was the same one as the evening before, their body was slim yet had a more masculine shape to it than not. Their bald face was androgynous, with a sharp jaw and prominent chin. The voice Val remembered had been feminine, and a dark seductive one at that. They looked Val up and down for a moment, tilting their head from shoulder to shoulder as if stretching their neck, then turned their attention to Dorius.

“Cinereal Dragon Prince, welcome.” Their voice was like thick honey this morning.

Dorius immediately discarded lethargy, eyes wide awake and staring at this new guest. Despite himself he drew up a little straighter, shoulders squaring and eyed the Vigilant.

“I go by Dorn here,” he instructed.

“I will be sure to use the name, but thought it fitting to greet you by title,” explained the Vigilant.

Val scanned around them, searching for any pilgrims that might be close enough to overhear. The Vigilant tracked her gaze and offered, “Do not worry, none will hear what I do not want them to.”

Dorius narrowed his eyes, but could not help himself with the question, “How?”

The Vigilant turned back to him, then without pretense outright claimed, “Our spell is about the valley. None may defy us here in our seat of power.”

Val shifted, drawing closer to Dorius.

“You’re controlling these people?” accused Dorius, a hint of disdain in his voice.

“Not controlling, they have free will. More so a compulsion, a slip of the mind, away from thoughts we’d rather they not have. It is imperfect, sometimes what is underneath still bubbles to the surface.”

“And what thoughts would you rather they not have?” asked Dorius.

The Vigilant gave a sickly sweet smile, then moved on, “I have come at the bidding of the Prime. You have been granted an audience.”

Dorius narrowed his eyes, but his hands came together and he leaned forward in his seat.

“Now?”

“Tonight, you will slip through the gates when the residents return at dusk and leave again tomorrow.”

Dorius chewed on this information for a moment, then fixed the Vigilant with a determined stare, “Does your Prime know why I come?”

The Vigilant sighed, almost as if they were tired, and a mask seemed to slip away. Their voice, normally a sultry drawl, grew a little shorter and more business-like. They asked a question in return, “What do you know of us?”

Val searched the Vigilant’s face for a sign of deception or a trap and found none. They just seemed as tired as the pilgrims around them.

“I know you worship the Watcher. I know you keep detailed histories of families and events. I know you track the weather and the seasons and the stars. I assume… that you are the major powers of the Free Mountain State, and that High Haven and its people are little more than the logistical necessity of your Chapel here,” answered Dorius.

“Some true, some not. Your assumptions are right. This Chapel is our oldest, older than you can possibly comprehend. Erected before many of the gods were born and it will stand here till the last fade away. Through the years High Haven grew from the pilgrims that laid roots here, and has evolved its own system of administration and organization since then. But we are the reason and power here.”

“Who conducts diplomacy with the Pentarchs on behalf of the Mountain State?” asked Dorius.

“The mayor. Until our intervention is needed…”

“Like now?” suggested Dorius.

The Vigilant smiled sweetly, “And so we move to what you got wrong. We do not worship the Watcher. We serve the Watcher. Our vigil is in observance of the weaving, and to pass the time we document it. Occasionally, She calls us to service, when the pattern of the weft no longer threads neatly, and a creator’s hand is required to correct the tension in the warp.”

Dorius drew his eyebrows together, confusion visible, “The Watcher speaks to you?”

The Vigilant tilted their hand back and forth, “It is not so straightforward, but in a manner yes. The listening has a price. It changes us close to it, sometimes so that we may serve better, and sometimes because mortals are not built to hear divine words spoken.”

The Vigilant rose, dusting off the back of their legs from sitting. “Thus,” they continued, “We come to now. Yes, we know you have come at the bidding of your Uncle, but that is merely the weaving driving you here. I have shared what I can, but know what we do here we have done with purpose despite the pain we know it causes. The Prime will share more when you meet with her.”

Dorius rose with the Vigilant to see them from the fire, they held a palm outwards and gestured for him to sit again. Their movement had an effortless grace. “Meet me at the gate when the bells toll, we will guide you to the Chapel,” was the final instruction.