It was another full day before we made it over the pass and into a long valley. I’d never been through this country before so I was glad to have Carsten with me; he had relatives that were from this part before it was Grensch land. It was a pretty place, I had to give it that. Purple-blue mountains loomed around us, covered in jack-pine, spruce, and willow. Patches of snow too stubborn to leave despite our closeness to summer capped their tops. The most treacherous mountains were behind us, and these ones looked rounded off - more like huge hills if you asked me. I asked Carsten what he knew about this area.

He told me that the area had been a contested zone for hundreds of years. Before the Empire had claimed it, mountain tribes would battle over the valley. These hills held battlegrounds that no one alive had ever seen, nor would they. When the Empire finally arrived 400 years ago and they decided on keeping it the mountain tribes had moved on. No one knew why, and the few tribesmen that had remained stayed quiet on the subject. It wasn’t long before those remnants got absorbed into the Empire like usual. I asked how far to the first town and Carsten told me we’d be coming up on a coal mining town called Prentice soon.

When we arrived there that afternoon there wasn’t much to see. No saloon, but a company store and a mess hall for the workers. Still, we wandered in to see if we could rustle up a few supplies, and maybe hear about what had been going on in Granze.

The guy running the company store was named Burton. He had flecks of coal underneath his skin that would never wash out, he told us, because he’d been standing in one of the tunnels when the shaft exploded. Killed the guys behind and ahead of him. Since then he never went down for another shift and started outfitting the guys who did. He told us all this loudly and with no prompting from us. He’d gone pretty deaf from the blast and I was sure he hadn’t had anyone new to tell his story to for years. Man was just happy to have a captive audience.

We picked up some rations and Carsten managed to squeeze a half-wrinkled borfruit from him for way too much coin. We were halfway out the door when I asked about where we could grab some more ammunition before we hit Bazroba. He laughed and told us we’d need a lot more money than we had on us to get some. Apparently Granze was dealing with a shortage same as New Beregia, so ammo was scarce. He tried to sell us a hunting bow with some of the crookedest arrows I’d ever seen, but we said we’d take our chances.

The other thing he was lacking was information on Bazroba. He explained that he hadn’t been there for a dozen years, as he had a caravan that supplied the store every few weeks. He had only known about the ammo shortage a few months ago when his order hadn’t arrived. As for the caravaneers, they were Brunists: banned by their religion to speak of things other than their work with the secular world, so any question he would’ve had about the area would’ve been fruitless.

We asked Burton about a place to stay, but he said the area had never been set up for visitors. He did tell us about a place outside of town where the caravaneers usually parked and we left, obliged. Seems like we’d be leaving Prentice with more questions than answers, and now that we were coming up on Bazroba, I realized I didn’t have the slightest idea of what our next move would be.

That night, before I drifted off to another one of my nightmares, I sat and searched for Dreamdrinker. As I thought, it was in the direction of Bazroba. I could tell it wasn’t in motion any longer, and due to my closer proximity I felt that it had been stored near a House of Reverence. Great. I was going to have to deal with Starpriests.

I went to sleep and fought the phantoms of all the dreams I had stolen. Just like every night since I’d taken my first step to be Shadowmin. They tore apart my soul like they always did, and when I woke there’d be less of me left.

The next morning we tore down camp just as the sky had started to darken over. We were saddled up and on the trail when the rain started. I took my long oilskin duster out of my bag. As we rode on, I heard Carsten chuckling to himself. “What?” I asked

“Well,” he said “Black hat, black jacket, black horse. I guess I reckon why they call your kind Crows.”

“That ain’t why.” I responded

“Why then?” he asked

“They used to say it was because when you saw a Crow on the battlefield you were doomed.” I responded

“Ooh. Ain’t you a spooky fucker” he jibed me

“Well you know that’s a lie anyway” I responded, ignoring him “Because the company wasn’t seen on the battlefield. Be a waste of our talents.

“Real reason is the word Shadowmin. People think it comes from “shadow men'' but it’s a borrowed word from the Ancients. In their texts that’s what they referred to the ones with our abilities. The word shadowmin sounds a lot like the Vornish word for a corvid. Not that anyone speaks Vornish anymore. Probably just me and a few dusty scholars.

“Anyway. Since it sounded like a ‘corvid’ the common folk started giving us those nicknames: crow, raven, rook. It stuck as things tend to. Outlasted all the people that gave us the name. It’ll probably outlast me too.”

We rode on through rain that turned from bad to miserable. We found some shelter under a strand of fir and set camp up. Neither of us was too talkative after the downpour, so we did our best to get the job done with grunts and hand signals. We were falling into those easy patterns of soldiers bearing poor weather together. Between this and marching is ninety percen of a soldier’s life so there was something comforting in it. Sounds crazy I know. Nostalgia for shit weather and bad rations. Can’t help it though.

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We were nearly to Bazroba the next day when I stopped us by a stand of scraggly pines. “This is where it gets tricky,” I told Carsten. “Whoever gave me these notes knows more about me than I do about them. Can’t head into town until I know a bit more.”

“I ain’t a spy like your kind. What do you expect from me” he asked

“Well. Here’s your spying education. Go into town. Find a bar. Nurse a drink and listen.”

“Why can’t you do that?”

“Couple a reasons,” I replied, “First is that whoever sent my note knows what I look like, but probably doesn't know you.”

He shook his head “If they spent any time in Kalb they would.”

“Sure they could’ve seen you behind the bar,” I told him “but you take a man out of a place and people forget where they know ‘em from.

“Second is as soon as I get one drink in me, I’m gonna need another, then another… I’ll end up useless as tits on a boar.”

“Alright I get it,” he said “I’ll meet you out here tomorrow morning. What are you gonna do until then?”

“I’ve got a date with the Gods” I told him

----

Houses of Reverence were always a fair distance outside of towns. This was for a couple of reasons. First reason was they wanted to have their parishioners walk a small pilgrimage to pray. “You must first meet the Eight upon the roads. The Gods will not walk to see you” was the common quote ascribed to the curious. Second reason was that being outside of a city they weren’t privy to its rules. This would leave them open to attack, but since old Verisius started out as a Starpriest himself, the punishment to anyone found attacking a House was swift and severe: hanging for themselves and for their families. So the Houses stayed safe despite the wealth each hoarded.

I had felt Dreamdrinker’s pull and felt the telltale touch of the Eight surrounding it. Now that I was closer I knew that’s where I was headed.

I walked the trail that led there just as anyone else would. If I was to find anything out, I had to seem like any other pilgrim. As I approached I saw a figure just outside sweeping the front step. As I came closer I had an odd feeling of recognition come over me, but I couldn’t place it. The young Starpriest had his head down in concentration, but I caught something in his features that tried to knock together two rocks over the damp wood of my mind. It didn’t catch though, and I entered the House with a little unease.

Enter any House of Reverence on this continent and you’ll be surprised at how simple it seems. Then you realize that like a wise traveller it has clothed itself in rags and hid its jewels up its ass. The building was made of rough hewn wood, as were the pews, the lectern, the pulpit. But every House was built downward, holding its important treasures in lower vaults. I was sure that was where I would find Dreamdrinker.

Of course, I was wrong.

It was on a glass case in the middle of the lectern. Taking up the same spot as a Holy Book would.

I thought I was done with it. Turns out it wasn’t done with me.

I was alone in the House, which was strange. Usually the Starcarrier, head of the priesthood, would be found inside reading from the lectern, but there was no one. I thought about taking Dreamdrinker right then. I could be gone with the sword before anyone knew but I didn’t want to tip my hand too early. As soon as it was removed I’d have no chance at figuring out why they had it in the first place.

It looked exactly the same as it had when I first laid my eyes on it over two centuries ago. Swords nowadays were mostly sabers, long curved affairs for chopping from horseback. Dreamdrinker came from the before times. When infantry battled for glory and could determine the sway of a battle. The times before gunpowder and calvary became the way to win wars. Even among those ancient blades though, Dreamdrinker was different.

She (I had always thought of her as female, I don’t know why) wasn’t like the broad cutting blades that were favored then - not that heavy, wide, or even long. Where a blade from that era would be about as long as a man’s arm, she was from about the elbow to middle finger. Somewhere between a sword and a dagger. More useful up close. An assassin’s weapon. Her metal was unlike any other, instead of reflecting light she seemed to absorb it. And she never dulled. Not once in the two hundred years I’d used her.

Both edges were wicked sharp and she could cut through anything I’d ever set her to, but that wasn’t her main purpose. The tip of her blade was meant for piercing - not rounded like the arming swords of that time. And when I ran someone through with that tip, I stole their soul to power myself.

Something I knew I could never be forgiven for.

Something I knew I should never be forgiven for.

Something I told myself was necessary each time I had done it.

Something I’d sworn never to do again.

“You came” said a voice from behind me

I turned to see the youth who was outside sweeping and his identity finally locked into place. “Are you a priest, a thief, or both?” I asked him.

“I’m no thief” he responded, as he stepped closer. Out of the doorway and into the House .

“Then why were you trying to rob me last week?” I asked