Amir went out to find Pebblethrow again the following day - this time just her as Gobsmack made no appearance - and arranged for regular rat deliveries. Instead of getting too many, he would buy two every morning. He still went to the bakery during lunchtime and for now neither he nor Rose brought up the topic again. Her smiles were still as genuine as before, though Amir found their comfort less profound.

The next few days after that fell into a rhythm. After leaving the rats by the old shed he would spend the rest of them either hard at work on improving and making his scrolls, or working at the Lohart workshop - he would not spit on their goodwill by taking more days off than he thought he needed to.

That way every evening he could test out his latest iteration of the spell. His running theory was that the rats died because the spell was simply too powerful for their little bodies. So he focused on minimizing it, a curious challenge in itself that let him discover a few more details along the way. By the end of the week, the rats would survive almost half an hour of their temporary youth.

He decided that his benchmark would be 60 minutes exactly. Once he got to that he was confident it would be enough proof of concept for his patrons to reinstate his full stipend and allow him access to the menagerie. Testing on bigger mammals was the obvious next step after that. Larger creatures would not run into the problem with excessive power. That would let him figure out other problems.

He was considering the odds of talking with the Grand Magus about it since she was also having dinner a few tables over but repeatedly talked himself out of the idea in case it infuriated her. He had started coming closer to the evening from time to time as his newly fast progress sometimes led to Amir accidentally skipping lunch.

Then things started happening.

Amir had not noticed it at first but there was a bit of a murmur going through the room and his eyes quickly found the disturbance. By the front door a little figure stood, wearing cheap but clean clothes that made Amir do a double take. But he still recognised Pebblethrow, standing right on the boundary with a wild eyed expression, shaking in place.

Eventually she managed to step through the door and suddenly calmed down. There was no waft of street smell breaking in alongside her though, no muddy footprint of her seemingly new shoes. Rather than a street vagrant she looked like a child of a craftsman, a massive difference. Enough so that she did not look out of place walking into a bakery.

There was no sudden silence or anything like that. Some of the guests looked at her, noted her presence, then went back to their food or conversations. Sure, some of the glances were a bit hostile - as it often was with goblins - but not to an extreme degree. Pebblethrow then approached the counter as Amir watched in something inbetween morbid fascination and mute shock.

“Bread,” she ordered, putting coins onto the counter. Just enough for a loaf in iron cents.

“Here,” Gramma Rose gave the little goblin one from the shelf, saying nothing more. She was not smiling… but neither was she overtly hostile. Pebblethrow walked to one of the low tables - catering mostly to dwarves - and sat down to eat. Amir kept throwing nervous glances at both the goblin and the baker, wondering what exactly was happening and whether things might somehow escalate. Not without reason as Rose kept throwing glances of increasing malevolence towards the goblin girl who just seemed to be enjoying her fresh bread.

Then Lady Hawthorne stormed through the front door, covered in dirt and bleeding. Her left arm hung limply by her side, festering with black ichor. A massive long-bow and an empty quiver still hung on her as she quickly made way into the room.

“Please, tell me at least one of my messages made it back,” Hawthorne looked at Holly, collapsing into a chair as the other elf scrambled to have a look at the arm.

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“I have not heard of anything major,” the arcanist immediately began to treat the other elf’s festering wound with surgeon’s precision. Amir had not even seen her take out the poultice and thread. “The wound is cursed but nothing insurmountable. What happened?”

“Fuck!” Hawthorne cursed with half a scream and it was not from the stitching - wait, was that needle conjured? “Then we are in trouble. Franklin!”

“Yes, Lady Hawthorne?” one of the regulars walked up to her quickly, a hint of panic tangible in the voice. Amir did not recognise them though the man seemed well dressed.

“Here,” she quickly fished a jeweled pin out of her bag. “Run to the Count’s mansion and tell him to rally what soldiers and adventurers he can! In fact, tell everyone with any shred of influence you see along the way!”

“What is happening?” Rose finally approached with visible worry at that point, Pebblethrow forgotten.

“We have a new demifolk invasion on our hands,” Hawthorne said grimly. “This time they have a ‘warlord’ apparently. Fuck, I really hoped we would be at least half done with a levy by the time I got back.”

“How bad?” Holly asked while everyone was stunned.

“Not nearly as bad as Awful… hopefully. But at least a hundred left in the advance group that has been pursuing me and several thousand behind them. More than enough to sack an unprepared city.”

“Don’t we have forts for exactly this kind of thing?!” Franklin asked with alarm.

“None in the way from the ursine woods,” Rose shook her head. “We don’t even have walls! How strong are the bear-folk.”

“Not as strong or sturdy as a hob,” Hawthorne grunted. “Not unbelievably fast either, but relentless. The lot of them has been running me down for several days and never seem to tire, closing any gap when I had to to sleep… take forever to bleed out. And I think they are trying to copy military doctrine: They have thick wooden shields and rudimentary formations. No idea how organized they will be as an army though, they seemed… wild in battle. That’s enough, Franklin, run! Tell the Count, we need to get ready. Every minute might make a difference. The rest of you too, spread the word!”

And with that everyone left, scattering to the streets to spread the word. Pebblethrow certainly did, much like almost all of the guests. Amir honestly was not sure why he had even stayed.

“Perhaps I could do some more good elsewhere,” he said as the three stared at him, not fully convinced himself. “I am not combat trained but arcanist still.”

“How do we hold them? Is there a chokepoint?” Rose seemed to decide that chasing him away was low on the priority list so she merely ignored him, turning to Hawthorne and Holly.

“The river will cut them off when they come from the West. We could hold them at the bridges just outside the city… nowhere else comes to mind.”

“There are many bridges,” Rose pointed out.

“Then we collapse all but one. Dictate the path of least resistance. The tide should be too strong to swim through. A good group of adventurers could hold them there… for a while. Hopefully long enough.”

“It will not be enough for an army,” Amir pointed out.

“No. Not adventurers. But a chokepoint would make them gather up,” Holly nodded. “How good are their shamans?”

“I am still alive,” Hawthorne chuckled darkly. “So not that much.”

“It might not be impossible,” Holly nodded. “We need to make a supply run, potions for your wound and my reagents. Amir?”

“Yes,” he looked, half-prepared to accept any task.

“Get Rose to safety.”

“Absolutely not!” the old lady protested before Amir could even process the request.

“Can you fight down a horde?” Holly stared at her. “You are not 20 anymore.”

“I…!” Rose opened her mouth to protest.

“We don’t have time for this,” Holly interrupted, standing up and going for the door. Hawthorne rushed after her. The wound on her arm seemed a lot less severe and putrid black but still ugly and bleeding. “Get to safety Rose, you have earned that much.”