As Corvus and I made our way through Ebonheart’s winding streets towards the Lower Warren, my mind kept returning to his reaction to Evangeline’s drawing. From the way his body had tensed and how the color had drained from his face, it wasn’t like him to show such obvious distress.
The morning crowds parted before us like water around stones. Above, Corvus’s murder of crows followed our progress, their dark shapes casting fleeting shadows across the cobblestones. The familiar sounds of the city—merchants hawking their wares, cart wheels rattling on stone, the distant toll of bells—seemed muted, as the weight of Corvus’s unspoken secret prodded the back of my mind.
“That symbol troubled you,” I said at last, breaking our long silence. “Why?”
Corvus’s steps faltered slightly. His blindfolded face turned toward me, and his favorite crow shifted uneasily on his shoulder. “Some knowledge is better left buried, brother.”
“We’re past the point of buried secrets,” I pressed. “If that symbol is connected to whatever the magistrate is planning, I should know.”
He was quiet for so long, I thought he might refuse to answer. But finally, he spoke, his voice low and careful. “It’s called the Thirteenth Resonance. A forbidden pattern of power that dates back to the Age of Discord, when the boundaries between Aetheria and its surrounding realms were... less defined. I learned about it long ago, before...” he gestured to his blindfold. “In my pursuit of knowledge, I discovered ancient texts that spoke of its power. The symbol itself is a key of sorts, a way to create harmony between discordant forces. But not natural harmony—something darker, more twisted.”
“And what happens when this harmony is achieved?” I asked, intrigued by his story.
Corvus’s crow let out a harsh caw. “The texts spoke of transformation. Of breaking down the barriers between flesh and shadow. The thirteen points represent thirteen vessels, living anchors that can be used to channel and direct these forces.”
We turned down a narrower street, away from the main thoroughfare. The sounds of the city grew distant, and the air grew cooler in the shadows of the tall buildings.
“I encountered the symbol during my time as a mercenary,” Corvus continued. “My company had been hired to investigate disappearances in a remote village near the Naboria border in the south. What we found there...” He swallowed once. “The villagers had been arranged in a similar pattern, thirteen of them, bound by magical chains inscribed with the same symbols Evangeline drew.”
I grimaced. “What happened?”
“A fiend had taken residence there—a Bauer King, a fearsome monster with the body and head of a lion, but possessing four muscular legs and four powerful arms. It had corrupted the village over months, not through chaos or destruction, but through carefully crafted contracts and agreements. It turned the village into a mockery of order, establishing strict hierarchies and impossible laws that forced people to break them, which, in turn, forfeited their souls. Eventually, it performed its dark ritual.”
“What kind of ritual?” I asked, though part of me dreaded the answer.
“The fiend was using the villagers as anchor points, much like what the magistrate seems to be planning with the bards. Each victim was bound by an infernal contract to recite specific verses of a carefully structured incantation. The symbol carved into the ground channeled their energy, their very essence, creating a gateway between Aetheria and Infernal Realm.”
His crow shifted restlessly, and Corvus reached up to stroke its feathers. “We tried to stop it. My brothers-in-arms were well-trained, experienced in dealing with supernatural threats. But we weren’t prepared for what we found.”
“The ritual succeeded?”
“Partially. As we fought our way through the fiend’s bound servants, the symbol glowed with dark energy. It triggered the spell, causing the villagers to transform into grotesque amalgamations of their own fears. And their screams...” He paused. I could sense his distress from the disturbing memories. “…their screams sounded almost harmonious, like a perfectly tuned instrument of pain.”
“That sounds like a nightmare.” I shuddered.
Corvus nodded once, and his voice grew hoarse with anguish as he continued. “We fought bravely, but the fiend’s tactics were flawless. It predicted our every move, countered our every strategy. One by one, my brothers fell to its assault. The worst part was watching how their deaths fueled the fiend’s own design. Their dying screams became part of the hellish harmony. The symbol’s power also grew stronger with each mortal death. I watched as reality began to fold inward, creating a portal—a gate—to the Infernal Realm.”
“How did you survive?”
“I managed to escape to safety,” he said, his voice heavy with shame and regret. “But the guilt of abandoning my brothers, and the villagers—watching them all suffer while I fled like a coward—it haunted me endlessly. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. The sight of their deaths and sounds of their dying screams replayed in my mind every waking moment.”
His crow cawed softly, almost sympathetically.
Corvus’s face turned to me. “That was why I recognized the pattern when you guided my hand over Evangeline’s drawing. The symbol is burned into my memory, a perfect illustration of suffering that I can never unsee, even through this blindfold.”
“And you think the magistrate is attempting something similar?” I asked.
“Same pattern, different methods. Instead of using fear and pain to power the transformation, he’s using music—perhaps believing that harmony and resonance will create a more controlled gateway. But the underlying principle remains the same—using living vessels to channel power through specific points of convergence.”
We had reached the outskirts of the Lower Warren now. The buildings here were cramped and decrepit, their facades stained with age and neglect. The few people we saw quickly disappeared into doorways or alleys at our approach.
“If the magistrate succeeds,” Corvus continued, “the consequences could be catastrophic. The Bauer King’s ritual was focused on a single village. But this...” He shook his head. “Thirteen bards, positioned in a city’s seat of power, their music reaching every corner of Ebonheart? The scale of transformation would be unprecedented.”
“And Evangeline would be one of those vessels,” I muttered.
“Yes. Though I suspect she was chosen for more than just her musical talent. The fiend likely senses something in her. Perhaps a particular resonance that makes her especially suitable for the ritual. That’s probably also why her dreams have been affected so strongly.”
Hearing enough of her torment, I reluctantly pushed my thoughts of Evangeline aside. The more I wondered, the angrier I got, and I forced myself to control my emotions. The time for vengeance would come. But first, I had to exercise patience.
The Lower Warren grew darker and more oppressive as we descended deeper into its maze-like streets. Here, the buildings leaned closer together, their upper stories nearly touching, creating an artificial twilight even in mid-morning. The stench of sewage and decay grew stronger, and rats scurried openly across our path.
As we walked, I began noticing subtle markers that only someone with my background would recognize—chalk marks on corners, specific patterns of broken cobblestones, the way certain windows were shuttered. To most, they would appear random, but to a fellow rogue, they were a language all their own. A series of three vertical lines scratched into a doorframe meant safe passage. A broken tile arranged in a diamond pattern warned of guard patrols. Even the seemingly casual placement of empty wine bottles in windowsills held meaning—green glass for available fences, brown for trouble brewing.
I found myself automatically cataloging these signs, my old instincts rising to the surface. My fingers traced a weathered X carved into a corner stone—a marker I recognized as indicating a nearby thieves’ cache. Some languages, it seemed, were universal across worlds.
“You seem to know exactly where you’re going,” Corvus observed quietly as he followed my lead.
“I do. The path is clear. I am glad my old skills have not completely left me,” I replied, noting another thieves’ sign scratched into a nearby wall. “Every city has its hidden alphabet, known only to those who walk the darker paths. The methods are the same, even if the players are different. Thieves will always need their secret languages.”
“The instincts of your former life remain sharp,” Corvus added.
I noted how a particular arrangement of scattered pebbles suggested a safehouse nearby. “The guild will be hidden well,” I murmured to Corvus. “But the signs will be clear for those who know how to read them.”
We checked several shops, following the trail of subtle markers. Finally, we came to a bookstore wedged between a tavern and an abandoned building. The sign above the door read “Blackwood’s Rare Tomes & Manuscripts.” My experienced eye caught the deliberate arrangement of books in the window—three volumes of different colors, positioned at specific angles. Another sign for those who knew what to look for.
Inside, the shop was dimly lit and cramped, with floor-to-ceiling shelves creating a maze of narrow aisles. The air smelled of old leather and parchment. Behind the counter stood a lean man with silver-streaked hair and wire-rimmed spectacles. He regarded us, calm and collected, and not with the usual fear we inspired in others.
“Welcome to Blackwood’s,” he greeted. “How may I assist you gentlemen?”
“My brother’s been shooting the sparrows. Heard they plucked a few bits from the pastry shop,“ I spoke in thieves’ cant.
Corvus tilted his head at me curiously, but he stayed silent.
The shopkeeper’s eyes flickered with recognition of the cant, but his expression hardened as he studied our dark armor and weapons. “Forgive me, good sirs, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure before.”
“Our business requires discretion,” I responded normally. “The shadows speak of valuable knowledge in your keeping.”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The shopkeeper shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “The guild maintains certain... verification procedures. Even for distinguished visitors such as yourselves. I hope you understand.”
“Ask your questions,” I said, a hint of steel in my tone.
“Your credentials?” His eyes narrowed as he studied my face. His hand remained casually near what I assumed was a concealed weapon beneath the counter.
Like second nature, I responded with the series of subtle hand gestures and cant phrases. The man’s expression slowly shifted from suspicion to recognition. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly as he processed each signal, and his shoulders gradually relaxed.
“And your purpose here?” he asked finally, his tone carrying a little more respect, though he still maintained professionalism. The dim lamplight caught the silver threads in his vest as he leaned forward slightly, waiting for my response.
“Information gathering only,” I assured him, speaking normally. “We have no interest in disrupting guild operations.”
He thought for a long moment, then gave a slight nod. “Very well. The guild maintains a professional courtesy with the blackguards. This way, please.”
He led us through the maze of shelves to a back room filled with supposedly rare books. Once inside, he pressed a hidden mechanism on one of the shelves, and then part of the wall slid open, revealing a hidden passageway with a staircase leading down.
“Do remember,” he added quietly as we descended, “that mutual respect has kept the peace between our factions. We’d prefer it remain that way.”
“Of course,” I said. Though I made it a point to ask Corvus later about this peculiar relationship between the Angels’ Mark and the blackguards.
The staircase led us into a surprisingly well-appointed chamber. Unlike the grimy streets above, this space was clean and organized, with polished wooden tables and comfortable chairs scattered about. Maps and documents covered the walls, and several guild members lounged about, cleaning weapons or counting coins. They tensed at our arrival, hands moving to weapons, but didn’t attack.
A muscular woman with numerous scars and a right eyepatch stepped forward and crossed her arms as she assessed us both. “Blackguards,” she said, her tone neutral but firm. “Well, this is an… unexpected surprise.”
I inclined my head. “Greetings, my lady. I’m Caelum, and this is Corvus. We have come from the Dreadspire Sanctum.”
She nodded. “Well met. I’m Natalya, guildmaster of the Angels’ Mark. What brings you to our humble establishment?”
“We seek information about the magistrate,” I said, getting straight to the point.
The room suddenly tensed. Several thieves exchanged meaningful glances, and a few tightened their hands on their weapons.
Natalya’s good eye narrowed. “The magistrate, eh? Now that’s an interesting topic.” She gestured to a private alcove. “Let’s discuss this elsewhere.”
As we followed her, I noticed how the other thieves assessed us. They didn’t seem to fear us, but instead showed a mutual respect. They seemed to recognize fellow practitioners of shadow craft, even if we served different masters.
The alcove was separated from the main chamber by heavy curtains. Natalya settled into a chair and poured herself a glass of red wine from a crystal decanter. She offered us glasses, but we politely refused. “So,” she said at last, “what exactly do you want to know about our esteemed magistrate?”
“Everything,” I replied. “Particularly regarding his recent activities. And spare no details.”
“Hmmm…” Natalya took a long sip of wine before speaking. “Something’s not right with that one. His influence grows stronger by the day, but it’s not natural. We’ve had our best people try to infiltrate the mansion—master thieves who could steal the crown jewels without leaving a trace. None of them have returned.”
“What happened to them?” I asked.
“Vanished,” she said grimly. “Like they never existed. And here’s the strange part—no bodies ever turn up. It’s like they just... cease to exist.”
“The people’s blind devotion also continues, it seems.” Corvus noted.
Natalya let out a hollow laugh. “The city has gone through several magistrates, but it has never gotten this bad. The people have become like mindless sheep. It’s not natural, I tell you. Those who once complained about taxes now praise the new magistrate for raising them. Merchants who lost everything to his policies defend him viciously. It’s like...” she paused, searching for words, “like they’re under some kind of spell.”
“We’ve seen similar effects,” I noted, thinking of the crowd’s reaction to the captured bard earlier.
“Then there’s the matter of our... mutual acquaintance from the aurorium…” Natalya’s voice trailed off as she studied our reactions.
Corvus scowled. “Ramon.” His crow let out a displeased caw.
“So, you do know him,” she said with a nod. “Not surprising that his deeds have reached the ears of the blackguards. He approached us some months ago. Said he knew the magistrate’s true nature, claimed he had proof that something dark was taking root in Ebonheart. We didn’t believe him at first, of course. The clerics rarely seek alliance with the thieves. But...”
“But?” I prompted, lifting an eyebrow.
“Ramon showed us things. Documents. Drawings. Evidence of rituals being performed in the mansion’s lower chambers. He said the magistrate isn’t what he appears to be, that he’s preparing something terrible.” She took another drink. “We agreed to help him acquire certain... items he needed.”
“Including the Serpent’s Fang,” Corvus said flatly.
Natalya’s eye widened slightly. “So that’s why you’re really here.”
“The dagger belongs to the Thirteenth Aurorium. Its theft threatens the very order we serve.”
“To be honest, I didn’t think the blackguards concerned themselves with petty city politics,” she said.
Corvus shook his head. “Normally, we don’t. But our business with the Serpent’s Fang is of the utmost importance.”
“I see. Well, Ramon was convinced the dagger was crucial to stopping whatever the magistrate is planning.”
“A ritual,” I said aloud. “But its purpose is still unclear. Where is Ramon now?”
Natalya’s expression turned grim. “Ramon’s gone underground—literally. He’s hiding in the old catacombs beneath the city. The entrance is hidden in the ruins of the old temple district. The place is a maze of tunnels and burial chambers. Most date back to Ebonheart’s founding. But I should warn you—they’re not exactly... welcoming to visitors.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”
“The dead don’t rest easy down there,” she said, her voice dropping lower. “I’d wager it’s something to do with the magistrate’s activities that has stirred them up. My people have reported seeing things in the tunnels… Shadows that move against the light, corpses that twitch and stir in their niches. And the sounds...” She shuddered. “Well, let’s just say most of my thieves won’t go near the place anymore.”
“And that is why Ramon chose that place as his hideout...” I mused.
“Smart, really.” Natalya shrugged. “The undead provide better security than any guard. Plus, the tunnels connect to various parts of the city, including...”
“The mansion,” Corvus finished.
She nodded. “But Ramon’s not alone down there. He’s got his own little gang of rebels. Clerics, scholars, and even a couple city guards. I don’t know their exact numbers, but they’re plotting something down there, for sure.”
“Where is the old temple district?” I asked.
“West of here, past the abandoned market square. Most of the buildings are ruins now, but look for a statue of a gargoyle with a missing wing. The entrance to the catacombs is beneath it. The tunnels branch off in all directions. Ramon and his people usually stay in the eastern section, near the old burial crypts.”
“You mentioned undead,” Corvus said in a wary tone. “What exactly are we dealing with?”
“Mostly mindless ones, like shambling corpses and skeletal remains animated by whatever dark energy is seeping through the city. But there are... other things down there. Smarter things. My people have reported seeing hooded figures that definitely weren’t part of Ramon’s group. Watch your backs down there.”
As Natalya spoke of the undead, I felt the dark power within me stir. My training had covered dealing with such creatures. The shadow arts we blackguards wielded could be particularly effective against the undead. Unlike common soldiers who might flee in terror from walking corpses, we were taught to see them as just another form of corruption to be purged.
Still, something about the situation bothered me. Undead rarely rose without cause. Their presence suggested that whatever ritual the magistrate was planning had already begun to thin the veil between life and death. The very fabric of reality in Ebonheart was being distorted, and that knowledge made my jaw clench with anger. This was exactly the kind of chaos we were sworn to prevent.
“If you intend to deal with Ramon, does that also mean you’ll be dealing with the magistrate, too?” Natalya asked.
“Possibly. Why?” I asked.
“I’d be willing to help you both.”
I cast her a curious look, slightly surprised by her request. “What exactly are you offering?”
Natalya’s scarred face hardened. “Look, we’re thieves, not heroes. But this magistrate... he’s bad for business. Bad for everyone. The way he’s changing the city, the way people just blindly follow him—it’s not natural. And whatever he’s planning...” She shook her head. “Let’s just say the Angels’ Mark has a vested interest in seeing him removed from power.”
“And what would you want in return?” I asked, knowing there was always a price.
“Information. Whatever you learn about the magistrate’s true nature and his plans, we want to know. And when the time comes to act against him, we want to be involved. The guild has resources, eyes and ears throughout the city. Could be useful to your cause.”
I considered her offer carefully. Having the Angels’ Mark as allies could prove valuable, especially given their network of informants.
“Need I remind you,” Natalya added, “that the alliance between the guilds and the blackguards goes back generations. We’ve always understood each other’s necessity in maintaining order through... alternative means.”
She was right. Even in my training and studies, I’d learned how the blackguard order sometimes worked in tandem with various thieves’ guilds. While we served different masters and purposes, both organizations understood the need for shadow work—the things that had to be done in darkness to maintain order in the light.
“That alliance remains,” Natalya continued. “Your order has always respected our territory, and in return, we’ve provided intelligence, safe houses, and discrete assistance when needed. We may be thieves, but we understand the importance of hierarchy and structure. Without it, chaos reigns.
“This magistrate... he pretends to bring order, but what he’s really bringing is something else entirely. Something that threatens the very foundations of how our city operates. The guild can’t stand by and watch Ebonheart fall to whatever dark force he serves.”
“Very well,” I said after another moment’s consideration. “We have an arrangement. But understand this—if you betray us, the consequences will be severe.”
“Save your threats, blackguard,” She flicked her wrist in a dismissive gesture, though her tone remained respectful. “The Angels’ Mark honors its agreements. We’ll share what we know about the magistrate’s activities and provide safe passage through our territory. In return, you keep us informed of your findings and include us in any plans to move against the magistrate.” She extended her hand.
I stared at it a moment, noting the numerous scars and calluses that spoke of a life lived in shadow. With a curt nod, I grasped her hand. “I accept your terms.”
“Excellent.”
I released her hand. “By the way...”
She smirked slightly, seeming to already know my question.
“Since this is an invitation-only gathering, we require—”
“Say no more. I’ll take care of it. Come back later tonight.”
After finalizing the details of our arrangement, Corvus and I left and emerged from the bookshop into the Warren’s perpetual twilight.
“I feel like we are running around this damned city getting nowhere,” I muttered.
“Have patience, brother,” Corvus said, and his crow cawed in agreement. “We have come much further in this investigation than you think. Let us head to the catacombs. It is imperative that we—” He paused, and his head jerked up slightly as if something had caught his attention.
I looked around, but saw no one. “What is it?”
Corvus frowned. “We are not alone.”
As if on cue, I suddenly heard the distant sounds of armored footsteps. Then, ahead, farther down the street, three silhouetted figures approached. As they drew closer, I spotted their gleaming plate armor trimmed with purple and gold. Their armor was immaculate, almost unnaturally so, as if no dirt or grime dared cling to its surface. Their faces were hidden behind ornate helms crafted to resemble snarling beasts.
The way they moved was different from regular city guards—their footsteps carried an unnatural rhythm, almost like a heartbeat. Corvus tensed beside me.
“The magistrate’s elite guard,” he whispered. “The sounds of their footsteps move with perfect synchronization, unlike the regular city guards.” He tilted his head as he listened. “These are highly trained soldiers. Proceed with caution.”
I nodded once, not taking my eyes off the group.
The guards stopped before us, their armor seeming to absorb the shadows rather than reflect light. Their presence carried an otherworldly presence that caused my dark veins to pulse with warning.
The leader of the group stepped forward, his armor more ornate than his companions’. His helm was fashioned into the image of a roaring tiger with hollow eye sockets that veiled his eyes in shadow. A deep purple cape hung from his shoulders, its hem never quite touching the ground.
“Blackguards,” he spoke, his hollow voice reverberating through the narrow street. “Your presence is requested at the Lord Magistrate’s estate. He wishes to speak with you... personally.”