Thorn slipped into Halrest like a shadow cast on the wind. His movements were swift, quiet, a practiced rhythm of steps and leaps as he moved from rooftop to rooftop, gliding through narrow spaces between buildings. He barely touched the ground, his presence no more than a breath against the cool night air. Here and there, people gathered in tight knots outside their doorways, glanced up, catching only the faintest blur before he vanished again into darkness.

“Did you see that?” one man muttered, craning his neck. “Something just went by, fast as a breeze!”

“Must be nerves,” a woman scoffed. “With the council meeting tonight, even the shadows look strange.”

Thorn paid them no mind, his focus honed to a single point. I need to get there. His thoughts pulsed with urgency. He darted across another rooftop, his footfalls silent, his cloak blending seamlessly into the night. The moonlight gleamed on the distant dome of the Great Hall, pulling him closer.

“Is that…someone on the roofs?” a young voice asked, barely a whisper.

“Quiet,” someone else hissed. “Keep your eyes on the hall—tonight’s not a night for idle talk.”

Thorn descended from the rooftops in a smooth, controlled drop, his hands brushing against the cool stone wall as he landed. With practiced ease, he slipped between two buildings, blending into the deep shadows. His breath was steady, his heartbeat quick yet measured.

The people need to know.

“They say the council’s invited more of us than ever before,” murmured a woman nearby.

“Aye, but what’s the meaning of it?” replied an older man, leaning on his cane. “Council doesn’t call a meeting of this size for nothing.”

Thorn moved on, slipping between clusters of people, his presence barely a flicker to those around him. As he reached the edge of the square, he ducked low, shifting back into the shadows, his gaze fixed on the hall doors. He could feel it in the air—the anticipation, the tension, like the crackle of a storm yet to break.

One final glance over his shoulder, and he melted into a dark alcove within eyeshot of the great hall. He had arrived just in time, unseen by the crowd, ready to witness whatever was about to unfold.

Thorn’s eyes narrowed, scanning the far end of the square as the crowd fell into an unnatural hush. A flicker of movement. His breath caught as he glimpsed a hunched figure emerging.

Selis.

Thorn’s pulse quickened. He’d heard talk of the town shaman, but nothing prepared him for the strange, heavy presence Selis seemed to carry with him now. The shaman’s silhouette moved slowly, dragging robes that caught the light, shifting like liquid darkness. Around him, the crowd parted in reverent silence, every face a mask of awe and apprehension.

A chill crawled up Thorn’s spine. The air around Selis seemed to ripple, subtle but unmistakable, like a wave of invisible force radiating out with each step he took.

Magic.

He watched Selis’s face, hidden in shadow, yet something about it was… changed, unnatural. Thorn couldn’t see what, exactly, but he felt it—the darkness clinging to Selis, a presence older than the stones of Halrest itself. His breath grew shallow, an instinctive reaction to something his body seemed to recognize before his mind.

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This is no simple council meeting, Thorn thought, his eyes widening in dawning horror. This is something far worse.

The crowd continued to part for Selis, entranced, almost unaware of the threat standing before them. Thorn’s mind raced, dread tightening his throat. Diplomacy? Was there even a point? Whatever Selis had become, whatever he was now wielding—it was beyond words, beyond reasoning.

It’s too late for diplomacy. He forced himself to breathe, steadying his focus, his mind already calculating the best way to reach the hall unseen. I need to get inside. I must see what’s happening.

He inched forward, staying close to the shadows, eyes locked on Selis’s figure as the shaman approached the hall doors. Thorn knew this feeling, this sense of a storm about to break, and he felt it sinking in his bones.

What he had discovered out in the woods, whatever warning he thought he could deliver, now felt as though it might be swallowed whole.

This goes deeper than I imagined. The people have no idea what they’re facing.

Thorn’s heartbeat faster, each pulse sharp and urgent. He glanced at the hall, anticipation clawing at his insides. He had to get in—he had to see the truth of what lay within those walls.

A heavy silence followed Selis’s entrance, only to be broken by the sharp creak of the Great Hall’s doors opening once more. This time, it was not Selis or Finnian who emerged, but the Attendant. His posture was straight, his gaze sharp as he surveyed the crowd. He stepped forward with an authority that commanded attention, lifting a hand to still the murmuring townsfolk.

“Those of you with invitations,” the Attendant called, his voice carrying across the square like a strike of thunder, “step forward now. All others, stay back.”

A rustle spread through the crowd as those invited exchanged glances, shuffling toward the entrance. Some faces were lit with excitement, others creased with doubt, and a few wore expressions tinged with worry.

“Why them and not us?” a man muttered, arms crossed tight over his chest.

“We’ve lived here all our lives!” an older woman whispered angrily to her friend. “Who decides who’s worthy?”

But the Attendant paid no heed, his gaze fixed forward as he continued calling the names of those summoned. Slowly, the invited people moved into a line, each crossing the threshold with a last look back at those left behind. Around the square, clusters of onlookers who hadn’t been called began to lose interest, some shrugging and turning back toward their homes, while others lingered on the edge, craning their necks to watch the hall’s doors as if hoping for a glimpse of what lay within.

Thorn remained hidden in the shadows, his eyes following each person who disappeared through the hall doors. Nearly two hundred people had been summoned. Two hundred...for what? The question hung heavy in his mind; each answer he could imagine darker than the last.

As the last few stragglers entered, the Attendant moved back, gripping the doors. His gaze swept over the crowd one final time, and then he nodded, a flicker of finality in his expression. The doors groaned shut behind him, sealing the hall like a tomb, and the sound echoed across the square, sending a shiver down Thorn’s spine.

The crowd scattered, murmuring and muttering, until only Thorn remained, watching. His pulse hammered in his ears, the weight of the moment settling over him like a cold mantle. Whatever he had learned outside this town, whatever truth gnawed at him, now felt small compared to what waited within those walls.

He took a slow, steady breath, setting his jaw. He would not turn back now. This was the moment—the line between knowing and acting. Whatever secrets lay behind those doors, he would face them.

As the last body disappeared inside, Thorn straightened, stepping out from the shadows, his figure a single, silent silhouette in the moonlight. The Great Hall loomed ahead of him.

Thorn’s hand drifted to the hilt of his knife, feeling the worn leather beneath his fingers. They have no idea what’s coming. He took another breath, feeling the weight of the night settle around him.

With quiet resolve, he crossed the square, his footsteps soundless, yet each one heavy with purpose. Reaching the Great Hall doors, he paused, his heart beating in sync with the ominous silence that filled the square. And then, without a glance back, he slid the doors open silently and stepped into the hall.

The truth waited within those walls, veiled in shadows and secrets. Thorn knew he was stepping into something vast, something dangerous. But he would not stop—not now.