Negus looked down the street of the market, making his way along the cobblestone street. Vendors manned stalls on both flanks of him; an orc child was selling skewers of meat and insects; a brown-haired elf sat on a blue carpet, selling silk clothing — white dresses shimmering with gold. The one that caught his eye the most was a gnome with a mustache too large for his tiny face. Behind him were glass enclosures, each filled with different species from the Praz jungle. Children hopped as baby basilisks flapped their wings for the first time.

He had been there once during an expedition. The jungle was anything but green: royal purples, vivid reds, silver, and grays.

He stopped reminiscing and found himself standing in front of a guard. A crowd engulfed the area behind the guard, and multiple guards attempted to disperse them.

“Stop, citizen. City business, please move along,” one of the guards said candidly. The steel helmet he wore obscured most of his face.

Negus peered over the guard's shoulder. On the ground, a Septis, a foul creature known to infect people with deadly diseases, lay stiff and cold.

Suddenly, the weathered leather of the tome felt as if he was holding a block of ice, and just as quickly as the cold came, it gave way to a heat similar to what he had felt earlier. Negus held the large book with his hands, and a musty, iron odor emitted from its leather cover and worn pages. The rhythm of magic was not constant; it pulsed, rising and falling, and in the undercurrent of the beating flow, he heard whispers of a song in a tongue he didn’t understand. His skin became covered in gooseflesh.

“Sir,” the guard said, “I will only ask once more: Please move along.”

He looked up, not knowing how long he had been standing idly. The faces standing around the body earlier were gone; new ones took their place. He slowly nodded toward the guard, turned, and walked away. As he moved farther from the grizzly scene, the tension in the weighty tome seemed to diminish.

He went back through the market, taking a path through the entertainment quarter. As he ventured farther, the path, once straight, now felt crooked, buckling under the pressure of a growing cancer. Grand establishments that adorned the district’s streets now writhed with rot. People slept on the sides of the roads and spoke in hushed whispers in dark corners.

The theater he used to attend with his mother, where fantasies of knights, wizards, and princesses played out on stage, was now replaced by shows of desire.

He turned right, leading to the central square, and in the center was a statue of King Aelarion Ironhand, the city's founder. The marble statue stood tall, and King Aelarion wielded his colossal war hammer, which struck down Zephyrus Grimheart. He passed the statue and came to a crossroads.

Right led back to the Thorne family estate, but he looked left and eyed a white ivory tower in the distance. His grip tightened around the tome, and he went left.

***

Negus ascended the tower's spiral staircase, passing different wooden doors on the way up. Some were open, and he spotted scribes dipping their feather pens in ink and quickly recounting the day's events. Others would be empty, with scrolls sprawled open across wooden desks or littered about the room. The staircase seemed endless, but he knew he was close when the smell of dragon weed assaulted his nose.

The door was cracked, and inside, he heard the frustrated mutterings of Baelor Reed. Negus opened the door, and the bald man was hunched over his desk, quickly dipping his pen in ink and bringing it back on the parchment paper. The quill’s tip skated across the paper, leaving a trail of soft scratching. The room was thick with dragon weed's earthy, slightly sweet scent.

“Baelor,” Negus said.

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The man jumped in his seat, the scratching ripped through the page, and rolling

paper fell from his mouth onto the stone floor. He turned and glared at the young man.

“You could’ve knocked,” Baelor said. “The door was open.”

Baelor turned back around, dipping his pen once again. “What do you need, Negus? I don’t have a lot of time right now.”

Negus walked toward the desk, tome under his arm. “I was wondering if you could read this.” He placed the tome on the desk and slid it over to Baelor.

The man opened it and scanned over it. “Is there any more writing, or is this it?”

“That’s it.”

Baelor scratched his cheek and stood, going over to a drawer in the corner of the room. He began to sort through various scrolls. “Where did you get it from?”

“A war-torn battlefield. I was nearly killed trying to get it.”

The bald man muttered under his breath and came to a stop; he grabbed a sealed scroll and sat back down. He leaned in close, scanning the lettering sprawled in the tome again.

“I think the book reacted,” Negus said.

Baelor turned to him. “Reacted?”

“Yes.”

“Just outside the market, a Septis had been killed, and when I was near the corpse, the book felt… like it was pulsating.”

Baelor turned and unsealed the scroll. The parchment was ancient; its edges were frayed and yellowed. Baelor’s fingers trembled slightly as they traced the scripted text. Negus stood in the stillness, his gaze fixated on the paper, but the writing was too small for him to make anything out.

“This tome… I believe it’s from the Twilight Campaign.”

“The war with Drakmor?”

Baelor hesitantly nodded. “This writing is of the Virellan people. Negus, get rid of this. Burn it, bury it, but don’t hold onto this.”

“It took a lot of effort to get this, Baelor. A good man gave his life helping me find this.”

“Then he died for nothing.”

Baelor closed the tome and stood. “Nothing of value ever came from those people.” He picked it up and shoved it into

Negus’ hands. “Anything which is a remnant of Drakmor is something the world would be better without. Destroy it.”

Negus nodded and left, carrying the tome under his arm.

When he exited the tower, the sun was beginning to settle on the horizon. He looked at the tome, studying its distinct texture and curious nature. Negus couldn't bring himself to destroy such a unique artifact; the pursuit of knowledge, whether good or evil, was in his nature. He put the tome into his satchel and took the main roads back home. He passed through the city’s

financial district, the afternoon crowd littering the streets.

“Wesley! Is that you?”

Negus turned at the familiar voice, recognizing Councilman

Justard, a figure intertwined with childhood memories. Justard, with his imposing presence and unwavering commitment to Baelon, had once been a frequent visitor to Negus's home, a friend of his parents. The wrinkles etched on his face spoke of years spent navigating the intricate web of political intrigues.

“Councilman Justard?”

“My goodness, you’ve grown!” Justard exclaimed, reaching out his hand

Negus hesitated momentarily before accepting the handshake, the years of absence between them palpable.

“How are you, son? I haven’t seen you in…I can’t even remember how long it’s been. Where have you been?”

“Studying at Courtworth. Julian sent me years back; he claimed it would help clear my mind.” Negus explained, a hint of nostalgia tugging at his voice.

“And? Did it?” Justard said, his interest piqued.

Negus couldn’t help but chuckle. “A little, perhaps. And how have you been, councilman? Any hot debates with the council?”

Justard laughed heartily. “Enough to keep me on my toes!

I’m hosting a gala tonight for the council and Blue Bloods. I would invite you, but I know it would bore a young man like yourself. It’s purely political nonsense.”

Justard’s demeanor changed; his tone turned serious, and his face adopted an expressionless look.

“That being said, I must start the preparations. It was good to see you again, Wesley.”

With a final handshake, Justard bid farewell and disappeared into the busy streets, leaving Negus to ponder the intricacies of life as a member of the Baelon council while he ventured home.