For a day more, the group traveled through woods and wet meadows, following the meanders of the Nelmis river. Soon appeared more mountains, relieved as they’d been to be far away from the dull, gray sight for a time. The Gildarine range spanned from the west of Uminora into Pareltolle, looming over Ravengarde City which joined the peaks in the north to the coast in the south. One more stretch of wooded highway and they’d see the stony walls. They had company, too, as travelers destined for the city funneled in from the adjoining roads.

In respect to conversation, the second leg of the trip was so treacherous and boring that even Lydie could find nothing to say, not even a single gripe, and Ardmy entertained to fruition the idea of asking Jessa about her university lectures. She obliged, going on for a spell about elemental theory and leading into a story of her professor who was caught dabbling in witchcraft. Each time her retelling turned a corner where Elyza lurked, she swallowed the pangs of longing and pressed on, but this grated on her enthusiasm after a while and caused her to taper off. She stared out toward the hazy mountain peaks and placed her mind there, far away from herself and from anyone else.

A deep, scabby itch burned in Julien’s arm beyond any hope of relief, trapped under the friction of bandages. Ardmy had been smart enough to conserve his magic, to use it only to an extent where the wounds could do most of their own healing. More than Julien could say for himself – he sustained no serious injury but would likely be short his access to magic for a few days. Conservation had been the last thing on his mind at the time; buying even a fraction of a second for the others to save themselves was the first. He’d accepted death when caught in the moment, but now after being taken by the collar and wrenched from its grasp, he conceded to himself it was better to be alive, to still have a chance to see things through.

As the day neared its end, the sunset-warmed gray of the city walls commanded their attention. Damp, briny air wafted from the Nelthemar Sea which stretched out from the estuary. The mast of a lone cog beckoned eyes to a small port along the shore, sails furled to rest after a long journey. From the deck, a gabbling crew hauled in crates of varicolored grains from Drondaris, bales of wool from Sheannore, and casks of Esdaran wine, all amassed from the hub port of Brinas Bay. In the distance, weary fishermen rowed a small fleet of barges over the gently rolling waves, eager to return to port with the day’s catch.

Fish and supply stalls thrived on the main road through the outskirts, though most had already been vacated for the night. Mongers’ dwellings dotted the gradient of grass and sand, obscuring the dilapidated homes of the city’s poorest along the north edge of the wall. The nearer they drew to the gate, the more Anna felt her shoulders creeping up to her ears. As of late, she’d spent far too much time in cities for her comfort. The noise and the dangers of unfamiliar faces were best left to Deventh’s expertise, if one could speak of his tolerance as a skill.

The guards at the gate stared straight ahead, paying little mind to those passing through. The heels of their spears sunk into the dirt and had formed packed-down dents over hours of complete stillness. They served only as brute enforcers for the true guardians of the city: a neat row of ravens watching overhead, perched in crenellations along the parapet. The large corvids observed the happenings in the sprawling outskirts, scrutinizing inbound travelers with a fierce and judging sentience.

The very namesake of this place, Julien mused. He’d heard stories, but those painted a picture much more absurd than intimidating; for those pitch-bead eyes to brim with such intelligence was a great deal more unnerving than anticipated.

One such raven locked eyes with Deventh before lifting off its perch, revealing a single white talon on its left foot. It hovered there, sizing him up or perhaps delivering some sort of cryptic warning, then took flight over the wall and into the city.

The city was a place of dark, gray brick and pointed roofs, masked in the shadow of its own walls. The group sought a place to rest, and as they traveled the road cramped between shops and residences, they could not ignore an overwhelming presence. Ravens took strategic posts everywhere – along eaves, on windowsills, and in the branches of elms.

A sudden thwack from Tatsidi’s tail knocked Lydie off balance.

“Oi, what was that for?” she asked, taking a short leap to recover her footing.

“I am sorry, Lydie,” said Tatsidi, wide-pupiled eyes slivering the air. “There are just so many birds. Ones that are agents of the rogue god, no less.”

“In Thrundar, they are regarded as Lusmir’s pets,” remarked Anna with a sneer. “They cling to the seam between here and the spiritual plane, chasing the smell of soot from faulty life-candles. Any person they follow will succumb to sickness or death, and then they snip the wicks with their beaks.”

“One of my professors gave a lecture on divine symbology,” said Jessa. “The consensus among all the differing beliefs is that Salan, a guardian of Oenar’s domain, was charged with choosing a creature to act as an equalizing force among thieves. He chose crows and ravens as they’re just as attuned to cooperation as mischief, and with flight, they can reach vantage points from which to conduct unbiased judgment. However, Lusmir also found them valuable for their ability to traverse the spiritual plane, so befittingly, they traverse divine domains as well.”

“I have not attended a Nelthrin school, but it seems your professors do not teach from experience,” said Tatsidi. “These creatures know nothing of honor, let alone spirits. Those that do not peck your nose or pluck from your pockets are biding their time for richer rewards. You confirm they are of Oenar’s domain – and so however the tale is spun, I do not trust them.”

“W-well, you don’t have to trust them,” said Jessa. “The consensus isn’t about being told what to believe, especially on matters of culture and religion. It’s about what we all have in common despite our differences. And no one is ever barred from challenge or dispute.”

“In theory,” Ardmy chuckled.

As conversation dwindled, they happened upon an inn that was suitable for a night’s stay. They stabled their horses, and while the others headed inside, Deventh pulled Anna aside.

“I’ve business elsewhere in town this evening,” he said. Anna pressed her lips thin, folding her arms across her chest. Sliding his mask down, Deventh looked at her with reassurance. “It won’t delay our morning departure.”

“Is it wise for you to wander off on your own?” asked Anna. “With whatever that thing is that keeps happening to you?”

“Do you regard me as feeble for it? Of course it could happen again, but that’s not going to dictate whether business is conducted.”

“Fine. At least tell me where you’re going.” Anna produced a crinkling map from her bag and Deventh pointed to an unmarked area in the center. He lowered his voice.

“There’s a hatch behind the butcher shop. The door is warded; don’t knock. I can’t give the passphrase, but Jessa should be able to help with disarming it. This is, of course, if you must go there for dire reasons.”

Anna raised a brow at the mention of the butcher shop but refrained from asking any questions.

“Right. I’d much prefer it if you kept to your word of being back before morning so we can avoid any more extraneous ventures, but lately it seems we can never be too prepared.”

They split ways, Anna shaking her head as she held the door open, looking back at him one more time.

Deventh secured his mask in place and adjusted his hood while he walked. Now that he was alone, the feeling of being watched began to intensify. He couldn’t determine whether it was due to his solitude intrinsically or rather something watching him in particular. For the time being he put it out of his mind and made it to his destination.

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The butcher sat beneath an awning on a weather-gnawed stool, heaving his round body forward to submerge a bloodstained cloth in a bucket. As he righted himself, he began rubbing the cloth on the blade of his bone saw. On the table behind him lay his cleaver and knives, already cleaned and honed. The man gave Deventh a curt and measuring nod, then wiped the sweat from his beet-red face with his apron.

A quartet of ravens swooped down and flew into the shop through the open window. The butcher scrambled to his feet in a clumsy rush to chase them off. His foot caught under the leg of the stool, which landed on its side with a hollow thud. He swung the door open, swearing and brandishing his saw as he hobbled inside. Deventh used the distraction to slip into the alley unnoticed.

He passed through a gate and entered a fenced-in garden overgrown with weeds. In the far corner he found a hatch, and as he reached down for the handle, the mischievous ravens flitted overhead. Three danced in a suspended circle, fighting over a scrap of sinew. The fourth, perched on a fencepost, was the one with the white talon.

Deventh stopped, turned around to look at the creature in closer proximity than before. It stared through his mask, past his eyes to a depth no sapient entity had ever accessed with a simple gaze. In a most passive and unthreatening way, it was absorbing an exhaustive knowledge of him. It understood him before he even had a chance to blink.

“Not us, nor them. You are something else,” croaked a throaty voice as the raven took off into the trees. Its companions soon followed, having shredded the meat scraps into equal parts draped between their beaks.

He opened the hatch and tested the first stair. A film of mold made the surface slippery, the wood warped and distended with rot. Treading lightly and carefully, he descended into the musty depths. The bottom landing opened into a vestibule with an entrance to a long, dark passageway on the far end. At the end was a door he had to squint to make out from the shadows. Specks of dust floated in what little light reached the space, clinging to cobwebs in the corners.

Deventh stepped over a thin stream of water that flowed from the cracks in the wall, wondering whether he’d come to the right place. Zéah had reassured him that some practitioners of her occupation preferred to live more hidden than others, but any confidence that she wouldn’t lead him astray was long gone. After the dourling incident, anything was possible. The dense, moldy malodor thickened with each step, trapped and stewing in the narrow passage. It was enough to provoke a grimace under his mask.

Stepping up to the door, he raised a loose fist but quickly drew it back. That polite instinct had nearly invited any eager warding effects to unleash themselves upon him. He waited instead.

A faint, irregular shuffling preceded a hard thump against the door from the other side. The hinges rattled, then came the sound of mouth breathing.

“Mending of body.” A weak and warbling voice pierced the solid wood, as though lips were pressed directly against it.

“Soundness of mind,” Deventh answered. The door opened, revealing an adolescent boy of some combination between human and Dronvar. Moreover he was sickly and kyphotic, with sparse patches of hair and a crooked foot trailing behind him. A walking pity of a child – born not only of half blood but with a thin and broken body. If he was lucky, he lived from birth here in the harborage, and if not, life on the outside would have been unimaginably cruel. Either way, his eyes had seen sorrow.

“The doctor is with a patient,” said the boy. “Enter and wait, please.”

As he entered, Deventh felt the dampness from the passageway evaporate. The harborage’s interior was much more typical of a Mezthrin doctor’s dwelling with its warm torchlight, botanical fragrances, and a comforting atmosphere despite the adjacency to death. Surely a place this hidden had seen much of it, but Harborers had their secret techniques, their ways of masking that distinct gravity.

The boy led Deventh to a bench facing a short tea table and invited him to sit down. As he did, a wretched groan resounded from the threshold across the room. Deventh’s eyes shot over to a thick, purple curtain hanging as a divider. The boy bowed his head, though it seemed more a gesture done in nervous avoidance of potential eye contact than a display of courtesy.

“The patient has taken a turn for the worse,” he said, and flinching he added, “Apologies that you must wait.”

“It’s no trouble,” said Deventh. “No patient is more important than the next.” The boy let his arms fall to his sides, but this was the extent of any relief in his demeanor. Still wary, he shuffled around, opening and closing drawers, pinching the buds of dried herbs. A desperate and obvious search for a means to occupy himself. A whistling kettle soon saved him, putting him to a meaningful task. He bumbled through the cupboard while Deventh was still fixed on the curtain, and he eventually made his way over with a tray full of rattling cups.

“You’re welcome to some tea if you’d like,” he said as he set it down on the table. “Green with toasted purple rice.”

“Interesting choice. Are you from the Gray?”

“Yes.” The boy winced. “I can get you something else if you’d like.”

“This will do.”

The boy said nothing as he lifted the teapot, starting with a steady pour into one of the cups. His whole body jolted suddenly and he lost his grip. The teapot tumbled to the floor, but not before hitting the lip of the tray and knocking over the cups. Boiling water splashed onto his clothes and, from how hard he bit his lip, scalded the skin beneath. Deventh jumped up to help, looking around for something to dry the spill.

“Please, you don’t need to help,” said the boy. Pressing his fingertips into his brow, he groped around for a rag. “Not this. Not again. Ugh—excuse me. Please, sit down and be comfortable. I’ll have this fixed in a bormunk’s whisker.”

“Perhaps it’s you who ought to sit down, khöutth. No sense in making servility your tomb.” The boy shrunk in confusion at his use of such a familiar term for addressing juniority. Deventh shook his head and removed his mask, setting it on the table as he let down his hood. He continued his search while the boy stood frozen in place.

“So you are Dronvari.”

“Aye.” Deventh’s voice was trapped in a cupboard where he’d stuck his head.

“I thought as much, but… You haven’t shown me a speck of cruelty. Back at home, I could only have wished to be ignored. If it wasn’t disparaging words at the first greeting, then I’d have been spat on, beaten down or pelted with rotten fruit.” He averted his gaze as Deventh returned to him and passed him a cloth. “Thank you, tho-varo.”

“You can thank me by dropping formalities. How old are you?”

“Fifteen, th—fifteen.”

“Then you’re old enough to learn this – maybe even too old to be just learning it – you’ll never earn respect by acquiescing to cruelty. Nor will it keep you safe, no matter how far people try to wedge you into that comfortable corner. It’s a trap to keep you complacent, keep you choosing to be their fool.”

“Well, that’s easy for someone like you to say. Someone with a normal body.”

“Are you happy, then, with defeat? With designating yourself as lesser than others?”

“No. But the world hasn’t offered me any other choice.”

“Sometimes options need to be created when you’re not satisfied with what’s on offer. Wielding the right weapon at least tends to make people think twice about their words and actions. Surely you’re not incapable of that.”

The boy resisted a smirk that pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“No one’s ever called me khöutth before. Just other things much less endearing. I did always envy those with older brothers.”

Deventh shrugged. “Don’t get wistful. You’re not missing out.”

The boy finished dabbing the moisture from his clothes and set the cups aside to dry off the tray. A brooding tension settled across his forehead, and he looked a great deal less pitiful, more contemplative. He lifted the tray and wiped the surface beneath it, a sudden heartiness in his movements.

“Maybe you’re right about some things. I don’t know who you are but… Thank you for not treating me too much like a sick person.”

“Of course,” said Deventh. “And don’t worry about getting more tea.”

The boy nodded, knees wobbling as he tried to reach the floor with his drying cloth. They gave out, though, and his elbows smacked the table, sending the dishes into a fit of clattering. Waving a hand, he clutched his dizzy head again.

“I’m all right,” he said, “Go away—I mean—"

The curtain ruffled open with a heavy swoosh and a tall, burly man stepped out. A sleeveless robe bared broad shoulders and arms as thick as logs with a healthy, vibrant chestnut tone.

“Welcome, friend of Zéah,” he said, his striking citrine gaze surveying Deventh as he held the curtain aside, “Do come in."