She slipped through the crowd unnoticed, moving as little more than a gray ghost. That was, after all, a benefit of her appearance, she was all too easy to ignore. There was the occasional pitying glance of course. Sometimes a child noticed her face and recoiled, giving their parent's hand a tug and pointing to the fast-disappearing cripple. Yet, for the most part, she was unnoticed. Petra slid through the tumultuous crowd and headed straight for the church. What better place to know of a town's comings and goings was there than a house of congregation? The doors were unlocked, admitting her entry and escape from the hubbub of the surrounding street.

"Hello?" she called out tentatively, striding across the threshold and into the structure.

No response came as she walked cautiously across the marble flagstones, maneuvering toward the front of the room in absolute silence.

"Excuse me, is there anyone here?" she called out once more, ears straining for the sound of approaching footsteps. The lack of an answer was disturbing.

She glanced about the church, glancing across the multitude of stained glass windows, each depicting an image from the lives of saints. Jerome smiting a chimera with shield and lance. Rastavan, defeating a witch through pure piety alone. Herra, her radiant palm curing a woman's blindness.

At the sight, Petras's hand instinctively reached for her missing eye, caressing her damaged cheek. If only. What she would give for such a miracle. Magic could, perhaps, do the deed, yet that was hardly an option. It would never be an option.

"Who are you?"

A voice shook Petra from her musings. She turned her head to be met by the sight of a priest who seemed as surprised by her presence as she was by his silent appearance.

He seemed youthful, skin taut and stature seeming more akin to an officer or soldier than a man of the church. Almost far too young for a man in his position, yet the robes of office did not lie.

"I am Petra Ryza," she said bluntly.

"Father Roue," he answered, "Can I help you, child?"

"I am searching for someone, I wondered if you could help me," she said simply.

"Perhaps, who might you be looking for?" the young man shrugged.

"An artisan, a weapon maker. Arnold Sturer he called himself," she said simply.

The priest's face went rigid, a deep frown creasing his brow at the sound of the name.

"Why are you searching for him?" he asked, his voice taking a slight edge.

"I was informed he is a weapon maker of some renown, I was told to attempt to commission his services," Petra said simply.

"Did you not hear what occurred?" the priest raised an eyebrow in surprise.

The woman mirrored the motion, slightly confused at the priest's evasive manner, "No, what is wrong?"

"The man's real name was Albert Roll," the priest said simply.

For a brief moment, Petra felt elation. Her suspicions had been correct, the Malthorian had fled here. Then, she realized the weight of what the priest had said. The man had been found out.

"He was a heretic, a traitor, a rogue witch hunter of the excommunicated Malthorian Order," the priest said frostily.

Petra felt her mouth go dry. She stared at the priest in stunned silence.

"He was discovered," Roue said simply, "By an inquisitorial team, tried, and burned for his crimes, out in the town square. His ashes were scattered in the river."

The archivist stood frozen, her mouth slightly agape as she struggled to contain her shock.

"I am sorry to inform you of this, it is clear you have traveled far madam Ryza," the priest said apologetically, "It is really regrettable that you were not informed of who this man was, truly."

Petra snapped her mouth shut.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" Father Roue asked somewhat more gently.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"No. Not at all. Thank you for your time father," she stuttered, trying to stop her trembling lip.

"I understand it's quite a shock," the man nodded sagely, "Should you require further aid, do not hesitate to ask. The church is always open for those in need."

"Thank you," she bobbed her head in acknowledgment, turning to make her way out into the street.

It was only at the door that she gave pause, facing the man once more.

"Father, when did this occur?" she said abruptly, "When was he executed?"

"Oh, it's been close to three years now, happened in the springtime. It's why you surprised me with your query, but I do suppose some news can travel slowly," he answered.

"I suppose it can," Petra nodded halfheartedly, "Thank you. Have a good day."

"Go with God," Roue said, raising a palm in silent blessing.

The woman nodded, staggering out into the street. Her hand rested against the cold stone of the church entryway. Petra wanted to scream. To weep. To vent her misery. It had all been for nothing. She could feel the weight of the satchel on her back. The black book dragging her down. She gritted her teeth and made her way through the seething mass of smallfolk, aiming toward the inns on the outskirts of the town. She didn't hear the cries of children pointing. Nor the shouting of the throng. The gray city passed in a blur.

The Iron Boar. Petra barely registered the tavern-keep as she entered the small, dingy structure. The man raised a confused eyebrow at her early return but said nothing as she vanished up the stairs toward her room, leaving the smoke-filled common room behind her untouched. The door slammed shut and Petra slumped on her bed, satchel flung to the floor. She could feel the tears welling up. Her tongue darted across cracked lips, the mist in her eye blinding her. She took several deep, ragged breaths. It had all been a waste. The order was gone. Even those that had gone into hiding were no more. The sacrifice had been in vain.

Her empty fist opened and clenched, body shaking. She squeezed her eye shut. It was all so wrong. Dead. Albert Roll was dead. The order was dead. She had failed. It had died by purge of fire. If only she had died at Rauheim. She wouldn't have had to see the end.

She wanted to scream at the injustice. The wrongness of it all. Blood trickled down Petra's palms as nails bit deep into her flesh. Her nose ran and tears streamed down her cheek. Wretched sobs wracked the woman's body as she sat on the edge of the bed.

Or perhaps- that was why.

Someone had to see it all and bear witness. Perhaps fate had a cruel sense of purpose after all. Perhaps that was it. Yet why her?

With a final hiss of resignation, the archivist reached for her pack once more. The black books records had to be maintained. Tradition demanded it, even now.

Hesitantly, she pulled out the ancient tome, eyeing the faded cover. Today should have been a victory. It was supposed to be a good day. A day of success, of vindication. Of hope. It had been none of those. Her hand shook as she placed the black book atop the bedside table. The pages crinkled as she opened the archaic text. A myriad of great deeds to be remembered. The order's oldest secrets exposed to its readers, or otherwise embedded in old riddles too obscure to decipher. A tome of knowledge few others could claim to match. The history of the Malthorians at her fingertips, preserved by long-dead hands for the sake of posterity, so that future generations could know their past. It all seemed laughable now.

Sometimes there is no dawn. Stand and fight regardless.

Words of wisdom from a long-dead saint. Words to live by. What would Malthor have done? What would he have said were he to see his order now?

Petra leaned her head back and closed her eyes. What would he say? She snorted with hollow laughter. What would he say indeed, to see a crippled archivist as the sole remnant of his legacy? She sighed and looked back down at the tome before her, wiping away the bubble of snot at her nose.

One last entry, and her duty was finished. Absentmindedly her fingers caressed the Malthorian cross that hung about her neck. And what then? Hide the book away? Take it far from here?

The woman sighed, slumping where she sat as she pondered the decision that remained. It did her no good to contemplate such things on an empty stomach. Petra reached back into her satchel, withdrawing a small, ratty purse from within. A dozen silver crowns and a few coppers. All the savings she had left after her notary service in Ernheim. She would need to find new work soon. Another undesirable divergence from her duty.

A small bowl of stew couldn't hurt though, something to chase away the soreness. Something to distract from the monotony of hard bread and toughened jerky. The archivist took stock of her sparse surroundings and stood up, cautiously putting away the black book before making her way downstairs. The nightly regulars had begun to funnel in, their chatter slowly building in crescendo with each new arrival.

Petra stayed silent, choosing the furthest corner of the place to sit. Far away from potential confrontation, and with the entirety of the tavern visible before her.

“What will it be-,” the tavern owner's wife asked, hesitating as Petra's scarred face slid into the light.

“Some stew, please,” she answered simply, handing the woman a silver in recompense.

Warily, the archivist pulled her matted hair forward, allowing the sandy blonde mane to mask the worst of her damaged features. It was little more than a token gesture, she knew. The white lines and creases scarring her face were far too numerous to mask in such a manner, but at least it mitigated the unwelcome glances. She could disappear this way, and perhaps that was for the best.

Petra leaned back in her seat and stretched her legs, ruminating on the day's events. She had to formulate a plan, and sitting here feeling sorry for herself would provide no succor. The hubbub of the surrounding patrons was distracting, a plethora of noisy conversations each struggling to be heard over their neighbor.

“...damn woman gives me no peace Karl.”

“...I'm telling you, never saw nothin' closer. Nothin'.”

“...There's a killer afoot, one of the old kooks, the Malthorians.”

“...Just a few more crowns and-”

Petra froze. Second guessing if she had heard correctly. Malthorian. Her heart was pounding in trepidation.

Had they really just said Malthorian. Had she misheard? Did she have to flee? It was a word difficult to confuse, or to miss.

Her eye slitted as she tried to make out who was talking. A man dressed in uniform sat hunched over top a mug of ale, conversing with another in similar garb.

“Still can't believe they did Orrin in. Poor bastard, picked off from at least a mile away!” he said.

“An' they think it's a Malthorian? Really?” his friend shook his head in disbelief.

“Don't think. Know. Heard it from the cap'n myself,” the first insisted.

“I don' believe it,” the man said.

Petra licked her lips in consternation, body tensing as she did her best to inconspicuously listen to the men's conversation.

“Crossed north of the river. He's in Loseine. Should 'ave 'im cornered soon enough,” the man continued.

Petra's mind flickered back to the black book. A living Malthorian? That seemed unlikely. She had recorded them all. Or had she? The possibility was certainly there. Not all of the bodies had been verified. A few stories had been second-hand. False accusations had been rampant.

Of course, that could just as easily mean it was a false lead. And there was no Malthorian, just some unfortunate assumed to be one.

“Miss, are you ok?”

The archivist shook abruptly at the sudden address, her thoughts disrupted. It was the innkeep's wife, back with her order.

“Is all well?”

“Thank you. Yes. I'm well,” she nodded hurriedly, doing her best to ignore the woman's scrutinizing look of concern.

She thinks I'm a basket case.

But at least she didn't press the issue. The archivist glared intently at the bowl before her. Warm stew and fresh bread. It smelled delicious.

Yet her appetite was gone. She needed to move. To leave and get back on the road. Loseine was at least seven days march was it not?

There was no time to waste. Petra snatched the loaf from the table, moving rapidly toward her room. It wasn't dark yet. She still had a few hours of time to march before she'd need to rest, Loseine awaited, and she dared not tarry any longer.