I had not planned to attend the University’s grand debate—foolish of me, in hindsight. Yet the rumor of a Blemmye—an actual Blemmye!—stepping onto the dais, proclaiming portents and storms, tugged my curiosity like a puppeteer’s string. I’ve long believed there are only two forces that can truly rouse a man at dawn: an empty stomach and a whiff of good gossip. Luckily, I had breakfast.

  Even so, I arrived late, a quill stuck behind my ear and ink staining my fingers, which did me no favors when the doorkeeper glared. The city had been in a stir since cockcrow, with tales of missing caravans and ominous news from the border. I, Adalbert van Aarden—sometimes referred to as the Chronicler, but only by those who wish to sound important—could ill afford to miss such an event.

  Thus did I slip into the hall midway through the herald’s introduction, doing my best to look purposeful rather than tardy. The debate was already in full swing, the crowd a sea of academic robes, with the Grand Council perched like a row of suspicious hawks on the high balconies. One never realizes how many people an event can gather until one is trying to find a seat.

  I wedged myself into a cramped bench near the back and quietly opened my ledger. Around me, scholars fanned themselves with parchment, leaning in to mutter about “unearthly anomalies” or “unmapped storms.” Half the city believed the roads were possessed; the other half insisted no, just the people traveling them.

  “Seems the Blemmye has found a voice,” I overheard one robed fellow say, adjusting his hood like it might strangle him if he let down his guard. “Pray it’s worth hearing.”

  I touched pen to page, heart drumming with anticipation. If anyone was going to put this spectacle into words for future generations (or at least for my own amusement), it might as well be me.

  The Master of Debate—resplendent in dark silks and with stoic expression—raised his hand for calm. The hall quieted, but not entirely. A hush of tension remained, sharper than any I’d felt in these venerable halls before.

  “This assembly stands to hear the testimony of John the Blemmye,” he announced. “A laborer of Hasholm’s own University, who claims grave tidings of an eastward storm and cosmic turmoil. He shall have the word uninterrupted, before the scholars—and the Grand Council—begin our discourse.”

  And there he was. John the Blemmye. I nearly toppled my inkpot at the sight. I’d seen Blemmyes around the city—mighty frames, a face set improbably in their chests—but never one about to lecture a hall of academics. It was like a barn cat preparing to judge an orchestra.

  He stepped forward, slow but assured, as though he’d always belonged there. A hush fell. When he spoke, I almost forgot to breathe. His voice boomed with a conviction that would impress any traveling preacher. He greeted the gathered scholars as “friends,” which immediately endeared him to me—I had half-expected a doomsayer’s thunder. Instead, he gave us warmth.

  “My friends… you have fed me, sheltered me, given me purpose. Through the veil of my former silence, I watched you all. But the safety we cherished is no more. My kin feel it in our bones—an unraveling, a storm awakened.”

  So said the giant with a voice that could humble a church organ. My quill flew across the page, all but squeaking in protest at my speed.

  John spoke of cosmic boundaries fracturing, of a west that was closed, of anomalies now spreading like mold in an abandoned larder. He offered no official charts, no tidy data, only convictions hammered by what sounded like unearthly dreams. Naturally, the University—who adores tidy data above all things—erupted.

  A senior scholar, Freling, thumped his cane. “We are men of reason,” he barked, and I suspected he’d prefer to shout it at the sky if he could. “We desire evidence, not superstition. How can we trust a Blemmye’s ‘visions’?”

  Elsbeth, champion of the empirically measurable, shot back, “His newly awakened speech alone justifies an investigation, Freling. Or do you dismiss that too as fancy?”

  The debate ballooned, voices volleying from every side. I scribbled as fast as mortal hand allows. Some invoked the Prophet’s plan, while others brandished ancient tomes, finger-smudged from half a century of neglect. Merchants muttered about missing caravans, or so I gleaned in fragments. Someone else demanded charts for these storms—no small feat if entire caravans had vanished. Perhaps the storms used the charts for bedtime reading?

  Up above, the Grand Council watched in silence, the Supreme Commander frowning so deeply I feared his chin might vanish behind his collar. Rumor had it the Council had dreaded something like this for months. Looking at their stony faces, I believed it.

  Then, from the crowd’s midst, a Scribe stepped out—bookish, unassuming, but apparently well regarded. He raised a hand, and lo, an entire hall of academics hushed. I scrawled a note to myself: "Identify this scribe—charismatic. Possibly allergic to applause."

  He spoke calmly, citing rumors of lost traders, contradictory letters from the east, odd times and tides. It wasn’t ironclad proof, but it was enough to shift the atmosphere from outright dismissal to reluctant acceptance. Even Freling ceased glowering quite so fiercely.

  Eventually, the High Rector stepped in—his robes a riot of green thread and embroidered epistles, as though one could ward off cosmic horror with good tailoring alone. “Knowledge cannot thrive in ignorance,” he declared, his voice reverberating to the rafters. “We shall test these warnings. Otto, I charge you to lead an expedition eastward, verifying these claims for the good of city and realm alike.”

  He ended with a flourish that made my quill tremble anew:

  “If the threat is illusory, we will bury it with reason. If not…we must answer it with all the muster of human wit.”

  There followed scattered applause, subdued by confusion and foreboding. The High Rector’s decree was clear: the University would take John’s words seriously. The Council, for their part, kept their faces rigid as granite. Hard to say if they were relieved or merely resigned.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  As for John—shoulders hunched, gaze distant—he seemed less triumphant than burdened. Like a man who’d tried saving a town from flood, only to find the gates opening onto an entire ocean.

  The hall then burst into pockets of frantic chatter—scribes and scholars forming miniature storms of paperwork. The Grand Council withdrew in a bustle of heavy robes, the Supreme Commander pausing to cast John a thoughtful, or perhaps worried, glance.

  I stayed put for a moment, my ledger brimming with notes and my mind swirling with questions. What storms? What anomalies? How many caravans lost? In future days, if the world turned sideways, I might be the one to document how this moment changed everything. Or, cynically, how it led us nowhere.

  In the corridor, I caught a final glimpse of John speaking to two faculty members. I couldn’t catch their words above the din, but their expressions told me they were forging urgent plans. Heaven help them if the Blemmyes were right about an unmaking storm.

  Some days, it feels as if everything is either beginning or ending. For my part, I knew my role: to witness, record, and preserve. Perhaps words are just scraps of driftwood against a raging storm. But I’d cling to mine anyway, scribbling until my inkwell runs dry. After all, if the world truly is unraveling, someone ought to note how the threads came loose.

  I had scarcely taken three steps beyond the University doors when the city’s energy clobbered me like a rogue wave. Gossip traveled faster than the plague here, and the stir around that Blemmye’s speech was already rippling through passersby. A pair of young acolytes dashed past me, breathless, debating whether the Grand Council had just declared war on storms (I suspected not, but who was I to spoil their excitement?).

  From the high steps, I glimpsed the wide thoroughfare below, choked with hawkers and hurrying townsfolk. In an alley to my left, a cluster of laundrymaids paused mid-conversation, heads angled so keenly they might have been eavesdropping on the clouds. Let no rumor pass unexamined—especially now.

  I took the winding path that led toward the city’s main crossroads, ledger tucked beneath my arm. If the debate had truly rattled the powers that be, I’d likely find signs of it here. Armored watchmen, anxious apprentices, perhaps a distant trumpeting of alarm.

  “Hoy, Master Chronicler!” came a call from a stall on my right—an open-sided shop cluttered with dried herbs and pungent oils. The vendor, a stout woman with a perpetual squint, beckoned me with a smile. “You were at the big speakin’, no?”

  “I was,” I replied, stepping closer. The smell of rosemary and dusty lavender nearly bowled me over. “Took a cartful of notes, if you must know.”

  She cackled, though not unkindly. “And what’s the truth of it? Some say a giant swore an oath that the world’s about to buckle in half. Others claim he demanded every donkey in the city for a grand exodus east!”

  I flipped open my ledger, donning my best official air. “Alas, no donkey exodus. At least not yet. The gist was that odd storms plague the lands beyond our border, and the University is now… quite concerned.”

  Her smile dipped. “Seen storms enough, but not like these, I reckon.”

  I nodded solemnly. “Nor have I. If they’re anything like the rumors say, let us hope the Council has sense enough to prepare.”

  She muttered something about bracing windows and stocking extra flour, but my attention was tugged elsewhere—by a sudden flurry of movement up the street.

  A column of guards in polished half-plate trotted by, their gazes scanning the crowds. And just behind them, astride a tall bay horse, rode the Supreme Commander himself—looking as if he’d been sculpted from old granite and promptly reanimated. A hush rippled through the onlookers. Some doffed caps. Others averted their eyes. Even the children who’d been shrieking at pigeons fell silent as he passed.

  I took a bold half-step forward, tempted to call out for a word—but let’s be honest, my mother raised me to value my skull in one piece. Instead, I pressed to the edge of the street, scribbling notes:

  “Commander riding southward, flanked by watch. Tension in posture. Possibly heading for city bastion. Face set like he’s smelled a two-day-old fish.”

  He cut through the throng at a brisk pace, horses’ hooves kicking dust onto unwary boots. Overhead, the sun tried its best to shine, but a haze veiled its light—a faint, brooding cast that matched the city’s mood.

  At the crossroads, gossip overflowed like beer from an untended keg. I drifted among clusters of anxious talk:

  “I tell you, my cousin’s caravan never came back—there’s devilry on the roads!”

  “Bah, devilry? More like brigands. We’re being spooked by shadows.”

  “Shadows that eat entire wagons? My father’s friend swears he found only scorched ruts where the wheels had been!”

  And so on. I caught fragments of everything from saintly miracles to rumored rocs (my personal favorite). Everyone had a tale, or knew someone who knew a witness. I tried to sample the best morsels, but even my quick pen threatened to jam under the avalanche of rumor.

  One older woman, leaning heavily on a walking stick carved like a serpent, beckoned me close. “You with the ledger,” she hissed. “You write all this down, y’hear?”

  I bowed with polite flourish. “It is my calling, madam.”

  She jerked her head toward a broad, worn gate in the distance—the route leading to the old city bastion. “That big soldier-lord was telling his men to gather powder and shot. Heard it with my own ears. Something stirs outside these walls, boy. Best we lock the gates and pray.”

  An icy prickle ran the length of my spine. The fortress rarely shifted its garrison unless true threat loomed, and here was talk of mobilizing. I thanked her, scrawling every word.

  A passing carter nearly ran me over then—had I not hopped aside, I’d be a scribbling pancake. My ledger took a smudge of grime across the margin, much to my dismay. But I survived. And so did the words.

  At last, I found a quiet corner near an old fountain, its water tinted green by algae and neglect. Breathing in short, measured bursts, I reviewed my fresh notes:

  “The city guard anxious; watchers posted.”

  “The Commander headed for the bastion, presumably to muster arms.”

  “Folk rumors of caravans vanished, roads cursed.”

  “Some bright souls still believe it’s all a grand fuss over nothing—though they’re in the minority.”

  I felt more certain than ever that John’s warnings had stirred the city from slumber. The debate might be over, but outside the University walls, a new conversation was just beginning—one shaped by fear, curiosity, and the faint hope that we are not already too late.

  A last rumble of cartwheels reminded me how the city seldom rests, even under threat. I plucked my hat more firmly onto my head—my only shield against both gloom and gull droppings—and turned back toward the main square.

  If trouble was coming, I intended to greet it with pen in hand. After all, no one can claim it didn’t happen if the Chronicler has duly noted every anxious heartbeat.