Harahel did not allow the thought to pass her lips. To speak such an accusation before a witch whose allegiance lay elsewhere would give the suspicion a life she was not yet prepared to face.

  She eased her chair back and rose from the table, offering the witch a courteous nod.

  “I thank you for the reading,” she said. “You have given me much to think about.”

  She had taken only a step from the table when the witch spoke again, her voice carrying easily beneath the indigo awning.

  “One moment, bard.”

  Harahel slowed and turned back. The young witch had already drawn another card from the deck and now held it lightly between two fingers, extending it across the table.

  “You may wish to keep this with you.”

  Harahel did not immediately reach for it. “For what purpose?”

  “For protection,” the witch replied calmly. “Something approaches, and it would be wise to carry a light.”

  The card rested in her outstretched hand. Its painted image showed a narrow road winding through shadow, watched over by a small silver lantern held aloft in an unseen hand. The flame within it burned with steady, unwavering light.

  Harahel accepted the card, slipped it into the fold of her sleeve, and stepped away from the indigo awning with a final nod of acknowledgment.

  The suspicion planted by the cards continued to circle through Harahel’s thoughts as she walked, refusing to settle into certainty. By the time she reached Bralgor’s corner of Prophet’s Alley, the morning’s haste had left her hungry, and the scent of roasting meat stirred her stomach in sharp reminder.

  The followers of Bralgor had claimed a wide stretch of the street where fires burned beneath iron spits and the air hung thick with smoke and sizzling fat. Harahel purchased a slab of meat and a mug of beer before settling onto a rough bench among the crowd.

  The first swallow of beer was cool and bitter against her tongue. She welcomed it, hoping that with each steady draught the turmoil in her mind might dull enough for reason to return.

  For a time, she focused on the simple act of eating. The meat was coarse and heavily salted, the sort of fare meant to fill a warrior’s stomach rather than flatter a cook’s pride. Around her, Bralgor’s followers ate and drank with loud enthusiasm, their laughter rising easily over the crackle of the fires and the clang of iron spits being turned.

  Yet even as the noise and warmth of the place pressed in around her, the suspicion would not loosen its hold. She raised the mug again and drank deeply, hoping the bitterness might wash it away. It did not.

  If the reading was right, Taliesin had been taken.

  If Antioch stood behind it, the road ahead would lead her toward a confrontation she had long avoided.

  Harahel finished the last of the meat and wiped her fingers against the rough cloth laid across the bench.

  For a moment, she considered returning to the theater. It would be easy enough to walk back through the doors and speak the conclusion the cards had laid before her. If Antioch had truly taken Taliesin, the senior disciples needed to know.

  Yet the thought faltered as soon as it formed.

  Her warning had already rested upon uncertain ground. She had stood before them with nothing more than a dream. To return now with the judgment of a witch sworn to Hera would not strengthen her claim. It would weaken it.

  Harahel lowered her gaze to the mug in her hands, turning it slowly between her fingers.

  Celia had promised that she and the senior disciples would seek clarity through meditation, and whatever they discerned would carry far greater weight than a bard’s dream or a witch’s cards. Until then, restraint would serve her better than certainty.

  Harahel drained the last of the beer and set the empty mug aside. The decision settled quietly within her, unwelcome but firm.

  She would wait.

  Harahel rose from the bench and stepped back into the flow of Prophet’s Alley.

  Her home lay only a short walk from the alley, and the quiet of her chamber often gave shape to thoughts that refused order in the open air. A song might steady her. A poem, perhaps, something measured and careful, the kind of work that demanded attention without inviting emotion to wander too far.

  With that intention fixed in place, Harahel turned toward the street that would lead her home.

  Then she saw him.

  Merrick the Fool stood upon a small stage ahead, bells chiming as he spun his jests for a raucous crowd. The platform was barely more than a raised board set between the market stalls, yet it commanded attention all the same. Laughter spilled outward, faces bright with delight as his tricks and barbs landed one after another.

  The sight stirred a sharp surge of anger in Harahel’s chest, washing away the careful calm she had only just begun to gather.

  In the middle of a jest, Merrick’s eyes found her. His grin paused for the briefest instant before settling easily back into place. He completed the flourish for the crowd and offered her a small theatrical bow, treating her appearance as though she were simply another turn in the evening’s entertainment.

  “My lady,” he said, his voice smooth and lightly amused. “To what do I owe the honor? Have you come seeking Antioch’s favor?”

  Harahel climbed onto the platform and faced him across the narrow boards.

  “I have come for Taliesin,” she said, her voice firm. “Whom your cowardly god has taken.”

  Even as the words left her mouth, Harahel felt a brief flash of disbelief. Only moments earlier she had resolved that restraint was the wiser course, yet the accusation had risen to her lips with a force she had not attempted to resist.

  Merrick blinked, surprise breaking cleanly through his performer’s ease, and his hand rose briefly to his throat before dropping again.

  “That is a bold claim,” he said carefully. “Antioch would never harm his brother.”

  Harahel answered with a slight shake of her head.

  "He is jealous of his brother," she said. "He has held a grudge against Taliesin ever since…."

  The admission nearly escaped her before she forced it back.

  Merrick leaned slightly closer, curiosity brightening his expression.

  “Ever since what?” he asked. “Come now. A fool lives for good gossip.”

  Harahel held his gaze and gave him nothing.

  “I want to see Antioch.”

  The humor drained from Merrick’s face as the demand settled between them.

  “That's a tall order, my dear.” he said at last. “Antioch is not known for his willingness to come when beckoned."

  “I am not asking,” Harahel replied, her voice cold with resolve. “Taliesin is in danger, and I will not leave him in Antioch’s hands.”

  Merrick stood silent for a moment, weighing her words before giving a small nod.

  “Very well, my lady. At midnight, come to Valkas’s abandoned temple. If it pleases him, Antioch may decide to appear.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “I will be there,” Harahel said. “And if he is a god worthy of even a rat’s praise, he will be there as well.”

  She left the platform and moved back into the bustle of Prophet’s Alley, leaving Merrick and the faint chiming of his bells behind her.

  ***

  Just before midnight, Harahel made her way to the temple, trying to remain calm despite the fear and uncertainty twisting inside her. As she approached the entrance, she noticed that Valkas’s temple was in a state of disrepair, with crumbling walls and broken windows. Her foot came down on something brittle, she glanced down and saw the remnants of a broken idol, its ancient features ground to dust beneath her boot. The sharp crunch echoed in the silence, a bitter omen of the faith's forsaken promise in this place.

  Harahel crossed the threshold and entered the temple. The air was thick and stale, carrying traces of old smoke and burnt offerings, ghosts of the temple’s former splendor.

  She moved cautiously down the dimly lit corridor, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dark. At the far end, a door stood slightly ajar, and faint voices drifted from within.

  Harahel pushed the door open and stepped inside, halting at once. Unease crept through her as she took in the scene. The chamber was crowded with disciples of Antioch, each group consumed by its own distorted expression of worship.

  To her left, she saw the tricksters clad in rough pelts and crowned with masks shaped like foxes, wolves, hares, and ravens. A few wore antlered stag visages or the hollow-eyed faces of owls. They swayed and murmured to a rhythm no drum marked, eyes closed in rapt devotion.

  To her right, she saw the rogues, dressed in black leather and carrying daggers and throwing knives. They were engaged in a game of chance, throwing dice and coins onto the ground as they laughed and cheered.

  In front of her, she saw the influencers, dressed in fine silk robes and jewels, engaged in a heated discussion about politics and power. They argued and debated, trying to sway the opinions of those around them.

  At the center of the room, she saw the fools, dressed in brightly colored motley and jester’s caps, dancing and tumbling for the amusement of the invisible crowd. Their laughter rang through the chamber, their movements fluid and unnervingly graceful. And there, among them, stood Merrick, balanced atop a broken throne at the heart of his chaotic court.

  Harahel pushed her way through the crowd, her gaze locked on Merrick. She could feel the other disciples’ eyes following her, but she forced herself to ignore them as she approached the dancing fool.

  “Where is Antioch?” she demanded, her voice echoing through the chamber.

  Merrick halted mid-step and turned toward her, his eyes glinting with amusement.

  “Why, my dear, you must be patient,” he said lightly. “Antioch cannot be summoned at will, he comes and goes as he pleases.”

  Frustration surged within her. She had come all this way, risking everything, only to be toyed with by this clown. She stepped closer, her eyes blazing.

  “I demand to see Antioch,” she shouted. “Now!”

  Merrick’s smile widened, and then, before her eyes, he began to change.

  Harahel froze as his body began to twist and reshape itself. Merrick’s painted mirth peeled away, revealing features cut with striking symmetry. His skin grew richer in tone, warmed by a faint bronze glow that caught the torchlight and held it. His hair darkened to a glossy black, falling loose around his shoulders in elegant disarray.

  The bright motley he wore dulled and reformed, the colors bleeding into deeper shades, black, crimson, and gold, threads of his former finery surfacing through the chaos. The jester’s cap unfurled into a hooded cloak lined in shadow, the suggestion of velvet catching faint glimmers of light. Beneath it, his face was half-concealed, beautiful, sharp, and terrible. His eyes glowed faintly from within the darkness, like embers burning behind glass.

  He moved with an effortless grace as he settled onto the broken throne, part noble, part predator, every gesture a deliberate display of control. Around him, his disciples knelt in reverence.

  “Very well,” he said, his voice now a low, silken threat. “You have summoned me, my love.”

  “I should’ve known,” Harahel hissed. “You wicked shapeshifter.”

  Antioch’s smirk deepened. “I’m wounded you didn’t recognize me sooner,” he said with mock offense. “After all we shared, you couldn’t see through the simplest disguise? Did I mean so little to you?”

  “Do not pretend to be the victim here,” Harahel snapped.

  "No, that role tonight will be played by my brother Taliesin," he replied, his tone mocking, his words laced with sarcasm. "The poor lad has seemed to have gone missing," he continued with a wicked gleam in his eye.

  Harahel stood her ground, determined not to let Antioch intimidate her. "Where is he?" she demanded.

  Antioch's expression darkened. "What makes you think I have him?" he replied, his eyes narrowing.

  Harahel didn't buy his act. She knew Antioch well enough to see through his lies. "Stop playing games with me, Trickster. I know you have him. I can feel it in my bones."

  Antioch chuckled. "You always did have a knack for drama, my dear. But I'm afraid you're barking up the wrong tree. I have no idea where Taliesin is."

  The calm in his voice struck her harder than denial would have.

  “You cry about how little you mean to me,” Harahel burst out, her frustration boiling over. “But how little do I mean to you, to keep up this charade? I want the truth! You owe me that!”

  Antioch laughed and waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, my dear Harahel, I’m afraid I do not owe you anything. And even if I did, what court would you bring a god before to collect it?”

  Harahel clenched her fists, her anger spilling over. She snatched a stone from the ground and hurled it at Antioch.

  The rock whistled past his head, close enough to stir his hair. Gasps rippled through the crowd, but Antioch only chuckled.

  “Now, now, my dear,” he said, still smirking. “Violence won’t solve anything. I suggest you leave now before things get ugly."

  Harahel stood her ground and answered without hesitation. “I won’t leave until I get answers,” she said, her voice firm. “I know you had something to do with this, and I won’t rest until I uncover the truth.”

  Antioch’s lip twisted into a contemptuous snarl.

  “Very well,” he said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Harahel felt the air around her change. The disciples, who have been bowing, now turned to face her. Their eyes were now black and glowing, just like Antioch's, and they began to dance around her in a circle.

  The tricksters began to chant, softly at first, their voices threading between the pillars and curling through the air like the first stirrings of a gathering storm. A low rhythm took hold beneath the words, a steady pulse that deepened as the rogues joined in, clapping their hands and slamming their boots against the stone. The sound gathered strength with every beat, stomp and clap driving the rhythm forward as the echoes multiplied through the chamber.

  Then the influencers added their voices, sharp bursts of song rising above the growing thunder, weaving together until the hall filled with a wild chorus. Sound pressed against sound, swelling until it crowded out thought itself, the air thick with heat and motion as the relentless rhythm drove forward and the crowd’s voices surged higher with every shouted word.

  And the fools, oh, the fools! They leaped and tumbled, somersaulting and cartwheeled, trying to outdo each other in their enthusiasm.

  Harahel felt caught in a whirlwind of energy and emotion, her body swaying to the music, her mind spinning with equal parts fear and exhilaration.

  As the dance deepened, her sense of control loosened, drawn into the force of Antioch’s circle. She closed her eyes, allowing the rhythm to take her fully.

  Her body answered the chant without hesitation, steps threading into the pattern, breath aligning with the rise and fall of their voices.

  When her eyes opened again, the temple had vanished.

  She stood in a realm of fractured motion and color, space folding in on itself, the floor rippling beneath her feet like liquid glass. The music still drove her forward, unrelenting, and she could not stop moving. Each step fed the next, faster and sharper, her body caught in a spiral of momentum.

  A broken mirror hurtled past her, and in its jagged surface she caught her reflection.

  She wore a black gown that drank in the light, its fabric flowing and torn like shadow made cloth. A raven mask covered her face, its beak sleek and cruelly elegant, its eyes dark and unblinking. The sight sent a shiver through her, as though the mask revealed a truth she had never chosen to claim.

  Laughter curled through the chaos as Antioch appeared. He moved as though the realm itself bent to accommodate him, his grin sharp with delight, and without asking he joined her, his steps threading seamlessly into hers, guiding and challenging as he drew her faster into the dance.

  Their movements mirrored one another, turn answering turn and step answering step. His hand brushed hers, never holding and always tempting, and the rhythm surged higher and wilder until thought dissolved entirely into motion.

  The rising cadence swept away the last of her resistance, and despite herself Harahel yielded to it. The fractured realm spun around her in shards of crimson and gold, each turn drawing her deeper into Antioch’s orbit. His presence radiated heat at her side, dangerous, magnetic, impossible to dismiss.

  Her movements grew surer as the dance carried her forward with mounting abandon. The raven mask no longer felt foreign against her skin, but seemed shaped to her breath and balanced to her pulse. The dark fabric of her gown streamed behind her like a living shadow, answering each motion with a sinister grace she had never consciously claimed.

  The space between them tightened until the chaos of the realm receded and only the two of them remained, suspended within the storm. As she leaned toward him, the world narrowed to the fragile distance between their mouths, the pull of him overwhelming, familiar and forbidden all at once.

  Yet another image forced its way through the haze: Taliesin bound, the shadowed cords tightening while silence pressed across his lips. The memory cut through the rhythm like a blade drawn across silk.

  Harahel pulled back sharply, spinning out of Antioch's reach. Her heel scraped harshly across the glass-like floor, the sound cracking through the swirling rhythm. The circle of their movement broke, the spell of the dance shattering with her sudden reversal.

  "No," she breathed, the word steadying her even as the realm trembled.

  The fractured world convulsed, its colors collapsing inward as though the dream itself had been wounded. The glass-like floor rippled violently, and the music unraveled into a distant, hollow resonance.

  The next breath she drew carried the stale air of Valkas’s ruined temple. Liquid glass vanished beneath her feet as cold stone returned, and the torches along the cracked walls guttered weakly in the dim chamber. The broken throne still stood empty at the center, and the circle of disciples had vanished entirely.

  For several long moments, she did not move. The silence pressed around her. Yet beneath that stillness, something lingered.

  A rhythm she could not quite silence.

  And the knowledge that, for a heartbeat, she had nearly chosen him.