“Of course you lost, fool boy. What did you think you’d accomplish in just a month?” Zaenith says as she wraps a length of boiled linen around my skull, binding the salve in place.

  I grind the herbs, slow and steady, mixing more of the ointment for my own treatment, just as I was taught.

  She continues, her voice smooth but cold. “Power demands patience, effort, and relentless consistency. Edwin’s whelp understands that, he’s been trained by Gandre since childhood. Discipline hammered into him like steel.

  She pauses, glancing over my shoulder. "More comfrey ."

  I add the herb as she continues. "If you hadn’t abandoned your own training, you would’ve broken him the moment he stepped into the pit. Your very presence would have crushed him under its weight."

  I carry out the task in silence, my body aching.

  Zaenith’s voice drones on, each word blending into the next until they blur into background noise. My hands move on their own, grinding, mixing, stirring, mind dulled by the repetition. Outside, the golden light of afternoon begins to wane, shadows stretching long as the festival winds down into twilight.

  Eventually, Zaenith waves me away, my task done, as she counts her profit from the day. I step back into the festival, now transformed by evening’s touch. The bright cheer of the day has faded into something quieter, more reverent. Torches crackle in iron sconces, their flames casting long shadows across the cobbles. The music has grown slower, low flutes and distant drums echoing through the dusk.

  Vendors pack up their stalls and families gather closer, cloaks pulled tight against the growing chill. Most are drawn to the communal bonfires now roaring in the square.

  They surround a large stone obelisk at the heart of the square, its surface etched with ancient, curling runes that flicker faintly in the torchlight. Clearly a place of reverence.

  From a distance, I catch sight of Father Alric standing near the edge of the gathering, his expression unreadable as he observes in silence.

  I approach, gaze flicking from the flickering runes to the priest. "Is it not blasphemy, Father?"

  He exhales, slow and measured. "Aye, by blessed Lumina's doctrine, it is so. But Ravencroft hath ever been... peculiar in its devotions. A place touched by old customs, long before the Light of Lumina took root."

  He glances sidelong at me. "Dost thou know the town’s beginnings?"

  I shake my head. "No."

  Alric hums, eyes fixed on the obelisk. "A town born at the death of an age, when demonkind yet stalked the world." I shiver, Vael's memory scraping the back of my mind.

  "They say it rose from the ruins of a great fortress," he continues. "Shattered stone made useful again, bones of the old world fitted into the new. Some still stand, those walls."

  His gaze lingers on the obelisk. "Saint Lude, Lumina's chosen, fought his first battle here, they say. His flaming hammer drawing its first drops of demon blood."

  His mouth twitches into a faint smile. "And yet... it was here, too, that the demon god first cut into our world. Or so they say. Its blade of black iron splitting the castle asunder, marking an end to the men of the west. And a beginning, to Holy Saint Lude's journey."

  He tilts his head toward the obelisk, voice dropping. "And so, each year, when the festival comes, we gather round the old stone. It is said the obelisk marks the wound where the world was pierced. Where the black blade struck, and where Lude's fire first burned. A heretical tradition, but... holy, in its own way."

  He draws a slow breath, eyes fixed on the flickering runes. "At dusk, the folk gather to lay hand upon the stone. They murmur prayers to Saint Lude, beseeching him to watch over us still, to shield our hearths from that which lurks in the dark."

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  Alric's hands fold before him, the firelight casting strange lines on his gaunt face. "We allow it still, for the people crave their customs. The Light is patient, and the darkness... shall always reveal itself, in time."

  "You seem to permit much in this town that the Church would find objectionable." I say, more curious than anything else.

  He chuckles, but there's no mirth in it. "The Sanctum of Blessed Lumina may send whomsoever they wish, and set their righteous eyes upon Ravencroft, to correct any errors I might have made."

  I look at the thin priest. He seems confident, unnervingly so. He seems to have a lot of faith, either in himself or Ravencroft. I don’t know much of the church, but from what I’ve heard, they’re not to be taken lightly when it comes to matters of heresy. In Mistvale, we weren’t even allowed to hear news of other kingdoms outside of Lumenon, where Lumina’s faith have yet to reach.

  If they found out that I’ve been using magic….

  “Worry not, young Seven. We are far from the capital, no one will come. Lumina’s Sanctum will not reach you here.”

  He gazes at me, eyes knowing…. but offers no more, eyes shifting once again to the obelisk.

  A moment passes, before Mayor Edwin ascends the wooden stage, his fur-lined cloak trailing behind him. He lifts a hand, and the crowd quiets.

  "Good folk of Ravencroft," he begins, his voice carrying clear over the square, "another festival wanes, and with it, the longest day draws to a close. In revelry we honored Saint Lude, and in contest we tested the strength of our blood and spirit."

  He turns slightly toward the obelisk, bowing his head. "As is tradition, we now mark this place, this wound in the world, with our presence and our prayer. Not out of fear, but remembrance. For it is said the light of Lumina burns brightest where the shadow once fell deepest."

  His gaze sweeps the crowd. "Go now, each of you. Lay hand to stone and whisper thy hope. May the Light hear thee. May Saint Lude shield thee. And may Ravencroft stand strong for another year."

  A hush settles. Then, one by one, the townsfolk begin to approach the obelisk.

  The line stretches far, a slow procession of townsfolk murmuring prayers to stone. I hesitate, uncertain if I should join them.

  "You fought well."

  I turn and see Luna approaching, she stops beside me, huddled beneath her cloak, rubbing her shoulders to keep out the cold.

  "I didn't win though." I say with a sigh. The loss is still bitter.... though a part of me appreciates having a true and honest fight for once. It was an interesting experience. Fulfilling even.... even despite the results.

  "And what happened to your secret weapon? It just looked like regular fighting to me." Luna tilts her head up to me, eyes curious.

  "Didn’t use it," I mutter, a little sour as I recall Zaenith taking it from me.

  She grunts, crossing her arms, clearly disappointed. "Hmph. And now that man thinks he’s owed a meal with me."

  "You going to accept?" I ask, my own curiosity getting the better of me.

  She shrugs. "Who knows…?"

  I give her a sideways glance. "Hmm… well, I won’t try to stop you. I’m not really even supposed to be talking to you tonight. That was the wager."

  She rolls her eyes, unimpressed. "And do you plan on honoring it?"

  I nod. "Sorry. A deal is a deal."

  She glares at me, arms tightening with irritation, then turns sharply on her heel, flipping her hair with disdain as she walks away.

  I sigh inwardly.

  That will teach me. Next time, I'll win for sure.

  Watching the slow procession of townsfolk, murmuring their prayers into the fading light, I find myself stepping into line, curiosity outweighing hesitation. The wait is long, quiet, solemn. By the time it’s my turn, the sky is awash in twilight.

  Up close, the obelisk towers over me. The runes etched into its surface twist and curl in patterns totally foreign to me. I'd alike them to the scroll Lucien has had me read, the shapes and patterns distinct but similar. Though unlike those on the scroll, these are still, they do not come alive and cloud my vision.

  I reach out. My fingers brush the stone. It's cold, as expected.

  A prayer. I suppose I’m meant to offer one.

  I close my eyes. But even in the darkness behind my lids, the runes remain.

  Then something slips into my mind, not quite a voice, or even a thought. Just.... words.

  Below Ravencroft.

  Where the West fell.

  Where the old blood sleeps.

  Book.

  Tower.

  Heart.

  God.

  The words aren't spoken, but they press against my skull like pressure in the deep. My head pounds, sharp and sudden. I don’t know if I heard it… or remembered it. Like something from a dream.

  I stagger back, breath catching in my throat, and collide with someone behind me. The man grunts in surprise, steadying me with a firm hand on my shoulder. I blink, trying to shake the pounding in my skull.

  Then, a scream cuts through the square, sharp, panicked, unmistakably real.

  Everyone turns.

  A woman stumbles back, hand pressed to her mouth. At her feet lies the crumpled body of a guard, blood pooling beneath him, a hooded figure standing over the corpse with a knife still wet in hand.

  A brigand.

  The scream breaks the spell. Then another. Chaos erupts as more guards fall, silent, sudden. Knives flash in the firelight, slipping into the joints of armor. Figures emerge from the shadows, cloaked and masked, moving like ghosts through the crowd.

  The peace of the festival shatters.

  And Ravencroft bleeds anew.