Velgrath Lowlands – The Outskirts of Caerlin Hold
The wind had changed by morning. It came from the east now, bearing the scent of parchment, smoke, and damp wool—the breath of the lowlands in winter. From a crag overlooking the main road to Caerlin Hold, the temple scribe Brother Callun hunched beneath a canopy of frost-bitten reeds, watching the long line of ox-carts and levy men trudge toward the capital.
At his side, a slate-bound ledger lay open, its quill tethered by gutstring. He dipped it into a pot of frozen ink, warming it with his breath before he could write.
"Seventh day of the Ember Tithe. Two hundred bushels uncounted. Five dead in the wagons. One infant buried beneath turnips. Gods forgive us."
A shadow stirred beside him.
"You write lies, scribe?" asked the voice—thick-accented, half sneer, half sermon.
Callun didn't flinch. "I write the debt. Lies are the work of courts."
The man stepped into view—a narrow-chinned preacher wrapped in a temple's black. His belt bore the bronze scales of the Inquested Faith, but his eyes burned with something older. Wilder.
"Then mark this truth," the man said, crouching. "The crown taxes breath itself, yet the bones beneath Caerlin still hunger."
Callun looked up. "You've seen the tomb-vaults?"
"I've heard them," the man whispered. "The locks break. The old names stir. That's why they send gold cloaks to chase ghosts on the road. Not for order. But for fear."
A cart passed below, one wheel cracked, dragging sparks from the cobble. Callun closed his ledger.
"Speak plainly."
The preacher leaned in. "Something was taken from the temple vault. Not coin. Not scroll. A relic."
Callun's blood chilled.
"Which?"
"The Last Tongue."
Callun's mouth opened, then closed. He knew the relic—the shard of stone said to bear the final script etched before the Fall of the Lost Kings. A holy artifact. A weapon, in the wrong hands.
"And now?" Callun asked.
The preacher grinned. "Now they hunt for the one who carries it."
Callun's gaze turned northward, beyond the spires of Caerlin Hold, to where the hills met mist and ruin.
Aeron.
He stood abruptly. "Does the Temple know?"
"They suspect. But they are blind men counting lanterns. You—" the preacher tapped his quill, "—you still see. Choose well, scribe."
Before he could reply, the man was gone, vanishing like soot on wind.
Callun looked down at his ledger.
"Eighth day of Ember Tithe. Nothing weighs less than truth. Nothing costs more."
He tore the page free, and with shaking hands, burned it to ash.