The onlooker of Mythralis watched in awe and terror as the confrontation unfolded before their eyes.
One of the notable onlookers was Finn and Ingrid.
They departed from the Salty Siren, as the riot had originated from the square by the dock and the chapel. They could not head in that direction; the only option was to move inland towards the governor's house.
As they made their way, Finn and Ingrid stumbled upon a peculiar sight—a flock of glowing ravens soaring in the sky.
Finn recognized this as a supernatural ability, an Aspirant ability driven by curiosity and his aspiration for the mystical.
He believed that observing the confrontation with the glowing ravens might lead to a fortuitous encounter.
Finn's eyes burned with a feverish gleam.
Aspiration coursed through him, a thirst for the mystical that gnawed at his bones. Witnessing this confrontation, watching Sestia bend reality to his will, could be the spark that ignited his own Aspirations.
The street reeked of violence.
Splintered wood and shattered craters littered the floor, the remnants of the fight that had passed but left its mark. Priest Corwin lay amidst the wreckage, his body a canvas of bruises and blood.
Each breath rattled in his chest, a death rattle struggling to find rhythm.
Finn crept through the carnage, his footsteps whispering against the stone.
Sestia's wrath had been swift and brutal, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation. But she had departed, her fury spent for now, leaving behind a silence as fragile as a spider's web.
Corwin's eyelids fluttered, casting shadows across his battered visage.
Footsteps. Two sets.
Hope and dread twisted together in his gut, a knot of uncertainty. Was it Sestia, returning for a final, cruel encore? Or had some other player entered this macabre stage?
The footsteps halted near his head, casting a long, ominous shadow.
A voice, familiar yet tainted with an edge of darkness, sliced through the suffocating silence.
"Father... Father Corwin."
Corwin's eyes struggled to focus, locking onto a figure draped in shadows.
Finn. His former student, his once-bright orphan, now tinged with an aura of secrets and unspoken intentions.
"What have you done? How could you lose?" Finn's words dripped with accusation; a dagger aimed at Corwin's shattered heart.
The priest's lips parted, but no sound emerged.
Only a rasping breath, a silent plea for understanding. For forgiveness. But in those shadowed eyes, Finn saw only the reflection of his own shattered world.
But now, Corwin lay crumpled and broken, his sacredness stripped bare by Sestia's brutal assault.
The pedestal where Finn had placed him for so long seemed to crumble under his own hesitant steps, leaving him teetering on the edge of a precipice far higher than he'd ever imagined.
And as the silence stretched between them, the chamber held its breath, waiting for a reckoning that would change everything.
Amidst the chaos and destruction, Corwin couldn't help but wonder about the woman's true motives. Why had she ignited this riot and targeted him specifically? What connection did she from House Ulixes have to Baron Oswulf?
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The last embers of rebellion flickered and died beneath Martia's unyielding gaze.
Sweat beaded on her brow, soot marred her once-pristine complexion, yet Martia stood amidst the smoky ruins, her eyes gleaming like tempered steel amidst the ashes.
The riots were quelled, the unruly mob scattered like leaves before an unrelenting storm. There was no quiver of fatigue in her frame, no wince of pain on her resolute face, for Martia was the embodiment of unwavering strength.
As the dissipating smoke revealed the aftermath, she surveyed the scene with a blend of relief and apprehension. Amidst the scattered debris and smoldering remnants of chaos, she could sense the thin shroud of relief wrapping around her, like a worn cloak.
The immediate tempest had been tamed, yet the city still simmered with tension, a tempest lurking beneath the surface.
Her gaze shifted to the distant horizon, where lanterns blazed like restless fireflies upon the undulating waves. Their forms, sharp and enigmatic, defied easy recognition, distorting familiar ship hulls into nightmarish contortions of twisted iron. A chilling breeze whispered across the docks, carrying with it the scent of uncharted shores and unspoken threats.
Martia's voice, as sharp as the blade she wielded, sliced through the hushed ranks of guards, igniting a spark of urgency in their weary eyes.
With purpose, she hastened from the dockside square toward the governor's residence, her mind racing to assess the unfolding crisis. The looming ships demanded more than just soldiers; they raised questions about how to defend the docks and what her course of action should be.
As the vessels drew nearer, casting their eerie glow upon the dark waters, Martia felt the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon her.
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Upstairs, the cacophony of the burning inn clawed at his ears. Smoke, acrid and thick, snaked through the floorboards, a serpent rising from its den. But Severin remained oblivious, eyes glued to the crumpled letter.
"To the True Mariner,
I am writing to you today to express my deep concern about the vessel. Given the work I have done with laying the groundwork with Orion, I believe the vessel is sufficiently ready and has no further need for my oversight.
I believe I serve no real value as the proprietor of the motel; everything that can be done on my part has been accomplished.
Charles Vane refuses to respond to my letters. I have written to him multiple times, and I believe he may be the mole in our operations."
In the flickering lamplight, Severin devoured the cryptic message, each word a morsel of fear laced with hope. It was a lifeline thrown across a maelstrom of his own making.
"Orion is capable; however, I fear his obsession with the Fontenot diary will consume him. He mentioned having found it previously, but his nephew mysteriously found it and, not long after, it was lost again.
I urge you to reconsider keeping me here. I fear that I am in great danger."
The parchment ended abruptly, a jagged cliff face overlooking a chasm of secrets.
'Baron Oswulf wants...'
The rest was swallowed by silence, a phantom hand snatching away the truth.
Severin's fingers trembled as he traced the familiar script.
'True Mariner'... the title felt like a crown of thorns, each barb reminding him of sacrifices made and loyalties tested.
A floorboard creaked behind him, startling Severin. His head snapped around as he observed fireballs outside through the window.
"Aspirants?" A smirk crept up Severin's face. He always found it amusing, the manifestation of mystical laws.
Through the grimy windowpane, the silhouette of the inn flickered against a backdrop of crimson. No ordinary inferno was this. Buildings didn't erupt in fireballs that soared skyward, defying gravity with an almost balletic grace. These were flames sculpted.
A smirk crept across Severin's face, as sharp and unexpected as the crackle of lightning.
The spectacle wasn't merely destruction; it was poetry written in sparks, a manifestation of the mystical laws that hummed just beneath the surface of the world.
To most, it would be madness, chaos. But to Severin, it was a symphony, a confirmation of the hidden universe he'd spent his life navigating.
"Ah, so more Aspirants have finally graced us with their presence," he murmured, amusement barely veiled in his voice.
Severin looked down at the man on the floor with an open throat, bleeding from various wounds in his body.
He had died at some point while Severin was reading his letters.
Splayed on the floor, the man was a macabre masterpiece of violence. His throat gaped, a crimson chasm spewing lifeblood from puncture wounds like morbid constellations.
From the gaping wound in the man's throat, a blob of ooze, shimmering with an unearthly iridescence, detached itself from the man's mangled maw, glopping onto the floor with a wet plop.
Severin picked it up and secured it in a separate container. Next, he took his dirk and removed the dead man's incisors; these he placed in his pocket.
This was the reason he was waiting; this was why he came here, not for personal vendetta.
Anything he gained was just collateral.
Severin's eyes quickly scanned the room for more valuable items to save from the fire, Heat singed his brows as he sifted through the burning debris, fingers brushing against smoldering wood and scorched leather, the scent of ash and desperation clinging to his nostrils.
Yet there was nothing valuable enough to draw his attention.
Disappointed by the lack of valuable items salvageable from the burning room, Severin began his descent down the creaking wooden staircase.
Each step carried the weight of his frustration and the acrid scent of smoke, a stark reminder of the fire that raged. The flickering flames cast eerie, dancing shadows on the walls.
As he descended further into the dimly lit corridor below, the heat from the inferno intensified, replaced by a damp chill that clung to the stone walls. The atmosphere grew increasingly somber as Severin ventured deeper into the lower levels of the building.
His footsteps echoed in the narrow passageway. Severin's keen eyes scanned the chamber, he smelled it before he saw it, Blood!
The lower level revealed itself some of which had already succumbed to the flames, leaving charred remnants in their wake. Severin moved cautiously, aware that the structure above was unstable, and any sudden collapse could prove fatal.
Severin pushed through the searing doorway, greeted by a tableau of incongruity. Flames licked at the rafters, casting the room in an orange glow, yet Marcellus and Ralf stood amidst the chaos, statues carved from unyielding composure.
The crackling inferno roared around them, its relentless hunger threatening to consume everything in its path. Embers danced like fireflies, creating a mesmerizing but perilous spectacle. Yet, Marcellus and Ralf remained unmoved, their figures illuminated by the fiery cascade.
Severin's smile felt stiff, a mask against the unease gnawing at his gut. "Good work," he rasped, the smoke stinging his voice.
But his eyes flickered between their faces, searching for a tell, a crack in their facades.
Marcellus's knuckles were white, his grip tight on the hilt of a sword the flames barely touched. Ralf, the rotund knight, wore a faint smirk, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes that seemed to hold secrets the firelight couldn't reach.
Severin nodded curtly, a question dying on his tongue. This brief, calm interlude felt like a fragile bubble amidst the fire, and Severin knew the moment would soon shatter.
As they burst from the burning inn, a flicker of movement caught Severin's eye. Across the smoke-choked street, two figures stumbled from the shadows. One, tall and imposing, leaned heavily on the other, their silhouette stark against the crimson glow.
A dark silhouette, two figures against the inferno. Could it be...? Marcellus studied.
Recognition sparked in Severin's gaze. Corwin? And... Finn? Their unexpected presence in this maelstrom was a mystery woven into the chaos.
Marcellus's hand slipped to his sword hilt, eyes narrowing at the approaching figures.