Anemoi 18 – Anemoi 25, Imperial Year 1645
The Port City of Luminara – The Broken Anchor Tavern
Three months had passed since Vlad and his companions had arrived in Luminara. The city had not welcomed them, but it had tolerated them. Refugees were common now, and the Dawn Queen's patience was wearing thin. But Vlad had found work. And where Vlad worked, the others followed.
The Broken Anchor was not a beautiful tavern. It was a converted warehouse near the docks, its walls stained with salt, its floor scarred by countless boots. But it was warm. The ale was cheap. And the food was hot.
Corvin – no longer Hound, just Corvin – stood behind the bar, wiping a mug with a rag that had seen better days. Sera sat at a corner table, her left hand wrapped around a cup of tea, her right hand hidden in her lap. Gunnar worked the kitchen, his hook clinking against pots. Kithri served tables, her tail swishing as she moved. Echo handled the accounts in a back room, her satchel of documents never far from her side. Rook kept a table near the window, his notebook open, his eyes scanning the crowd.
Vlad was not there. Vlad was at the forge.
The Forge – Morning
The forge was a small building behind the tavern, rented from a dwarven smith who had retired to the countryside. Vlad worked alone. He had no apprentice, no helper. He did not need one.
His shirt was off, despite the chill. Sweat glistened on his pale skin. His silver‑white hair was tied back, out of his face. His muscles moved beneath the skin as he worked the bellows, then the hammer.
He was forging a simple horseshoe. Not a weapon. Not a tool of war. A horseshoe. It was honest work. It paid the bills.
A customer – a stable hand – watched from the doorway.
"You're not from around here," the man said.
"No."
"Where'd you learn to smith?"
"A place you've never heard of."
The man didn't push. He had learned not to ask questions of refugees.
Vlad finished the shoe, quenched it in oil, and handed it over. "Five silver."
The man paid and left.
Vlad stood alone in the forge, the fire crackling. He picked up a piece of scrap metal and began to shape it – not into a horseshoe, but into something else. A blade. Small, sharp, hidden.
For when the time comes, he thought.
The City Square – Midday
Vlad and Corvin had gone to the market to buy supplies for the tavern. Flour, salt, dried meat. Corvin carried the sack. Vlad walked beside him, his eyes scanning the crowd.
The square was crowded. Merchants shouted. Children ran. A woman sold flowers. A man sold knives.
Then Vlad stopped.
Corvin saw his face. "What?"
"There." Vlad nodded toward a man in a grey robe, standing near the fountain. The man's head was shaved. His hands were folded. And on his left palm, a small brand – a circle with a jagged line through it.
The mark of the Circle of Ashes.
"Cultist," Vlad said.
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
The man saw them looking. His eyes widened. He turned to run.
Vlad moved first.
He crossed the square in seconds, grabbed the man's robe, and threw him to the ground. The cultist's head struck the cobblestones. Blood sprayed.
"Please –" the man began.
Vlad's fist crashed into his face. Teeth broke. The man's head snapped back.
Corvin arrived, dropped the sack, and kicked the cultist in the ribs. Something cracked.
"You worshipped the demons," Corvin said, his voice low. "You helped summon them."
"I didn't – I only –"
Vlad grabbed the man's hair and pulled his head up. "My friends died because of you. My family died because of you."
He slammed the man's face into the stone. Once. Twice. Three times. The man's nose flattened. His lips split. His blood pooled on the cobblestones.
Corvin stomped on the man's right hand. Fingers crunched. The cultist screamed.
"Where are the others?" Vlad demanded.
"I don't know –"
Corvin stomped again. The man's hand was a ruin.
"Where?"
"The eastern quarter! By the old tannery!"
Vlad looked at Corvin. They nodded.
Vlad drew the small blade he had forged that morning – a thin, sharp dagger. He pressed it against the cultist's throat.
"You will leave this city. Tonight. If I see you again, I will kill you slowly."
The cultist sobbed. "Yes. Yes, I will leave."
Vlad stood. He wiped the blade on the man's robe. Then he kicked him one last time – in the ribs, in the stomach, in the face.
The cultist curled into a ball, whimpering.
Corvin picked up the sack of supplies. "We should go."
Vlad nodded. They walked away.
The Square – The Knights of the Dawn
A patrol of city knights had watched the entire beating. They stood at the edge of the square, their hands on their swords, but they did not move.
A native – a baker's apprentice – approached them.
"Why didn't you stop them?" the apprentice asked. "That man was half dead."
The knight leader, a woman with a scar across her cheek, did not look away from the blood.
"He was a cultist," she said.
"So? They beat him like a dog."
"Cultists caused the demon outbreak. They summoned the great demons. They burned cities. They killed thousands."
The apprentice was silent.
The knight continued. "We understand their anger. We share it. But the law is the law. We should have arrested him."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because sometimes the law is too slow. And sometimes justice needs a faster hand."
The apprentice looked at the cultist, still bleeding on the stones. "Will he live?"
"Yes." The knight's voice was cold. "He will live. And he will tell his friends what happened. And maybe they will think twice before bringing their filth to Luminara."
She turned to her patrol. "Clean up this mess."
They moved toward the cultist.
The apprentice stood alone, watching Vlad and Corvin disappear into the crowd.
The Broken Anchor – Midday
The tavern was quiet. The lunch crowd had not yet arrived. Corvin leaned on the bar, watching the door.
Sera joined him.
"You're brooding," she said.
"I'm thinking."
"Same thing."
Corvin glanced at her. "We found a cultist in the square."
"And?"
"We beat him. Badly."
Sera nodded. "Good."
Kithri slid onto a stool. "We need more ale. The kegs are almost empty."
"I'll order some," Corvin said.
"And the rent's due tomorrow."
"I know."
Echo emerged from the back room, a ledger in her hands. "We're making enough to cover costs, but not much more. Vlad's smithing is carrying us."
"He doesn't complain."
"He never does."
Gunnar came out of the kitchen, wiping his hook on a rag. "Stew's ready. Anyone hungry?"
"I'll eat," Kithri said.
"You always eat."
"I'm growing."
"You're thirty."
"Growing sideways."
They laughed – a tired, genuine sound.
The Tavern – Evening
The evening crowd was different. Sailors, dockworkers, off‑duty guards. They drank, they talked, they listened.
Rook sat at his table, his notebook open, his eyes moving from face to face. He was not writing. He was listening.
"…heard there's a cult operating in the eastern quarter," a sailor said.
"The Dawn Queen's knights will handle it."
"They're already there. But the cultists are clever. They hide in plain sight."
"Like the refugees?"
"Like anyone."
Rook made a small mark in his notebook.
Corvin served drinks. Kithri cleared tables. Sera watched from her corner, her left hand never far from the dagger hidden under her apron.
Vlad entered through the back door, his shirt still off, his skin gleaming with sweat. There was blood on his trousers – not his own.
He nodded at Corvin and disappeared upstairs to wash.
A young woman at the bar watched him go. "Who's that?"
"The blacksmith," Corvin said.
"He's handsome."
"He's taken."
"With whom?"
"With work."
The woman laughed. "Aren't we all."
The Rooftop – Night
Vlad stood on the roof of the tavern, looking out at the city. The same roof, the same view, the same thoughts.
Corvin climbed up beside him.
"You should sleep."
"I should think."
"Same thing."
Vlad didn't answer.
"We've been here three months," Corvin said. "We have a forge, a tavern, and a roof over our heads. That's more than we had."
"It's not enough."
"It's a start."
Vlad turned to him. "We need information. About the cults. About the demon king. About the other survivors."
"We're working on it."
"Work faster."
Corvin nodded. He didn't take offense. He understood.
"We'll find them," he said.
"We have to."
They stood in silence, watching the stars.
End of Chapter Eighty‑Three