The road into Merrowind was older than most kingdoms.
Carved through the shale hills by forgotten hands, it twisted like a serpent's spine, flanked on both sides by rows of broken waystones—some half-buried, some bearing glyphs now worn smooth by time and weather. From the final crest, the travelers stood gazing upon the city sprawled below.
Merrowind.
It shimmered like a jewel crusted in soot and pride. Encircled by tall stone walls veined with silver ore, it stood as a testament to an age when magic and monarchy ruled side by side. Its banners, still stitched with the silver pike of House Emmerel, waved listlessly in the breeze. Narrow spires and bulbous domes clustered like frozen waves, rising from a basin of mist and smoke. In the west, the Ashen River curved like a serpent, cutting the city in two.
Doran exhaled a low whistle. "Didn't think we'd actually make it. I owe myself a drink."
Kael said nothing. The blindfold still bound across his eyes rustled faintly in the wind. His staff clicked softly against the cobbled path.
Arinya glanced at him but didn't speak. The silence between them had deepened since the incident at the Forge Temple—where Kael had glimpsed too much of something even he didn't understand.
As they descended toward the outer gates, the air shifted. Smells began to reach them—roasted barley, horse dung, sweet fruit wine, and forge smoke. The soundscape grew as well: distant bells, barking traders, the laughter of children, and the clatter of metal on stone.
Two rows of guards waited at the gate. Their helms gleamed; their expressions didn't.
"Halt," one barked. "State your names and purpose."
Kael took one step forward. "Travelers. Seeking food, shelter… and a scholar."
The man's eyes landed on Kael's staff and lingered. "You carry something rare, stranger."
"We've been pursued by Ashseekers," Arinya added. "They struck the Forge Temple. We barely made it out."
That turned heads.
One younger guard leaned to the captain. "Sir, the Emmerel sentries got a crow about relic activity in the Fireveil. Said Ashmarked were seen."
The captain studied them a moment longer. Then nodded.
"You'll be watched. Merrowind doesn't tolerate uncontrolled magic. Don't start fires you can't douse."
As the gates opened with a groaning rumble, Merrowind's breath rolled over them like heat from a forge.
The city within was a labyrinth of contradictions.
In the Skyward Quarter, near the heart, domed towers glittered with imported glass. Scholars from the Arcanum moved like shadows between gilded libraries and tower observatories, wearing robes dyed with crushed lapis. The air smelled of jasmine and ink.
In the Lower Hollow, beggars squatted beside gambling dens. Children danced barefoot through alleys, playing with chalk-drawn glyphs. Black-market potion dealers peddled powders from alley stalls, and tattooed mercenaries drank under broken lampposts lit by glowing orbs of captured fireflies.
Bridges of stone connected the layers of the city like spiderwebs. Underneath it all ran the Gearroot—Merrowind's ancient aqueduct and smuggler vein, where water, steam, and whispers flowed alike.
As they passed deeper into the city, Doran grinned.
"Smells like betrayal, brawls, and bread. I could almost cry."
"You've been here?" Arinya asked.
"Once. Long enough to learn who not to trust."
Kael listened in silence. Beneath his calm exterior, the city's magic sang to him—through cracks in the stones, through sigils carved into every pillar and post. The staff responded faintly, like it remembered this place. Or feared it.
They found lodging at a modest inn called The Copper Thread, tucked between a spice bazaar and a falconer's tower. The sign creaked overhead, painted with a faded image of a weaver threading golden wire through silk.
The innkeeper, a squat woman named Brunna, sized them up with one eye and a crooked smile.
"You look cursed. Perfect. My last guests got turned into frogs."
They paid in silver coins. As Brunna handed over a dented key, she muttered, "If anyone comes looking, I ain't seen you."
The room was cramped but clean. Three cots. A single round window. A basin of water enchanted to stay warm. Arinya freshened up while Doran raided the pantry for half-stale bread. Kael sat quietly, staff across his knees, head tilted toward the city's hum outside the window.
Doran eventually broke the silence. "What now?"
"We look for Thessia Vale," Kael said. "She's an arcanist who studied relic-bound magic. If anyone knows what the staff is becoming, it's her."
Arinya, towel drying her hair, leaned against the doorframe. "We'll have to be careful. The relic's energy will attract attention."
"Too late for that," Doran muttered. But no one heard him.
Later that night, they gathered downstairs for a meal. The tavern hall was full of heat, the scent of roasted yams and sour ale, and the drone of out-of-tune lute music. Storytellers swapped coin for verses, and one man at the far end juggled knives while blindfolded—earning loud gasps and small applause.
Kael sat beside the hearth, face turned toward the warmth.
Arinya joined him, her eyes soft. "You always this quiet?"
"I listen more than I speak."
She smiled faintly. "Then you must know everything by now."
Doran watched them from the bar, lips tight around his mug.
But just then—
The door burst open.
A bloodied man stumbled in, clutching his side.
"They're here! The Ashmarked! They want the girl!"
Silence fell like a blade.
All eyes turned to Arinya.
She stood slowly. "How…?"
The man pointed directly at her. "They followed your trail. They knew you'd come here."
Kael rose, staff in hand, expression like carved ice.
Behind the man, three cloaked figures entered—faces hidden, blades drawn.
Doran swore and reached for his dagger.
Kael stepped forward.
"You want her?" His voice rang with unnatural calm. "Then I suggest you run."
The staff pulsed.