The morning light drifts through the worn shutters of the Ember Tankard, soft and golden, dust motes dancing lazily in its beams. For the first time in what feels like weeks, the air isn’t thick with danger, tension, or divine silence.
Instead—
There’s a smell.
A glorious, impossible smell.
Borin stirs first, blinking blearily from under a heap of blankets.
“Is… is that bacon?”
Vex, face buried in a pillow, mumbles,
“If this is another hallucination, I’m staying asleep.”
Sereth sits up next, hair in complete disarray, rubbing her eyes.
“Wait. That’s real. That’s actual food smell. Not whatever Borin tried to fry last night.”
Borin grunts defensively.
“That stew was edible!”
“It moved, Borin,” Sereth shoots back.
Elaris groans, propping himself on one elbow, his voice still rough with sleep.
“Unless the Dawn Mother herself descended to cook breakfast, someone explain where that’s coming from.”
There’s a pause as every set of eyes darts toward the same empty bedroll.
Kaer’s.
Vex’s tail flicks.
“No. No way.”
Laz sits up, rubbing his horns like he’s trying to clear them of the absurd thought.
“Kaer can’t cook. Kaer doesn’t even eat half the time. He survives off bitterness and the suffering of others.”
They all exchange the same look — slow dawning realization mixed with deep suspicion.
Garruk sniffs the air, nostrils flaring.
“That’s eggs. And meat. And… are those herbs? He seasoned something?”
The twins, moving with the kind of coordinated stealth only troublemakers possess, start creeping toward the door. The others follow — each of them padding softly down the corridor, leaning around the corner toward the kitchen.
Just as Sereth peeks past the doorframe—
Kaer (deadpan, without turning): “If so much as one of you peek in here, you will lose an eye.”
Everyone freezes mid-step. Even Vex and Laz—who’ve faced devils, Fey, and debt collectors—snap back upright like chastised schoolchildren.
Borin (whispering): “How in the blazes did he know?”
Elaris: “It’s Kaer. He probably communes with paranoia instead of sleep.”
They shuffle back to the table and sit down, trying not to giggle, trying not to imagine Kaer cooking.
Then, finally—he emerges.
Carrying a platter so perfectly balanced it could be used in temple processions, Kaer places it in the middle of the table: eggs, crisp bacon, fried tomatoes, fresh bread somehow perfectly toasted, and even a pot of hot coffee.
The group stares.
Kaer’s wearing an apron. A clean, pale apron. The sight alone nearly breaks them.
Kaer (flatly): “Laugh so much as once, and I never cook for you again.”
Every single one of them goes red from the effort of holding it in. Garruk bites his lip so hard he nearly draws blood. Vex hides her grin behind her cup. Laz’s tail is vibrating from suppressed laughter.
Sereth folds her hands, voice trembling with restraint.
“Kaer… this looks… incredible.”
He nods curtly, serving himself a modest plate before sitting down.
Borin eyes the eggs.
“Y’know, I’ll admit—these look better than—”
An egg flies across the room, splattering perfectly against Borin’s armor with a sizzling hiss.
Kaer (without missing a bite): “By all means, Borin. Have a raw one if it suits you better.”
The entire table loses it. Laughter fills the tavern, loud and unrestrained — the kind of laughter that only comes when everyone finally feels safe enough to breathe again.
Even Kaer smirks. Just barely. But enough that Sereth catches it, smiling wider for it.
Elaris (between chuckles): “Well… I suppose miracles do happen.”
Arden: “Careful, or you’ll make him a saint.”
Kaer just shakes his head and mutters,
“Saint of patience, maybe.”
The table explodes again.
It’s chaotic, warm, imperfect — and for the first time in a long time, it feels like home.
The Ember Tankard hums with the slow rhythm of a morning finally at peace.
Plates are empty, mugs half-drained, the smell of bacon and herbs still clinging to the air like a pleasant dream.
And for once, no one’s dead, cursed, or arguing with a devil.
They sit there—unbelieving, a little dazed, still waiting for someone to fall over poisoned.
Borin: “Kaer… THAT—what even was that?”
Kaer (deadpan): “I’m a man of many talents.”
They all just stare. The words man of many talents and Kaer have never before existed in the same sentence.
Half the party is still in nightclothes, eyes half-lidded, drawn downstairs by that heavenly smell.
Vex leans toward Sereth, whispering,
“Do you think he’s possessed?”
Sereth: “If he is, we’re keeping it.”
Quiet Moments, Little Worlds
While the others clear plates and talk over each other, Kaer—yes, Kaer—washes up, sleeves rolled, movements measured.
The sound of running water and clinking dishes feels almost foreign.
Arden remains at the table, sunlight spilling over her golden hair. She turns her divine symbol in her hands, the metal still warm—but its light is weak, pulsing like a fading heartbeat.
She whispers under her breath, words lost in the murmur of the tavern.
Arden: “Can you hear me? I need your guidance. Please… answer my prayer. I cannot feel your light.”
Nothing. Only a faint flicker, then stillness.
Her shoulders slump.
Across the room, Borin notices—ever perceptive beneath all the bluster. He sets down his mug and steps over, his big hands awkward at gentleness.
Borin: “Maybe she’s busy?”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The look she gives him isn’t anger—it’s tired gratitude wrapped in pain.
He pats her shoulder softly, nods once, and leaves her to her silence.
A heartbeat later, Garruk bellows a laugh as the twins clamber up his back, trying to “ride the orc into battle.”
Kaer reappears from the kitchen—still in the apron—and pauses when he spots Arden. He studies her for a moment, then, uncharacteristically, speaks first.
Kaer: “Can you still hear her?”
Arden looks down at the pendant in her hand.
“I’m not sure. I sense something—it’s there, but I can’t hear her voice or feel her light anymore.”
Kaer leans on the table, not unkindly.
“Maybe it’s a test.”
She exhales slowly.
“Maybe. But a test of what? I’m conflicted, Kaer. Divinity and necromancy—those aren’t things meant to coexist. It’s good and evil. That’s what we’re taught.”
Her words tumble out fast, all the fear and doubt she’s held for days. She realizes who she’s speaking to—and he doesn’t even blink.
When he finally answers, it’s simple.
Kaer: “Maybe there isn’t good and evil faith, Arden. Maybe it’s down to the person.”
He stands, removes the apron, and hangs it neatly on the kitchen door.
“Breakfast is done. Think on that.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
Arden stares after him, brow furrowed—both shaken and strangely comforted.
A philosophical answer… from Kaer. The world truly has turned upside down.
She rises after a while, steadying her breath, and goes to pour herself a cup of tea—checking first to make sure the twins haven’t “seasoned” it this time.
Words They’ve Waited to Say
In the small room above the tavern, sunlight pools across the bedrolls.
Elaris is tightening the clasp on his vambrace; Sereth’s rebraiding her hair, humming faintly, boots at her feet.
He glances at her, heart hammering in his chest.
This is it.
Elaris: “Sereth?”
She turns, already smirking, like she’s been waiting for this moment.
Sereth: “Yeeesss?”
Her braid whips around and smacks her in the face.
Elaris snorts before he can stop himself—then blushes immediately at the sound. Their shared mark glows faintly gold, responding to their laughter.
Elaris (trying to compose himself): “About me and you…”
Sereth (grinning): “Mmm-hmm?”
He’s losing the battle fast.
“Hells, Sereth…” He sighs, voice cracking with nervous humor.
She just blinks, wide-eyed and teasing, and he crumbles.
Elaris (blurting): “SerethILoveYouOkOhMyGodsFinally.”
It comes out as one long word, like he’s been holding it in for months.
Her eyes widen. She raises a finger to her lips.
Sereth: “Hmmmm…”
He freezes.
“Sereth?”
She spins dramatically on her heel, turns back, and launches herself at him, wrapping around him like a spider monkey.
Sereth (shouting): “I LOVE YOU TOO!”
It’s loud enough the people downstairs probably hear it.
Elaris stumbles back a step, arms instinctively wrapping around her as she clings tight.
Then she pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, breath warm against his cheek.
Sereth (softly): “Took you long enough.”
She kisses him—real, full, earned—and he meets it, years of restraint finally giving way.
When they part, both of them are glowing faintly, marks pulsing together in gold rhythm.
She steps back, fixing her tunic like nothing just happened.
He stands there stunned, heart hammering, face split by the kind of smile that feels unfamiliar after years of grief.
Then—
The door creaks.
They both sigh in unison.
Elaris: “Alright, guys. We know you’re there.”
The door bursts open and half the party falls through it—Arden, Vex, Laz, Borin, and Garruk tumbling into a heap on the floor.
They scramble upright, each trying to look innocent and failing spectacularly.
Elaris (deadpan): “Is nothing sacred anymore?”
Kaer stands in the doorway, completely unamused, arms crossed.
Kaer: “Gods, this is why I don’t make breakfast. Sends everyone all soppy and emotional.”
He turns on his heel and walks away muttering about “love, emotions, and wasted eggs.”
Everyone bursts out laughing—except for Elaris, who’s blushing to the ears, and Sereth, who looks far too pleased with herself.
Then, through the window—
A raven passes.
Its feathers shimmer with oil-black light.
Its eyes burn crimson as it caws once, a harsh, echoing sound that chills the air.
It’s gone in a blink.
But the shadow it casts—longer, wrong, moving against the light—lingers across the wall.
Silence falls.
No one says it, but every one of them feels it.
That was no normal bird
Elaris stepped toward the window, every instinct in your necromancer’s blood prickling at the faint residue the raven’s shadow left behind. The others sense it too — a wrongness, faint but undeniable, hanging in the air like static after lightning.
Elaris: “Everyone… stay still.”
He reaches out, palm open, the faint green shimmer of necrotic sense flaring across his fingertips. The mark on his hand glows gold for a second — Sereth’s pulse echoing through the bond as she instinctively backs him up with her own awareness.
A shimmer coils through the air where the raven’s shadow lingered — invisible to the others, but not to you.
You see it.
Faint crimson script, curling and fading, like infernal smoke scrawled by something ancient.
Infernal runes—no question. But they’re not pure infernal; they’re twisted, cross-woven with something else… divine residue, stripped and inverted. The mark of a fallen cleric.
You recognize the signature — Corven Duskvale.
And beneath it, another trace hums lower, older, familiar.
The lattice.
Whatever that raven was, it wasn’t just a messenger. It was a tether — a link between the Ashen Basilica and wherever you are now. The Queen’s eyes were upon you for a few seconds, peering through Corven’s proxy.
You feel a pulse of unease — a whisper, not sound, but pressure, sliding against your mind:
“The Shepherd watched. The Dawn’s child wavers. Soon, both will kneel.”
The words evaporate before you can trace them fully.
Your hand glows faintly gold and green where your mark burns.
You close your fist; the energy dissipates.
When you turn back, Sereth’s already watching you.
Sereth: “What did you see?”
You meet her eyes, the truth heavy between you.
Elaris: “A message… and a warning. They’re watching. And they know who to reach for next.”
The Whisper of Ash
The tavern’s laughter dies with the raven’s cry. Outside, dawn edges over Thornmere, a dull, pewter light smothered by haze. The warmth of Kaer’s breakfast lingers, but something has changed: the air tastes metallic, thin.
Arden stands at the window, divine symbol in hand. The faint pulse of gold that used to answer her prayers now flickers gray.
The mark on Elaris’s palm still hums from the Arcana reading, faint tendrils of crimson energy sinking into his veins before fading.
Arden: “It’s not just gone. It’s… muted.”
Elaris: “It means something’s drawing the light away.”
Sereth: “From what?”
Elaris: “Not what. Who.”
The Rumour at the Tankard
Later, downstairs, the innkeeper slides a parchment across the bar—news from the northern routes.
“A preacher’s building a following in the ruins near the Frostplain. Calls himself the High Prelate of the True Dawn.
Says the gods have returned.”
Arden’s grip tightens until her knuckles whiten. The inked seal at the page’s corner bears a symbol once sacred to her order—now etched with black glass around the sunburst.
Arden (whispering): “That’s the sigil of the Dawn Mother’s Cathedral… but it’s inverted.”
Elaris: “Then we know where the trail leads.”
Departure
They leave Thornmere by midday. The fields are dust-blown; pilgrims pass them on the road, eyes glazed with a strange, feverish peace.
Vex (whispering): “They’re humming.”
Borin: “Sounds like prayin’.”
Sereth: “That’s not prayer. That’s echo.”
Elaris watches one of the pilgrims stumble, his shadow lagging half a second behind his body. The necromantic aura curls faint red—Corven’s mark again.
He notes it silently.
First Checks
As the road bends north, roll for perception and insight:
- Arden (Insight check 15 + 4 = 19): feels a hollow tug where her divine link should be, as though someone else is answering her prayers before the Dawn Mother can.
- Elaris (Arcana check 18 + 5 = 23): detects the same lattice signature threaded through every pilgrim’s aura—Corven’s sermons are siphoning belief itself.
- Sereth (Perception check 14 + 6 = 20): spots faint footprints glowing with residual light ahead—pilgrims marching in perfect unison.
Camp by the Frostplain Edge
That night, the party makes camp where grass gives way to frost-crusted soil.
The stars shimmer red instead of white.
Arden kneels apart, trying again to pray. Only silence answers.
A new voice slides into her mind—not the Dawn Mother’s warmth, but something colder, knowing.
“Child of light, why beg for what you already possess? Speak the words, and I will return your radiance… forever.”
She gasps, breaking the connection.
Elaris is instantly beside her, hand on her shoulder, his mark faintly gold.
Elaris: “He’s reaching for you already.”
Arden (trembling): “I won’t let him.”
Elaris: “Then you’ll need us all.”
The Hollow Prayer
The fire has burned down to its last coils of ember. The smell of smoke and frost hangs between the bedrolls. For once, the twins are quiet; Kaer sits sharpening his sword, the scrape of steel a low heartbeat in the night.
Arden lies awake, the symbol of the Dawn Mother pressed between her palms. It’s cold—colder than it should be. She whispers, barely sound:
Arden: “If you can still hear me… please, give me a sign. Anything.”
Nothing answers. Not warmth, not light. Only the faintest echo in her mind—the wrong voice, the one she heard earlier, honey-smooth and unfamiliar.
“You called for light. I can be light.”
Her hands jerk open; the symbol drops into the dirt. The metal hisses where it touches frost, leaving a blackened mark.
Across the fire, Elaris is already watching.
He doesn’t speak, only nods once—I felt it too.
A faint golden pulse moves through their shared marks before dimming again.
Elaris (quietly): “You’re not alone in this, Arden. The trick of darkness is convincing you it’s the only voice that listens.”
She wants to answer but her throat closes. Instead, she forces a nod and sits closer to the fire.
Sereth throws a blanket around her shoulders and sits beside her, nudging her with the smallest smile.
Sereth: “You don’t have to pray tonight. Just breathe with us. The gods can wait their turn.”
The cleric exhales, the tightness in her chest easing a little. Around them the others settle in—Borin muttering a dwarven lullaby, Garruk snoring like thunder, the twins whispering conspiracies about Kaer’s secret chef skills.
For a moment the world is ordinary again: friends at a campfire, not pawns on a divine board.
But above, the stars are shifting—one by one dimming behind a faint crimson haze stretching from the north.
The wind changes, carrying a scent of incense and ash.
Somewhere far away, a bell tolls once.
The Ashen Basilica is awake.