Chapter Two Tir na Súil, Seventh Day of the twelfth month, Rouxven

  The nauseating stench of fermented fruit clung to him like a second skin. His thoughts churned with a single relentless vow: never again would a drop of alcohol pass his lips. Around him, the unfamiliar and garishly colorful surroundings blurred into a disorienting haze. He had told himself that he would go through with it if this still seemed like a good idea after consuming an excessive amount of wine.

  Yet now, as he stumbled through the narrow, twisted paths of the Bloody Block, he could feel the eyes of the southern refugees boring into him. Regret began to stir in the farthest corners of his mind. But the wine granted him a resolve he hadn’t known he possessed- one that dulled his better sense and fueled his clumsy steps forward.

  The Bloody Block wasn’t at all what he had expected. The Church had spoon-fed him the idea that it was the most lawless corner of the Nothern Empire, a den of depravity hosting the worst society had to offer, all under the watchful eye of the infamous Bloody Baron.

  Some of the members of the High Church painted the Baron as the devil incarnate, while others secretly dealt with him, exploiting his services for their own sordid purposes. Now, standing in the heart of the district, he realized they were all full of shit.

  He had come to this place chasing whispered tales and wild fantasies of southern fortune tellers renowned for their eerily accurate prophecies. Instead, he found a district bustling with life- a patchwork of peddlers, bards, and vendors hawking wares and services he had never encountered. The air carried tantalizing aromas of food unlike anything his family’s cooks had ever prepared, and the craftsmanship of the goods displayed far surpassed the bland offerings of the typical northern marketplace. Children roamed freely, laughing and playing in the streets, their unrestrained joy a testament to the safety they felt in this place. They only became weary when they crossed paths with him. Their joyous faces would fall, and they would look at him as if he were a snake that had breached the sanctity of their den.

  He didn’t belong here, of course, A man wearing obnoxiously expensive clothing, stumbling in a drunken stupor, on a quest initiated by crisis and disillusionment… It’s no wonder no one wanted anything to do with him. Not to mention the fact that the Church would throw him into the filthiest, most pest-ridden cell imaginable if they found out where he was. But, then again, the Church had done precious little to deserve his faith as of late.

  He cursed under his breath, stumbling as his foot caught on a loose stone. Then he noticed her- a woman watching his every move, like a cat who had spotted a mouse too fat to flee. She approached him swiftly, dressed in red and gold, one of the Baron’s people. I’m honestly surprised I lasted this long.

  The woman was striking in an otherworldly way, her golden-colored eyes catching the faint lantern light that littered the street and holding it like embers. Rouxven straightened reflexively, his usual charm returning despite being severely inebriated. He let a crooked grin slide onto his face as she closed the distance between them.

  “A little far away from home, are we?” She asked, her tone light but masterfully hiding a sharp edge.

  Rouxven swayed slightly, shifting his weight, trying to make it seem like he wasn’t nearly as drunk as he had been. “Just exploring.”

  She quickly looked him up and down, taking in his cloak and the pronounced wobble in his stance. She seemed utterly unimpressed. Rouxven had been used to women trying to get close to him for his wealth or family name, yet none had ever looked at him with the amount of disgust that this woman displayed.

  Getting a better look at her, he realized what she was wearing. Who she belonged to. She wore the Baron’s colors and had his signet ring on top of it all… A Tear. One of the Baron’s best. Rouxven tried to mask his nervousness the best he could, yet he felt his expression betray him. Of course, this is how I die.

  “You reek of wine,” She said flatly. “And you are far too well-dressed to be in this part of town. What do you want?”

  “Fortune tellers,” He slurred as his cheeks grew warm in embarrassment. “ Southern ones. The ones who are accurate.”

  Rheylore above, can I not string together a coherent damned sentence?

  Her brow arched, but she didn’t reply. Instead, she crossed her arms under her chest, waiting.

  Rouxven let out an exasperated sigh, “You know, people like you-”

  “People like me?” she interrupted, the sharpness of her tone revealing itself.

  He hesitated for a moment, trying to backtrack. “I mean southern folk. You have a reputation. Superstitions, prophecy, all that mystical business. The Church says it’s heretical, but…” he leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between you and me, I don’t care much for the Church’s opinions these days.”

  She tilted her head slightly, watching him with an unreadable expression. “You are a clergyman,” She said, plucking his platinum pin free from his doublet. “Last I checked, our beliefs are considered heresy according to… people like you.”

  “Yes, unfortunately, I am,” He muttered, swaying back upright. “A High Clergyman, at that. Though I doubt I’ll hold the position much longer if my recent escapades get out, or who knows, my family even might have something to do with it?”

  She didn’t ask what he meant, but her silence invited him to elaborate further.

  “They’re arranging a marriage for me,” He replied bitterly. “Apparently the solution to my supposed ‘aimlessness’ is to tether me to some highborn woman I’ve never met. My life isn’t mine… never was- it belongs to the church, or my family, to politics, endless expectations I’ll never meet.”

  Her face twisted into an expression that could only be described as completely devoid of empathy or care.

  He let out a harsh laugh. “So I thought, why not drink? Why not see if the southern prophets can do better than the ones we employ in gilded temples?”

  Her expression didn’t change, but he thought he caught the faintest flicker of interest in her eyes.

  “Come on,” She said, after a moment, nodding toward a nearby bench. “Sit. Sober up a little. Then maybe I’ll decide if you’re worth humoring.”

  Rouxven blinked, taken aback at her directness. He was used to flattery, to people tiptoeing around his title and status. Now, he found himself bleeding his heart out to a random woman in the street, and she could hardly care less. It was refreshing in a way and horribly humbling at the same time.

  Still, he followed her to the bench, following her lead like a wayward child. He sank into the rough wood, exhaling heavily as the cool night air began to clear his head.

  “I’ll be back after I wash up. If you’re still here when I return, I’ll take you to see someone I know.” She said mischievously. “That is to say, if you haven't been robbed, beaten, or killed while I’m gone… sit tight.”

  Rouxven sat alone on the splintered bench, the sounds of the Bloody Block buzzing in the background. The lanterns danced in the breeze as the night deepened, casting warm flickering light over the stalls. Wrapping himself in his cloak, the chill was beginning to seep through.

  She had left him there with little more than a half-hearted promise. He could hardly blame her, in terms of first impressions that had to have been the worst he had ever given; he likely deserved to be robbed or worse, wandering into this place drunk and arrogant.

  Rouxven loosed a deep sigh, resting his head into his hands. The dull ache of alcohol was fading now, leaving a sharper, unwelcome clarity. His thoughts turned bitter, as they often did when he was left alone.

  How utterly pathetic, he thought, running a hand through his unkempt curls. The fifth son of the grand house of Marciza, heir to nothing but expectations and scorn… wandering like a fool in a place I am highly unwelcome, searching for answers I wouldn’t know what to do with. His siblings had everything- land, titles, wealth, and freedom. He was the afterthought. Sent away to the Church to spare the family the nuisance of having a potentially wayward son. It was either life as a priest in a religion he didn’t quite believe in or becoming a Cleric within the Order of the Bison.

  This was meant to be his salvation, this was supposed to be the better option of the two. His ability to heal was supposed to bring him purpose, but even his sacred skill felt hollow after it was decided that only those whom the Church deemed worthy of his healing should receive it. Worthy my ass… they have me heal anyone who can produce enough coin. The Church stripped him of any identity he might have forged for himself, Their traditions, their laws… they suffocated him.

  Now, he found himself in the one place where his spotless robes and polished words carried absolutely no weight. His family would be scandalized to see him here, sitting among Southern refugees with dirt on his boots and liquor on his breath. Yet, Rouxven couldn’t bring himself to care.

  He had to know. He wanted to see if a southern witch could tell him what the Church hadn’t yet revealed to the public. If her words matched the whispers he had overheard, it would be proof enough for him. Proof that the church wasn’t nearly as divine as they claimed.

  He tilted his head to the sky. Whispering a prayer, not to the god he had been forced to worship, but to the ones he’d been forbidden to believe in.

  Let someone see me here, he thought bitterly. Let me be caught. Drag me back to the Temple in chains if you must… or at least show me something… anything.

  The minutes stretched into an hour, and the bustle of the block dulled as merchants packed up their wares for the night. Rouxven shifted on the bench, restless, and then he saw her approaching from the shadows.

  She moved with a relaxed confidence, her figure swaying with every step. She remained the same sharp, no-nonsense woman who had led him to the bench, but she was a lot more comfortable now. She wore a muslin tunic tucked into layered skirts of vibrant colors, with belts and cords tied neatly at her waist. Her hair, damp from a recent wash, was braided loosely over her shoulder, trailing past her hips.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  She was unadorned- no powder, no rouge, none of the heavy ornamentation he had grown used to seeing in courtly women. Yet, she was striking still. He couldn’t place why.

  Stopping a few paces away, hands resting lightly on her hips. Her sharp golden eyes appraised him briefly before her lips curved into a faint smirk.

  “Well, you’re still alive,” She remarked, her tone laced with dry humor. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be here by the time I got back, but a promise is a promise.”

  “Happy to disappoint.” Rouxven let out a harsh laugh.

  Her smirk deepened. “Come on then. I have a busy day tomorrow.”

  Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and began walking down a dimly lit path. Rouxven hesitated for a moment, then pushed himself up to his feet. He adjusted his cloak and stumbled after her, realizing he was already looking forward to whatever came next.

  It terrified and exhilarated him all at the same time, thanks to this nameless woman…

  As they walked, Rouxven followed a step behind the woman. Each of their steps could be heard as they made their way across the uneven cobblestone. The Bloody Block was quieter now, though the distant hum of voices and faint laughter lingered on the edge of night.

  “So tell me, Clergyman,” Her voice cut through the silence. “Why does a man of the Church want to consult a Wyrm Witch anyway? Willingly participating in the dreaded heresy they so passionately preach about?”

  Rouxven let out a dry laugh, the sound rasping against the quiet. “You’d be right,” It’s the sort of thing they write long sermons about- fiery ones, condemning souls to Rheylore’s flames.”

  “And yet, here you are.” Her tone carrying a hint of amusement.

  “Here I am,” he echoed with a shrug. “You could say I am a man with many questions. Questions the Church failed to answer.”

  “Questions.” She glanced back at him. “Sounds more like rebellion with a dash of angst.”

  Rouxven matched her step now, walking alongside her. “Maybe it is,” He admitted. “Or maybe it’s just exhaustion? Maybe it’s just wondering if there is something more out there?”

  The woman didn’t respond immediately, her attention seemingly on the path ahead. Then, she asked, “What are you hoping to get out of this? A cure for everything that ails you? I hate to break it to you, but sometimes the more you know, the more you regret ever finding out.”

  Rouxven hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. He hadn’t planned to explain himself, not entirely. But something about this woman, her sharp gaze, her calm detachment- made him think she wouldn’t be easily scared off.

  He paused, glancing around to ensure they weren’t being overheard. Then, lowering his voice even further, he said, “The Church had been keeping something from the people. A prophecy.”

  She turned to face him, her eyes overtaken with curiosity now. Somehow, he seemed happy to have finally caught her attention. “A prophecy?” She asked, her expression guarded. “What kind of prophecy?”

  “It’s not public knowledge,” Rouxven protested. “Even most of the clergy don’t know about it. But I’m… close enough to certain circles to have heard it being whispered about.”

  The woman pondered to herself, her eyes fixed on him now. “And what does that have to do with a Wyrm Witch?”

  He hesitated again, weighing his words. “If your friend is the kind of Witch I heard rumors about, then maybe she’ll confirm what I’ve heard,” he said with a large sigh. “If she does, then I’ll know it’s not just the Church spinning their own narrative.”

  “What exactly have you heard?”

  Rouxven sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I don’t know how much I should share with one of the Baron’s Tears.”

  The woman burst out into laughter.

  “It seems you aren’t as stupid as I thought.” She chuckled, holding back tears. “How about I try to guess then?”

  “Sure.” Rouxven grumbled, trying to hide that he took great offense to her words.

  “The prophecy has something to do with my gods, considering you’re looking for a Wyrm Witch… It also has you spooked, so if I had to guess, the church is under the impression that our gods are finally making their grand return?” She suggested, hoisting herself up on a crate. “How much did I get right?”

  “You don’t seem the slightest bit concerned.” He narrowed his eyes.

  “That would be because our Wyrm Witches always say they will return one day. It never happens.” She waved her hand dismissively. “The part I find fascinating about all of this is your Church now has a Prophecy about it. Who knows, you might be on to something after all. Or it might take place hundreds of years from now.”

  Rouxven gave in to the urge to share, “The prophecy is about the five gods. You are correct. The Church has been preaching against them for nearly three centuries now, calling them false gods. But now, they’re whispering that the five are stirring and will return and claim five champions to fight in a great war.”

  “Uh-huh,” the woman yawned. “The Great War of the five terrestrial gods against the insurgents from the sky, the great darkness beyond night. Daemons will rain down from above, and our only defense against them will be our divine protectors and their consorts… yes, yes, I’ve only spent my whole life listening to the same thing.”

  “You don’t care?” Rouxven asked in disbelief. “This is proof that they exist, that… we were wrong about them.”

  She looked down at him from her perch. Pity appeared in her eyes before she hopped down, continuing down the alley. He followed her to a quieter, well-hidden back alley. At the end of the alley, a hut was set up, the only source of any kind of illumination. Not another soul in sight. You could hear the slow drip of water in puddles.

  “When you pray to Rheylore, do you ever hear anything?” She asked as they approached the hut. “In the Southern craft, we regularly commune with our gods. We claim that they left us physically, a part of them remains still, and we always have access to them.”

  She ducked into the hut, and Rouxven followed without questioning it. Taking a quick look around, his eyes widened at the sight before him. The interior of the hut was aglow with flickering flames, their colors unlike any he had seen before—white and blue, dancing across every candle and casting ethereal light. The air was thick with the smell of incense, herbs, and oils, the very atmosphere humming with a strange energy that made the hair of his neck stand on end.

  For a moment, he was distracted by the decor—shelves lined with vials, dried flowers, and herbs hanging from the walls and ceiling, with intricate runes carved into every visible wooden surface. His attention quickly snapped to the center of the room, where a southern woman, perhaps in her early forties, was sitting on a pile of pillows. A large basin of water set before her that perfectly reflected everything within the room. She was muttering a language he couldn’t quite place, her voice low and rhythmic, rising and falling, chanting.

  “What is she saying?” he asked quietly.

  “She’s speaking in an ancient southern dialect,” The golden-eyed woman responded in a hushed tone. “Something only a handful of people can still understand. She’s communing with Vaerune, the life goddess, and Shargulg, the wisdom god.”

  He raised an eyebrow, his skepticism breaking through his awe. “And the flames, why are they like that?”

  Her golden eyes flicked toward him briefly before returning to the side of the woman. “Every time she lights a flame in their names, it takes on their colors,” She explained. “White for Vaerune, Blue for Shargulg. It’s their way of showing her favor… Do you understand now? We don’t need proof that you were wrong. We know you are. We know that our gods are real. We see it every day. The question is, is your god real?”

  Rouxven frowned, glancing at the flames again. Favor. He hadn’t thought about that word in a while- what it meant to be chosen and seen.

  “Bath’s been scrying for days now,” She said, walking towards the exit. “If you ask her something, now’s probably the best time. But don't forget to leave her something in return.”

  “Something like what?”

  She gestured subtly to a jar near the basin. It was filled with coins, small gems, and trinkets—offerings from others who had come seeking answers. “Good luck, " she muttered, exiting the hut.

  He quickly started rifling through his pockets for something to give. The platinum pin the woman had plucked off his shirt was now in his trousers' pocket. When did she give it back? Flipping his head around to thank her, he realized he was left alone; she was nowhere to be seen.

  Rouxven approached Bath cautiously, sitting cross-legged across from her. Between them sat the shallow basin filled with water that rippled faintly the moment he placed his pin in the jar despite the stillness of the air. The rhythmic chanting continued, and he felt utterly foolish for a moment- an outsider in every sense of the word.

  Clearing his throat, he decided to press forward. “Bath,” he said, his voice steady despite the unsettledness brewing within the pit of his stomach. “I… have a question.”

  The chanting stopped abruptly, and Bath’s eyes snapped open. They were sharp and piercing, locking onto his own as though she had known he would come all along. She said nothing, waiting for him to speak.

  He swallowed down his nerves, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. “I need to know if the Church is correct about their… prediction?”

  For a moment, there was utter silence. Then, Bath leaned forward, her hands moving to the basin. The water began to ripple and swirl as her fingers hovered just above the surface, and the candles surrounding them grew in intensity. Her voice, now calm and deliberate, filled the room as if he heard her from all directions.

  “The five gods,” She began, her tone rich and reverent, “Stir from their long slumber. Their eyes turn toward the mortal realm, watching, waiting. They will emerge when the blood of he who stole the Northern throne is returned to the dirt, only then they shall awaken.”

  The water basin swirled faster, forming shapes Rouxven couldn’t make sense of.

  “They will rise; with them, they shall claim five champions who hail from the golden lineage- chosen not for their faith, but for their strength, cunning, and hearts… These champions will be forged in the fires of war, eternally bound to their patrons. They will carry their will, and through them, the gods will shape the wars to come.”

  Rouxven stared at her, his heart pounding. The words she spoke mirrored what he had already heard whispered in the halls of the Temple, and the confirmation left him shaken.

  “You,” she said, her voice weighted with utmost certainty. “You are among the chosen. One of the five who will bear the gods’ will and their burdens. Your path has already begun to form, though you may seek to resist it.”

  Rouxven felt the air leave his lungs. His throat tightened, and his palms grew clammy. He couldn’t move or speak as her words settled in his chest like an iron weight.

  “You have their eyes upon you, Rouxven Marciza.” Bath continued. “For better or worse, your life is no longer your own… or perhaps it never truly was to begin with.”

  The basin's water stilled, the swirling shapes fading into nothing. Bath’s gaze softened slightly, but there was no comfort in her expression- only a grim acknowledgment.

  Rouxven stumbled back as if her words had physically struck him, his heart pounding furiously. One of the chosen? One of the champions to carry the gods will? He shook his head, darting away into the alleyway as his thoughts began to spiral and overwhelm him. He wandered into the night and remembered the golden-eyed woman’s words. The more you know, the more you regret ever finding out.