Beneath The Blossom’s Vigil

Taldris Nox'Ryn

Taldris stepped quietly through the stone archway of the shrine, the worn door groaning softly as it closed behind her. The scent of old incense and wildflowers still clung to the place. Night had settled over the land, the twin moons casting pale light across the garden that encircled the sanctuary. She was a drow, a species of elves, and like all her kind, she had no need for sleep. A few hours of meditation in a semiconscious state were enough.

It had become her nightly ritual: after her trance, she would walk beneath the open sky. Out here, she could lift the subtle arcane veil that shielded her sensitive eyes during the day, and let the cool, unfiltered moonlight wash over her. She didn’t wear her cloak because there was no need, letting the cool air brush against her face.

At the edge of the garden, she paused, arms folded loosely. From here, the shrine looked ancient but peaceful, its silhouette half-swallowed by ivy, its altar glowing faintly from the candle left burning within. Taldris let out a quiet breath. Before she could continue on her walk, a flicker of movement caught her eye beyond the garden's edge, just past the low stone wall where the shadows thickened near the treeline.

There, half-lit by moonlight and the soft amber spill of a nearby lantern, stood Alric. His scimitar glinted as it swept through the air in clean, deliberate arcs. He moved with the steady rhythm of repetition: strike, pivot, parry, reset. His feet were planted firmly in the dirt, muscles taut with focus, every motion honed by habit.

Taldris watched in silence, her arms folding once more as she leaned against a mossy pillar. The way he practiced had no flair, no unnecessary flourish; just discipline and precision. She let her gaze linger on the quiet determination in his movements before moving closer and sitting beside a tree.

It took him a while to notice her presence before he paused mid-motion and glanced her way. "I was trying to get used to this new blade," he said as he gently placed the scimitar back in its sheath.

"I hope I'm not interrupting."

"No, it's fine, I was just about to finish up."

A silence fell between them as Alric joined her on the grass. From where they sat, the twin moons of Vex’Aria hung bright and clear in the night sky. Taldris let her gaze drift upward. She knew their names: Caeruleum and Sangius. The first, a pale blue moon, larger and brighter, completed its cycle every thirty-two days. It was the marker of a month, and was said to influence the tides of magic. The second, the crimson moon, with its fiery glow. Sangius completed its slow, solemn journey across the heavens just once a year, every three hundred and eighty-four days.

That was the moon that made the elves uneasy. Sangius. The Crimson Moon. The old stories whispered that its appearance stirred hidden things: dreams buried deep, magic long forgotten, and feelings left untouched. Taldris had never put much weight into superstition, but even she felt uneasy when that red glow crept across the land.

She tilted her head back to look at it, the crimson hue mixing with that of the blue moon, casting long shadows across the clearing, softening the edges of the shrine and the trees beyond. The garden swayed gently in the night breeze, petals catching moonlight like tiny lanterns.

“May I see your sword?” Taldris’ voice broke the quiet, though her gaze remained on the sky. She’d noticed the blade when Alric picked it up at the depot, the runes etched along its edge. She was curious about the enchantment it may hold and wanted to see if she could replicate it.

Alric gave a small nod and handed the weapon over. Taldris accepted it gently, resting it across her lap. Her slender fingers traced the runes carved along the sharpened edge. Under the moonlight, the markings seemed to glow faintly, as if the magic woven into them stirred. She studied them in silence, lips moving as she repeatedly read the ancient script. Conjuration magic, she realized after a while.

She returned the sword to Alric. “Run your hand along the runes,” she instructed softly.

Alric did as she said, his fingers gliding over the markings. The runes darkened to a deep blue, and the blade gave a faint hum, as if awakening.

“Now think of a name. A command word. Something simple, you would use to call this sword.”

Alric hesitated, then closed his eyes, concentrating. After a moment, he nodded; he had it.

“Good. Now… throw it.”

“What?” His brow furrowed.

“Just throw it.”

Reluctantly, Alric drew back and hurled the blade with all his strength. The scimitar spun through the air, vanishing into the dense forest beyond.

Taldris gave him a small, knowing smile. “Think of the word.”

Alric closed his eyes again as if in concentration.

In a blink, the blade reappeared in his hand, solid and real, as if it had never left.

He stared at it, turning the hilt in his palm. “It… came back.”

Taldris gave a small nod, a faint hint of satisfaction in her voice. “It’s a return spell, layered beneath a conjuration glyph. Elven-made, most probably."

Alric looked at her, still processing. “And you just… knew how to read that?”

"I can read the ruins, it's more about recognising the pattern, knowing what spell they form." There was a subtle glint of pride in her eyes, though she kept her tone measured.

“I saw you pick up that shortsword at the depot,” Alric said, his tone casual. “But you don’t strike me as someone who’s trained with a blade.”

“I’m not,” Taldris admitted. “I usually rely on my sorcery, but too much tends to take a toll on me. I figured having a blade might help if things get… close. Though, like you said, I can barely use it.”

Alric offered a small nod. “I could teach you, if you’d like.”

Taldris tilted her head, studying him for a moment. “You teach swordsmanship now?”

Alric shrugged, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve seen you fight. You’re good with your footing. That’s half the battle already. The rest is timing, reading your opponent, knowing when to strike.”

She glanced at the shortsword at her hip, fingers brushing against the hilt. “And if I stab myself mid-lesson?”

“Then I’ll make sure you learn how not to do it again,” he replied with a grin.

Taldris gave a soft chuckle. “Alright then. We’ll practice swordsmanship when the chance comes. But for now, you should get some rest. Tomorrow, we have a city to sneak into.”

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The morning sun filtered softly through the trees surrounding the shrine, casting long golden beams across the stone floor. A cool breeze drifted through the open space, stirring petals from the flower garden nearby, as birds chirped in the distance. It was the kind of calm that almost made one forget there was a war waiting beyond the horizon.

The group sat in a loose circle atop the wide stone platform of the shrine. Alric sat cross-legged, a crude map of Zadale and its outlying regions laid out before him, weighed down with stones on each corner. Brina knelt beside him, her finger tracing lines along the map: old roads, river routes, watch posts. “This is the south gate. Heavily guarded, as expected."

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Kael leaned back on his hands. “So, walking through the front door is out. Unless one of you feels like waving a white flag and getting arrested for espionage.”

“We need to avoid being seen altogether,” Alric said, her eyes narrowed as she examined the terrain lines carved into the parchment. “What if we use something like an old aqueduct system that feeds into the lower city. There won't be any guards in a place like that. The issue would be pinpointing a safe entrance.

Taldris was seated on a stone ledge nearby. “Risky,” she murmured. “Those tunnels could be crawling with rats, worse things. But less chance of running into patrols.”

Alric looked up from the map. “We plan this right, we won’t need to draw steel at all. In and out, quiet as ghosts.”

Caelen pointed at a settlement drawn on the map. "We can go there, it's an old village between Lucia and Zadale. It's old, so neither side has taken it over yet."

"What difference does that make from being at this shrine?" Alric questioned.

"I know an old friend of mine. Worked for the Vanguards. His father is a merchant, knows the trade routes pretty well. He owes us a favour; we can ask his old man to repay his debts and sneak us in."

"You think he'll agree to that?" Kael questioned.

"He owes a heavy debt."

Alric nodded. "If you say so. We should leave now, the village is just a few miles away. We can be there before noon."

The group exchanged brief glances before slowly rising to their feet, rolling up the map, and gathering their gear. Taldris adjusted the straps of her satchel. “What’s the name of this village?”

Caelen replied, “Duskwatch.”

Brina frowned slightly. “Sounds welcoming.”

“It’s not,” Caelen said with a small smile. “It used to be a resting point for traveling priests and scribes. When the war broke out, both sides avoided it. Too many winding roads, not enough strategic value.”

“That might actually work in our favor,” Alric said as he fastened the scabbard at his hip. “No patrols. No attention.”

They made their way down from the shrine’s raised stone steps, past the flower garden still damp with morning dew. The scent of herbs and wild blossoms lingered in the air, oddly peaceful considering the task that lay ahead.

Their pace quickened once they found the correct direction. Birds scattered from the branches above as they moved in tight formation, hooves crunching softly against the undergrowth. The shrine soon vanished behind them, swallowed by trees and mist.

As they walked, Kael finally spoke again. “You trust this friend of yours?” he asked Caelen.

“He's a snake,” Caelen replied. “But if he’s still alive and hasn’t lost his spine, he’ll help us.”

“And if he has?”

Caelen’s hand tightened briefly around the hilt of his blade. “Then we find another way in. But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Taldris walked a little ahead, her sharp eyes scanning the forest, but her thoughts were on the stone they found at Ironwood. Zadale had found a source of raw, untamed magic, potent enough to fuel whatever “death machine” they were building. And with every passing moment, they edged closer to completing it. With every passing moment, Lucia drew nearer to losing this war.

For now, Duskwatch awaited them. And with it, perhaps, their first real chance of breaking into the lion’s den.

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The sun had risen high by the time the group reached the edge of the village. The path that led there was narrow and uneven, with tall grass growing on each side. The village lay in a shallow valley, its rooftops a patchwork of faded tiles. Wooden fences leaned tiredly, enclosing small gardens or empty fields.

A few figures moved in the distance: an old woman drawing water from a well, a child running barefoot across a stone path, a man stacking firewood by the side of a weathered barn. They paused only briefly to glance at the travelers before going back to their work. Strangers weren't a common sight, but not entirely unwelcome either.

Caelen led the group without hesitation, passing by the outer homes toward the heart of the village. “His father keeps a place just behind the old chapel,” he muttered over his shoulder. “We’ll go there.”

The chapel stood quietly at the edge of the clearing, its aged timber walls weathered to a soft gray by years of wind and rain. The roof sagged slightly. Narrow arched windows, their glass clouded, reflected the pale light of the moon, casting faint glimmers like watchful eyes in the night. A simple wooden steeple rose above, and a small iron bell hung motionless within it, long silent. The air around it was still, heavy with the scent of damp earth and old wood.

As they walked deeper in, the village opened up to a small square where a broken stone fountain stood, long dry and half-choked with ivy. Wooden signs creaked on rusted hinges, and faded carvings marked what were once shops. It was clear this place had seen better days, but for now, it offered what they needed: quiet, neutrality, and a chance to plan their next move.

Caelen led them through a narrow alley that wound behind the old chapel, where the moss-covered stones gave way to a small, fenced clearing. Nestled there was a house much better maintained than the rest. Yet its wooden frame remained weathered by years of wind and rain. A faded lantern hung by the door, still swaying gently from the morning breeze.

The house had a quiet charm. The garden out front had once been well-tended, overgrown now, but the remnants of order remained. There was a neat row of herbs gone wild along with a rusted trowel half-buried in the soil, and a patch of soil freshly tilled, suggesting someone still cared for it. Smoke rose faintly from a crooked chimney, carrying the faint scent of burning pine.

Caelen stepped up to the wooden door and knocked twice. Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing a young man with black hair who wore a simple wool tunic and smelled of tobacco and spices.

“Caelen? Didn’t expect to see you here,” the man muttered, his sharp eyes flicking over the group, taking each of them in. “And you brought company.” He forced a smile as he stepped aside, holding the door open. Taldris could see it in his face, that smile was strained, a mask over the fact that he didn’t want them here, but had no choice.

“What can I get you?” he asked, his voice tight. “Tea? Ale?”

“None of that, Terin,” Caelen said, his tone firm. “I’m here to call in that favor. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

“I haven’t.” Terin’s brow furrowed, the forced politeness slipping for just a second.

“We need to speak to your old man,” Caelen continued.

Terin’s expression shifted, suspicion flashing in his eyes. “For what exactly?”

Before Caelen could answer, Taldris stepped forward, her voice steady and direct. She made sure to only tell what was necessary, leaving out the details of the stone and any other sensitive information. There was no point wasting time.

By the end of it, Terin’s face had hardened. His expression said it all: he wanted no part in any of this.

“You’re asking for too much,” Terin muttered, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the doorway. “I keep my head low for a reason, Caelen. You're handing me a death sentence.”

Caelen didn’t flinch. “We both know why you keep your head low, Terin. If the Vanguard somehow finds out what you did, you'll be getting a death sentence."

That threat made Terin shut up. So this man did something to cross the Vanguards, and Caelen had been keeping his secrets. Why didn't Taldirs know about anything like this? Did it happen before she joined?

Brina interrupted the two quarrelling. "We’re not here to start trouble. We just need to get in. Quietly."

Terin stopped cold. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he stared at Caelen as if weighing the cost of old debts. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and looked away. "I'd rather have this over with as quickly as possible. My father's in the living room, knock yourself out." For a moment, Taldris saw a small smile on his face as if he knew this would lead them nowhere.

The group stepped inside, the door creaking shut behind them. The air was thick with the smell of stale ale and smoke. As they moved down the narrow hall toward the living room, they heard the low murmur of someone talking.

Slouched in a battered armchair near the fire sat an older man, his frame now slumped and soft with age and drink. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, stained with old spills, and his beard was unkempt. A nearly empty bottle dangled loosely from his fingers, its contents forgotten. His eyes, heavy-lidded and glassy, flicked lazily toward them as they entered, but no real recognition or interest stirred in his gaze.

“Visitors, eh?” he mumbled, words slurred, his head lolling slightly as he tried to sit up straighter. “What’s this about then?”

But even as he spoke, he made no move to rise, too far gone in drink and weariness to do more than blink at them. For a second, the room was filled with a silence of disappointment.

“This is your merchant, Caelen?” Kael asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he glanced at the drunk slumped in the chair.

Terin chuckled dryly from behind them. “Merchant? With the war, we barely sell anything these days. The old man’s been keeping himself busy with those bottles.”

Taldris crossed her arms, her sharp gaze sweeping the well-kept interior. “How is your house better maintained than any other place in this village?”

Terin’s expression darkened, the bitterness in his voice unmistakable. “Because of the favor I owe Caelen. And trust me, I’m regretting it now.”

Alric stepped forward. “Can’t you get us in yourself? You don’t need your father for that.”

Terin shook his head. “I don’t know the routes the way my old man did. And even if I did, it wouldn't matter. Zadale or Lucia. Both sides inspect the carts. Hiding five people isn’t exactly easy. Even if you sober up the old man, it won't do you any good.”

Caelen exhaled sharply, the frustration clear on his face. “I take it you don’t know any of those routes?”

Terin spread his hands helplessly. “Look, after all the years we worked together at the Vanguard, you should know. I was never a merchant.”

“So what now?” Kael asked, glancing at the group.

Taldris didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were fixed on the cracked floorboards beneath her boots, but her mind was miles away. There could still be a way in; they just had to find it. She glanced back toward the old man slumped in the other room, then out the window at the quiet, darkening village. "We might still be able to make it in. Get the old man sober, it's time Terin pays his debts."