Vanded looked between Vera and Serel, then moved his hand. Faint sigils shimmered in the air, rippling like a haze around the two of them.

  Vera raised a brow. “Thanks,” she said, glancing at her daughter.

  She assumed it was a Mark that meant their words wouldn’t reach Serel. This way, he didn’t actually have to let Serel out of her sight, which was a small relief.

  “So, how’ve things gone after the night?” she asked.

  Vanded’s reply came as a low rumble, the cheer he’d shown moments ago noticeably dulled. “It’s a mess, Vera. A Gravesent mess.”

  She looked at him.

  It had surprised her, hearing him call her by her real name. She hadn’t thought anyone who’d known Veralyth Mournvale here would know that one, much less use it. Caldrin only ever called her ‘my lady,’ Serel called her ‘Mommy,’ and she hadn’t met many others who’d known her before. Apparently, this was another point where Veralyth and her overlapped more than she would have thought.

  “Did a lot of people die?”

  Vanded’s expression darkened. “No. Not as many as could’ve, at least. Outside the central district and the Pale Hall’s surroundings, there’s barely any real damage.” He met her eyes. “You have our thanks for dragging your battle beyond the city’s bounds.”

  Vera felt a little off under the weight of that sincerity, so she looked away and folded her arms, copying his stance. “It’s what had to be done.”

  A short silence followed. At the desk, Serel turned the Wick in her hands, the thing glowing in little pulses.

  “From what we’ve confirmed,” Vanded said, “most of the city guards beyond those we’ve got locked up are gone. Bonewright Guild members, Sigilists, and the labor guilds are missing some too. We’re assuming they’re among the Tetherborn that attacked.”

  Vera frowned. “…How many does that make?”

  She’d dealt with a few hundred, after all.

  “The guard and Bonewrights alone put it past three hundred. The rest, we’ll have to see.”

  She watched him. “That is a lot of people dead.”

  He nodded seriously. “Maybe. But far fewer than if a Silent Lord had gotten its claws on the city. Gard reckons they’d been creating those things for weeks, maybe months. You finding that chamber under the Marrowvault spooked them, made ‘em rush the rest yesterday.”

  “You’re saying we could have saved more if I’d acted sooner?”

  “Probably.”

  Vera fell quiet, gaze turning ahead again.

  “Nothing to beat yourself up over,” Vanded said. “It’s one of those sorry turns life conjures up. Sometimes you miss a chance ’cause you don’t know better—but if you didn’t, might not’ve been much of a chance after all.”

  “…Right.”

  She didn’t necessarily disagree. She’d never been one to gripe about missed opportunities. It was just…

  These were people’s lives they were talking about.

  It shouldn’t be up to her, of all people, whether someone lived or not.

  “What about the Boneward Concord?” she asked after a while.

  Vanded was quiet for a moment. “We’re still sorting that out. Sancter Vehl’s alive, bound downstairs. Envoy Virehall and Trade Voice Brel Tannot are missing. All three were tied to that persona of Whitefinger’s. Virehall and Tannot are probably dead. The rest of the Concord… might be the same.”

  Vera glanced at him. “The High Warden as well?”

  The corner of his mouth tightened. “…I’m holding out hope.”

  Vera studied him. To her, it didn’t sound likely that the High Warden would still be alive, but the man was Vanded’s friend. It made sense for him to be optimistic.

  “What about Marrowfen itself?” she asked. “If the Concord’s gone and the guard’s dead, someone has to keep order. It looked calm when we walked here, but that won’t last once people figure things out.”

  “Gard’s on it. He’s called a meeting at the Tanning League with some of the local heads to figure out how to move forward. I think that butler of yours is helping. They’re also looking to figure out which guilds and families backed Whitefinger’s infiltration of the Concord. We’ll be busy for a while digging those snakes out.”

  “On that note, where is Whitefinger?”

  “In the vault below us.” Vanded’s voice dropped. “The Bound Witness is watching him. I’ll get to him soon enough. Then I’ll find out how the bastard came back after we already killed him.”

  “The Bound Witness,” Vera said, recalling the fight. “That specter that was with you yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it exactly? First time I saw it.”

  It wasn’t an NPC she recognized from the game, and she felt fairly certain Veralyth hadn’t encountered it either. Still, she’d sensed Hollow Resonance from it, and it had been strong. Probably somewhat on par with Vanded himself.

  “I can introduce you later,” he said. “That old fellow’s taken an interest in you as well.”

  She eyed him for a moment, then nodded. “Alright.”

  Another silence settled between them. They both kept observing Serel.

  “You’ve been gone some time this round,” Vanded said eventually.

  Vera didn’t answer right away. “…Yeah. I have.”

  “What’ve you been up to in these years? Didn’t think we’d see you—” The man cut himself off, words thinning out. As Vera turned to him, she saw a shadow cross his face before he shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Nah, doesn’t matter, does it?”

  She watched him carefully. Whatever that was, he didn’t offer more. His expression steadied, some spirit returning. “You’ve grown stronger, though. Strong enough to bring down a Silent Lord like a green-lit Kindled. How’d you do it?”

  “It’s… complicated, I’m pretty sure,” Vera said.

  “You’re pretty sure?”

  “Yeah. Pretty sure.”

  That earned an amused look, which she returned with a small shrug.

  “Honestly, I was surprised by how strong I was myself.” She tilted her head slightly. “Or maybe just by how everyone else stopped keeping up.”

  The large man beside her let out a rough, sharp laugh. “That’s the Mournvale I remember. Is that a challenge? Should I feel ashamed for failing to ascend past the Tenth Flamebinding?”

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  “I’m sure you’ll get there eventually.”

  He shook his head with a low chuckle. “No. No, I don’t think I will. The fate of the Cycle-Forged’s one that’s only carved out for a few, I suspect. You and the rest of the Marked were always a step apart from the rest of us.”

  Vera’s lips pressed into a thin line. “…Do you know how strong they are now?”

  Vanded raised his brows. “Compared to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hoh.” One hand rose to his beard as his gaze unfocused a little. “Wish I could give you a proper measure. Afraid it’s like Eran the Tithe trying to weigh Myrrkhal the Chained’s breath. If you pressed a blade to my throat for an answer… maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  He lowered his head once. “Maybe.”

  “Huh.” Vera considered that. “Do you know anything else about them? Seen any of them recently?”

  She still wasn’t sure which of her fellow players might be around. Or what it would mean if they were.

  “Some,” Vanded said. “You lot have always moved to your own tides. Spread thin as ghosts lately. Valecrest’s leading the Pyric Oath and Covenant against The Silence Between, if you haven’t heard. Wakeshade’s been fighting on the same fronts. Halstrad was holding Darnelle last I heard, though it’s never easy keeping track of her. As for the rest, who knows.”

  Vera paused at the first name, her jaw tightening. “About Elaria—do you know if…” She trailed off, then shook her head. “No, never mind.”

  Vanded gave her a curious look but didn’t press.

  “But Halstrad’s in Darnelle?” she continued. “You’re sure?”

  “She was supposed to be.”

  “Has she stayed around the whole time? Or did she go missing at some point?”

  His brows drew together. “Missing? Hard to say if you mean since the Chainfather Ascendant, but she’s been active these last few months at least. And good thing that. We’ve needed every hand we could get against this tribulation.”

  That didn’t help her much in the moment. Still, it was something. At least now she had a direction to start with.

  Mireya Halstrad—one of her old guildmates. The only one she knew with any connection to the Graven Daughter. Vera wanted to know if this Halstrad was her friend, trapped here like she was, or just this world’s version of that character.

  A small motion pulled her attention back to the desk, where Serel had placed the Wick in front of her, elbows propped up, chin resting on her hands. The Wick’s pulse had started shifting between quick and slow pulses.

  “By the way, what exactly does that thing do?” Vera asked. “I wasn’t aware it was good for anything besides reagent work, but you said it’s like a diary you don’t have to write?”

  “That’s what I said, yeah,” Vanded replied. “The Wick keeps memories. Catches impressions from what’s around it—sights, sounds, even parts of feelings. Curious little thing, I always thought. Doubt it’s soaked in much more than the moment I handed it to your girl, but even that’s plenty for a young mind.” He tapped a finger to his temple and grinned. “Lets them see moments from other eyes. Not too different from those plays they’ve been putting on about you these days.”

  Vera felt the urge to cringe at there being plays about her, but she kept her composure. “You said you gave one to your daughter too?”

  His grin softened into something quieter, still warm, as his eyes lingered on Serel. “Aye. When she was about your lass’s age. Loved it more than anything. Had a memory of her mother in there too.”

  Vera watched him. She hadn’t known he even had a daughter. For a second, she thought to ask, but something in his tone stopped her. She looked away instead.

  After a while, Vanded cleared his throat, the air shifting back toward its earlier rough humor. “So, you planning to tell the world you’ve gone and had a kid?” he asked, half-grinning again. “When’d you even find the time to pop one out?”

  Vera’s expression flattened. She looked at him. “I genuinely hope that’s not how you usually refer to it around women.”

  He just laughed, clapping a broad hand on her shoulder. “Nothing wrong with a bit of banter, eh? Now, who’s the lucky cinderborn?”

  She stiffened. “Cinderborn? What makes you think they’re cinderborn?”

  “The eyes,” Vanded said, pointing between hers and Serel’s. “Touch of crimson there, along with your silver. I’d like to know where she’d have picked that up if not from a cinderborn’s contribution.”

  “Please. Don’t. Ever. Call it that. Again.” Vera shuddered. “You’re channeling way too much uncle energy with the personal questions. Let it rest.”

  “Uncle energy…?” Vanded looked confused whether that was something to be proud of or not, but after another moment of eyeing her, he seemed to take the hint. His attention drifted back to Serel, expression settling into something more thoughtful. “…Heard from Gard the girl disappeared for a while during the night. That true? Did it have anything to do with the Silent Lord or the Pale Reconciliation?”

  “No. It didn’t. But what happened was resolved.”

  She considered telling him about the Graven Daughter but decided against it. However familiar it might feel interacting with him, this man was only half an acquaintance. The other half was a stranger.

  “Right,” Vanded said, the word hanging for a few seconds before he let it go.

  Vera breathed out, eyes on Serel as the girl was now humming softly, fingers tracing the Wick’s glow. Was she… trying to record herself, maybe? Vera would have to experiment with the thing later to see how it worked.

  “You’ve done well, Vera,” Vanded remarked after a while. “She looks happy.”

  “…Not sure how much of that praise I really deserve, but thanks.” A faint warmth crossed Vera’s face.

  A beat passed, then the man straightened, rubbing his palms together. “Right. Heard you wrecked our dueling hall the day you got back.”

  Vera blinked, turning toward him. “…I offered to pay for that.”

  He barked a laugh. “Pay for it? I’ve broken that room more times than I can count. Pretty sure it’s not your first time either. What’s a little structural damage between comrades?”

  “I’d wager comments like that are why Gard’s having such a hard time as your Vice-Master.”

  The man sobered a little, gaze drifting toward the door. “Can you blame me? Man’s just too good at doing my job for me. He’ll make a better Chapter-Master one day.” He was silent for a bit. “Truth is, I’ve got more weight than I care to take on right now. Marrowfen’ll bleed for years after this night, and I’m no healer. But guess I should at least try where I can.”

  He rolled his neck, then cracked his knuckles. “Though if I’m to do that after running near two days without sleep, I’ll need to clear my head first. Work the early morning rust out of my system.” His grin returned wholeheartedly as he looked at her again, and there was something very familiar in that expression. “That’s what I was waiting on you for. What do you say, Mournvale? Fancy a throwback to the old days? A duel to shake the dust off?”

  Vera’s eyes narrowed. “Right now?”

  “As good a time as any. Unless the Ashborn Ascendant’s afraid she burned herself out last night.”

  Vera considered him. Then a slow, sharper grin curved across her lips. “No, actually, I’d love that.”

  “Hah. That’s the spirit!”

  She rolled one arm, stretching her shoulder.

  If he didn’t mind her wrecking the hall before, he probably wouldn’t mind if she actually created a new window for real, would he?

  Andrin crossed the Cinderwalk in silence. Emberlight ran along its length, reflecting off the ash-gray walls of the eastern spire. Below, Caer Virell sprawled through the haze, its forges ever-burning.

  Inside, the Ember Courts were empty. His steps echoed through the myrrh-scented outer chamber as he made his way toward the Keeper’s door. The red oak shimmered faintly with heat as he reached to push it open and stepped through.

  The Flamebearer of the Covenant of Flame and Keeper of the Pyric Oath sat near the far wall, armor set beside her. Light caught faint motes of ember rising from her bare shoulders and arms, pulsing with each slow breath. Fresh scars crossed bronze-tan skin, glowing dimly with residual Resonance as they faded.

  Andrin waited before speaking. “Keeper.”

  Her eyes stayed closed. “Another report?”

  “Yes. But not from any of the fronts. It’s from Marrowfen.”

  She said nothing.

  “We discussed the Boneward Concord’s edict before,” Andrin continued. “The situation remains unclear, but several emergency Ashmarks left the city for the surrounding dominions, calling for aid. After that came reports of the revival of one of the Silent Lords.”

  Elaria’s eyes opened, bright crimson. The chamber darkened under their light. “Which one?”

  “We don’t know. But that wasn’t the most important part of what was passed along.”

  She looked at him, waiting.

  “The Silent Lord was destroyed,” he said.

  “Destroyed?” Elaria’s brow furrowed. “…By Blazegrip?”

  Andrin shook his head. “No. Not as far as I can tell. The account came through a single Ashmark sent to Karthvale’s Chapter and relayed from there, so it’s not verified, but they mentioned the Ashborn Ascendant.”

  The air thickened instantly. The Flamebearer’s gaze fixed on him. For a long moment, she didn’t move. When she rose, Resonance kindled around her like the pull of a tide. She lifted a gauntlet from the floor, fastening it with a sharp motion, then the next. “Have you sent Sigilists from the Ardent Circle to scry Marrowfen?”

  Andrin watched her. “I have.”

  “Recall them.”

  He blinked. “May I ask why, Keeper?”

  She fastened the second gauntlet, then reached for the breastplate and pauldrons, securing each clasp in turn. “Their sight won’t be needed there. But the fronts will need them.” When the final clasp locked, she crossed the chamber to the dais. Dawnbrand’s steel came alive as she drew it, veins of trapped fire running across its surface. “Send word to Yria. Ask that she delay the Mistshroud Rite and act in my stead for the time being.”

  Andrin hesitated, then froze once he realized what she meant. “You’re going to Marrowfen yourself?”

  “I am. The Firesworn are yours until I return.”

  Beyond the high, open slits that sat behind her desk came a sound—distant at first, building into a roar that spread across the sky.

  Elaria moved toward the opening, pulling her scorched-weave cloak around her shoulders. Her helm locked into place last, eyes burning brighter behind the slits. As she stopped before the windows, emberlight flared across the chamber in a final pulse. Wings of ember unfurled from her cloak, scattering ash across the floor with a hiss.

  Outside, a shadow swept past the spire, its shape cutting through the haze for a heartbeat before vanishing with the thunderous beat of wings.

  Elaria was gone with it, leaving only the faint distortion of heat where she’d stood. Andrin lingered at the entrance of the chamber, staring after the fading blur of motion as it vanished toward the horizon, wondering what had suddenly gotten into his Keeper.