The storm raged outside the lodge, fierce winds bending the trees into groaning specters. Ice crackled across the windows as snow layered the forest floor. Inside, a heavy silence hung in the warm, smoky air. The hunters lay bound in one of the back bedrooms, the red-haired woman gagged with a rag and glaring daggers through tangled hair. Nixor leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a brace of newly acquired throwing knives across his chest. His eyes flicked from the prisoners to the firelight flickering in the hearth.
In the main room, the party sat or stood around the fire. Grey had conjured the flames earlier, now tending it with a quiet focus. Cairvish paced, his arms folded behind his back, while Krashina sat stiffly, hands resting on her knees. Tension still smoldered from the clash with the lodge's owners.
"We can't trust the Baron," Krashina said flatly. "Even if we complete the task, what stops him from killing us to keep his secrets?"
"Or from handing us over to Turask as conspirators," Grey added, poking at the fire.
"Belserel could already be dead," Cairvish said, voice heavy with worry. "If not, then imprisoned. The Baron doesn't suffer interference. Not with Hithion whispering in his ear."
"Hithion?" Krashina raised an eyebrow.
Cairvish nodded. "He's a Vithikan sorcerer. Or I believe he is. Arrived about six months ago. Never seen without his hood, never speaks in public. Since then, my uncle has changed. The Church of Erathmus was expelled from the Baron's court. And there was... another scandal."
"A mistress," Grey said softly, without looking up.
"Yes. Disappeared when Hithion arrived. She might be the sister of that explorer whose journal we found in the ruins."
"And Turask?" Krashina asked.
"A thug. Always has been," Cairvish muttered. "Only difference is the Baron used to keep him leashed. Now he runs wild."
Grey sat back, eyes catching the firelight. "Then we'll be opposing a court sorcerer, a half-mad captain, and a noble in decline. And likely, the gods."
That earned a look from Krashina. "Speak plainly."
Grey sighed. "You've guessed my secret. Yes, I am a wizard, though we call ourselves scholars in Saerlyn. My order studies the celestial cataclysm, and the secret power of Erathmus."
Krashina stiffened, Cairvish narrowed his eyes.
"Magic," Grey said, "is truth shrouded in taboo. The church calls our study heresy because it competes with their control. They claim pacts with gods. But their gods are cosmic forces—entities, perhaps—but abstract. Civilization has molded them into something else."
"So you're saying religion is... what, sorcery with rules?" Nixor asked from the doorway, amused.
"Precisely," Grey said, smiling faintly. "Priests are taught sacred words, a select few granted the power to forge pacts. Wizards... we make our own."
Krashina looked disturbed. "That's not what the Church teaches."
Cairvish interjected. "The doctrine says the Archons caused the cataclysm. Malevolent godlike sorcerers who twisted nature itself. They broke the world to enslave it. Earthquakes, storms, fire from the sky. Entire cities lost."
"They ruled in the ruins," Krashina added. "Crushed our ancestors beneath their heels."
"And yet, that's the origin of your gods," Grey said. "Even your own texts—like the Bathel Codex—confirm this. The Cauldean Texts, older still, say more."
Krashina frowned. "But Erathmus gave us power to resist. To rebel."
"He—or it—may have," Grey admitted. "But that power comes at a cost. Wild magic, untamed, corrodes the world. It devours what it touches. Certain flowers filter it. Those sacred blossoms kept by temples are prized not for beauty, but containment."
The room fell into silence. The wind howled again outside.
Cairvish shook his head slowly. "You're saying our gods are dangerous."
"I'm saying the truth is more complex than the Church allows," Grey replied. "And that Hithion, if he is what I suspect, is using that truth for darker aims."
Krashina looked at the fire. "If that's true, what do we do?"
Nixor chuckled. "We stay alive. That's always the first step."
No one laughed. The fire crackled. Snow tapped at the windows like forgotten memories, and in the other room, the Stormblades stirred restlessly in their bonds.
Outside, the storm began to pass, but the questions lingered, thick as smoke.