Chapter 52: Blades and Beliefs

The flickering glow of a single candle danced across the walls of Dorian’s modest room at The Frosted Tankard. His lute leaned lazily against the chair, while his journal lay open on the small wooden desk. He ran his fingers over the pendant resting on his chest, its crimson gem glinting faintly in the dim light.

The Archmage’s Pendant…
The thought gnawed at him like an itch beneath the skin.

The elf in Svalen wore one with a golden gem. Selyse’s tale spoke of one with a dark blue gem, tied to tragedy and power. And here he was, with a red gemstone nestled against his heart. How many are there? What do they mean?
And why had the bard given him one?

He remembered the bard vividly now—the shimmer of his emerald cloak, the gleam of a golden harp, and magic woven with effortless grace. Bards aren’t supposed to be rich, Dorian mused, tapping his quill against his lips. And certainly not that powerful.

Frustrated, he sighed, jotting down fragmented notes in his journal:

Silverhill Bard: Green cloak, golden harp, advanced magic
Elf in Svalen: Golden gem pendant
Selyse’s Story: Dark blue gem pendant, tied to Viscount’s son
My Pendant: Red gem… what does it mean?

With nothing more to uncover tonight, Dorian snapped his journal shut, extinguished the candle, and let exhaustion pull him into sleep.

Sunlight crept through the window, casting golden rays over Dorian’s face. He awoke feeling oddly refreshed—a rare luxury after weeks of camping. Stretching with a groan, he dressed and slung his pendant around his neck before heading downstairs.

At the hearth-side table, Ralnor was already up, silently chewing on a chunk of bread and venison stew.

“Morning,” Dorian greeted, sliding into the chair beside him.

Ralnor gave a simple nod. “Morning.”

Behind the bar, Mira, the broad-shouldered innkeeper with sharp eyes and an easy grin, glanced over. “What’ll you have for breakfast, bard?”

“What’s on the menu?” Dorian asked, glancing around the modest tavern.

“Venison stew with a side of potatoes,” she replied. “Meat supply’s tight since the bridge to Brenhold collapsed last week.”

Dorian blinked. “Brenhold?”

Ralnor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Our next stop.”

A slight gasp escaped Dorian. “Wait—collapsed? How long’s that going to delay us?”

Mira chuckled, sliding a bowl of stew his way. “Lucky for you, they’re already repairing it. Should be ready tomorrow.”

Relieved, Dorian dug into the stew, savoring the warm, savory bite. Between mouthfuls, curiosity got the better of him. “So… what’s it like living here? Seems peaceful enough.”

Mira leaned against the bar, arms crossed. “Vareth’s Crossing is a good place. Viscount Halrik Vareth keeps things in line. Unlike most nobles, he actually listens to folks like us.”

Dorian snorted. “A noble who listens to peasants? That’s rich.”

Mira arched an eyebrow. “Don’t believe me? Take a walk. Ask around.”

Challenge accepted.

…

After finishing his breakfast, Dorian stretched, then nodded toward Ralnor. “I’m off to find a saddle for Regis.”

Ralnor barely looked up. “Careful.”

With a grin, Dorian made his way to the stables where Regis munched lazily on hay. He stroked the horse’s mane. “Ready to upgrade, buddy?”

Regis snorted in response.

Mounting bareback, Dorian set out to explore Vareth’s Crossing. The city bustled with life—vendors shouting, blacksmiths hammering, and children darting between stalls. The scent of fresh bread mixed with the tang of metal and leather.

'But where do you even buy a saddle?' he thought, realizing he’d forgotten to ask.

'Eh, adventure’s part of the fun.'

Eventually, the trail of black smoke in the distance led him to a quaint smithy, nestled between stone buildings. The rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil filled the air. Inside, he found a well-made saddle and, after some charming banter and shameless haggling, secured it for a bargain price.

As he fastened the saddle onto Regis outside, Dorian felt eyes on him.

Turning, he saw an old elf watching silently—an unusual sight, as Dorian had rarely encountered elves, let alone one with such age etched into his features. His long, silver hair was braided with small beads, his eyes sharp yet distant.

“You wanna hop on him, old man?” Dorian teased with a grin.

The elf chuckled softly. “No need, young one. Just admiring. I’ve never seen a horse quite like that… or you, for that matter.”

“Well, he is majestic,” Dorian said, patting Regis proudly. “And I’m new around here, so no surprise you haven’t seen me.”

The elf nodded. “Ah, that explains it.”

Dorian tilted his head, curiosity piqued. “You from here? Born and raised?”

The elf seemed amused by the question. “Indeed. Lived here my whole life.”

Dorian’s grin widened. “Perfect. I’m collecting stories on my travels. How about giving me a tour? Share some of Vareth’s secrets?”

The elf considered for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. But you’ll walk with me.”

“Deal.”

Dorian held Regis’ reins loosely, matching the slow, deliberate pace of the old elf beside him. The cobblestone streets of Vareth’s Crossing hummed with life—the clatter of merchant carts, the laughter of children weaving through market stalls, and the occasional sharp bark of traders haggling over prices.

The old man, despite his frail appearance, moved with surprising grace. Occasionally, townsfolk greeted him with polite nods or warm smiles.

Dorian grinned. “Quite famous, aren’t you, old man?”

The elf chuckled softly. “Not famous, lad. Just familiar. When you live long enough in one place, faces start to remember you—even if you forget theirs.”

They continued weaving through narrow alleys and bustling squares until Dorian’s curiosity bubbled over.

“No offense, old man,” he began, glancing sideways, “but how long have you lived? I mean, not to be rude, but I’ve never met an elf who looks…”—he waved vaguely—“seasoned.”

The elf laughed, the lines around his eyes crinkling with mirth. “Ah, well, that’s because I’m not fully elven. Half-elf, through and through. My father was human, stubborn as the stones of the north. My mother, an elf with patience as thin as ice in spring.”

Dorian nodded thoughtfully. “Ahh, that explains it. Still, you’re moving around just fine. I’d say you’ve got plenty of years left in you.”

The old man’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a distant, reflective look. “Perhaps. But time has a way of catching up, even with those of us who borrow a bit more of it.”

Dorian, sensing the shift, flashed his signature grin. “Well, you’ve still got enough energy to guide me around. And hey, if you get tired, you can always hop on Regis.”

Before the old man could reply, a sudden commotion erupted nearby—a sharp, angry shout cutting through the noise of the market like a blade.

Without hesitation, Dorian handed Regis’ reins to the old man. “Hold tight, old timer.” Then, with quick strides, he dashed toward the source of the disturbance.

The scene unfolded in front of an inn named The Crimson Boar.

A small group clad in the white-and-gold vestments of the Twelve Gods Church stood arrogantly on the inn’s steps. At the center was a bishop, his ornate robes pristine despite the dusty streets. He wiped his gloved hands with a delicate cloth, his face twisted with disgust as if the very air offended him.

Behind him, three priests hovered like vultures—one holding an umbrella to shield the bishop from the sun, another offering a goblet of water, and the third carrying an elaborate tome etched with divine symbols.

But it wasn’t the clergy that froze Dorian in his tracks.

It was the young apprentice paladin, his blade drawn, gleaming menacingly in the morning light. He stood over a terrified woman shielding her two children—a small boy, sobbing uncontrollably, and a younger girl, too young to understand, giggling innocently as if it were all a game.

The bishop’s voice boomed with righteous fury.
“Disgusting heretics!” he spat. “By the decree of the Twelve, this boy’s hand shall be taken as penance for his blasphemy!”

The paladin raised his sword, poised to strike.

Dorian’s hand instinctively reached for his lute, magic already tingling at his fingertips—but before he could act, a flash of steel intercepted the blow.

Tache.

With effortless grace, Tache’s twin blades crossed, catching the paladin’s sword mid-swing. Sparks flew from the impact.

Selyse and Ralnor flanked him, stepping into formation like wolves protecting their pack. Dorian rushed to stand beside them, heart pounding.

Tache’s voice was calm but laced with steel.
“Hey there,” he said casually, eyes locked on the paladin. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m pretty sure there’s no good reason to chop off a child’s arm in the middle of the street.”

The paladin snarled, attempting to yank his sword free, but Tache didn’t budge.
The bishop’s face contorted with indignation. “You dare interfere with the will of the Twelve?”

Tache tilted his head slightly. “Will of the Twelve? I thought it was just the will of an old man who doesn’t like getting his hands dirty.”

The surrounding crowd had grown, murmurs of shock and curiosity rippling through the townsfolk. But no one stepped forward—fear of the church’s authority held them in check.

Dorian took a step forward, strumming his lute gently. His voice rang out, weaving subtle magic into his words.

“Is this the justice of the gods?” he called out, loud enough for the crowd to hear.
“Steel against innocence? Faith against fear?”

The bishop’s eyes narrowed. “Blasphemer!” he hissed.

The apprentice paladin, flushed with anger and embarrassment, broke free from Tache’s grip and lunged again.

But this time, Selyse moved like lightning. Her lance swept upward in a precise arc, knocking the sword from the paladin’s grasp and sending it skittering across the cobblestones.

Ralnor stepped in, his massive shield slamming down beside the boy’s family, creating a barrier of iron between them and the church.

Tache grinned. “Like I said, no need for anyone to be swinging swords at kids today.”