The dying forest offered little shelter. Stellan led them away from the echoing thrum of the Nemesys, through a winding path of skeletal trees whose branches clawed at the perpetually overcast sky. Vesna’s breath came in ragged gasps, her scraped hands aching, the chill of the evening seeping into her bones. She clutched the rough leather map Sister Iryna had thrust into her hand, its edges already softened by her frantic grip. The paper felt like a last, fragile link to a world that no longer existed.
After what felt like an eternity, the sparse trees gave way to a muddy track, and a faint glow shimmered through the mist ahead. It was a single, squat building, its timber walls weathered to a dull grey, a sagging sign depicting a chipped tankard swinging above its lintel. Smoke curled lazily from a stone chimney, and the faint murmur of voices drifted on the wind. The Inn of the Sunken Kettle. A place that felt both too welcoming and utterly alien.
Stellan pushed open the heavy oak door. The air inside was thick with the scent of stale ale, woodsmoke, and unwashed bodies. A few gruff-looking travelers sat hunched over tables, their faces illuminated by the flickering hearth fire. They barely glanced up as Stellan guided Vesna to a secluded corner table, farthest from the door. He didn't ask her if she was hungry, simply ordered two bowls of stew and a skin of weak wine from a surly, one-eyed innkeeper who eyed Vesna's mud-splattered habit with suspicion.
“Take off that cloak,” Stellan rumbled, his voice low, as the innkeeper shuffled away. “And that habit. You look like you just crawled out of a crypt.”
Vesna flinched, pulling the worn wool tighter around her. “It’s all I have.” She eyed him, her mistrust a cold knot in her stomach. “Why are you doing this? Where are we going?”
He didn't answer immediately, instead, he produced a small, leather pouch from his belt and extracted a clean, linen rag and a flask of something pungent. He poured a little onto the rag, the sharp scent of antiseptic filling the small space around them. “Give me your hands.”
She hesitated, her gaze fixed on his rough fingers, calloused from years of wielding a blade. His touch, when it came, was surprisingly gentle. He cleaned the grit from her knees, the deep scratches on her forearms, her knuckles. The proximity was a raw, unwelcome awareness, a heat that had nothing to do with the inn’s hearth. His dark hair, damp from the night, brushed her cheek as he leaned closer, his scent of damp earth and steel filling her senses. She watched the dance of firelight in his grey eyes, guarded curiosity replacing her initial fear. She pulled her hands back slowly when he was done, a strange sensation lingering on her skin.
“Who hired you?” she finally asked, her voice a little steadier.
He sat back, pushing a bowl of lukewarm stew towards her. “Doesn't matter now. My contract was to deliver you to a Justicar. A benefactor from the Aethel. Alive and… intact.” He took a long swig from his wine skin. “They seem to think you’re important.”
Vesna scoffed, bitterness lacing her words. “Important? I’m a walking disaster. A magnet for… that.” She gestured vaguely towards the window, where the night seemed to press in, darker and deeper than before. She unwrapped the map, spreading it carefully on the grimy table, her fingers tracing the faded symbols. “Sister Iryna gave me this. Before… before it swallowed her too.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
Stellan leaned forward, his brow furrowed as he studied the intricate drawing. It depicted a stylized map of Ravka, marked with seven distinct points, each emblazoned with a droplet symbol. “What is this?”
“The Lacrimae,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Divine tears, Iryna called them. They’re supposed to… sever my connection to the Nemesys. Give me control. Stop it from consuming everything.” She looked at him, a desperate plea in her eyes. “It’s the only way.”
Stellan’s lips twisted in a cynical grimace. “Divine tears? A fairy tale, girl. A child’s lullaby.” He pushed a piece of gristly meat around his bowl with his spoon. “The world doesn’t work like that. There’s no magic cure for… whatever that was.”
Vesna’s shoulders slumped, a familiar despair threatening to overwhelm her. She expected his disbelief. Everyone always dismissed what they couldn't understand. But then Stellan’s gaze drifted past her, towards the window. The Blight-rot outside wasn't just creeping anymore. The skeletal trees seemed to writhe in the faint light, their branches coalescing into denser, unnatural shadows. The perpetual mist had taken on a sickly, greenish tinge, and the air hummed with a low, dissonant vibration that even Vesna could feel in her bones. The subtle decay had escalated, visible even in the dimness of the inn.
A shadow of something—concern? fear?—crossed Stellan's face. He looked back at Vesna, his initial scoff replaced by a grim awareness. “That… thing,” he said, his voice quiet, “it’s getting worse, isn't it?” He didn't wait for her answer. “A fairy tale won’t stop it from unraveling the whole damn world.” He slammed his wine skin onto the table. “Fine. We find your tears.”
A sudden hush fell over the inn. The low murmur of conversations died away into sudden stillness. The heavy oak door swung open with a resounding thud, revealing a figure cloaked in the austere white and silver of an Aethel Justicar. Her movements were precise, deliberate, each step radiating an unyielding authority. Her hair, the color of spun moonlight, was pulled back in a severe braid, and her eyes, sharp and cold as winter ice, swept across the room until they landed on Vesna.
“There you are, abomination,” Ksenia Orlova declared, her voice ringing with the clarity of a newly forged bell, yet carrying an edge of absolute contempt. “The Blight-spawned witch. Your purification begins now.”
Her gaze shifted to Stellan, and her lips curled into a sneer. “And you, Varic. Still slithering in the shadows, associating with filth. The Imperial Huntsmen were right to cast you out, traitor. Even now, you serve chaos. You shame the memory of the Sun-Father and the Glades of Oakhaven.”
Stellan’s hand, which had been resting on the hilt of his shortsword, tightened. A dark, dangerous glint entered his eyes. The few other patrons in the inn, recognizing the Justicar’s silver livery and hearing her venom, began backing toward the shadows, two men already scrambling for the rear door. Ksenia took another step forward, her hand moving towards the ornate pommel of her own blade. The air crackled. The Inn of the Sunken Kettle was about to erupt.