Chapter Seventeen
They left Brookshire under the cover of a moonless sky.
Part of Siurad wanted to linger, just long enough to see the look on Vane’s face when he realized his empire had been liquidated. But satisfying that urge would only draw attention to the Temple. The flock’s safety was worth more than his amusement.
"So," Siurad said, adjusting the strap of his pack as the town walls faded into the mist behind them. "Without the kids to slow us down, I take it we can stick to the main roads?"
"Quickest way to Silverspire, that's for sure," Yona said, checking her compass.
'. . .THE GREAT WORK COMMENCES,' Obi pulsed, the vibration heavy in the base of Siurad's skull. '. . .THE SEEDS ARE PLANTED. THE PATH IS CLEAR.'
"Yeah, yeah," Siurad muttered, rubbing his temple. "Road trip. I got it."
They walked in silence for a mile, the rhythm of their boots on the hard-packed dirt the only sound. Finally, Siurad broke the quiet.
"Tell me something, Yona. You keep that illusion up tight. Hiding the ears, the tail. Is there a specific reason, or is it just fashion?"
Yona let out a dry laugh. "Long story, Shepherd. Short version? In these parts of Vildris, specifically Beast-kin, aren't exactly on the guest list."
She gestured vaguely to the dark countryside around them.
"There was a Great Purge a few years back. The King got paranoid. Those of us who didn't run fast enough... well, we ended up as rugs."
Siurad frowned. "Why stay, then? Seems like the danger outweighs the reward."
"I like danger, Big Guy," Yona said lightly. Then, her smile slipped. For a second, she didn't look like the carefree thief; she looked tired. "Plus... I have my reasons. Some things in this kingdom still need to burn."
Siurad let that hang in the cold air for a moment. He recognized that tone. It was the sound of a debt unpaid.
"You aren't from here originally, are you?" he asked.
"No," Yona shook her head. "I'm from the continent of Faeron, way out West. A little country called Sembial. Where I'm from, Beast-kin and humans actually got along." She kicked a loose stone on the road. "It was like that here for a while, too. Until it wasn't."
Siurad looked up at the stars, thinking of the dead captain, the greedy Magister, and the racism Yona was hiding from.
"This whole world is full of variables," Siurad muttered. "Too much chaos."
They reached the town of Merrill just after midnight, putting twenty hard miles between them and the chaos of Brookshire. They moved fast, a two-person unit cutting through the dark.
The streets were silent, save for the dull roar of conversation bleeding out from the local tavern. Siurad looked up at the sign creaking in the wind. It didn't have a fantasy name like The Prancing Pony or The Dragon's Breath.
It just said: BOB’S.
'...HOW PENURIOUS,' Obi pulsed against Siurad’s finger, his mental voice dripping with judgment.
"I don't even know what that means, Obi," Siurad muttered, rubbing his eyes.
'...POVERTY-STRICKEN,' Obi clarified. '...DESTITUTE. BELOW AVERAGE.'
"Oh," Siurad said to Yona. "He's calling the place poor."
“Bob’s are everywhere,” Yona sighed. "As long as it has a bed and four walls, I don't care if he calls it a dumpster." Yona yawned, pushing the door open.
Inside, Bob's contained the usual suspects: a pair of drunks arguing slurred politics in the corner, and a lone orc nursing a mug of ale, looking like he was waiting for a quest that was never coming.
Siurad stopped half a step inside the doorway.
He had seen monsters by now. He had seen magic. He had watched shadows eat men and had personally violated several laws of physics. But there was something uniquely stupid about seeing an actual orc sitting at an actual bar, drinking actual ale.
His brain supplied a dozen useless facts from games that no longer mattered.
The orc looked up.
He was broad even sitting down, with a wide brow, a heavy jaw, and a flat nose pierced by a small iron ring. Two lower tusks pressed against his upper lip. He wore pristine white armor polished bright enough to catch the tavern’s greasy lamplight, which made him look less like a raider and more like a paladin who had wandered into the wrong DLC.
Siurad realized he was staring.
The orc raised one eyebrow.
Yona nudged Siurad’s shin with her boot. “You planning to challenge him to a duel, or are you just being weird?”
“Sorry,” Siurad muttered, forcing himself forward. “First time I've seen an orc.”
The orc gave him a long, unreadable look, then returned to his ale.
“Bigot,” the orc grumbled.
Yona moved to the counter, her eyes scanning the room. She checked exits, checked who had what weapons, and what was near them before she was comfortable enough to lean in.
“One room,” she said, counting out copper coins and sliding them across the sticky wood. She had gold in her bag now, plenty of it, but flashing gold in a dive like this was painting a target on their backs.
The barkeep, a dwarf with skin weathered like old leather, eyed the copper, then the massive man standing behind the small woman.
“Breakfast is six to nine,” he grunted, swiping the coins. “Once we're out, we're out. Rooms are upstairs, last door on the left.”
“Thanks.” Siurad offered a tired nod.
The room was a box with a single window and one sagging bed. Yona locked the door and wedged a chair under the handle before tossing her pack onto the mattress.
"I take the bed," she said, kicking off her boots. "I'm lighter. If you sleep on this thing, you'll break the frame."
Siurad didn't argue. He made a nest on the floorboards with the spare blankets and a pillow Yona tossed down to him. It was hard, but it was solid.
"Hey, Big Guy," Yona said, her voice softening as the candle flickered out. "I mean it. You did good things this week. You saved the flock. You balanced the books."
"You too, Yona," Siurad whispered.
'...YOU DO NOT PLAN TO WASH? YOU SMELL OF ROTTING EQUINE AND POOR IMPULSE CONTROL.'
Not now, Obi.
The past few days had been a slog, and he was too tired to unpack any of it. The children. The Captain. The horse. The priest. The road stretching ahead like a punishment he had not finished earning.
He closed his eyes, grateful that for tonight, the only thing he had to fight was the floor.
Sunlight filtered through the dirty windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. Siurad sat at a corner table, staring at a bowl of porridge that was grey, lukewarm, and possessed a texture suspiciously similar to wet cement.
'...STARCH,' Obi critiqued, the ring pulsing faintly. '...AN INEFFICIENT FUEL. IT LACKS STRUCTURE.'
"It's porridge, Obi," Siurad muttered, spooning a glob into his mouth. "It's not supposed to have structure."
' ...EVERYTHING REQUIRES STRUCTURE.'
Across from him, Yona was in high spirits. She had ordered eggs, bacon, and a tankard of ale, paying for it with the newly created travel expense account from the Vane audit.
"You have to admit," Yona said, tearing into a strip of bacon. "For a place called Bob's, the pork is decent. And the beds didn't have lice. I rate it a solid six out of ten."
"We eat, we leave," Siurad said, checking the map Limmel had sold him. "Silverspire is north. If we push, we can make the border of the Whispering Woods by sunset."
"Always in a rush," Yona sighed. "You need a hobby, Shepherd. Besides saving the world and brooding."
The tavern door creaked open.
The conversation in the room was mostly low grumbles about the weather and complaints of an impending tax hike.
A man stumbled in. He looked like a merchant, but his clothes were torn, his boots caked in a strange, shimmering blue mud. He collapsed onto the nearest stool, his breathing ragged. His expression was terrified.
"Whiskey," the man gasped to the dwarf barkeep. "The whole bottle."
"You got coin?" the dwarf asked.
The man slammed a heavy gold ring onto the counter. "Just pour it!"
Yona’s ears twitched. The sound of gold hitting wood was her favorite song. She leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowing.
"Rough night?" a local farmer asked the merchant.
"I didn't stop," the merchant whispered, his hands shaking as he grabbed the bottle. "I didn't stop running. I left the wagon. I left the horses."
"Bandits?"
"No," the merchant shuddered. "Not bandits. There is something in Unity.
He took a massive swig of the whiskey, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand.
"I passed through there to sell grain. But the town... it was quiet. Too quiet. I went to the Mayor's house to get the permit signed. The door was open."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a haunted whisper that carried across the silent room.
"They were all there. The Mayor. The baker. The blacksmith. Standing in the parlor. Just... standing there. Facing the wall. They weren't moving. They weren't blinking."
"Sick?" the farmer asked. "Plague?"
“Where is Unity?” A man asked.
“Bout thirty miles or so east of here.” The farmer said.
"I touched the Mayor's shoulder," the merchant said, his eyes widening. "I asked if he was alright. He turned around. But it wasn't him."
The merchant gripped the bottle tight.
"His eyes were gone. Just... blue light. And he smiled. And then the baker turned. And the smith. And they all smiled the exact same smile at the exact same time."
He shuddered.
"They spoke. But not with their voices. It was one voice. Coming from all of them at once. It said: 'The Choir is building.'"
The merchant downed another shot. "I ran. I think they followed me to the tree line. I could hear them... humming."
The tavern went silent. Most of the locals looked at him like he was crazy.
But at Siurad’s table, the atmosphere had shifted from casual breakfast to financial opportunity.
Yona was no longer eating. She was staring at Siurad, her eyes glittering with that dangerous curiosity he was beginning to dread.
"Blue light," she whispered. "Hive mind. Humming."
Siurad stared at the merchant, his spoon hovering over the porridge.
‘...SYNCHRONIZED RESPONSE,’ Obi pulsed.
Siurad looked down at the ring. “You know what that is?”
Obi paused for the slightest moment before answering
‘...NO.’
That bothered him more than certainty would have.
'...BUT THE PATTERN IS WRONG. SHARED EXPRESSION. SHARED SPEECH. INDIVIDUAL WILL REDUCED TO SIGNAL NOISE.'
Yona slowly set down her bacon. “That sounds expensive.”
“It sounds like a town full of people who can’t ask for help,” Siurad said.
“Also expensive.”
Siurad gave her a look.
“What?” Yona said. “I can care about people and margins. I’m complex.”
“Shepherd…” She goaded.
“We’re not going,” Siurad said.
Yona blinked. “We’re absolutely going.”
“Silverspire is north.”
“Unity is thirty miles east.”
“That’s the opposite of north.”
“It’s a profitable diagonal.”
“It’s a detour.”
“It’s reconnaissance,” Yona corrected. “If the merchant is lying, we lose half a day, and you can mock me forever. If he’s telling the truth, there’s a whole town sitting there with its doors open and its survival instincts turned off. All that lonely coin just waiting…”
“Yona.”
“And yes,” she added, softer now, “There may be people still alive in there.”
That landed harder than the money.
Siurad looked back at the merchant. The man’s hands were still shaking around the bottle.
He pictured Mara standing in a quiet house, facing a wall, smiling with someone else’s mouth.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
Yona smiled. “That sounded like leadership.”
“That was not leadership, Yona it’s just guilt.”
'...INVESTIGATION IS ACCEPTABLE,' Obi said.
Acceptable, Siurad thought. That’s all you’ve got?
'...THE PHENOMENON IS UNNATURAL. I WISH TO UNDERSTAND THE FORCES CURRENTLY AT WORK. MANY VOICES DO NOT BECOME ONE WITHOUT AN ORGANIZING FORCE. '
“But if it isn’t?” Siurad asked.
'...THEN THE TOWN HAS FAILED SOCIALLY, MEDICALLY, OR THEOLOGICALLY. ALL THREE ARE WORTH CORRECTING.'
“Comforting. To unity it is,” he sighed.
Before leaving Merrill, they made one necessary stop.
"We look like a mess," Siurad noted, catching his reflection in a shop window. He was still wearing the cured leather armor he’d bought from Limmel at the start of this journey. It had been decent quality then, but after grief mare attacks, bandit skirmishes, and sleeping on forest floors, it was holding on by a thread.
"If we're going to walk into a possessed town," Siurad said, "we should look like we mean business. Not like we just rolled out of a cart."
They ducked into The Rusty Gauntlet, a cramped armory that smelled of coal dust and stale sweat. The smith, a burly man with soot-stained arms, looked up from his anvil.
"Got gold," Siurad stated, placing a heavy coin on the counter. "Need protection. Something that moves quietly. And it needs to be done now."
The smith eyed the gold, then the massive six foot four frame of Siurad and the agile five foot eight" build of Yona. He scratched his beard, thinking.
"What's your fancy?" he asked.
"I'm not really sure. Something better than this." Siurad gestured to his tattered leathers.
"You're welcome to take a look around. Heavy armor, light armor, everything in between. I've even got a few pieces with the old rune-work etched into the steel,it's proper enchantment, channels mana right through the plate, but that'll cost you." He said it with a wink. "And for the lady?"
"I think I'm just fine. Thank you." Yona walked to a rickety wooden bench and sat.
"So, Yona," Siurad said, eyeing a set of heavy armor. "What am I looking for?"
"Your best bet is to try different shit on. I'll say this though, you move faster than you look, and I like stealth, so stay away from the heavy, loud metals."
"Stealthy. Got it. Sir, how about this set here?"
Siurad pointed to a wooden mannequin clad in plate of blazing teal and unicorn silver. It sparkled faintly, a flicker of magic running through the engraved runework.
"Absolutely not!" Yona objected from the bench. "They'll see us coming from a mile away."
"But it's so shiny." Siurad's mind wandered for a moment. Sentimental images flooded his brain. "Reminds me of my J's." He put a hand over his heart.
"You and Jay will both be dead. Keep looking." She leaned back, rummaging in her pocket.
Siurad perused for what felt like forever before settling on another piece. "How about this one?"
It was a hulking monstrosity, a massive ivory breastplate gleaming in the light, gold-encrusted etching running from the gauntlets to the boots.
"No!" Yona's hand finally closed on what she'd been hunting for. She pulled out a small silver spoon and began to rub the bowl with her thumb, slow and absent, like a worry stone. "Hurry it up, Shepherd. Nine hells."
"Nope. You vetoed the other one. I'm trying this one on."
Five minutes later, Siurad emerged, donning the armor.
"How do I look? Does this make my butt look big?"
"What?" She rubbed the spoon faster. "Big guy, you're a giant. Everything on you is big."
'...NOT EVERYTHING.'
“Shut up, Obi!”
"Whatever he said, I agree with him."
Siurad sulked off, defeated. He stripped off the gold monstrosity and tossed it back toward the mannequin.
"Thanks, man, but I don't think we're finding it out here."
The smith watched him a moment longer, then scratched his beard again.
"I might have something in the back," the smith grunted. "A commission from a noble. A his and hers set."
Yona choked on her own spit. "A what?"
"Wealthy eccentric," the smith shrugged, walking to a large wooden trunk. "Wanted to play vigilante power couple with his mistress. They wanted intimidation factor. Then the wife found out, the funding got cut, and I got stuck with the inventory."
He kicked the trunk open.
Inside lay two sets of armor. They were striking, matte black leather reinforced with plates of blackened steel. The design was sleek, angular, and devoid of sigils or crests.
The larger set was built for a tank, heavy pauldrons, a reinforced chest plate, and thick greaves, designed to absorb impact. The smaller set was cut for speed, lighter plating, articulated joints, and room for throwing knives.
"The noble was a big guy," the smith noted, tossing the chest piece to Siurad. "And his mistress was... sleek. Should fit you two."
"We aren't a couple," Siurad said, holding up the black steel. It was heavy, but balanced.
"We're business partners," Yona added, running a hand over the sleek, dark leather of the smaller set. "But... damn. This is nice work."
"It's efficient," Siurad said. He looked at the design, the dark cowls, the segmented plating, the way the light seemed to die against the material. It looked like the kind of gear you unlocked after beating a stealth campaign on nightmare difficulty.
'...ACCEPTABLE,' Obi pulsed. '...SYMMETRY IS PLEASING. THE COLOR ABSORBS LIGHT. IT IS TACTICALLY SOUND.'
"We'll take them," Siurad said.
Ten minutes later, they stepped back onto the street. The transformation was complete. Gone were the travel-worn rags. They now looked like a unit, a dark, cohesive force. Siurad adjusted the black steel pauldrons, feeling the weight settle comfortably against his shoulders.
"Okay," Yona admitted, checking her reflection in a puddle and turning to see how the cape flared. "I look dangerous. I look like I assassinate kings for a living."
"Let's go," Siurad said. "Unity is waiting."
The road east was less a road and more a suggestion of dirt cutting through the overgrowth. As they walked, the air grew heavier. The birds stopped singing miles ago.
Siurad walked in rhythm, the new armor creaking softly. He used the time to address the elephant, or rather, the fox in the room.
He looked over at Yona. She was walking with a bounce in her step, spinning one of her new obsidian daggers idly.
"Hey, Yona," Siurad asked aloud.
"Yeah, big guy?"
"I was just doing the math," Siurad said. "If we go to Unity, we're going to find only God knows what. You sure you're up for this?”
He gestured to the empty road ahead.
Yona stopped spinning the dagger. She looked at him, and a slow, wicked grin spread across her face.
"Shepherd," she said, shaking her head like he was missing the obvious. "Think about it. It’s probably a hive mind."
"And?"
"And that means everyone in town is busy," she explained, her eyes glittering with greed. "The merchant said they were all standing in the parlor staring at the wall. The baker. The smith. The shopkeepers."
She gestured with her hands, framing an invisible scene.
"If the baker is staring at the wall humming creepy songs... he isn't watching the till. If the blacksmith is busy being a puppet... he isn't guarding the armory."
She laughed, a sharp, delightful sound.
"While you and Spooky save their souls... I'm going to walk into every unattended shop in Unity and rob them absolutely blind. It's the perfect heist, Siurad. No guards. No witnesses. Just zombies and open registers."
Siurad stared at her. The sheer, audacious pragmatism of it was staggering.
'...THE FOX IS A VISIONARY,' Obi pulsed, vibrating with genuine respect. '...I APPROVE.'
"You're terrible," Siurad sighed, though he couldn't suppress a smirk. "Efficient. But terrible."
"That's why you love me," Yona winked, adjusting her new black pauldron. "Now come on. Those registers aren't going to empty themselves."