The bells tolled. The Stunorians thought nightfall meant safety. They were wrong.
Vestri—arms linked with two ladies, falling through a weak door—blended in. Merlin—silent, unseen, observing.
Quintess de Clemence took the stage. The crowd answered her ritualistic calls:“Who hears the silence?” — The Prophet. “Who carries the horn?” — The Prophet. “Who shields us from the night?” — The Prophet. “And who grants us this day?” — The Shadow.
Then the confessions began.
Deviances, suspicions… then serious accusations. Three were taken. Merlin’s eyes never left Bethany.
“Shadow upon horn. Horn upon us. Prophet before us. Prophet within us. We breathe as one. We speak as one. And in silence… we are safe.”
Bethany pulled Merlin to the teahouse. Spiders, whispers, rumors. Caelum Emberthane was discussed in detail—hair of flame, amber eyes flickering blue, blacksmith and collector of stones. Merlin suspected reincarnation… of his lost love. He would have to see him.
Meanwhile, Vestri returned—and nearly became Izek’s next victim. A knife stopped just in time. Apologies given. Trust tested.
Elrohir explored the church: burned books, a holy text of the Morninglord tainted with aberration magic, an immovable piano, and a peculiar artifact—the Cup of Borrowed Memory.
Drink from it, and live another’s memory for a minute.
Vestri stayed awake, talking with Izek—trust, betrayal, what it means to rely on others. They found kinship in blunt, honest exchange. Elrohir quietly took over watch.
Marius crafted bolts with grim ingenuity: feathers from a fallen nest, twine, and arrow shafts. Merlin returned, producing more bolts, and shared gossip from the sermon and teahouse.
Then the Mad Mage awoke.
Panic, nightmares of the Infinite Staircase. Memories of Riley twisted into horror. Sand poured from her eyes, ears, mouth. He refused sleep. Spells became terrors under his mind’s eye. Merlin suggested drawing.
The Mad Mage’s hand took over, sketching Riley’s black-sanded face—haunting, unrelenting, impossible to ignore. And in the darkness of the church, surrounded by the dead and undead alike, one truth remained: Barovia does not wait for you to be ready. It consumes everything you are—and everything you love.