The night hangs soft over the cottage porch. The breeze is mild, full of damp herbs and something that might once have been silence.
Eileen sits by the window nook, hands wrapped around a mug that steams gently in the dark. The chair doesn’t rock, but it sways in that kind of way that just barely suggests comfort without quite enough evidence to assume it.
Across from her, William joins her and sits in an abandoned pose. His knees draw up slightly, arms folding across them, hands clasped too tightly together, as if he’s trying to remember a gesture from a ritual he is no longer sure he believes in. He wears a borrowed set of Daniel’s clothes, but they fit him poorly. The shape of him still carries too much remorse.
Eileen reaches for the teapot on the table between them, the one painted with baby raccoons tumbling over each other, and pours a second cup. She sets it beside him with quiet ceremony. There is no clink, no push, only the simple act of placement, a small keepsake of presence.
“Warm, if you want it,” she says, and nothing more.
William flinches, not like someone struck, but like someone who has been told the blade is coming and then finds it never arrives. The cup continues to sit between them, steam rising from it in soft spirals, and it almost seems to press forward, as if the warmth itself is trying to insist. He does not speak for a long time.
When he finally does, the words come out in broken order, like fragments of scripture trying to crawl towards meaning in a library destroyed by fire. “We were told the pain had meaning,” he says at last. “That suffering... made things safe.”
His voice continues too careful, like he’s stepping through a prayer he’s no longer sure is safe. “The Dungeon wasn’t always what it is now. It had a voice during its founding, one that made the sacred mechanisms feel safe. It made sense then.”
He stares into the cup, not drinking. Just watching the steam spiral, as if trying to find in its motion a reason not to fall apart. “I have always believed in the sacred engine of the scripture and how it turns grief into salvation. The rituals prescribed make voice into law and we its custodians, we feed its meaning with our actions.”
His voice comes haltingly, like ritual phrases pried loose from rusted hinges, “But I heard it scream today and I realized that it's always been screaming. That I mistook its scream for prayers.”
He wipes a hand across his mouth, not to clean, but to hold something in. “The Dawkith Lorth, our redeemer, the transcendence. He promised us that sacrifice would keep us safe. That the hunger of the sacrament was holy. Said that if the little ones went willingly, the world would stay whole.”
Williams voice begins to shake, his body starting to tremble, “And I helped build the rites! The orders, the chutes. I streamlined the obedience. I made the murder...”
“I thought we were protecting the world. But maybe... Maybe we fed the wrong mouth,” he whispers. “The rites were so clear. ‘Speak the name in reverse under moss light, light no fire between the breaths, salt the threshold with willing hands.’ I knew them all. I helped codify the sequence to honor the spiral, streamlined the offering steps so the chants wouldn’t overlap.”
His voice cracks. “There was a rhythm to it. 'Kneel, name, knife. Clean the stone with tears, or oil, if the stillness failed.' We thought the grief made it real. We told ourselves that suffering refined the spirit like heat tempering a blade.”
“But maybe... maybe it just kept the gears turning.”
His hands shake now, not from fear, but from the absence of a name for what he’s done. “And the Dungeon...”
“I don’t know if it ever wanted to be fed like this, I can't even remember when it had asked for sacrifices...”
He lowers his gaze, as if afraid of seeing himself reflected in Eileen’s eyes, which have turned to stare deep into his soul. She would not comfort him like she did for the little ones but she could still listen and perhaps by listening she could help. Maybe she could help everyone else.
William then suddenly looks up, “There’s a gate, not far from where you found the camp. It is sealed with song and behind it are old guards. Not Quills, not priest or sacrifices. Something older, they are trapped within, perhaps they can help, help us understand when rituals were a kindness. When the meaning of them didn’t hurt so much.”
“I don’t know if they’re dangerous. I just remember... they were afraid.”
Rite Interrupted. Mercy Replaced Obedience.
Ward Pattern: Enduring Matron Anchor
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Gate of Unspoken locked by: ???
Query: Who asks with words instead of blade?
Ritual Continuation: Possible.
The tunnel narrows before expanding again. The rough stone walls give way to a carved hallway, its surface etched with symbols she doesn’t recognize but nonetheless feels judged by. At the far end stands a wrought iron door, too ornate for the space, the kind that seems designed not simply to deny entry but to keep out the wrong kind of presence without ever asking who they truly are. Mana lamps flicker along the corridor, casting long, uneasy shadows across its reinforced bars.
Eileen knocks three times, the sound measured and polite, neither loud nor timid... just right.
There is a shuffle behind the door, followed by the scrape of metal. The eye port hisses open with a sharp metallic snap, revealing not a face, but a pair of crimson eyes set too close together. Two jackals crowd the peephole, jostling for dominance in the narrow frame.
“Begone, ye old hero,” they cry together in awkward unison. “The Dawkith Lorth is not accepting visitors.”
Eileen squints. The light makes little sense, and the creatures even less. She cannot quite tell which one she is meant to address, so she speaks to both of them and perhaps also to the moment itself as if they are all part of the same peculiar performance. “Oh,” she says pleasantly, “I just need to speak to the Dawkith Lorth quickly then I'll be gone.”
She smiles as she says it, calm and courteous, the kind of smile reserved for returning something that clearly never should have been purchased. The jackals recoil as if struck by holy revelation, voices tumbling over each other in panicked excitement.
“What of our envoys? The priests, did they survive?” one yelps as the other shouts, “What of the armies, the navies, the dread cogs? Were the fleets glorious in the reckoning?”
Their eyes vanish at once, swallowed by chaos. From behind the door erupts the sound of frantic scrambling: objects being flung, panicked snarling, something heavy cracking in two. Then, for a brief moment, silence.
What follows is a tremendous crash, a barrage of confused barking, the unmistakable scent of urination, and two matching yelps of embarrassment that sound very much like pride dying in stereo. Then after another pause, the slot in the door creaks open again. A third pair of eyes appears this time, smaller and yellower, barely reaching the lower edge of the opening.
“You bring news of sacrifices?” the voice asks, trembling with an urgency that sounds far too rehearsed. “They are late. They are needed to awaken his core.”
Eileen gives a small shrug, one shaped by decades of watching fools overcomplicate things they don’t understand. William had mentioned these guards were trapped and inferred that they needed a reason to leave, so perhaps if she gave them one, that would be enough. At the very least, it was worth a try.
Her attempt working flawlessly, her easy going composure landing with the weight of silent authority, mistaken instantly for divine purpose by the guards behind the door which falters, unsteady beneath her silence. Seeing the opportunity, Eileen folds a harmless fiction into the moment as gently as dropping a sugar cube into tea. “You’d have to take that up with logistics,” she says with practiced smoothness. “I’m officially unofficially officially part of the Dawkith Lorth’s clandestine services.”
There is a sharp intake of breath, followed by a thud as the creature, or perhaps its courage, collapses out of sight. From deep within the walls, something old begins to move. Metal groans, rust splits, and pressure hisses through seals long undisturbed. The door trembles beneath unseen weight, and then a fracture forms down its center seam.
Eileen steps back without alarm, her posture steady, her gaze lifting on instinct. From behind her, a dozen motes shimmer into existence: one yellow, one brown, and ten blue.
+1 Yellow Mote
+1 Brown Mote
+10 Blue Motes
And they follow her into the seam in the door when it opens just wide enough to allow her passage. Slipping through the opening with the same composed grace she uses when entering someone else’s kitchen uninvited but bearing muffins. She is not afraid of these guards, only attentive, careful in the presence of large things pretending to be gentle.
The room beyond is chaos, mechanical, frantic, and deeply mismanaged. At the far wall, three jackal like figures, smaller than the ones at the peephole, tumble in dizzy loops of motion. Fluffy, fast, and entirely lacking in coordination, they claw and scrabble at a massive steel wheel that groans and shudders under their efforts. Chains jerk, gears shift, each labored turn met with high pitched yelps of encouragement, or possibly despair.
Then, without warning, the trio of guards abandons their posts and sprints for the door in a flurry of fur and limbs. Behind them, the gear unwinds rapidly, resetting the entire mechanism just before they reach the threshold. The door slams shut with a thud.
A pause. Then they spin back toward the wheel and throw themselves at it again.
Eileen stands just inside the threshold, calmly out of their way. Her hands remain neatly folded over the handle of her basket, her expression composed and patient, as though observing squirrels bicker over a birdbath.
“Well,” she says thoughtfully as she steps a little closer, “no one can say they lack enthusiasm.”
She raises one hand in greeting, palm facing out, not to command, but to offer the kind of calm welcome one reserves for children mid game in their imaginations or raccoons caught in the compost. “Now then,” she begins gently, “Why don’t we...”
One of the tumblers spins toward her as they attempt to race for the door again. It does not growl or threaten. It simply barks, sharp and abrupt, more startled than hostile, its eyes flashing with brief confusion. It does not truly look at her, more through her, as though its world has not yet caught up with her presence. Then it turns back to the others and resumes panting with exaggerated commitment.
The other two never even stop, and it is equally unclear whether they have even noticed her at all.
Eileen lowers her hand, not insulted but slightly puzzled. “All right,” she says softly. "Not quite ready. I understand, fluffy tumblers."
She spots a stool nearby, one leg cracked but still steady. With a small nod of approval, she settles onto it and releases a slow, appreciative sigh. People always complained that youth was wasted on the young. But Eileen knew better. For the energy before her, the flailing, the wild and misplaced conviction, all of it felt like it had its own purpose. These tumblers were using it just fine.
They just need to get it out of their system first, and she is in no hurry. She can wait.
She is good at that.