Chapter 31: Too Thick to Swallow

  Gloammere - The Reach “Wilted Edge”

  Market District

  SKREEEEEEE—

  A metallic howl, torn from something half-alive.

  It clawed through the Wilted Edge, scraping against stone and skin alike.

  It rose from the old clock tower in the center petal, every note too sharp, too long—refusing to die. Windows rattled. Tin signs vibrated on their strings. Conversation paused, and so did the wind.

  By the time it died, the city stirred again—reluctantly, like it resented being reminded the day wasn’t over.

  A crate dropped somewhere nearby—too loud, followed by a muttered curse.

  The white-haired tactician didn't flinch. Citrine eyes tracking invisible currents—people stepping over cracks as if they were fault lines, heads turning first, not bodies. No one giving the street their full weight, saving themselves for quicker retreat.

  “How many?” The raven-haired man leaned close, white streak in his hair catching the meager light.

  “Six. All armed.” No need to explain how she knew. He wouldn't ask.

  Behind them, two boys argued over whether the creature had wings or hands. One of them swore his uncle saw it—“big as a shed, with silver eyes and fur like oil.”

  A group of traders passed, boots gleaming like strangers in the Wilted Edge. One wore an armband with a crooked merchant crest—stitched with thread that caught the light, worn like a wound meant to be noticed. Their cart slouched half-empty, but the guards flanking them carried their hands near hilts, eyes scanning corners as if the real cargo walked beneath floorboards.

  Ayola’s gaze flicked toward the barrels. “That cart didn’t pass through customs.”

  The Veilstone exile grunted. “No checkpoint stop, no dust on the wheel caps. Internal movement.”

  They wove through the crowd. The press of bodies grew thicker as they neared a cluster of stalls clinging to the side of a crumbling archway—what passed for a market in the Wilted Edge.

  "Deux fer da root." The woman slammed the bulb onto stained cloth, swampy drawl thick as mud. The root landed heavy—half-dead already.

  "Trois if ya wanna ask why." Dry as bone.

  "Ain't but un last week." A man whistled through his teeth gap. "Now it's triple?"

  No glance up, fingers already picking through another pile. "Yeah... an' last week I et."

  Another whistle cut through—high and quick, three notes in falling sequence. A young girl perched on a broken fountain, bare toes curled over cracked stone, eyes bright as copper coins.

  "Watchdog at your three." No urgency in her voice while fingers made quick signs against her thigh.

  The crowd shifted—not parting but softening its edges, water reluctantly accepting a stone. A city patrol drifted past, uniform betraying him—crisp jacket above boots worn by too many miles, fresh patch hastily sewn over the ghost of another crest.

  The flame-bearer slid a hand near his waist but didn't reach. Terracotta eyes narrowed beneath a furrowed brow. "Patchwork badge. Retired conscript?"

  "Or borrowed." Ayola's voice barely carried. "That's the third today."

  They moved again. Past a man kneeling with cloth and brush, repainting ration codes onto old stone—strokes uneven from heat, sweat dripping from his nose. Child beside him with tin pail, small fingers dipping in to smear old letters away.

  The Kama wielder stepped off course, shoulder clipping a trader who spat "Watch where you're going, bitch"

  No apology. Just calculation—his eyes darting to his coin pouch before hurrying off.

  "Testing nerves?" Soren asked.

  "Testing tells."

  Someone hawked and spat, brown streak cutting through dust. "Done changed them damn codes again. Now what—top floors gettin' first pick, huh?"

  A merchant leaned from crate shade, thick and low. "Feed them feedin' us, they say. Funny thing, tho'—ain't never seen they bellies empty."

  Ayola slowed just enough to glance at the ration map. Five districts still marked, one half-blackened. No notice. No warning.

  The map resembled a wound stitched by a drunk healer—holding together but threatening to tear with each breath. Lines warped under sun and desperate revisions, the ink fading at the edges as if retreating from its own promises.

  Soren fell into step beside her, shoulder brushing hers—too brief for accident, too light for comfort. "Smell that?"

  She did. The usual stink of sweat and rot now carried new notes—sharp vinegar cutting through sweetness, bitter herbs smoldering nearby. Someone masking meat that had turned.

  "Desperation's finally got a stench." Words barely disturbing the air.

  A man unloading crates near a culvert grumbled toward no one. "Can't pump nothin' out the lower drains no more. Water's risin'—gonna come up under us one o' these nights."

  His partner wiped sweat down his chest. "We live in a swamp, Lou. Ain't news."

  "Always did," Soren replied, eyes forward but attention everywhere. "Just needed heat to bring it out like pus from a wound."

  Ahead, the edge of the tavern sign swung in the breeze, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin.

  “Clock’s running,” Soren said.

  Ayola nodded. “Then let’s walk quieter.”

  They passed low row houses with flat-topped roofs, where lines of faded cloth swayed like dying prayer flags. Families sat under half-built awnings, fanning themselves, watching the road without watching it. Smoke curled from alley fires where scraps were boiled into meals.

  A crumbling stone building wedged itself between two dwellings like a forgotten tooth. Not quite a chapel—smaller, older, with memories etched into worn thresholds.A wooden disc hung above the door, marked with a looping sigil—endless curves chasing themselves like time refusing to resolve.

  A lone woman knelt at the threshold, forehead pressed against stone smoothed by generations of knees, fingers working a strand of bone beads. No priest. No sermon. Just her—and whatever still listened from the other side of silence.

  Ayola slowed, not enough to stop. Just long enough to notice.

  “Still standing,” she murmured, not quite to him.

  Soren’s gaze flicked to the symbol then back to the road. “Didn’t think Sundara kept much presence this deep.”

  “Seems so,” she said. “They just stopped calling it by name.”

  He gave a short breath. Half laugh, half rusted sigh. “Funny how faith gets louder the more it’s forgotten.”

  Her steps matched his again. “You don’t believe?”

  “Belief’s not the problem.” His thumb brushed something hidden beneath his belt. “It’s what people do with it that cracks the ground.”

  They didn’t speak after that.

  Not until the church faded behind and the path curved toward the town’s bend, where guttering light flickered through warped shutters and the tavern sign swayed like a limb caught in sleep.

  The Crooked Lantern

  Between the Mire & Reach District

  The door creaked open under Soren's palm—a wound reopened. Feather earring swaying with the motion, dancing against raven hair contrasted by that moonlight streak.

  Inside, an overturned table near the back wall, cards scattered across damp floorboards. A man pressed cloth to bleeding lip while another swept bottle shards into a corner, muttering about docked wages.

  For half a second, no one moved.

  Eyes lifted. Spoons paused mid-air. Dice froze between finger and fate.

  Then the sound of the steam fans overhead filled the gap—slow, lazy blades turning above a room that was already too warm, chopping the stale air into even stalier portions. One by one, the regulars dropped their stares and returned to the motion of things. Noise returned, but softer. Just enough to cover new steps and old dangers.

  As Ayola stepped inside, her twin kamas shifted beneath her cloak, their weight a familiar comfort. The hood cast shadows across her cheekbones, damp hair sticking to her temple. Soren adjusted the scarf around his lower face, catching a whiff of vinegar and old grease before it could hit him full.

  The tavern wasn't large but stretched long—a breath never let go. Narrow tables crowded the floor like exposed ribs of some beached creature, planks worn to shallow basins from years of heavy elbows and spilled regrets. Lantern cages hung from smoke-darkened beams—unlit now, more memory than illumination, metalwork intricate but tarnished beyond polish. The only real light: a wide window gouged into the south-facing wall, shrouded with old fishing net and warped paper turning sunlight the color of old bruises.

  A quiet nod from a man in the corner. Not friendly—just marking new terrain.

  Behind the bar stood a young man no older than twenty, sleeves rolled past elbows that had never known farm work. His hands worked a rag over the same section of wood—not cleaning so much as performing maintenance on a ritual. Brown hair frayed at the tips like burnt parchment. Eyes too sharp for someone whose job was forgetting what he heard.

  Stolen story; please report.

  "Sit where you like." Voice level as still water. "Don't spill blood or ale." A pause. "Blood stains worse."

  Soren gave a slight nod while scanning exits—three, counting the shuttered kitchen. Ayola already moving toward the far wall, cloak catching faint motes in slanted light.

  They sat. The bench groaned under Soren’s weight.

  A rusted menu plaque hung above the counter, edges warped from years of kitchen steam. Wood-slatted, carved by a hand that knew hunger better than letters:

  “DOBA” scratched over the old word for crowns. Smoothed but never forgotten.

  Boiled Grain Stew — 3 doba

  Thick with root shavings, a dash of marrow broth if you’re lucky. Stick-to-your-ribs kind.

  Smoked Whitefish (No Head) — 5 doba.

  Caught near the south bend. Charred skin, tender meat.

  [Someone etched “truth” beside this item.]

  Fireroot Mash – Cold or Hot — 2 or 3 doba

  Pulp of ground root that burns going down. Served with pickled stems if available.

  Swamp Hen Pot — 8 doba

  Tough bird stewed with bitter greens and black rice. Bones in.

  [Note in pencil: “Don’t ask what part you got.”]

  Tallow Fried Bread — 1 doba

  Flat, dense, pan-fried in rendered scrap fat. Comes with a smear of ash jelly.

  Burnt Sugar Slab (if any left) — 2 doba

  Crackled sweet crust, soft center. Often hoarded, rarely shared.

  Flatwater or Bitterfruit Brew — 1 doba (no refills)

  Water filtered twice or a sour-fermented juice served warm. Choose your regret.

  Near the bar, a weathered board displayed notices. Half of them faded beyond reading. The newest caught the light: "Guild Bounty;Proof of the Shadow Beast, 400 doba. Intact head fetch 100. Report to a squad leader with evidence." The parchment bore a seal Ayola didn't recognize—not the city's crest, but something sharper, newer.

  “I’ll get water,” a whisper . “We don’t want to stay long.”

  “No,” eyes scanned the room. “but we need to listen.”

  They let the hum of the tavern do its work.

  A man near the back muttered inta his cup, “That lil’ healah boy—ain’t on no records. Shoulda been tagged wit’ the rest.”

  “Ain’t even s’posed t’be here,” came the quiet reply. “Too clean. Too quiet.”

  “Fixed Gerren’s leg, bone an’ all.”

  “That leg was gone.”

  “Mhm.” A slow nod. “Exactly.”

  Near the door, two older mercs argued over a failed escort. “Said the shipment had mold. Mold doesn’t move, Henric.”

  Behind them, someone whispered, “There was fur. On the roof. Saw it slide down the silo like it knew.”

  A woman near the bar wiped her brow with a stained kerchief, voice dragging low and tired. “Them steam pipes ain’t holdin’, I tell ya. Hear that hiss las’ night? Thought the whole street gon’ blow.”

  “Ain’t steam, chérie. Ain’t been steam since the last flood. That’s gas crawlin’ under the drains. Smell it.” her friend muttered, rolling dice against a cracked mug.

  “Merde.” She crossed herself lazily. “Hope it don’t light.”

  Another voice, gravel-worn, broke in from the side booth. “Fourth cart this week didn’t check in. They’re either hoarding it up in the hills or the elders are rerouting again.”

  A wiry man near the bar leaned in, voice sour-pitched. "Guild's gone crooked. Half of 'em take bribes just to blink at the gates."

  His companion grunted. "Other half won't move without personal gain. Not evil—just... hollow."

  "Still a few good ones left." The bartender's cloth never left that same spot on the bar. "Fewer every month. Town's riding on a thread and it's fraying."

  “Don’t matter,” his drinking partner said. “We still get half-issue on rations and twice the patrols.”

  A hiss drifted from overhead. Somewhere above the beams, a pipe leaked a steady plink—plonk—into a tin bucket left beneath.

  “Ain’t no fixin’ that line,” muttered an old-timer near the hearth, his words curling slow as smoke. “She’s been rusted through since ol’ Jo?l fell off the ladder, bless ‘im.”

  His neighbor chuckled, tongue clicking. “Eh bien, long as it don’t rain fire yet, we let it drip.”

  A low laugh came from a shadowed table. “You hear about the guy who asked for double tags? Said one was for his ‘night job.’”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Didn’t show up the next day. Or the next.”

  “Maybe he got his job. Maybe the night took him.”

  The young bartender reappeared, setting two tin cups on their table. “Flatwater,” he set the cups down . “Cooler than most.” He lingered just a breath too long before walking away, back straight, too practiced.

  The amber-eyes strategist’s fingers hovered at the cup's rim but didn't lift it. A drop of condensation slid down the metal, leaving a darker ring on the wood.

  The tactician in her wasn't drinking. She was calculating: sightlines, mapping exits, the way that woman's hand never left her belt, the old man tracked every movement beneath fake sleep. Two merchants rested hands too close to hidden hilts.

  A ragged stretch of wall behind the bar bore an old painted crest—half-scrubbed away, its meaning forgotten. Someone had scrawled a newer line beneath it, chalk faint under grime: “We drown before we burn.”

  "He knew who we were."

  The fire-wielder remained still—his silence its own language. "Or he thinks he does. Same danger, different source."

  The fan above them gave a wheeze like something dying slow. The boy behind the bar hadn’t resumed cleaning. He was watching a different table now, one where a pair of city guards were quietly drinking without uniform.

  “They don’t belong here,” Ayola said.

  A woman’s whisper, slurred but sharp, drifted from a far corner. “Festival’s a front. Don’t you see it? Lanterns for peace while they burn the truth in the archive house.”

  “Then we’re already lit,” someone replied, raising their mug. “Cheers to the last calm before the breach.”

  “Neither do we.”

  Undisclosed Location

  A hand slammed against ancient oak—headsman's axe meeting the block.

  Papers flinched. Metal cup spun, wobbled, settled with a final rattle.

  "Where the hell is Raekor's team?"

  Voice booming through the chamber—frustration sharpened by echo, bouncing off stone walls that had witnessed centuries of similar outbursts. Around the table, no immediate answer. Silence not born of fear but calculation, deliberate as a blade being drawn.

  A low tick came from the far end of the room. A thin, weighted pendulum rocked behind tinted glass—an old timepiece embedded in the stone wall. The only light came from small vents near the ceiling, where beams of dusk cut across floating dust.

  “Three days past their mark,” murmured the Diplomat, voice smooth as river stones. “And the shipment with them. Ah… coincidence, perhaps, begins to choose its own course.”

  A chair creaked. The Hunter leaned forward, shadow breaking across his hooded frame, voice clipped and sharp as struck flint. “Roads clear. No storm. No wind. Somethin’ took them. Somethin’ that knows what we carried.”

  “The beast…” rasped the Archivist, words tumbling from ancient lungs. “If it done left the hills… if it’s broken them old boundaries… alors, we face more than lost supplies.”

  "We’ve no proof it was ever confined,” the Scholar interrupted, diction sharp as a scalpel. “Rumors always outrun truth. And such rumors… they are always fed. By something. Or someone"

  The figure at the head of the table didn’t move like a man used to giving orders—but like one who no longer needed to.

  No title was spoken. Some called him mayor. Others called him nothing at all. Those who remembered the vote disagreed on the year. Or the names on the ballot.

  His hands stayed steepled—fingers bridged like a mausoleum arch. Elbows rested on the same old wood that had outlasted famines, floods, and every fool who thought power came from speeches.

  He had no real origin—just a story that kept changing depending on who told it. Some said he was a merchant’s son. Others whispered there was never a son at all, just someone who showed up one season and never left.

  His voice always came second. After silence. After fear.

  “Delay the explanation." Voice mild. "Shift the blame. Weather... guild incompetence... scribal error... whatever serves."

  "You would have us lie?" The wheezing elder leaned into the slant of light, veined hand trembling as it reached for a chipped goblet.

  “We must hold order,” the man’s fingers tapped once against the table. “Truth will follow… once the grain is secured.”

  Another voice—balanced on neutrality's edge like a perfect scale—added, "And what about the boy?"

  No one looked up.

  “Still compliant." Words dropped like stones into still water. "Condition unchanged. The usual fluctuations."

  “He’s not breaking. Just bending.” thin notes of amusement dancing above deeper currents.

  So far." The words slipped from the corner like a confession too heavy to hold.

  “Gate logs show eight new tags last week,” reported the scholar. “Four merchants. One mercenary. Two on temporary licenses—laborers, most likely. One untagged.”

  “Anyone flagged?”

  “One dual-class. Marked. And the mercenary—Veilstone origin, Thread rank. Clean record.”

  “Veilstone?” the word landed like ash. “Suppose even they’re sending out their scraps now.”

  “No movement yet?”

  “None outside the usual scouting.”

  The man lips thinned—not quite a smile, more a blade unsheathing.

  “Keep it that way,” he said. “Let the walls speak first.”

  Another elder finally spoke—quietly, as if speaking into their own sleeves. “The city… she slips. Food arrives late. Water… watched. The seams unravel.”

  “Then the festival… is well timed,” the man’s eyes remained fixed on the middle distance where decisions live before they’re spoken.

  A dry laugh. “A festival with no surplus. Only lanterns and speeches.”

  “Spectacle is a balm,” he replied. “You don’t need to feed a wound to hide it.”

  The room darkened slightly as the sun dipped further beyond the vents. A gust of wind stirred dust from the rafters above, and one of the elders coughed hard into a cloth.

  “It’s getting closer.”

  That turned the room colder.

  “What proof?” Each syllable calculated—weighed and measured like coin.

  A sheet was passed down. A drawing—rough. A sketch of deep prints in mud. Talons like blades. A crude scale reference beside a broken tool.

  “It circled the south silo,” the Archivist wheezed, tracing patterns on the table. “Left prints… deep as a man’s hand. Took nothing. Broke no gate. This beast… it doesn’t hunt. It appraises. It learns. It watched the guards for hours… as though memorizing faces.”

  “And Raekor’s team?”

  “If they’re not dead, they’re not coming back.”

  Dust drifted through the air like ash that forgot it was fire. The pendulum kept ticking—though no one remembered who last wound it.

  The figure rose—slowly, but not stiff. Like gravity had forgotten him. The chair didn’t scrape. It yielded.

  He didn’t look at the council. Just the high slits of the window where dying light painted the dust in gold and ruin.

  “Let the beast circle.” Each syllable darkened the room further. “Let the whispers grow teeth. We have sacrificed for less.”

  "And if it comes inside the walls?" asked the Keeper—the one who spoke rarely but whose words no one ever interrupted, whose ledger of debts outlasted dynasties.

  The man turned, just enough for silver thread in his beard to catch the last light—blade half-drawn.

  "Then"—lips curving into a smile more shape than soul—"we discover who mistook safety for favor. And feed the beast what it desires."

  Extra: The Crooked Lantern’s Board

  The wooden board sagged under tacked layers of paper, nails hammered sideways, twine and string pinning scraps that fluttered in the muggy air.

  WANTED:

  — Proof of death or capture: “Duskhound” last sighted in East Fields.

  Reward: 40 dobá. Verified by Hunter’s Circle.

  [Added below in faded ink:] “Tracks too deep for any hound.”

  — Retrieval:

  “Veilcap Mushrooms” from Hollow Grotto.

  Must be unbruised.

  Buyer pays per weight. Discretion required.

  — Cull request: “Gilded-tooth Rat” nest suspected in Lower Drains.

  Payment per tail. See Crenna at Tannery Row.

  [Someone scribbled under this:] “Three tails had bone growing outside. Careful.”

  NOTICE:

  All harvesters reminded: “Spinebriar” blooms early. Avoid touch; barbs carry paralytic sap.

  [A name scrawled in charcoal underlining it:] “Jalen’s still can’t move his right arm.”

  FLORA ALERT:

  — Increased reports of “Glasswing” sightings near marsh border. Harmless unless harmed.

  DO NOT crush or burn. Crop blight incidents tied to destruction.

  WARNING:

  — Beasts marked with pale growths near outer marsh. DO NOT approach. Blight suspected.

  Guild investigation pending.

  [A rough ink sketch beneath: a shape with long limbs, strange branching horns, one eye missing.]

  MYTH OR TRUTH?

  — Farmer Threll claims his cattle birthed with no eyes.

  — Moon’s been wrong three nights straight.

  — Saw a man drinking from the well. Never left the shadow after.”

  — Someone’s seen a Blighted walkin’ upright again. Looked normal till it turned.

  MISSING PERSON:

  — Tal Farren, 12, last seen at East Wall gate. Small reward offered.

  — Henrietta the hen, white feathers, red comb. Not for eating. Bites.

  [Under Henrietta’s note:] “Hen’s Blighted too? Hope not.”

  FOUND:

  Found somethin’ like stone, but warm. Owner or claimant? Bring description to lantern keeper.

  AVAILABLE:

  1 axle (bent), 4 ropes (frayed), 3 boots (mixed).

  ーTrade/barter. Ask Marin in back kitchen.

  REMINDER:

  Curfew remains two bells past dusk. Violators fined or detained.

  [A faint pencil note beneath:] “Council say stay in. Gates say stay out.”

  JOIN THE GREYBLADE GUILD:

  “Honor, coin, brotherhood.” Inquire at guild hall.

  [A tiny ink scrawl added:] “But whose?”