Too many questions roamed through my head—about the masked assailants, about the murderous cult and its connection to Cerix, about the rogue Hermessi and the one that had helped us just minutes earlier. These were all pieces of a larger puzzle, and I knew that they were all somehow linked to the fire fae explosions. I armed myself with all the patience I could muster, but the issue was clearly much bigger than we’d originally anticipated. The problem went deep, into parts of the universe we hadn’t even known existed until yesterday.
We slipped into a dark side alley. It was narrow and long, forcing us to form a single file line as we made our way toward the end. Eira pointed forward. “It used to be right there.”
This part of the city was noticeably quiet. I could feel the eyes of curious Cerixians watching us from their windows above. I knew we were still easily distinguishable as different, despite our navy-blue hoods. By now, the high chancellor or whoever was in charge of communicating with the general population must’ve sent out some kind of message about our presence—either confirming or denying it altogether.
I listened carefully to the sounds around us. Only our boots clattered across the stone, and our swords clinked in their metallic scabbards. We’d dressed for trouble, after all, and that came with plenty of hardware. It gave me a slight sense of comfort, though. Whoever crossed paths with us was bound to figure it out quickly: we weren’t here to get our asses kicked.
We entered a small square bordered by tall buildings with reddish brick façades. The masonry work was absolutely superb, enhanced by the dark gray rooftops and tall windows. Red-and-white flowers were peppered in suspended clay pots here and there.
The square itself was empty, its corners riddled with overgrown shrubs and wax-leaved trees. Someone was probably supposed to trim them down and prune them, occasionally, but they seemed to have been left like this for months, if not years. The lush chaos didn’t exactly match the elegant organization of shapes, colors, and materials that we’d seen so far in Silvergate.
Smack in the middle, and still fuming, were the remains of a small house. It had been burned to the ground, and only chunks of rubble and charcoal-colored wall segments were left behind. Everything else had been turned to ashes. Some parts were still smoldering in the shadows of what had once been a staircase—like the flickering eyes of bloodthirsty daemons, I thought. It gave me the chills.
“I take it someone got here before us?” Raphael asked rhetorically.
Both Eira and Inalia were befuddled.
“I don’t get it,” Eira murmured. “Why would anyone… Oh, no…”
Her voice trailed off as she stared at a Cerixian man’s remains—his skeletal hand poking out from a smoking pile of bricks and charred wood. Inalia stepped forward, then bent down and picked up a piece of tile. She used the back of her sleeve to wipe it down, enough for us to see a familiar symbol: the stylized flames of the Fire Hermessi.
“The templar lived here,” she said.
“Would that be him?” Herakles asked, nodding at the burnt corpse.
“I don’t know… We’ll have to study the body, figure out how old he was,” Eira replied. “None of this is normal. This… I’m confused.”
I blinked several times. “You didn’t expect this kind of violence in your city?”
“No! We worked hard to keep Silvergate and the entire Rose Domain clean and peaceful!” Eira replied. The anger made her whole body quiver. “My fellow countrymen died for it! I saw death, myself, during the rebellions from last year, when the Brothers of the Shadow snuck their killers into the crowd at one of Emperor Tulla’s speeches. This…” She motioned at the ravaged house. “This doesn’t happen here.”
“It was premeditated,” Amelia intervened, her nostrils flaring. “I’m smelling some kind of accelerant. A pungent oil, maybe.”
“Lamp oil,” Inalia breathed, her eyes wide as she, too, seemed to recognize the scent. “Not everyone uses the city’s main energy source. The smaller residences prefer controlled fires. We draw oil from the ground, and we sell it in small bottles in the central markets. People buy them by the dozen…”
“We weren’t followed here,” I said.
Herakles nodded. “So, whoever did this, they were at least an hour or two ahead of us.”
“Are they trying to stop us at all costs, then?” Amelia replied.
“Probably. They’re pulling out all the stops, aren’t they?” Varga muttered, unable to look away from the carbonized Cerixian.
Inalia burst into nervous laughter—the kind that could easily devolve into a complete breakdown. Eira was motionless, much like the rest of us, simply staring at her as she let it all out.
“Good grief, if my mother could see me now,” Inalia managed, a single tear streaming down her cheek. “My biggest dream… Creatures from another world coming to Cerix… I’ve waited my whole life for this. And look at what a nightmare it’s turned into!”
“Disappointed?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
I found her volatility somewhat endearing. I had a hard time understanding why, but it probably had to do with the fire burning inside her. In hindsight, I should’ve noticed something—I should’ve felt the flames. Looking at her now, it was painfully obvious that this red-haired Cerixian girl had fire flowing through her veins and lighting her up from the inside.
“Annoyed,” Inalia replied. “Meeting otherworldly visitors is meant to be… unique and magical, intense and inspiring. But this… this is making us Cerixians look bad.”
“You’re obviously dealing with something you didn’t even know you had festering in your society,” Amelia said. “Cults can be like that, you know? Secretive, living on the fringes. They could be the people you are closest to, hidden behind more than porcelain masks.”
“More than porcelain masks? Like what?” Eira asked.
“Pleasant smiles. Warmth. Politeness. Most of the fire fae we lost in this mess were perfectly normal and well-integrated people, loyal and kind,” I said. “Something happened to them. We believe there’s a rogue Fire Hermessi tampering with their bodies and their abilities.”
Eira sighed, then glanced to the side. “Where would we even begin to look for these cultists? Are they Hermessi worshippers?”
“They could very well be. The symbols they cut into their faces are actually meant to protect them, from what we were told,” I explained. “But, as long as their motivations remain unknown, I doubt we’ll get much farther. I think we need to better understand the intricacies of the Hermessi faith before we plan our next move.”
“The Cerixian records,” Inalia said. “You still need access.”
“Of course,” Eva cut in. “Clearly, we won’t get much out of this hot pile of… nothing.”
“Then we should head back to the high chancellor’s residence,” Inalia replied. “They’re expecting us, anyway.”
Eira took out a small mechanical bird from her leather bag. She wrote a quick note using a piece of parchment and a colored charcoal stick, then rolled it up and stuffed it inside the bird’s round stomach. She closed the lid and fiddled with a couple of small dials on its back.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A messenger bird,” Eira replied. “You put the message in, then you input the coordinates here,” she added, pointing at the dials. “Longitude and latitude. It’s how we orient ourselves in the world.”
“Ah, imaginary lines used for location,” Amelia concluded. “That’s wicked. You’re not the first civilization to do it.”
Eira shrugged. “It’s been like this for centuries. The birds have a geolocation device inside. They’re powered with small crystals—just one of the goodies left behind by the Druid delegation’s swamp witch.” She released the bird as it spread its leathery wings and flew out.
