Sorore sat in a huddled mound of blankets and, despite the warmth of the oncoming morning, felt an uncompromising chill. Almost as if taunting her in the distance that thing’s roar still sounded, lost among the environment of sound that composed the city. Her brother was beside her, in much the same way as her.

 

They were in the supplied rooms granted a reprieve from the servants, who Ivers had directed away. He was sweet, having gone to fetch the paladins not long after their collapse. The said paladins now sat across from them, faces creased in thought as they pondered the tale that had been related to them.

 

“But what does it mean?” Niche half-mumbled, thumbing his chin.

 

“It’s a warning,” Lillian said quietly, “that must be it. A vision of a threat yet to come.”

 

“From the waters?” Niche turned as he said this, spying the glimmer of dark water in the night.

 

The balcony door had been opened at the twin’s request, despite the paladin’s concerns about security. The air in the interior had felt horribly cramped and stale to Sorore, and she guessed that her brother felt much the same. The scars of light had long since closed, but still the echoes of what they’d seen near the pool lingered.

 

The leviathan was coming. What manner of creature it was, why it came, when it would come? Sorore had answers to none of these questions. But it was coming. She knew that as well as she knew her own name, or that the sky was blue. Frare seemed even more convinced than she was, sure that it would be upon them at any moment. It’d taken Lillian to physically haul him up and strike him gently across the face to bring his panicked babbling to a close.

 

Naturally, she immediately apologised afterwards and her face had remained beet red for almost half an hour after.

 

“We should leave,” she said suddenly, looking up from her reverie.

 

“What?” said both twins and Niche.

 

“We should leave,'' she repeated emphatically, “it was a mistake to come here in the first place. If the Lost are sending visions of a great disaster, we need to retreat where it is safest. Angorrah.”

 

Sorore couldn’t argue with the logic of those words, and even Frare, contrarian he was, was nodding along fervently. Oddly enough, the only one that didn’t seem particularly swayed was Niche of all people.

 

“I don’t know Lillian,” he said, face furrowed, “what if we’re attacked on the road? We’d be better off in a fortified city than on the coast or in the mountains. And, to boot, what of the commander? What of Lady Aya? We can’t simply leave her here, entirely on her own, without guidance or protection.”

 

The four of them sat still, in silent thought.

 

“Fine then,” Lillian said, placing her hands on her knees and getting up, “then I’ll retrieve her.”

 

“What?” the cry echoed out again.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Niche said, “You’d be heading into a fortress. From what I’ve seen of the historic district and the Eisen complex, stealth would be nigh-impossible. Fighting our way in, even with both of us, would be short-lived.”

 

Lillina’s lips grew into a thin line as she considered.

 

“Well, maybe we could…” she sighed, “perhaps we could go to the commander and…”

 

“And what?” said Niche, “I don’t see him helping us. He seemed perfectly happy to smooth things over with the city’s rulers and cut his losses.”

 

“He doesn’t see how valuable she is-” Lillian began, before being sharply cut off.

 

“Oh, he knows,” Niche said, “I think he’s known who she was from the start.”

 

Lillian’s eyes confirmed that she very much believed the same thing as his comrade.

 

“So, we’re by ourselves, for all intents and purposes,” Niche continued glumly, “not even our fellow soldiers will help.”

 

“I could send a missive,” Lillian said quietly, “perhaps… no, it would be intercepted.”

 

“And if you made it, what would it say?” Niche said, “we couldn’t call down an army. All of us would be taken hostage, especially if they know the value of the Bequeathed.”

 

Lillian sat back down and laced her hands, the lines of her face deepening as she considered. All of a sudden, she threw herself back on top of the chair.

 

“I hate waiting like this!” she exclaimed to the empty air.

 

Niche wore a sympathetic expression, but kept silent as he stroked his chin further.

 

“When… when did you have time to scout out the Eisen estate?” Frare said, his voice a bit hoarse.

 

Sorore could tell it took no small effort to keep his teeth from chattering.

 

“I had time,” Niche said with a wry smile, “one of my duties is to observe. I make a habit of it, when I can.”

 

Frare nodded, still not trusting himself to speak too much, no doubt due to the fear.

 

“Every time I think about it, I go round and round, and always end up back at the same conclusion,” Lillian sighed, “run. Take the children and strike west. The roads along the coast aren’t so dangerous.”

 

“So long as we don’t encounter another pack of them. Or any other major monster,” Niche said quietly, “not to mention the possibility of pursuit. Still…”

 

He passed a hand over his eyes, and for the first time, Sorore noticed the bags and bloodshot corners. The man was exhausted. They both were.

 

“I don’t like this. I really don’t like this,” he muttered, “this… game that the commander’s playing. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand why we were sent up this far north with the Bequeathed. I don’t understand what the Lost are trying to tell us with these visions. Perhaps you’re right. Maybe we do need to simply run as fast as we can west. We should go- haugk!”

 

The strangled sound came for both Lillian and Niche, the two rolling off of their chairs and slamming into the floor. Sorore half-shouted, half-squeaked, while her brother grabbed her and pulled her behind the bed. Before she could say something else, she heard a soft thud from the balcony, and a muffled voice.

 

“You will not go anywhere.”

 

The voice was masculine, and it verged on familiarity for Sorore. She was certain she’d heard it before, but where?

 

“Come up. There is no hiding,” came the voice.

 

The two children cautiously raised their heads over the bed, to behold the man who stood in the balcony doorway. He was largely obscured in a large robe of light grey, his voice muffled by a smooth mask. It was the Occluded, the same one from earlier that had helped her, she was certain.

 

“It’s been a time,” he said.

 

Whatever unnatural paralysis that had gripped the paladins had ceased in that moment. They leapt to their feet, shortsword and knife drawn, facing the foe.

 

“What are you doing here?” Niche demanded, moving between the bed and the open door that led to the hallway, and the balcony beyond.

 

The Occluded didn’t answer for a moment, looking from face to face.

 

“Hm,” was all he responded with.

 

“Speak. If you are who I think you are, you may’ve come at the right time,” said Lillian, the point of her sword lowering just slightly.

“What?” Sorore gasped, “why? Who is this?”

 

“I was sent to do what I do,” said the figure, sitting back on the railing.

 

Sorore felt a deeper chill lance through her, both at the words and at the speaker. It couldn’t be him, not this far from the holy city.

 

“I’m surprised you didn’t know me by sound,” said the Occluded, reaching up and pulling back the mask.

 

His face was just as she remembered it, sallow, thin bordering on haggard. A sickly complexion, only emphasised by a pair of pale green eyes that had taken on a yellow tinge. A thin mop of brown hair, and aquiline nose with sharp cheekbones.

 

“Leonard?” she whispered.

 

“But you’re only sent to… to…” Niche had a distant expression, as if he didn’t quite believe what was happening or being said.

 

“To kill,” Leonard said, nodding slightly.

 

Sorore could practically hear a noncommittal shrug in the words. Lillian stepped forwards, body tensed, weapons ready, and spoke with steely control.

 

“Niche. Take the children. Run,” she said, “I’ll hold him off.”

 

Leonard cocked his head, looking genuinely confused.

 

“You would deny God? Deny your church?” he said.

 

“Deny you,” Lillian said, “Everyone knows you’re mad, even if no one has the guts to say it.”

 

Leonard slid off the railing to stand. It was such a slight, inconsequential movement, barely more than a shift in space. But something about its grace, its fluidity, frightened Sorore more than any monster she's encountered so far.

 

“Perhaps,” contemplated Leonard, “I may be mad. God seldom speaks to the sane.”

 

His hand drifted out, a calm, almost lazy gesture. Lillian tensed.

 

“You know you can’t beat me,” he said, his voice completely level, “you might be able to slow me. For a moment or two. It will not be enough.”

 

“Then I will have died knowing I did better than most,” snarled Lillian.

 

Leonard nodded solemnly, his eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. Then his face twisted with confusion, as if he heard something that they could not.

 

“What?” he said, his voice almost slurring, rather than his usual blank precision, “but…? Ah.”

 

He turned to look at the twins, regarding them with those toxic eyes, questions swimming just under the surface.

 

“You really think that's wise?” he said, much to the confusion of both paladins, who were ready to spring, “Hm. I agree. It would be best.”

 

His eyes turned back to the paladin.

 

“Sheath your weapons. You are safe, as are your charges, for now. You are free to go where you wish in the city, so long as you stay within its bounds.”

 

The paladins simply stared, jaws locked, eyes wide in both alertness and confusion.

 

“We shall see,” Leonard said, staring back out towards the sea, “yes, we shall see. I’m… excited.”

 

Without further words he hopped over the balustrade and vanished into the night. There was a distant thud from below, then there was silence. Lillian sank to her knees, breathing heavily, while Niche staggered and gripped the door frame.

 

“How?” said Lillian, her voice horse, “how do you even fight that?”

 

Her words only confused Sorore more, even Frare was staring pointedly at the pair.

 

“There’s nothing we can do,” Niche said, face pale as he sheathed his weapons, “we must inform the commander. If Leonard’s on the hunt, it’d be better to face him with a troop to our backs. We’re even more trapped than before.”

 

Sorore could not help but notice the bitterness in his voice at the realisation. It only deepened the fear that had taken up root in her chest. Frare had gotten up in the meantime and tugged Lillian her to her feet.

 

“We need rest,” he said quietly, “there’s nothing we can do if we’re about to fall over. Come on Lillian. You should both get a full night's sleep.”

 

“But what if…” Lillian said, her voice sounding awfully young, “what if he comes back? What if he…?”

 

“Then we’re dead,” Frare said simply.

 

Even more colour drained from Lillian’s face as she heard the blunt remark.

 

“None of us stand a chance,” Frare shrugged, “he spoke no lie.”

 

Sorore agreed with her brother without a shred of doubt. She’d only ever heard whispers of Leonard’s abilities, and only seen the young man a handful of times in person. But what she’d heard of his acumen suggested that no one man could truly be his equal. It was one thing, however, to hear it wrapped up in Church teaching, quite another for the man to casually decide your life was over, and sparing it on demented whim.

 

“You’re right,” Lillian said, some of her composure regained, “Niche. No watches. Full rest.”

 

Niche looked at her in surprise, and then slowly nodded.

 

“He wouldn’t really? Not Leonard. Not… us?” whispered Sorore, almost on the verge of tears, “he’s our brother. In spirit, but…”

 

The sorrowful look from Lillian was enough to tell her the rest of the story. Something began to crack in Sorore, something that was as painful as it was terrifying. She pushed it down, deeper than anything else, and strove to forget about it.

 

“Come on,” said Frare, voice also exhausted, “I just hope that we don’t have any more dreams.”

 

They, as a fortunate turn, didn’t. They awoke late, almost into the afternoon, and went down to breakfast. Instead of apologising, they were met with expressions of sympathy and assurance. They were not even late, their host family suggested, in fact they were almost in the exact middle. ‘A very good place to be’, assured Balae, sipping at the stopper of liquor.

 

Lillian and Niche, while looking grim, were more rested than before, and to the surprise of both twins took a full breakfast. The food seemed to make them even talkative with their hosts. The change, while pleasant, was also disconcerting. Sorore ate in silence, only answering with the barest possible courtesy, while her brother for once was the centre of conversation.

 

There was too much to think about, too much to digest about the night that had occurred. The visions, their fellow Bequeathed, his sudden reconsidering with mysterious prompting. Who’d sent him, and why kill them? What purpose could it possibly serve to deprive the world of the Bequeathed? She could barely touch her food after the thoughts began to swirl.

 

“Is there something wrong?” asked Ivers, “you’re not eating.”

 

“The spices. Last night,” she lied with a weak smile, “I loved them, but it seems that my stomach isn’t quite used to their… potency.”

 

This was meat with another round of sympathy by the group. It was not an uncommon occurrence with foreigners and Karkos festivals apparently. As the sit in began to wrap up, Niche spoke up as he laid his bowl down.

 

“We’ve all greatly enjoyed your hospitality,” he said, directing his words to Ivers, “I was wondering if I could ask you for something this afternoon.”

 

“Name it,” said Ivers without so much as a pause, “I would love to be of service, within my means.”

 

Niche actually chuckled at that.

 

“Well, young man,” he said, “me and my companions were hoping to get a tour of your beautiful city. Scouting alone can only get one so far. It’s always those who’ve lived it that give the best guidance.”

Ivers assured them that he’d be happy to show them, before the festival traffic began to clog up the streets. Within a half-hour they were off, Ivers directing the gondola this way and that. Much of the rest of their afternoon was spent at various districts and sites of import, according to Iver’s own criteria anyways.

 

Of particular interest to Sorore was the bank, with its many terraces and arched columns sticking into the canal. She loved the construction of the various walkways, heavily guarded, of course, as well as the intersections of the building’s vaults and the waterways below.

 

But that was nothing compared to the southern shipbuilding yards, near the edge of the city. Ivers took them out through one of the western gates into the bay proper, and steered them in a wide arc woven through the mass of ships anchored in the waters.

 

The shipyards were a collection of massive long promenades and complexes of squat, open warehouses and workshops. Hundreds of workers bustled along, attempting to fill commissions as the time of the Festival drew closer. Ivers explained the division of labour, how individual crews split up the ship and specialised in one particular component or system.

 

Sorore would’ve begged for a more thorough tour of the various buildings and yards. She could see the many gated canal and lock systems, the massive spinning machines spinning thick ropes for the rigging. Apprentices and journeymen scurried around, drilling, hammering, planing, carrying sheets and stacks of timber on their shoulders. Meanwhile, masters and foremen walked around, inspecting work and calling orders.

 

Before they could find the chief foreman for permission, loud gong rings began to echo out across the yard. Without so much as a hitch, the workmen began immediately carting pieces inside the warehouse, or throwing canvas coveralls onto them.

 

“Ack,” Ivers said, “too late, I’m afraid. The festival shall begin soon, and we’ll have to go now to get good seats.”

 

Sorore’s shoulder slumped as they walked across the docks. The harmonies of the craftsmen all working together had seemed so beautiful. It had almost made her forget the looming dread of the Leviathan, or Leonard’s soft words.

 

“Oh, before we go,” Ivers said, as they pushed off in the boat, “take a look over there. You should just be able to see it now.”

 

He indicated a lonely jut of land to the south, just visible past the edge of the shipyards.

 

“The tower of Nethub,” he said, “where we build our lighthouse.”

 

It was a tower, a light blazing like a beacon at its very top, just starting to burn at the passage of day into night. That was not however, what stilled her breath. In the glimmering pre-sunset light, Sorore could see that the tower that light was built upon was built of shimmering black stone.