Rooted in the Earth: Sanctuary

The market in Vesper bustled with an energy unique to the Vale of Shadows. Normally, market day was a time of vibrant life—a kaleidoscope of colors and scents as traders displayed wares from all over the region. Stalls brimmed with freshly picked fruits, jars of exotic spices, bolts of fine fabric, and handmade trinkets. The aroma of spice plum tarts and honey-drenched pastries wafted through the crisp air, mingling with the earthy scent of rain-dampened cobblestones.

Yet today, there was an undercurrent of unease woven into the usual tapestry of sound and color. It was subtle at first, an intangible heaviness that clung to the people as they milled about. Their voices were quieter, few laughed, and those who did did so half-heartedly. Their smiles more fleeting, their glances darting nervously.

Mae Franecturn, Head Keeper of Nightfall, felt it like a stone lodged in her chest as she wove her way through the bustling market. She had tried to brush it off as her own sorrow—a reflection of the emptiness she felt within Nightfall's ancient walls. 

Without either the presence of the Hold or a family to cook for, she felt adrift, haunted by echoes of the past. She paused at a spice vendor's stall, her hand lingering over a jar of cinnamon bark, imagining the dishes she might one day prepare if Nightfall were truly alive again.

One day, surely, Viktor would return. He was the last of his line, and the people of the Vale would demand it of him. They would expect him to remarry, to produce an heir and restore Nightfall to its former glory. Mae's heart ached at the thought, though she wasn't sure if it was from longing or resignation.

The uneasy energy of the market grew harder to ignore. Frowns etched deeply into familiar faces. Whispered conversations stopped abruptly when she passed by. Mae shifted her course, cutting between stalls with purpose, heading for Baker Franny's stall.

She made a brief detour at Baker Nanny's stand, her eyes lighting up at the sight of freshly baked spice plum tarts. The scent alone made her mouth water, and she pressed a few copper pennies into the older woman's hand. Mae savored a bite of the warm, spiced treat.

But Baker Nanny, as always, had more than tarts to offer. She leaned closer, her voice dropping into the conspiratorial tone Mae had come to expect. "Did you hear?" she began.

Mae raised an eyebrow, only half-smiling. "What have you got for me this time, Nanny?"

"They found her," Nanny said, leaning in as if the words themselves were dangerous to speak aloud.

"Found who?" Mae asked, the tart momentarily forgotten in her hand.

"The Harbinger," Nanny whispered, her voice heavy with disbelief and something like disappointment. "Turned herself in."

Mae froze, staring at the older woman as the weight of those words settled over her. "The Harbinger?" she repeated slowly, her tone caught somewhere between disbelief and dread. "There was actually a Harbinger in the Vale? I thought it simply the ravings of a drunk!"

Nanny nodded solemnly, her weathered hands fidgeting with the edge of her apron. "That's what they're saying. Turned herself in at dawn. They say she just walked in and offered herself up. No questions. No demands."

Mae's stomach churned. "Thank you for letting me know, Nanny." She handed the rest of her tart to a passing child without a word and made her way to Mary, the Bee keeper's, stall, her pace quickening. Mary had a knack for hearing the full story—often before anyone else.

When Mae reached her friend's stall, Mary was already waiting, her pale hair pulled into a tidy braid and her hands resting on her hips. Her sharp eyes scanned the market before landing on Mae's troubled face. "You've heard, haven't you?"

Mae nodded, breathless. "Tell me it's not true."

"Oh, it's true," Mary said, her voice low but steady. "She walked right into Lord Conrad's courtyard this morning. Just... walked in."

"But surely, she knows that was a death sentence?" Mae's brows furrowed in confusion.

There really was no secret that Healers and Harbingers were not only not welcome in Voltaine, it was a death sentence for them to cross its borders. 

Mary could only shrug helplessly. "I've a feeling we'll never know why she did that."

"Yes, I suppose they'd never question her. There would be no point," Mae said, "The end result will be just the same."

Mary nodded, a touch of sorrow flickered across her rudish features, "Indeed. They will burn her this afternoon." 

Mae's heart sunk.

Hayden couldn't believe his eyes—a real Harbinger, mere feet away.

He had heard countless tales of their kind from the Seneschals of the Azure Tower. Harbingers were meant to be sinister figures, embodiments of death and despair, their very presence a herald of ruin. Yet the woman before him was... disappointing.

She wasn't cloaked in shadows or wreathed in an aura of terror. She was plain, even unremarkable. Her face was delicate, framed by straight, dark hair. Her golden, sun-kissed skin suggested she hailed from one of the eight Old Kingdoms across the Sea of Fallen Stars rather than Voltaine. There was nothing outwardly fearsome about her.

But what struck Hayden most was her demeanor. She sat behind the iron bars of the town jail cell, perched on the wooden bench provided—the only piece of furniture besides a small, unused waste pail in the corner. Her posture was relaxed, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression calm. Her dark eyes, steady and unblinking, watched them as much as they watched her.

"She must be mad," Hayden muttered under his breath, standing beside his father and Hamish. No one in their right mind would have turned themselves in so easily. Let alone remain so damned calm about it. 

"Should we wait for the Ascended?" Hamish asked nervously, his voice low as he glanced between the woman in the cell and his lord. 

"No," Hayden's father replied, frowning deeply. He shook his head. "Best we do it ourselves."

Hamish nodded but said nothing. Hayden shifted his weight, narrowing his eyes at the two older men. There was something in their expressions—a shadow of hesitation, maybe even guilt. His father was no stranger to carrying out justice in Vesper, yet there was a heaviness to his tone that Hayden wasn't used to hearing.

It didn't take much to guess why. Whatever punishment the Ascended would have devised for her would be far worse. Perhaps this was an act of mercy—or at least as close to mercy as the Vale of Shadows could afford.

After both his father and Hamish left, Hayden remained behind with the Harbinger. 

He had to know why, why had she sung for those dead girls but not his friends. Everything Hayden had been taught told him that his friends were the lucky ones. That they had been left intact for the Risen God. But that's not how it felt. And it angered him. 

From her place on the bench, she watched him move towards her cell and rest his hands on her cage bars. Her face remaining almost infuriatingly impassive. He wanted her to fear him. 

"So the old drunk was right. You were the one who sung for those girls, weren't you?" Hayden asked. 

The Harbinger gave a slight incline of her head, but said nothing more. Hayden felt his anger rising all the more. How dare she not answer him? How dare she sing for those girls, mere commoners, but not for for his friends. 

"You're going to burn, you know? You're going to burn for singing to those girls." Hayden hissed through the bars.

After his father and Hamish left, Hayden lingered in the dimly lit jailhouse. The heavy wooden door creaked shut behind them, leaving only the muted sound of rain outside and the faint crackle of the oil lamp hanging on the wall. He stared at the Harbinger, still sitting calmly on the worn bench, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

She both looked at him, and somehow, past him all at the same time, as though she were miles away.

The silence grated on Hayden's nerves.

He crossed the room in a few quick strides, his boots echoing off the stone floor. Resting his hands on the cold iron bars of her cell, he leaned forward, trying to catch her attention.

Her eyes slowly shifted to him, dark and steady, her expression infuriatingly blank. No fear. No guilt. Not even disdain.

"So the old drunk was right," Hayden said, his voice low and taut. "You were the one who sang for those girls, weren't you?"

The Harbinger tilted her head slightly, acknowledging his words with a subtle nod.

That was it. No denial, no explanation. Just a nod.

His grip on the bars tightened, the metal biting into his palms. He could feel his anger rising, a hot coil in his chest.

"How dare you?" he spat, his voice trembling with a mix of rage and something deeper, something he didn't want to name. "How dare you sing for them? They were just commoners! You sang for them, but not for my friends. Why?!"

The Harbinger's gaze didn't waver. If his words had struck a nerve, she gave no sign of it.

Hayden leaned closer, his face inches from the bars. "You're going to burn, you know?" he hissed. "You're going to burn for singing to those girls."

For a moment, it seemed she wouldn't answer. Then, she spoke, her voice quiet but unyielding, carrying the weight of something ancient.

"Do you think the fire will change anything?" she asked, her tone devoid of malice or fear. "Death is but one part of the journey. I shall move on. You, though? You will rot here—body and soul—alongside your friends."

Her eyes, dark as ink in the dim light of the jail, fixed on his. They weren't the eyes of a captive pleading for mercy, nor of a monster gloating over its deeds. They were calm, steady, and unnervingly deep, as though they could pierce through flesh and bone to lay bare his very essence.

Her words sliced through him, sharp and precise, stripping away the fragile armor of anger and denial he'd wrapped around himself.

She knew.

How the hell did she know?

"You—" His voice faltered as his mouth hung open, the words snagging in his throat. He forced it shut, swallowing hard before spitting out, "You're the monster. You're the one who killed my friends."

Part of him felt relief. They had finally caught the monster.

And she would burn today.

He no longer had to be afraid.

But then, she smiled.

A small, knowing smile, soft as a shadow, curved her lips. She shook her head slowly, her gaze never wavering.

"No, Hayden," she said, her voice almost tender, though the words carried an undercurrent of something far more chilling. "It was not I who killed your friends. And it will not be me who ends your life. But rest assured, that day will come. And it will not be pretty."

Her calm certainty struck him harder than any physical blow. He staggered back from the bars, his breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a curse.

"I—I'll watch you burn today," he snarled, trying to steady himself, his voice breaking with anger and something uncomfortably close to fear. "I'll build your pyre myself and light the flames. And the wood will be wet, the fire slow and pitiful. I'll revel in your screams, Harbinger."

Her expression didn't waver. Not a flicker of fear or regret crossed her face. Instead, she watched him with the same serene, unshakable composure.

The rage in his chest churned, but it wasn't enough to smother the unease her words had planted. He turned on his heel, storming out of the jail before he could falter further, the door slamming shut behind him with a deafening finality.

The Harbinger didn't flinch. She simply closed her eyes, leaning back against the wall of her cell. If her fate troubled her, it didn't show.

Outside, Hayden's fists clenched and unclenched as he barked orders to the guards. He would make good on his promise.

Her death would not be quick.