The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

The door closed with a dull scrape, sealing out the faint noise of the night. The man who pulled it shut leaned his back against the rough wall. His hand lingered on the iron handle, as though to be sure no sound leaked out.

The room, if it could be called that, was neither cellar nor hall. Its ceiling was low, beams uneven, as though the structure had been built into something abandoned and never intended for use.

The air carried a sweetness that made the throat itch. Flowers somewhere had rotted until their scent was closer to syrup than perfume.

The floor was laid with uneven stone. Deep grooves crossed the surface, channels cut too wide to belong to drains of a house. They sank toward a pit at the center. Dampness clung to the stone edges.

Three figures sat on benches drawn together in a rough triangle. A fourth paced near the corner, his boots clicking faintly when they touched the channels.

"Everything is arranged," said the one at the bench nearest the pit. His voice was calm but carried weight. "The harvest was collected as directed. None questioned it."

The man who had closed the door nodded once. He did not move from his post. His eyes shifted toward the others as if waiting for correction.

"The seer's words left little room for error," said the woman at the far bench. Her hood shadowed her face, but strands of pale hair caught what little torchlight there was. "I heard the murmurs. The people think it is for Solace. That is enough for them."

The pacing man stopped. He leaned down, brushing the tip of his boot against the edge of a channel. "And when the day comes?" His tone was flat.

The first speaker lifted his head. "When the day comes, we follow as always. The seer speaks. We act."

Silence stretched for a moment. One of the torches guttered against damp stone.

The woman's hands folded in her lap. "I saw the wagons brought through the east road. The offerings are hidden among the goods. No one will notice until it is too late to stop."

The pacing man straightened again, arms folding across his chest. "Then we are on schedule."

The one by the door finally spoke, his voice lower. "The seer promised this year would not be like the last. The pattern has changed."

The man at the bench near the pit tilted his head, as though weighing the words. "Patterns change when they must. Our part is to obey."

The woman's fingers tightened slightly where they rested. "And if the signs lead elsewhere? If what we think is Solace becomes something else?"

Her question hung heavy in the damp air.

The pacing man gave a short laugh without humor. "Then it becomes something else. It has never been for us to define."

The man at the pit leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. His face was pale, eyes shadowed by the torch behind him. "You fear because you have not seen as the seer has. But fear is wasted. The order has been given. The timing will match the festival, and none will question it until it is finished."

The woman looked down at the channels in the stone, as if tracing their direction with her eyes.

"They always flow toward the center," she said softly.

No one replied.

The torch on the wall hissed as it caught on a vein of moisture. Ash flaked onto the stone floor.

The pacing man moved again, restless. He brushed his hand against the wall, fingers streaking with dust. "And when it is over?" he asked. "When the festival closes and the people return to their fields?"

The man by the pit lifted his gaze. "Then they will believe they have celebrated another Solace. They will not know what else was fed into it. They never do."

The woman's shoulders rose slightly with her breath. "And us?"

"We wait," the man by the pit said. "We always wait."

The one by the door shifted his weight, finally stepping closer. His cloak dragged faintly across the floor. "The seer said the signs are clearer this year. That we are closer than before."

"Closer to what?" the pacing man asked. His voice carried more curiosity than doubt.

The others did not answer.

The pit at the center of the room gave off a damp smell, stronger now as if something stirred below.

The woman's eyes flicked toward it once, then back to the men. "We are not to question."

The man at the pit nodded. "We are to prepare."

Another silence pressed down. This one heavier, longer.

Finally the pacing man gave a small shrug, as if discarding the weight of his own thought. "Then it is ready. The carts, the wagons, the offerings. The festival begins, and so does this."

The one at the door gave a single nod. "As the seer directed."

The torch sputtered again. Wax dripped onto the grooves below, tracing down the stone until it slid toward the pit.

None moved to wipe it away.

— — —

The deck creaked under the steady pull of the tide. Vencian leaned against the rail, eyes following the shoreline as it slid past in the distance. The air carried salt and tar, cut by the faint cry of gulls circling above.

Below him, Quenya hovered over the water, her form gliding with the same rhythm as the ship. She matched its speed without effort, her bare feet brushing a hair above the waves. The sea did not touch her.

He exhaled and glanced across the deck. Roselys sat on a bench, her back straight, her head bent slightly forward. A thin-bound sketchbook rested in her lap, and a stick of graphite moved across the page.

Vencian hesitated a moment before pushing himself away from the rail. He crossed the deck, boots sounding lightly against the planks. When he reached her, he sat down, leaving a measure of space between them.

Her hand paused for only a moment before continuing her lines. She did not look up.

Vencian tilted his head, peering at the page. The captain's face stared back at him in graphite. His jaw was stronger, his shoulders broader, and his coat grander than in life. The man in the drawing looked as though he commanded fleets rather than one trade vessel.

She makes him look like a hero out of a tale. He should thank her for the favor.

"You're good at this," Vencian said, voice low.

Roselys gave a faint sound that might have been a laugh. "Flattery is late. I've been drawing since I was a child."

He leaned back slightly, arms crossing. "Still counts."

She turned a page with the side of her hand, keeping her fingers free of smudges. Her eyes flicked toward him briefly, then back down. "I've drawn you too."

That caught his attention. He raised a brow. "Me?"

"Yes. Would you like to see it?"

He considered, then gave a small nod. "Alright."

Roselys's lips curved as she pulled a loose sheet from the back of the sketchbook. She held it so only he could see.

Vencian stared.

The figure on the page bore his cloak and his sword, but that was where any likeness ended. His body was stretched to absurd lengths, thin and awkward, like a creature unsure of its limbs. His head was too large, shaped into an oval with two enormous eyes. One eye drooped half-closed, the other bulged wide. His hair had been reduced to a halo of jagged scribbles that radiated in every direction.

In one oversized hand he gripped a quill, in the other a sword. Neither looked like they belonged to him, as if both were about to be dropped.

Vencian's expression flattened. He turned his gaze from the paper to her face.

"Not funny."

Roselys's shoulders shook once as she fought a grin. "On the contrary, very funny."

He gave her a long, dry look.

She tapped the edge of the paper with her finger. "Don't sulk. It was a study in exaggeration. You should appreciate the effort."

"That's one word for it," Vencian muttered.

Still smiling, she slipped the caricature back between the pages and drew out another sheet. She held it toward him with both hands.

This image was different. The figure sat in partial shadow, cloak drawn around his shoulders. His face was calm, thoughtful, eyes fixed on something beyond the frame. The features were sharper, precise, carrying a weight of presence. The lines were controlled, showing restraint rather than mockery.

The man in this drawing looked measured, intelligent, and untouchable.

Vencian studied it longer than he meant to. His mouth pressed in a line before he spoke. "That one isn't too bad."

Roselys's smile widened in quiet triumph. "Better than the first?"

"By far."

He leaned back against the bench, letting the sound of the sea fill the pause.

At least she can take me seriously when she wants to.

Roselys set the second drawing aside carefully, her fingers brushing the page as if reluctant to crease it. She glanced at him, her eyes searching.

"You see, sometimes exaggeration shows more truth than accuracy," she said. "But sometimes it takes control to capture what someone really is."

Vencian shifted his gaze toward the horizon. "Then I prefer control."

She laughed again, quieter this time.

The ship tilted slightly as it caught the pull of a current. Quenya drifted closer to the side of the vessel, her eyes fixed forward, silent as always.

Vencian sat back, arms folded again. The ridiculous image of himself as a scribbled specter still sat in his mind, though he would not give her the satisfaction of saying it aloud.

He glanced once more at the serious sketch resting near her hand. Maybe I do look like that. Or maybe that's only how she wants to see me.

The sea stretched wide around them, endless water meeting the horizon, the ship cutting across it at steady pace.

Roselys bent over her book again, graphite scratching faintly as she began another sketch.

Vencian stayed seated beside her, eyes following the lines she set down, his thoughts caught between amusement and irritation.