There was a carnival atmosphere to Caltern today. A great stage was being raised in the city square, the Glory Bell ringing out its warm golden note.

Swarms of would-be adventurers massed around the stage, waiting to prove their mettle. The common folk were among them, eating roasted hazelnuts from cups made of broad leaves rolled into cones, drinking, waiting to see the show. Sweat and cheap sour beer filled the air.

At the head of it all the nobility sat under canopies, leaning in to gossip, making their bets. Eyfrae sat in a wooden throne above the stage. To her left, Suffi perched in her seat, feet not touching the ground, chin propped in her two-fingered hand. The seat to Eyfrae’s right was empty, the merfolk not even sending a representative.

Which suited Eyfrae fine. Their arrogance was less threatening to the guild leader’s plans than Suffi Halfhand and her patient eyes. Cathara lurked in the background, leaning in to whisper in her daughter’s ear. With Morghul gone the clever old bitch had outlived all her rivals. Now she stood behind the throne clearing the way for her heir’s ascent.

Eyfrae had her own shadow. Malvet fidgeted and picked his face nervously in the light of day, far more a night creature, the golden chain and seal of the High Mage looking out of place around his scrawny neck.

Still, he had done well. Sitting before her were ten vials of dark blue liquid, bottled in round-bellied vials topped with glass stoppers bearing the Institute’s seven-pointed star. Life-saving potions all. Just ones with a special ingredient.

On stage, earth mages worked to lift ten pillars of stone up, each one as thick around as a barrel and as tall as a man. These would be the first test.

Eyfrae was dressed to kill today. She wore a hat of crushed red velvet and a long jacket that hung over her shoulders, the ruffled and slashed sleeves hanging empty. A dark burgundy blouse and black riding pants with tall boots completed the ensemble.

As she rose, the muttering and cheering of the crowd did too. A crescendo of excitement accompanied her words.

“Adventurers! Soldiers of fortune, treasure seekers! Today, we determine who shall have the honor of braving the Dungeon first, who will be first in line for fate to deal out death or glory as she sees fit! If you are fearful, better that you stay home! If you are weak, there is no place for you in the world of adventurers!”

In her hand she clutched a spelled token, amplifying her voice to boom over the bustling, buzzing sounds of the crowds.

“Only those who step onto this stage with the strength to break a stone pillar will be considered! Only they will move on to the next round, competing to the be the first to delve into the Dungeon! Now step forward!”

First onto stage, moving even before she had finished speaking, was a wild-looking dwarf with a braided beard of fiery red hairs. He carried a cudgel of black wood in hand, tapping it against his palm as he stepped forward with a cocky grin, sweeping a bow her way.

One swing, and the first pillar shattered like glass. Shards of stone rained back over the attendant mages, forcing them to lift their hands in a simple warding spell. Dust curled from the broken pillar stub like smoke from a snuffed cigar.

“This club!” He roared to the crowd, lifting it overhead. Three golden bands gleamed around the wooden cudgel. “This club was made by my forefathers! Each band weighs ten stone! If ye can’t lift it, don’t bother getting on stage!”

“One of yours?” Eyfrae enquired, leaning over towards Suffi.

“No. Mine have the sense to get drunk after the contests.” The young dwarf was frowning intensely. She was pretty, in a broad, hearty way, a farmgirl kind of charm that likely wouldn’t last long as she started to age. Golden hair was braided in a circlet around her brow. “But he might be worth watching.”

Already, a new contender was stepping onto stage. A man with a golem-arm made out of gleaming bronze. There was not a word exchanged, only a deathly glare, as he pushed past the departing dwarf and swung his metal fist towards the second pillar.

Cracks spread through the stone, and after an unsteady moment, it collapsed. The man stretched, swinging his mechanical arm through the air as a faint smoke billowed from the joints.

“Holding back.” Was Eyfrae’s judgement. Suffi nodded.

By now the crowd was roaring, stomping, hitting a fever pitch. The mages were working to repair the first pillar still, slowly reassembling the pieces.

The next unlucky bastard had overestimated himself. He was a tall, muscled brute with a gleaming bald head, and his warhammer failed to make more than a dent in the stone. He had to slink back, the whole of the mob jeering at him.

Eyfrae settled back in her chair, calling for wine. It would be a long and busy day. The weight of the crowd’s eyes was heavy, their expectations pulling on her to play her part or be torn to shreds.

Vaulder Claith was in a terrible state. His clothes were ripped, hands shaking, his face muddy except for two long tracks spilling from his eyes where he’d cried himself clean again. After the whole affair of signing a ‘contract’ that was closer to extortion, he’d simply been ignored.

In the end he’d crawled back up the tunnel he’d been dragged down, emerging into his shop, the trapdoor slipping shut behind him and becoming invisible. Everything was as he left it. It was if he’d never been gone. In a way, that was the last straw.

It was maddening to think that nobody knew - that he could tell nobody - what had happened. That it hadn’t disturbed the world in any way for him to disappear into a hellish dark pit, and that when he returned, his life would simply return to normal.

Except always, in the back of his mind, he’d know there was a secret door hidden in the back room. And that any day there might come a knock knock knock as a spider came calling to take him down into that subterranean realm.

He shivered in a cold only he could feel. Outside, a crowd was cheering for some damn reason, and Vaulder suddenly knew he needed to join them. Needed to let the noise and stink of other people rattle his own thoughts out of his head. Needed to be immersed in sound and in other people’s lives instead of stewing away in his own fears.

The crowd outside welcomed him, promised to sweep his troubled thoughts away.

Strix could see how it would happen now. The air was full of desperate prayer. Not prayer to any one god, no, nothing so focused or controlled, but a seething mass of hopes and dreams finding its outlet in the screams and the stomp of the crowd. Pulling them into a rhythm. The City of Bells had long been bruised and humiliated by its faded glory. The hope of revival excited a pride most had forgotten.

She stood at the edge of the crowd, a tall crested owl perched on her shoulder.

Only the youngest children were left out, too busy begging their parents for pies or weaving between the mob’s feet to chase each other in blissfully pointless games.

And here she was, silent still. Hanging on the fence waiting to see who she should give her prophecy to. Morghul’s killer or the ones who would undo everything he had worked for in their own pursuit of glory? One had no conception of humanity, the others had willingly abandoned it.

She hung back, thinking, feeling the raw energy of want that the crowd produced in their gossip and their cheers. A child running through the streets paused in front of her, swaying on his feet like he had something to say, biting his lip.

Strix blinked her blind eyes, and then smiled. “Yes, you may pet the owl.”

The sun’s light was streaming down, bringing out the brightness of the market stalls, the glitter of coins changing hands.

It grew brighter. The colors of the world seemed to sizzle. The coins had the glow of treasure. People seemed more beautiful, less flawed.

The light condensed into a river of sunfire that fell from the skies onto the center of the stage and people stood still, silent, simply awestruck by the entry of the Divine into their life. A man, a Messenger, stepped from the blazing pillar of light. He was a clown in a golden mask, his outfit pure white, his three-pointed cap tipped with bells of gold.

Above him hung a golden wheel, as bright as a miniature sun.

“Lords and ladies, for you are all lords and ladies today, you have called to the Sun with your fervent hopes and the Sun, in his wisdom, great Sol, has sent me in answer! Today, Caltern shall receive a blessing, and only the wheel knows what it shall be!”

The wheel had all eyes captivated as it began to turn, fires blazing on its edges.

“And this too I promise: On the day a brave hero conquers the Dungeon, a second blessing shall be won! No city since Old Etha which lies now in ruins has received such a bounty!”

The crowd had no response for once. They were spellbound, stricken silent. The only sound they made was their breathing as the wheel carried all their hopes, all their dreams, and began to slow, one segment after the next ticking by, statues of demons and saints holding up their prizes for the audience to see, each eye begging for some result that would lift their lives up.

The wheel spun slower, and slower, winding down towards a miracle.

Trivelin pressed his face to the bars of his lone window. Well, not his face. He was practicing, shifting himself every time the guards looked away, waiting for his chance. He could be old or young, man or woman, could wear any face he’d ever seen. It was a damn neat trick.

It just wasn’t one that let him tear the bars open and beat the guards with their own limbs, like some adventurers were known to do.

He sighed. Oh, he was missing out on something, he just knew it. There was a smell of gambling - the pungent mixture of hope and dread - in the air today.