As the shadows lengthened under a descending sun, they came upon a small courtyard nestled between the ancient buildings. Another fountain, this time sculpted into the semblance of a woman in flowing robes cradling a jug and surrounded by a wide basin, rested at its heart. The water here was blessedly free of fish carcasses and instead carpeted with wide leafed and white flowered lilies. Three marble pillars, each cracked and shattered at varying heights, stood to one side and Hulbard figured by the rubble surrounding them that they must once have held up a balcony to overlook the space.

“Here’s as good a place as any to bed down for the night,” he said to the others and they paused to regard the courtyard with varying degrees of suspicion and relief.

“Our destination isn’t far,” Quintus told him sourly.

“Aye,” Hulbard gave the old man a sidelong glance, “And night ain't too far off either. After everything we’ve seen so far, I’ve no love for the idea of scaling something like that in the dark. It’ll still be there in the morning”.

“Probably,” Shankhill hummed, looking towards the vast, white archway looming over the surrounding rooftops, “But you never know with this place. Wouldn’t surprise me if it was gone by the time dawn gets here”.

Hulbard ignored that comment and instead turned into the courtyard. His companions, dragging their feet for the most part, shuffled along in his footsteps and they looked as sorry a lot as any he had ever seen; exhausted, bloodied and bruised, they’d all clearly seen better days. For his part, Hulbard’s endurance kept him upright without too much difficulty, though a deep, burning ache had settled into his lower back throughout the afternoon. Likely from when he’d been slammed down into the dining room table at the Gale house, if he had to guess, or even when he’d caught himself on the window sill just after. Still, he’d been hurt plenty in the past, much worse than he felt just then, and still fought on.

Instinct drew him to the shelter of the nearest stone pillar and he dumped his pack next to it with the distinctive clatter of broken glass. Next, Hulbard unlashed his shield from his arm and lay it against the worn marble stone, before leaning back against it. With a grunt of protest from his muscles, he slid down it until he came to rest on the flagstones and breathed a deep sigh of relief. When his breath came back to him as a metallic rasp, the warrior reached up to drag his helmet free of his sweat beaded features.

Drawing in a deep lungful of fresh air, he watched as his companions traipsed into the courtyard. Knox set about preparing a fire for the night nearby, his Hulbard’s eyes were drawn to Skye as she approached the fountain and trailed a hand through the vegetation choked water. Her Master had already taken to prowling across the flagstones, all impatience despite his shadow haunted eyes and his exhaustion cloaked shoulders. Shankhill sauntered past, making for the furthest corner from the entrance where he slumped onto the ground with an exaggerated sigh. Next, Trastgor passed him by, moving to the second pillar in line, where the Kurgal lowered himself into a cross legged position. Leaning back against the cold stone, he picked up his shield and turned it over in his rough, furred hands with a thoughtful hum. Where once its surface had bristled with long, slender steel spikes, the last few days had seen most of them shorn away, leaving little more than a scarred and dented shield behind. Hulbard knew the shields were difficult to replace at the best of times, let alone on the very edge of the known world, and knew Trastgor would soon have to go without one for a while.

Next, Hulbard’s eyes were drawn to Semekt as she nimbly scaled the opposite wall and slithered onto an adjacent rooftop. There, the Dramaskian drew her crossbow and settled back into a coiled position, watching the roadway beyond with cold, unblinking eyes.

His gaze, though, was drawn higher to their destination; the glittering white archway dominated the skyline. They’d made good progress towards it throughout the day and now, staring at it, he was struck again by the sheer impossible immensity of the structure. It didn’t just loom, it towered over the surrounding buildings and as he ran his tired, weary gaze across its surface, Hulbard thought he began to pick out the distant, hazy features of buildings clinging to the inner arch of the vast construction.

Sighing, he lifted a hand to massage the bridge of his nose between ironshod thumb and forefinger, working at the loose folds gathering around his eyes as he tried to clear his cluttered mind. It had been a long day and he could scarcely recall one worse. They’d all fought more than their fair share of monsters, both together and alone, but little like the creatures lurking in the empty city surrounding them now.

Trastgor set his shield aside with a soft clatter and reached for his falcata, drawing it with a dry rasp to examine its edge by the crimson light filtering down into the courtyard. The sight reminded Hulbard that he had work to do before he could rest and he reached for his pack. Dragging it closer, he opened it up and peered inside with a grimace, none too eager to see the damage to its contents from being smashed into a table. As he’d expected, the two lanterns were smashed to pieces, smearing the canvas, his bedroll and clothing in a coating of thick, foul smelling black oil. The clay jugs of fresh water had likewise been shattered, drenching his rations until they were little more than mush.

Frowning, Hulbard began to drag everything out of the pack and spread it across the flagstones to one side, laying out what clothing he hoped could be salvaged to dry overnight while discarding the rest. It was a grimy, unpleasant task, but methodical and that alone helped give focus to his fragmented thoughts. Once that was done, he plucked the warhammer from its place at his waist and held it up to the light, examining the cold grey steel for any deformities. There were none, but he knew it would only be a matter of time before Dalághast began to take its toll on the weapon, between the ethereal lightning he guided through the weapon to the monsters he beat with it.

Next, he spent a long minute examining every link in the chain of his mace, running each connecting piece through his fingertips and scrutinising them for any weakness. Again though, the weapons workmanship was holding up well despite its recent heavy use. Laying it to one side, Hulbard then gave his shield a cursory once over. Though pummeled by the creatures they’d faced that day, the gleaming metal and the gem set at its heart bore no new marks. Likewise, despite being raked by Harmica Gale’s ghastly claws, his chestplate had little to show for the encounter beyond a narrow scratch. Then again, he’d expected no less; they were his brothers work and they had yet to fail him. Masterworked pieces of a full set lacking but one part, they had been specifically designed to channel the power of the amber gemstones through his body without the need of innate Sorcery on his behalf.

Once he was done his work, Hulbard let his head roll back against the cold stone pillar at his back and watched with a strange sense of surreal numbness as Skye drew a small wooden bowl from her own pack and dipped it into the water. Sitting on the rim of the stone basin, she picked bits of vegetation out of the bowl and flicked them back into the stagnant water. He watched the spectacle without really seeing it, registering little beyond the deep warmth settling deep into his lower back and his aching muscles, shoulders shot through with bristling knots to threaten a sleepless night ahead.

Instead, memories of the day flitted through his mind, coming now to haunt him that all was silent and still, plaguing him with the ghostly afterimages of their battles; the glistening flesh caught in the roaring firelight, the bone deep vibration of a bellow, the crunch of his own body falling through glass, the sting of sweat in his eyes, the thunder of his heart in his ears so loud it merged with the plod of the beast hot on his heels. Hulbard took a deep breath and, on the exhale, pushed the memories aside, buried them deep beneath the present moment.

He focused on the breeze caressing his sweat beaded brow but, like claws scratching across a wooden door, the day remained and he scanned his companions for any indication that they felt the same but they were lost in their own thoughts and rituals. None of them seemed too eager to spare a word, each lost to their own thoughts. Isolated, in spite of their proximity.

Trastgor had set aside his sword. He sat hunched over a small hunk of polished bone cradled in one hand, while the curved knife held tight in the other worked smoothly across its surface with an artisans care. His bone sheathed face was as impassive as it was implacable, green eyes fixed upon his work and nothing else.

Beyond him, Shankhill lounged on the flagstones with his head pillowed on his bedroll and the hood of his cloak drawn low over his eyes, shielding them from the dying sunlight. He’d unbuckled his sword and it lay to one side, in no need of inspection save for rust every few months. The contrast was striking; from a warrior as reliable as the dawn to a man as treacherous as the sea, both resting now at the end of a murderous day.

Then there was Knox, movements quick and sure as he set a spit above the crackling flames of their newborn campfire. His grizzled expression gave nothing away as he set to butchering a haunch of venison with strokes from one of his many lethally sharp knives. His quiver, now visibly lighter for all the arrows he’d spent throughout the day, rested to one side with his weathered bow and scuffed sword, within easy reach.

Skye drew his gaze next, but then again, she always did. She was doing her best to wash the matted tangles from her honey blonde hair, but the broken toothed comb the Apprentice was using seemed to be making the task just as painful as it looked, to judge from her near constant wincing. Despite her discomfort though, Hulbard watched Skye dip the comb back into the water and rake it repeatedly through her hair with brutal efficiency. Hulbard watched her dip the comb back into the water and rake it repeatedly through her hair with brutal efficiency.

As the shadows began to deep around them, Skye withdrew a handful of vials from her bag, each containing a different coloured liquid an, after a moment of consideration, picked one. As soon as she unstoppered the vial, Hulbard caught a whiff of lavender on the late evening breeze and the pleasant scent brought a grim smile to his lips. It was a warm, natural fragrance, reminding him of summer. Pouring a few drops into her hands, Skye began to work the scented oil into her dripping wet hair.

The perfumed oil was soon joined by the mouth watering aroma of venison charring above the crackling flames. That familiar, comforting sound was joined by the soft clipping of Trastgor’s small, curved blade across the contours of his latest bone trinket as his senses slowly seemed to return and he drank in a deep lungful of air with a fitful sigh. The atmosphere, quiet and subdued, clung to them all but now, he was content to become a part of the silence. Even Quintus, who’d been restlessly pacing back and forth across the courtyard, sank onto his knees by the fire and hung his battered, tin teapot over the flames next to the meat.

By the time Skye finished drying her hair with a coarse towel, darkness had settled its shroud across the city, though the undulating flames of their campfire kept it at bay in the sheltered courtyard. Tying her hair back into a loose ponytail, the Apprentice made herself a cup of tea from her Master’s store and, for once, the old man didn’t begrudge her the dried leaves. With steaming mug in one hand and her pack in the other, Skye made her way across to Hulbard. He resisted the urge to sit up straighter and was only slightly disappointed when she passed him by without a word and began setting up her bedroll opposite where he sat on the other side of the pillar. The scent of lavender hung in her wake and it was all he could do to resist sniffing at the air.

Unrolling her blankets, the girl sank into them and, sitting gracelessly cross legged, withdrew a book from her bag. Hair glistening in the dancing firelight, Skye set to work reading over the scribbled words with furrowed brows and the sight was almost enough to bring a smile to his lips. Something about her choice to sleep closest to him set the large man at ease.

There was an unspoken comfort to the act, some indication that she found his comfortable preferable to the others and he allowed himself to half imagine their indignation, or even jealousy, at the sight. They’d never openly shown such feelings in the past, but then again, Skye often found herself sleeping alongside her Master to tend to his needs. Tonight though, she’d chosen him.

He briefly entertained the notion of suggesting they share her bedroll since his own still needed to dry out overnight and while the thought brought a wry half smirk to his lips, it was easily dismissed. The last thing he wanted to do was make her rethink her decision to bed down next to him. Still, that hypothetical led onto another and before he knew it, Hulbard was imagining what it would feel like to lie next to Skye beneath those warm blankets.

He wondered if she would set her book aside in favour of cuddling into him for the night and knew he'd feel a guilty pleasure if she did. He imagined his hands encircling her waist, almost felt her shift closer and nuzzle into his bare chest, the scent of her golden locks filling his senses to the brim. Though the thought warmed him, Hulbard knew better than to dwell on it for too long.

Instead, he was content to enjoy the simple warmth of her company without a word needing to be spoken. Comfort was scarce on the road, after all, and just then, the courtyard didn't seem so bad.

The grey half light of early dawn was still clinging to the city when they left the courtyard behind the next morning after a cold breakfast eaten in silence. Despite the dark thoughts weighing heavy on his mind the previous night, Hulbard woke feeling refreshed, senses sharp and keen for the day ahead. The ancient city seemed to slumber around them as they moved through the shadow haunted streets, past empty buildings and gaping windows. All was still and, save for what noise they made, as silent as any crypt.

It was only a little over an hour before the buildings fell away to either side to reveal an utterly vast plaza of multicoloured stone stretching away ahead of them, dotted here and there with small public gardens and stone benches. Rising above it all was their destination and his first unobstructed view of the thing, utterly and impossibly colossal in scale, was enough to leave Hulbard feeling breathless.

At a rough estimate, Hulbard placed the stone structure at over a mile in height from the ground to its skybound apex. That alone would have been enough to give anyone pause, even before his eyes roamed across the immense, inner curves of the archway; they bristled with a multitude of platforms stabbing out into the empty space. A tiered staircase swept between them and the myriad of buildings they supported in the shadow of that great arch. It seemed an impossible feat, to build them into the sides of that vast marble mountain, but there could be no arguing with his own eyes. It was an awe inspiring monument to the mad and the impossible.

“How…” Hulbard asked in a hushed whisper, “Did they even build such a thing?”

“Over seventy five years,” her soft voice sent a shudder up his aching spine, “With a great many hands bent to the whims of ingenious architects”.

Despite her sudden presence, it took all the willpower Hulbard could muster just to drag his eyes away from the spectacle before them. He found her, straight backed and proud, sitting on a nearby bench of stone with her hands clasped in her lap. The wind caressing Hulbard’s bare face did nothing to stir the locks of her raven hair, but he’d come to expect that by now.

“That doesn’t explain much,” Shankhill found his voice first and of course it was to scoff at her.

“Even so, it is the only explanation I can offer you,” she told him in an indifferent tone.

“What is it for?” Hulbard cut across his companion before he could answer, “Was it some kind of temple?”

“Almost,” Ailasin told him with a sidelong glance and the barest hint of a scrective smile playing about her ruby red lips, “While the great houses of Dalághast were mere patrons of the arts, this was the home of those that created such works. It was called the The Marble Roost, and it was where the greatest artists, poets and sculptors of this city's long history. Speaking of the patrons, however, you met Lady Gale yesterday”.

It wasn’t a question and her tone brooked no suggestion of a denial from them.

“May I ask why, upon seeing two Knights outside the gates of a manor, you would decide to enter such a place? Especially in light of my warnings?”

“Knights enjoy nothing better than standing vigil over something valuable,” Shankhill spoke up quickly. “Even those that should be long dead”.

“Ah, but value is such a subjective thing, isn’t it?” she spared him a scathing glance, like a mother scolding a child that should have known better, “They valued the protection of Harmica Gale, but such sentiments are worth little to anyone seeking gold or silver. They swore oaths in life to protect her and remained beyond death to do just that, until you cut them down”.

“We were hoping for something a little more substantial than what we found,” Shankhill told her acidly.

“A stronghold sits upon the very peak of the The Marble Roost,” Ailasin told him, “Within rests that which you value above all else”.

“And what do you think I value, exactly?” Shankhill asked her shrewdly.

“Gold coins,” she shrugged her slender shoulders, “Silver ornamentation. Glittering jewels and polished gemstones. More than you could ever hope to carry even if you had ten strong horses at your beck and call. All abandoned. Forgotten”.

“You have my attention,” the rogue-ish traveller admitted, narrowed eyes flickering to Quintus’ for a heartbeat.

“And well I might,” their guide told him, “Because while the ideals of that place have since been twisted beyond recognition, they had always looked better bedecked in opulence, as most ideas normally do. They forged a necklace to hang about the shoulders of a great statue, inset with an emerald dredged up from the loathsome depths of the far east. Easily large enough to be wielded like that chain mace at your side, warrior”.

Ailasin nodded to Hulbard but he merely frowned, already turning over this new revelation. Rising from the bench, she sauntered across to stand next to the group, peering towards the The Marble Roost for a long, silent moment with her hands clasped behind her back. Slowly, she dragged her eyes away from the archway and raked them with her emerald gaze.

“Yet all these valuables are worth nothing next to your fabled Star. You are getting distracted by peas on the same plate as a steak”.

"After a few long days of marching through this place, even the scraps on the floor are beginning to look appetising to me right now," Shankhill told her, "Our spirits wane and nothing lifts them quicker than a handful of gold coins”.

“So!” he continued cheerfully, turning his back on their guide to face his companions instead, already all business, “I guess that means you’re all heading up there for a little stroll”.

“We, we’re going up there,” Knox told him pointedly.

“Can’t say I do very well with heights,” Shankhill shot back with a pained wince.

“How well do you do with getting set on fire?” Skye asked with a baleful glare.

“Likely better than meeting the ground head first from a couple hundred feet,” he flashed her a condescending smile before turning to the others with his palms spread placatingly, “I had no love of the heights we climbed to before, but at least there, if I missed a step, I had a slim chance of landing in water. Here? It’s a long way down to pulp”.

“You are not resting here while we do all the work,” Trastgor told him in a low, firm growl. “You have done that too many times in the past already. If you want a share of that gold, you will work for it”.

Shankhill glared daggers at the Kurgal, clearly annoyed his ploy to avoid any real work that day had been dismissed so easily, even before Knox seconded the warrior with a gruff grunt of affirmation. Hulbard was about to add his own voice to the decision, but their ghostly guide spoke first.

“You are misunderstanding my point,” Ailasin’s voice cut between them like a blade, bearing a note of iron that dared any of them to ignore her further, “I was not suggesting that you spend your time raiding this place. In fact, I was urging the opposite; that you remain focused and remember why you are here so that we might avoid any more misadventures in the future. Particularly life threatening ones, since you are no use to anyone dead”.

“Few people are unless there’s a Necromancer about,” Shankhill joked with his brightest smile, smoothly bouncing back from his disagreement with his companions, “Unfortunately for you though, gold has always been a collective weakness of ours and I dare say my my own love for it will even overcome my distaste for heights this very day. With the encouragement of my stalwart companions, of course”.

He clapped a hand down on Knox’s shoulder and all the hunter could do was scoff. Hulbard studied Shankhill’s face, could see the telltale warring within his features; he wasn’t too keen on scaling the The Marble Roost still, but the thought of gold so close at hand had lit a fire in him.

“So, while I assure you that we have taken note of your suggestion, we will be ignoring it”.

“Then you are all short sighted fools,” Ailasin told him coldly, “Though I suppose the same could be said of me for even mentioning riches, given your past decisions”.

“Indeed you should have!” Shankhill beamed and his near childlike glee made Hulbard smirk. “Shame on you. Now, if anything goes wrong, we’ll all be able to blame you for suggesting we go up there”.

There was something strangely infectious about the man’s near childlike excitement whenever they were about to set to pillaging a place, and how he never seemed ashamed to hide his nearly overwhelming greed, even in the face of someone like Ailasin. An infuriating, backstabbing coward he may have been, but he’d never been much stuck for entertaining them either. Ailasin gave a curt nod, seemed to accept that there was nothing she could do to stop them, and her eyes moved on to Quintus instead.

“Sorcerer,” she said, “Might we talk as we walk?”

“About?” he asked suspiciously, but she was already striding towards the archway across the empty, flat expanse of flagstones, forcing him to walk after with a petulant huff.

Skye hurried after and Hulbard fell into step with her, eager to hear whatever was discussed ahead of them.

“Have you found any answers yet?” Ailasin asked as they walked.

“Answers to what, exactly?” he returned in a stubborn show at ignorance.

“About why this place is the way it is,” she replied, gesturing to the city at large, “Why those that should be dust even now still persist to breathe. Surely, your curiosity must have been aroused by invading a skinless beasts sanctum? By meeting an entity that spoke like a noble but transformed into a beast. How do you explain what you’ve witnessed so far?”

“By grasping at straws,” Quintus admitted sombrely, his staff tapping against the flagstones as he scanned the empty plaza expanse surrounding them, “I know of no artefact, enchantment or curse that could prolong a life for as long as this place suggests. Only recently, we faced a construct cobbled together from bone and vegetation, but that monstrosity was tied to the very real power of a witch and, once slain, it would have only been a matter of time before it fell apart on its own. Hours, at most. I assume that skinned beast was of the same breed, though drawn together from fresh corpses instead of bones”.

“Fresh corpses,” she hummed, “In a city sealed off from the rest of the world for a few hundred years?”

“Perhaps some unfortunate souls survived whatever doom befell this place,” Quintus returned, eyeing her speculatively, “Perhaps they were trapped in here behind the barrier but found a way to continue living on”.

“Oh, they did,” she nodded, “And they became those things you only barely escaped from at the docks. Some survived, but none remained unchanged by their time here. A good theory, but as you say, grasping at straws. Best to keep grasping”.

“Which is more than can be said for the Tides of Magic here,” Quintus said, “They are unlike anything I’ve felt before and even my wildest speculation falls short of explaining their...wrongness”.

“They are indeed complex,” Ailasin said after a pregnant pause, as if on the very cusp of saying something else, “They were born of a chaotic energy wielded ten thousand years before the first stone of this city was ever laid. This is not the mere work of a mad, albeit powerful Sorcerer King though, is it? How could it be? One mind and one heart could not poison a city in this way”.

“Then what did?” Quintus pushed.

“If you were to view the Tides of Dalághast like roots,” Ailasin mused thoughtfully, “Then you would be led to ask yourself this; how were you able to breach a barrier that has succeeded in confounding hundreds of Sorcerer’s throughout the years?”

“The Magic feeding it must be diminishing. Weakening”.

“Why?”

“Time’s inexorable passage,” his tone was guarded as Quintus offered up the explanation.

“Flowery, but a half truth, at best,” she allowed.

“You know the other half of the truth?” he asked.

“Those roots needed to spread far and deep to keep this place hidden from the outside world. Why was the barrier erected in the first place?”

Quintus was silent for a long second as he considered the scenario set before him. Hulbard watched the Sorcerer as closely as he watched Ailasin; her spectral presence still set him on edge, but he was waiting for that telltale moment where Quintus understand whatever she was hinting at. He always did, after all, while her words passed him by. To his ears, they were cryptic to the point of madness, but Hulbard wasn’t attuned to Magic in the same way as the pair. Despite utilising his lightning charged armour, he understood nothing of the complexities surrounding the oldest art of mankind.

“To prevent those roots from spreading,” Quintus surmised at length, “To keep something locked away in Dalághast”.

“Partially,” she nodded.

“I grow tired of your half answers,” the old man growled, “From one Master to another, give me something solid to work with before I decide to leave you to rot down here on your own”.

“It was concealed,” she told him in a measured, lilting cadence, “Because the one who summoned the barrier wanted to hide Dalághast from the world in one final act of heroic cowardice. To stop the roots from spreading, yes, but also to conceal from the world what his glorious city was becoming”.

“Magnus,” Quintus breathed, “The Last King. He cast the spell as Dalághast began to fall”.

“But one man could not do such a thing alone, right?”

“True”.

“Then that is what you need to muse on, Sorcerer. That and why the illusion has weakened enough to allow your passage. Do so while you seek your gold and silver, but remember why you are here. The Star waits for you”.

Half turning her head, she fixed her gaze on Shankhill and her ruby lips twisted into a wry smile.

“Watch your step”.

Ailasin vanished in an instant before he could reply and Hulbard instinctively stepped around the space where she’d been only a heartbeat before, the hairs across his neck prickling uncomfortably. Quintus came to a meditative halt and they fell in around him, silence descending but for the whistling wind and the rustling leaves of a nearby tree.

“What do you think?” Skye asked her Master with furrowed brows.

“A great deal,” he muttered darkly before lifting his eyes to the marble rearing like a mountain ahead of them. “But I don’t see a path forward that involves us leaving this place untouched”.

“Everything in this place should be left untouched,” Trastgor told him, “We are here for the Star. A few coins will mean nothing next to the bounty of that one object”.

“A few coins never means nothing,” Shankhill snapped, offended by the mere suggestion. “If we get to this Keep and can’t find the Star, we wouldn’t have a damn thing to show for our time in this place except a few fireside tales”.

Hulbard’s eyes roamed up the entire height of the archway as he considered their position, eyeing the structure like a man about to tackle a bear. Despite every disaster that had befallen them since first setting foot in Dalághast, he felt himself drawn to that towering city of stone. Curiosity to see what it was like gnawed at his guts with a near physical force, strengthened by the idea that he could be one of the first to scale it in hundreds of years. Caution and doubt had their moment within his mind, but they were easily drowned beneath the challenge of the The Marble Roost and around him. Gold was a fine thing too, no doubt.

Hulbard could feel the others teetering on the brink, felt the balance beginning to turn in his favour and knew he wouldn’t even have to suggest they climb the thing. After all, they’d been faced with the same kind of choice a thousand times in the past and it had always ended the same way.