If you have found this

It means that I am dead.

I am sorry, for this and for everything.

-Note within the hidden journal.

Vallerian groaned as he stepped out of Gardinal’s home, rubbing bleary eyes. The night had turned out to be a complete disaster. Gentle moonlight shone over the streets ahead of him, broken up by a thick sea of clouds. Tired as he was, he dreaded the long walk to The Forest. A few dark shapes still milled about, even at this late hour. Vallerian would have never thought the shambling husks of people that composed the late night Southshore peasants would be comforting, but after earlier he found anything to be better than an empty street.

He nearly growled at the thought. Caught off guard and by a bunch of gutter trash no less. He was Vallerian, Count of Tarnarquill, trained by the greatest huntsman that ever lived. And he had been caught out of sorts by a smattering of cut-purses and ruffians. Embarrassing was the least he could say of it. He shook his head; it was that girl. Celeste had been getting to him these last couple days.

The girl seemed to have this idea that a man could go through life without ever throwing a punch. Ridiculous. The world was a harsh, violent place. It was kill or be killed. The animals had figured that out, but apparently it was impossible to grasp for this little girl. He thought someone who had grown up on the streets of Southshore would know better than that. But no, this Prophetess seemed to think that every problem that plagued this wretched city could be fixed by everyone holding hands and singing songs. Fool girl.

As he fumed, Vallerian felt a water drop fall upon his brow. He looked up. The cloud cover had thickened, dark storm clouds above. It had been a dry spring so far, he thought, the rain might be nice. The pleasant scent of petrichor filled his nose, calming him somewhat. Glancing around, he saw the peasantry pulling up oiled hoods as they passed. Vallerian followed suit, lifting his cloak over his own head. Watching them, he wondered how many of these shadowed figures belonged to her. Vallerian groaned at the thought of the damned Jöln.

Tabitha lingered in his mind. As if handling his in-laws, cults, and the Celeste fiasco wasn’t enough already. A slum lord with delusions of grandeur was a problem as frustrating as the rest. Vallerian felt his blood boil once more. What had the miserable little Jöln called herself? The Slum Queen of Southshore? Absolutely rich. Vallerian kicked, a loose rock skittered across the now muddying road. This was becoming an absolute tangled mess, and he had thought the noble's games had been complex.

Vallerian grunted, contemplating his current predicament. It had been a miscalculation on his part that had led to his dismissal, he realized that now. He had put so much thought into earning Gardinal's respect, that he had lost track of Celeste. He never would have thought that the two could be so opposed, but that realization had come too late.

Vallerian shook his head and looked to the moon. Supposedly that was the First Mother in some way or form. She was now shrouded in rain clouds. He wondered if She could see through those clouds. Were those Her tears falling around him now?

“Well, Ethinia? What do you think I should do?” He asked the Divine First Mother. He figured if his problems were a prophetess, might as well ask the goddess she spoke for. He waited, standing in a crooked muddy Southshore road looking up at the sky. The Most Merciful’s moonlight beaming down on his face with the rain.

Nothing. Vallerian cursed quietly. His sister wondered why he never visited any of the temples anymore. When had the gods ever answered his problems? Vallerian started back down the road, and a familiar beating of wings swooshed down to rest atop his shoulder.

“Back, are you?” he asked Charlotte. She always had hated flying in the rain. She cawed a response to him and began poking at one of her wings with her beak. “Let me look.”

Inspecting her wing, he saw the brute earlier had done a bit of damage. He would need to get one of the Arrahunya to examine her sometime soon. For now, she would live. Not that you could tell from her melodramatic cawing. “Oh, grow up you oversized pigeon. I’ve had worse from you.” He ignored her squawks and continued his trudging. It would be a long while to get home, especially if Charlotte intended on a free ride. “You're getting heavy you know.” He lectured her. She turned her beak up at him. The nerve of that falcon.

Vallerian had walked past the city gates, down the King's Road, and was nearly halfway through the Silvermarket before he heard the rumble of a carriage behind him. The beating of hoofs and creaking of wooden wheels were almost hidden by the now heavy rain. It was late, too late for any good-intentioned noble to be about in a carriage. The horses trotted past him, then slowed down. Before long, the carriage was matching speed with him. The curtain-covered window was at eye height with him. Its sleek curving ebony wood was lacquered by the falling rain. Vallerian didn’t dare groan as he realized he recognized this carriage. This was his mother-in-law’s carriage. He let out a low curse as the carriage came to a stop next to him.

From the front, the coachwoman clambered down from her post. A woman? He thought, why was a Theremya woman doing manual labour? She stalked around the carriage stopping in front of him. By her precise gait, he understood. He didn’t recognize this woman; he thought he knew all of Crysilla’s close assassins. She opened the door for him, the blade at her side glistening in the moonlight. He had been meant to see that. Making his move towards the door, Charlotte alighted from his shoulder. Of course, now she was fine enough to fly. Vallerian thanked the coachwoman, cursed the bird, and climbed in.