**Part 1: The Gambit (20th of Calistril)** The candle sputtered as a draft slipped through the seams of his tent, the weak flame casting jagged shadows over the chaos that surrounded him. *Tartuccio's* work—his brilliance—lay scattered across the makeshift table, half-buried under discarded scrolls, spilled ink, and the remnants of a meal he'd lost interest in hours ago. He barely noticed. *Tartuccio's* fingers twitched as he traced the sigils in the air, breath sharp, muttering the final incantation under his breath. His mind stretched outward, reaching—grasping. For a second—a flicker—he saw it. The amulet. Blurred, hazy, distant—but *there*. Then—nothing. The tether snapped, the vision wrenched from his grasp, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache in his skull. His hands slammed against the table, sending papers skidding to the dirt floor. The inkwell tipped, spilling black over old maps, curling the edges of fragile parchment. The candle wavered, nearly going out. *Tartuccio* barely restrained himself from screaming. This had been working. Before Brinn took it. He had seen it in his magic, had tracked its presence, had *felt* its whisper in the weave of his spells. But now—gone. As if the moment Brinn had laid his hands on it, it had been sealed away from him. His tail lashed, knocking over his staff, sending a stack of books toppling. He ignored it. Brinn must have done something. Hid it. Buried it. Sealed it away. *Tartuccio* hated not knowing. He forced himself to sit, hands clenched into fists against his knees, breathing hard through his nose. He *could* keep trying. He *should* keep trying. But the magic was refusing him now. He had pushed it too far. For now. His lip curled, baring his teeth. Fine. Fine. If he couldn't get to the amulet, he would just move forward without it. His eyes flicked toward the side of the tent, where his notes lay in a disorganized mess. Among them, scribbled in the margins of a dozen failed ideas, was a single, irritating phrase: *Shelyn's Embrace—teleports wearer away from fatal harm?* *Tartuccio* sneered, picking up the parchment, his nails biting into the corners. That ring. That damned ring. It wasn't real. It *couldn't* be. No divine blessing worked so perfectly. No artifact simply whisked its wearer away the moment danger struck. Convenient magic didn't exist. And yet… The little rat acted like it did. She wore it like it was a shield, like it made her untouchable, like it meant something. *Tartuccio* wanted to believe it was fake. He had scoured his books, his knowledge, his contacts—there was nothing in the histories of Shelyn's relics that described something so conveniently crafted for the exact situation Linzi found herself in. It was a lie. Or an exaggeration. And yet, a single, nagging thought refused to die in his mind. *What if it wasn't?* His fingers twitched. He could sit here. He could keep wondering, keep waiting, keep chasing shadows while that damned halfling walked around like she was protected by the gods themselves. Or— He reached down, slowly, fingers curling around the hilt of his dagger. Maybe the simplest solution was the best solution. The smirk that spread across his lips was slow, creeping. Silent, deliberate, he slipped out of his tent—his dagger glinting in the moonlight—toward the place where Linzi slept. **Part 2: The Summons (21st of Calistril)** Brinnard Whitewood's Midnight Summons The barracks was quiet, the kind of stillness that only settled when soldiers were bone-weary and finally at rest. The flickering glow of a dying hearth cast long shadows across the room, stretching over the sturdy wooden bunks, the scuffed armor hung on pegs, the scent of oiled steel and sweat thick in the air. Brinnard Whitewood had been deep in that rare, precious thing called sleep when the urgent knocking came at his door. *Bang. Bang. Bang.* The rhythm was sharp. Intentional. Not the panicked banging of an emergency, but the kind of deliberate force that meant whoever was on the other side had no intention of leaving until the door opened. Brinnard groaned, pushing himself up with the sluggish weight of a man who had already been robbed of too many hours of sleep this week. He rubbed a hand down his face, running calloused fingers over the rough stubble on his chin. "By the gods," he muttered, swinging his legs over the edge of his cot. "This better be worth it." He didn't bother grabbing a shirt, just yanked on a pair of boots, took a long pull from the flask sitting on his nightstand, and yanked the door open. Two men stood outside. Veterans. The kind of soldiers who didn't wake their commanding officer unless they had damn good reason. "Sir," the first man, a grizzled sergeant, handed him the message. "This just came in from Tybalt." Brinnard squinted at the parchment, eyes still adjusting to the light. He flicked the wax seal open with his thumb, unrolling the letter and scanning its contents. His brow furrowed. Then, he let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. "That little shit," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. The sergeant hesitated. "Orders, sir?" Brinnard didn't answer immediately. He rolled his shoulders, popping the tension out of his neck, and leaned against the doorframe, reading the letter again. A round-the-clock guard? For the damn bard? His lips pressed into a tight line. He didn't care if that little halfling got herself killed. Didn't care about her songs, her stories, or the way she had a knack for saying too much and pissing off the wrong people. And yet— Brinnard exhaled through his nose, rubbing his thumb over the parchment. "Gods damn it," he muttered under his breath. Brinn liked the little annoying thing. He let the moment pass, let the weight of the thought settle, then folded the parchment in half with a sharp flick of his wrist. "Wake whoever's on rotation," he ordered. "Pull the next shift early if you have to. I want four men at her tent by the time I get there. I want names. No green recruits, no half-drunk bastards looking for an easy post." The sergeant gave a curt nod. "Yes, sir." As the men turned to go, Brinnard sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He grabbed a loose shirt off a chair, throwing it over his shoulders, and strapped his sword to his hip. Because if *Tartuccio* thought he could just walk into Rivermarch and take what he pleased… Well. Brinnard Whitewood was about to make damn sure he learned otherwise. **Part 3: Too Late** Brinnard moved fast, his boots pounding against the dirt as he and his men closed the distance between the barracks and Linzi's tent. The moment he had read the letter, he had known—they were already behind. The night was thick with mist, the torches flickering in the damp air, casting long, wavering shadows as the five-man team rounded the final turn toward Linzi's quarters. And then—they stopped short. Brinnard's sword was half-drawn before his mind fully processed what he was seeing. The tent was open. The fabric at the entrance swayed, shifting lightly as if someone had just passed through. Inside, *Tartuccio* stood alone. Blood. Blood was everywhere. The bedroll was soaked in it, the sheets and blankets drenched, dark and glistening under the dim torchlight. There were smears across the floor, splattered up onto the nearby wooden crate, a spray of crimson across the interior fabric of the tent wall. But there was no body. Linzi was gone. Brinnard's sword was fully out now. "Tartuccio, you godsdamned rat." His voice was low, full of iron, a heartbeat away from a killing order. *Tartuccio's* head snapped up, his beady eyes wide, frantic—but not with triumph. With confusion. "I—" The gnome's breath was ragged, his hand still clutching the dagger, its blade gleaming wet in the dim light. His robes were stained red, his fingers trembling. "I—I—what?" One of Brinnard's men rushed past, yanking the bloodstained blankets off the bedroll as if expecting to find a corpse beneath them. But there was nothing. No body. No Linzi. Only blood. Brinnard's stomach tightened. This wasn't right. This wasn't how this was supposed to play out. *Tartuccio* wasn't gloating. He wasn't mocking them. He wasn't trying to run, wasn't spinning one of his smug little speeches about how they were too late. He looked—rattled. Brinnard stepped forward, sword leveling at *Tartuccio's* chest. "Where is she?" *Tartuccio's* mouth opened, but no words came. He blinked, his lips moving silently, as if trying to work out the answer himself. He turned—scanning the tent, looking at the blood, at his own hands, at the place where Linzi *should* have been, where she *had* been seconds ago. Brinnard had seen a lot of things in his years. But *Tartuccio* was not faking this. This wasn't the look of a man caught red-handed. This was the look of a man who had just realized something was wrong. Brinnard didn't care. "Take him." His order came sharp, decisive, full of gravel and iron. One of his men seized *Tartuccio* by the back of his robes, yanking the gnome back hard, forcing him down onto his knees, twisting his arms behind him before he had a chance to react. *Tartuccio* yelped, but there was no fight in him. His mind was still somewhere else. Still locked on the blood-soaked bedroll. Still grappling with the fact that Linzi— —was *gone*. Brinnard stared down at him, his grip tightening on the hilt of his blade. His men surrounded the tent, scanning the ground, looking for tracks, for signs of movement, for *anything* that could explain what had just happened. Because *Tartuccio* had expected to leave this tent with a corpse. And instead— He had nothing. Brinnard exhaled, the weight of something far worse than failure settling in his gut. *What the hell just happened here?* **Part 4: The Council Gathers** The blood was still fresh. Brinnard didn't waste time standing around, trying to make sense of what had already happened. There was only one priority now—find the damn halfling. He turned to his men, voice hard as iron. "Spread out." His eyes burned as they swept over the darkened camp. "Check every alley, every burrow, every godsdamned latrine if you have to. Find the damn halfling." The soldiers didn't hesitate. They moved, boots crunching against the dirt as they fanned out, torches cutting through the mist. The night was still too quiet, the only sound the distant creaking of tents and the heavy rhythm of searching men. Brinnard turned back toward *Tartuccio*, who was still on his knees, still staring at the blood, but now—his mind was working again. Slowly, the gnome's wide-eyed shock faded, replaced by something colder. *Tartuccio* blinked once, twice, then smoothed out his expression into something neutral—almost bored. His posture shifted just slightly, enough to remind himself that he wasn't some gutter rat being dragged in chains. His voice came soft, controlled. "My, my, such accusations." He licked his lips, raising an eyebrow at Brinnard as if they were discussing nothing more than a mild misunderstanding. Brinnard wasn't in the mood. *Tartuccio* smiled anyway. "I was merely checking on Linzi," he said smoothly, his hands still bound behind his back. "After all, it seems something terrible has happened to her, and it would be unfortunate if I were the first suspect simply because I was kind enough to—" Brinnard grabbed him by the collar and yanked him off his feet. *Tartuccio* yelped as Brinnard hauled him up, not gently, gripping his robes so tight that the gnome's feet barely scraped the dirt beneath him. Brinnard's face was close now, his breath hot and sharp, his glare like steel on steel. "Shut. Your. Godsdamned. Mouth." *Tartuccio* let out a choked laugh, barely disguising the fact that he was uncomfortable now. "Ahem, Commander, this really isn't necessary—" Brinnard shook him once, enough to rattle him. "You think I don't know what you are?" His voice was a low growl, sharp enough to flay skin. "I should gut you right here, you rat-faced son of a whore." *Tartuccio* grimaced at the insult, but Brinnard wasn't finished. Instead, he shoved the gnome toward two of his men, barely keeping his temper in check. "Take him to my footlocker," Brinnard growled. The two soldiers hesitated for half a second—not because they disagreed, but because they knew what that meant. The footlocker. The storage box. The old iron-bound chest in Brinnard's personal quarters. Small. Cold. No air. No light. It wasn't made for prisoners. But it worked. *Tartuccio*, for all his smug control, blanched slightly. Brinnard's grin was all teeth. "Let him bleach out while I figure out what the hell to do with him." The soldiers nodded, and before *Tartuccio* could get another word out, they were dragging him away. *Tartuccio* shouted in protest, but Brinnard was already turning his back on him, done with whatever excuse or explanation the little bastard thought he was owed. This wasn't about proof. This was about what he knew. And Brinnard knew a killer when he saw one. Brinnard exhaled sharply, running a hand over his stubbled jaw, trying to shake off the rage burning under his skin. He shouldn't have lost his temper like that. But something about gnomes just pissed him off. He turned to the nearest soldier. "Get the council." His voice was still gravel and iron, still riding the edge of violence barely contained. The soldier hesitated. "Which members, sir?" Brinnard's glare was answer enough. "All of them." The soldier nodded sharply and took off into the mist. Brinnard turned back toward the blood-stained tent. His jaw tightened. His fingers twitched. Linzi was gone. As Gideon approached the tent, he took in the scene. Tent open to the outside, blood visible at a distance. Brinnard looking more pissed off than usual. *Tartuccio* seemingly cowed...and by Brinnard. Nav moved forward ahead of Gideon, Gideon's face flashed through confusion, recognition, and finally settled on rage. Nav suddenly surged forward, making an attempt to throttle him. "You sorry excuse for a lizard! What have you done!" A trio of force darts materialized above Gideon's hand, ready to fire. The eidolon moved like a viper striking, claws flashing as he shot forward, aiming straight for *Tartuccio's* throat. And Gideon? Gideon didn't stop him. His fingers curled tight, voice seething with fury as a trio of force darts materialized above his hand, their edges pulsing with raw magic, hovering, waiting— *Tartuccio's* golden eyes narrowed, his tail flicking in pure irritation, but there was no panic, no flinch, only annoyance—like a man being interrupted mid-thought rather than mid-accusation. Brinnard's voice cut through the chaos, sharp as steel and twice as unamused. "Stand. Down." The words hit like an anvil, but Brinnard didn't even wait for compliance. He exhaled, his patience already fraying. "The purple gnome was in here." That alone should have been enough to explain the situation. But seeing that it wasn't, Brinnard sighed heavily, his expression carved from stone. "*Tartuccio* was in here. There is blood everywhere. And Linzi isn't here." His tone remained gravel and iron, the weight behind the words undeniable. Gideon's force darts remained for a breath longer, Nav still coiled in place, claws just inches from *Tartuccio's* throat. Then— A flicker. A recognition. *Tartuccio's* expression shifted, his brows lifting ever so slightly, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth as he regarded Gideon. Like a man who had just put something together. Like a man who suddenly found this whole mess very, very interesting. Brinnard, already done with this entire situation, exhaled sharply. "So if you two are done pissing at each other, maybe we can figure out what the hell happened here." Gideon's hand slowly fell and Nav relaxed. Embarrassment clear on his face, Gideon schooled his expression and gave a curt nod "My mistake Counselor *Tartuccio*, your history with Linzi and the visual here made me lose my head for a moment. I..... apologize." "I suspect the remainder of the council will arrive soon and we can begin our investigation." Brinn arrived just in time to see Nav lunge, Gideon's magic primed to fire, and *Tartuccio* standing there—unbothered, watching it all unfold with that knowing look that Brinn had learned to hate. Brinn stayed quiet through the exchange, arms crossed, eyes sharp and steady as the pieces fell into place. Gideon's rage was understandable, even predictable. *Tartuccio* was easy to blame. Too easy. And that was the problem. Brinn glanced at his grandfather—at Brinnard, whose expression was still locked in its usual brand of barely-contained irritation. But beneath that? Agreement. *Tartuccio* had never been trusted. Brinn knew that. But trust and usefulness weren't the same thing, and right now, the *kobold* was more useful standing with them than being throttled in the dirt. Brinn finally exhaled through his nose and stepped forward, his voice cutting clean through the tension. "Gideon's not wrong to be suspicious." His gaze flicked toward *Tartuccio*, leveling, but not hostile. "You play your cards too close to the chest, *Tartuccio*. You keep secrets. You make people wonder where your real loyalty lies. And Linzi?" His jaw flexed. "She's ours." A pause. "But." His voice shifted, not softening—Brinn didn't soften—but turning steady, measured. "My grandfather's right. If anyone's to blame for what happened here, it's *Tartuccio* first." His steel-gray eyes scanned the bloodstained tent. "And as much as I'd love to put him in the dirt for good, I'd rather have answers first." Brinn turned his focus back to *Tartuccio*. "You're not above suspicion. But you came when summoned. You didn't fight it. And whatever else you are, you're not stupid." His arms uncrossed, his posture shifting just slightly. "So I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. Don't make me regret it." He let that settle before glancing at Gideon. "You're right. The council's coming. We do this together. No more lashing out. No more jumping to conclusions. We find Linzi, and we make the bastard responsible pay." His voice dropped low, colder than the mist curling through the night. "That's how we do things in Rivermarch." Brinnard Whitewood let out a slow, gravel-thick exhale, his patience wearing thinner than the mist curling through the camp. This night had already gone to hell, and now he had to stand here, listening to a bunch of back-and-forth while the halfling was still missing. His gaze swept over the bloodstained tent, then to his grandson, then finally landed on *Tartuccio*, who—for once—wasn't wearing that smug little smirk of his. Brinnard rolled his shoulders, his jaw tight, and muttered under his breath, "We could speed this up and just execute the bastard gnome. Can't trust them." A beat of silence. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Brinnard caught movement. Gideon. The gnome stiffened, his sharp features flashing with something unreadable for a split second before settling into something much harder. Brinnard exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite an apology, but something in between. His hand waved vaguely in Gideon's direction, his voice gruff. "Not you." A pause, then, less begrudging, but still very much Brinnard Whitewood. "Should've said purple bastard." The clarification wasn't much of an apology, but it was the closest Gideon was going to get. *Tartuccio*, meanwhile, had not moved. His golden eyes flicked between Brinnard and Gideon, and for a moment—just a moment—he looked genuinely irritated. Then, his tail flicked once, a sharp snap against the dirt, his voice dry and cutting. "An easy target, is it?" He didn't look at Brinnard when he said it. Didn't have to. His gaze shifted from Gideon, to Brinn, and finally to the blood-streaked ground. "I have kept this kingdom standing just as much as any of you. And yet, the moment blood is spilled," he gestured toward the tent, "I am the first name dragged through the dirt." Brinnard's expression didn't change. His lack of reaction was an answer in itself. *Tartuccio* let the silence stretch, his tail flicking again. "Tartuccio is the fool here. Not me." Brinnard gave a short, gruff exhale, neither agreeing nor disagreeing—just acknowledging the truth of it. *Tartuccio* rolled his shoulders, and when his smirk returned, it was thinner, sharper. "Fine. You want my help? You'll have it. Not because I need your mercy, Brinn, but because Linzi is worth more than this godsdamned spectacle." He turned, casting one last glance toward the bloodstained tent, before flicking his golden eyes back to Brinnard. "And for the record, General—" his smirk curled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, "you can trust me about as much as I trust you. But we still get things done, don't we?" Brinnard let out a slow exhale, gruff and unimpressed, already annoyed that he was agreeing with a damn *kobold*. But he didn't argue. Because the bastard wasn't wrong. Borion arrived. The walk through Rivermarch was eerily quiet. Though the streets were never bustling at this hour, there was an unnatural stillness—as if the very air had thickened, pressing down on the settlement. Borion passed familiar faces, or at least, the silhouettes of soldiers and council members, clustered in hushed conversation. Maximus stood nearby, still as a statue, his glowing eyes unreadable. Tybalt watched the tent, arms crossed, his tail flicking—agitated, calculating. Something was wrong. At last, they reached Linzi's tent. The entrance was already drawn open, revealing a dimly lit space where the council had gathered. Borion paused at the threshold, scanning the room, instinctively taking in every detail before stepping forward. "Well," he mused, his voice light but carefully measured, "I do hope this isn't an intervention—because if it is, I should warn you, I'm quite fond of my bad habits." Then he saw the blood. It was everywhere. Not just a few drops—a dark pool spreading across the floor, soaking into fabric, smearing under boots. The sharp scent of iron filled the tent, thick and suffocating. His smirk vanished. His amethyst eyes flicked downward, tracing the stains to their source, and suddenly the room felt smaller. The flickering lantern light cast long, jagged shadows, warping the scene before him. His fingers twitched at his side—not reaching for his blade, but hesitating on the edge of motion, as if his body wasn't sure whether to prepare a spell or brace for the weight of what came next. Borion took a single step forward. This time, he said nothing. Maximus strode up to Gerrek, his glowing eyes narrowing as the tension in the camp thickened. The night had already spiraled into chaos, and he wasn't about to let *Grigori* make it worse. "Gerrek," Maximus said, his voice firm, brooking no argument. "*Grigori* is stirring up trouble and disrupting the public. Arrest him—quickly and cleanly. Take whoever you need. I want this handled now." Gerrek gave a sharp nod, already scanning the area for his best men. "Understood, Warden. He won't have time to cause more trouble." Without hesitation, he signaled to a handful of the best-trained guards, their hands instinctively moving toward their weapons. Within moments, they were moving with purpose, cutting through the camp like a blade through cloth, closing in on *Grigori* before he had a chance to slip away or incite further unrest. Maximus lingered just long enough to watch them disappear into the crowd before turning his attention back to securing the rest of the camp. Linzi was still missing, and there was no time to waste. Tybalt's eyes flicked toward Borion, watching as the noble sorcerer took in the bloodied scene with a growing, sharpened awareness. His usual wit had dulled at the sight of the sheer volume of blood, the weight of the air thick with something unsaid. Good. It meant he understood—this wasn't just an attack. It was a statement. And yet, it wasn't complete. Tybalt turned, his gaze landing on Gideon, his sharp mind already weaving together a new thread—one that had been left untouched until now. His tail curled, flicking once in consideration before he spoke, his voice low enough to stay within the gathered council's ears, but firm enough to command attention. "Borion. Gideon." His tone was measured, but pressing, a quiet insistence beneath it. "There's something you need to know." His clawed fingers tapped against his forearm, another calculated movement. A thought taking shape. "Last night, I met with someone outside Rivermarch." His voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable weight to it. "A man by the name of Valerius Crowne. Formerly of Pitax, now an exile—one of Irovetti's castaways, claiming to hold no more allegiance to his king. He had information to offer, and, for reasons of his own, wanted *me* to have it." The name lingered in the air, unfamiliar yet heavy, the kind of name that didn't go unnoticed. Tybalt pressed forward before anyone could cut in. "He spoke of Linzi." That caught their attention. A sharp pause. A flicker of tension tightening between them. Tybalt's voice didn't waver. "Crowne knew of her, not just as our chronicler, but as someone being *watched*." His eyes swept over the gathered council, taking in each reaction before continuing. "He told me she had a ring—a magic one. Something rare, something old. An artifact of Shelyn, supposedly capable of whisking her away in the instant before death." His tail snapped once against the dirt, irritation lacing his words. "I didn't know if I believed him." A pause, a breath. "But I wasn't about to take the risk. That's why I sent for guards last night. Why I told Brinnard to post men at her tent." He exhaled sharply, his black eyes narrowing at the scene before him. "And now, *this*." His voice dropped lower, his tail curling again as he gestured toward the bloodied floor. "Linzi is gone. *Tartuccio* is caught red-handed, but it's too convenient, too *perfect*. We weren't ready because we didn't think we needed to be." His gaze locked onto Borion, then Gideon. "But that *ring*." His voice was measured, but pressing, a quiet insistence beneath it. "If Crowne was telling the truth, then that ring was meant to activate the moment Linzi was about to die. And if it worked—if it did just that—then where the hell did it take her?" Borion's eyes snapped to him, and Tybalt saw it—the flicker of recognition, the puzzle piece dropping into place. He pressed forward. "We assumed the magic worked. But did it leave a trace? Did it act on its own? Can we track it?" His black eyes turned sharp as flint toward Gideon next. "I know magic isn't my domain, but I do know this—spells leave behind echoes. A tether, a residue, something. That ring had to be tied to *something*. You two are the best at what you do." A pause. "So tell me—where the hell did it take her?" Brinnard Whitewood's jaw tightened as Tybalt spoke, his weathered hands balling into fists at his sides. His eyes, sharp and steady, swept over the scene once more—the blood, the absence, the unsettling precision of it all. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and firm, a blade's edge of controlled fury. "We're wasting time standing here." His gaze flicked to Borion and Gideon, expectant. "If that ring left a trace, find it. If there's a trail, we follow it. *Now*." Then, to Tybalt, his voice like iron. "If Crowne knew this much, what else is he keeping from you?" Gideon nodded to Tybalt and looked to Borion "Start with the obvious, detect magic and see what schools we are working with. Conjuration would suggest the ring works and in the way Tybalt has described, a reverse summoning. I feel illusions would have buckled at this point if they were used, but best to check. Abjuration to see if there are any lingering wards." Gideon's mind began to pick up, putting the question of *who* aside. That was an investigation best left to Tybalt, Max, and Brinn Sr. "Divination. If she was being protected by a goddess there would need to be some level scrying being used. Necromancy? Not likely. Enchantment? Perhaps on the ring itself, might give us thread to search for. Transmutation. Hmmm. No, doesn't fit." Gideon considered the last. "Evocation. If she managed to fight back. " "Borion, thoughts?" Borion's fingers traced the lingering strands of magic in the air, his amethyst eyes narrowing as he focused on the resonance left behind. The energy hummed against his skin—not Conjuration, not Abjuration, but Divination. His brow furrowed, and for a moment, he simply *listened* to the remnants of the spell before letting out a slow breath and letting the magic fade. "Divination," he said, glancing toward Gideon and Tybalt. "No teleportation, no defensive wards—just a scrying signature. Which means the ring worked. It wasn't just a myth or some old collector's trinket—Linzi was pulled away before she could die." He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. "The Enigma Emporium saw a few artifacts like this pass through when I was younger—Nymerian craft, supposedly imbued with divine favor, whisking someone away at the moment of death. I always thought the story was just to increase the price." His lips twitched slightly, though the humor didn't quite reach his eyes. "Guess I was wrong." His gaze flicked to the blood on the floor, and his voice steadied. "Wherever she is, she's alive. We just have to figure out where the ring sent her." *Tartuccio's* yellow eyes narrowed, his grip tightening around his staff as he let out a low, thoughtful grunt. His gaze flicked from Borion to the blood, then back again, his tail curling in consideration. "So the halfling *might* still be alive?" His voice was rough, grating—half skepticism, half reluctant amusement. He tilted his head, claws drumming idly against Vakar's Fang. "Hah. Lucky little thing. Most don't get second chances." His lips curled slightly, something between a smirk and a sneer. "But if she's gone, someone still wanted us to *see* this mess. Which means we're still being played." His eyes darted to Tybalt. "So tell me, rat—what's our next move?" Brinnard crossed his arms, his sharp gaze flicking to Maximus as the automaton spoke. He let out a gruff chuckle, shaking his head. "I like your gumption, Metalman," he rumbled, "but let the magic folk do their tricks first. No sense sending men out blindly, trying to find a child-sized person in this big ass forest, when these lot might be able to point us in the right direction." He jerked his head toward Borion and Gideon. "Let them work. Once we've got a trail, then we move." His fingers flexed at his side, ready. "And when we do, we'll find her fast." Tybalt's tail snapped once against the dirt, his sharp black eyes flicking between Borion, Gideon, and *Tartuccio*, pulling their findings together like threads in a snare. His mind raced, sorting, discarding, connecting. Linzi was alive. But someone had planned for this. He exhaled slowly, crossing his arms, fingers tapping against his sleeve in that quiet, calculating rhythm. "Then we assume two things. One, Linzi is alive. Two, whoever orchestrated this wanted us to react—but not fast enough to catch them." His whiskers twitched as he cast a glance toward the blood pooling across the tent floor. "They left us a mess, but not a message. No ransom. No demands. They wanted confusion. Hesitation. They wanted us off-balance while they got ahead." His gaze snapped to Borion and Gideon. "If it's Divination, that means someone was watching. Is there a way to trace the spell back to its source? A caster strong enough to scry *and* pull her away didn't do this alone. Magic like this doesn't just vanish—it lingers, right?" His fingers tightened against his sleeve. "We need to find the last point of contact. The ring had to have been connected to something. A focus. A plane. A location. You two are the best at what you do—find the thread before it fades." Then, to *Tartuccio*. Tybalt's black eyes narrowed at the *kobold's* smirk, but he didn't rise to the bait. He knew what *Tartuccio* was doing—poking, testing, prodding for weakness. That was fine. He didn't need the *kobold's* reverence—just his results. "You're right. We're being played." His voice was flat, cutting through the torch-lit mist like a blade. "Which means we start playing back." His tail twitched, curling in thought. "If someone wanted us to panic, they planned for our immediate reactions. But what they *can't* plan for is what we learn next." His gaze flicked back to Brinnard. "Lock down Rivermarch. No one leaves, no one enters unless we say so." His tone left no room for argument. "Word of Linzi's disappearance spreads, but only under Okay, let's assemble this harrowing scene, setting it on the 21st of Calistril, 4723 AR, and removing all timestamps and GM notes. **The Bard's Betrayal - 21st of Calistril, 4723 AR** Sleep had always been a fickle thing for Linzi. It came in bursts, in fits of restless dreams woven with half-finished verses and ideas yet to be put to parchment. She always slept light, half-aware of the world beyond her tent flaps—the distant hum of crickets, the low murmur of the night watch, the crackle of the dying fire. But on this night, sleep took her *deep*. Too deep to hear the rustle of fabric. Too deep to sense the whisper of a dagger slipping free of its sheath. Too deep to realize she was not alone— Until the blade **sank into her stomach.** Pain. Immediate, blinding, **soul-rending pain.** Linzi woke with a **gasp** that never made it past her lips, the breath stolen by the sheer shock of the wound. Her body **arched involuntarily**, her hands **instinctively clawing** for the source of the agony, but a force—**a weight, a hand—**shoved her **down.** Her vision blurred with tears. She **couldn't move.** Tartuccio's face loomed above her, his beady little eyes **glittering with triumph**, his lips curling into that same **mocking, smug smirk** she had come to loathe. "Well, well," he murmured, voice like oil, smooth, **poisonous.** His dagger **twisted** in her gut. "Finally, you're quiet." Linzi **choked.** A broken, gasping sound tore from her throat as her whole body **seized.** The pain was unlike anything she had ever known. A **white-hot, twisting agony**, burrowing deep, **spreading outward in waves.** Her breath came in **short, shallow gulps**, her lungs unable to expand past the sheer weight of it. Her hands found the dagger's hilt, her fingers trembling as they tried—**tried so desperately—**to push it away, but she was weak. **So weak.** Tartuccio **laughed softly**, as if amused by the effort. "You never did know when to keep that mouth of yours shut," he whispered. "I suppose I should thank you, though. All those little stories you wrote? All those songs about your grand and noble friends? They'll do wonders for their reputations when you're **dead.**" Linzi's vision swam. The tent walls seemed to **bend and blur**, her body growing **cold**—**so cold.** She couldn't die. Not here. Not like **this.** **Move. Move, Linzi. Do something.** Her mind screamed, but her body was **betraying her**, the weakness creeping into her limbs, her thoughts **scattering like torn pages in the wind.** She had to fight. She had to— The dagger **ripped free.** A fresh **burst of pain** exploded in her core, and Linzi's body **convulsed**, a **gurgling, wheezing sound** forcing its way past her lips. Something **wet splattered onto the sheets beneath her.** Her blood. **Too much.** Tartuccio sighed, as if disappointed that it had taken this long. He wiped the blade on her blanket, the motion **casual, effortless.** "I should go," he mused, almost to himself. "They'll find you soon enough. It would be a shame if you suffered alone for too long." Linzi's fingers twitched. **No.** **No, don't leave me like this.** Her lips parted, but no words came. Her breath hitched, shallow, weak, **unraveling like the final note of a song.** The tent around her **grew distant.** The candlelight flickered. Her vision **swallowed by darkness.** She was **falling.** Pain spiraled outward from Linzi's stomach, radiating through every nerve, darkening her vision as Tartuccio's blade twisted deeper. She felt consciousness fraying at the edges, reality slipping away into nothingness. Her heart thudded weakly, desperate and slow. Then, something inexplicable occurred. A warm, golden light suddenly flared around her, delicate threads of shimmering energy weaving themselves into a luminous cocoon. Confusion mingled with pain—Linzi had no idea what was happening or why. The world around her blurred, Tartuccio's shocked face fading into nothingness. Linzi landed hard against cold stone, gasping for air, disoriented and dizzy. She opened her eyes slowly, battling waves of nausea and confusion. Her hands grasped at smooth, carved marble beneath her, desperate to understand what had just transpired. She found herself lying on an altar within a small, quiet shrine. Moonlight gently filtered through stained glass depicting a songbird in flight—Shelyn's sacred symbol—casting soft colors upon the stone floor. Linzi had no idea how she'd arrived here, no recollection of traveling. One moment she had faced death in her tent; the next, she was here, alone and inexplicably safe. The air around her was peaceful, warm with incense and flowers, carrying a comforting stillness. Linzi tentatively touched the wound at her side, surprised to find the bleeding had slowed, the pain softened to a dull ache. She forced herself upright, trembling and weak. Her mind raced, fear mixing with confusion. Was Rivermarch safe? Who wanted her dead—and why? Her thoughts tangled into a knot of dread. Soft footsteps echoed through the shrine, pulling Linzi sharply from her panicked thoughts. "Peace, child." The voice belonged to an elderly priestess in robes adorned with Shelyn's colors, her eyes gentle with immediate concern. "Oh, dear one, you're hurt. How did you come to be here?" Linzi shook her head slowly, her voice trembling as she responded, "I don't know. I was attacked, and then… something brought me here. I don't understand it." The priestess carefully guided her to a nearby bench, steadying her gently. "You're safe now. Shelyn has guided you to us, child. Rest a moment." As the priestess began to channel soft, healing energies into her, Linzi felt tears prick her eyes. The shrine's gentle calm stood in stark contrast to the violence she had just endured. She felt grateful, confused, and deeply uncertain. Could she return to Rivermarch? Was it safe? And, more terrifyingly, who had orchestrated her assassination? For now, though, in the sanctuary's comforting silence, Linzi allowed herself a moment to breathe, to steady herself. She would find answers, eventually—but first, she needed to survive. Linzi sat alone on the bed within the comforting yet unfamiliar confines of the Shelyn temple. Her fingers traced the edges of the parchment, trembling softly as a single tear slipped down her cheek, staining the crisp paper. The quill shook in her small hand, her heart still racing from the terror of abruptly waking to betrayal—the cold edge of a blade at her throat, wielded by a face she had known. Someone she had never truly called a friend, but had never suspected as an enemy. *How did I survive?* she wondered, her mind spiraling in confusion. *Who brought me here? Did Shelyn herself shield me from death?* The questions looped endlessly, offering no comfort, only deepening her doubt. With a weary sigh, she dipped the quill into the ink once more, attempting to steady herself, desperately seeking to anchor her chaotic thoughts. The gentle glow of candlelight felt distant, cold—as if the warmth of life had been stolen from her entirely. Her eyes, heavy and sore from lack of sleep, refused to close, haunted by vivid images of her near-death and the treachery that had caused it. *Dear stars above the river,* *Tonight my heart's laid bare.* *A face familiar, never friend,* *Yet trust was somehow there.* *How can I find forgiveness,* *For hands not mine to hold?* *Awoken by betrayal,* *In shadows dark and cold.* *No mighty walls protect me,* *No watchman to defend,* *Just echoes that remind me,* *I nearly met my end.* *Stars, guide me through this sorrow,* *Tell me, is courage near?* *Or will each new tomorrow,* *Be stained with doubt and fear?* She placed the quill aside, staring blankly at the candle flame as it danced slowly, mockingly mirroring the turmoil inside her heart. Each time her eyelids began to close, the memory of that cruel blade, the glint of malice in eyes she had known, jolted her awake—leaving her breathless, trembling in the dark. Her body ached desperately for rest, but her mind stubbornly refused, tormented by the mystery of her survival and the lingering dread that the betrayal might come again. *"Sleep,"* she whispered softly to herself, her voice barely audible in the lonely chamber. But sleep was no friend tonight—only a distant wish refusing to grant peace. Her chest tightened as shadows danced menacingly around her, every sound magnified into sinister whispers, each breath a labored effort against the weight of fear pressing down upon her heart. Linzi drew her knees to her chest, hugging herself tightly as though she might break apart otherwise. *Who can I trust now?* The thought twisted painfully within her, sharp and relentless. She stared at the temple walls, unfamiliar and impersonal in the dim light, and shivered. This was supposed to be a place of love and safety—yet she felt none of those comforts now. The world had shifted beneath her, leaving her unsteady and afraid. Slowly, painfully, she forced her eyes shut again, praying silently for just a moment of peace. But as the shadows lengthened and the night wore mercilessly on, Linzi remained awake, silent and vigilant, trapped in the cruel grip of her fears, waiting desperately for dawn's first light to chase away the haunting darkness, if only for a short while.