I woke to the scent of spiced tea and fresh bread. Morning light filtered through the wooden shutters of my room at The Rusty Dragon, golden and warm. For a fleeting moment, it was easy to imagine the previous day had been nothing more than a strange dream.

But then the aches set in—muscles tired from running and spellcasting, smoke lingering in my nose, and the grim memory of Father Tobyn's stolen remains.

Outside, the sounds of hammering and shouted instructions floated up from the street. Sandpoint was licking its wounds, and the work of rebuilding had already begun.

Lucian was already dressed, leaning in the doorway with a steaming mug in hand and his usual infuriating grin.

"Good morning, scholar. Ready to dig into the mystery of why exactly someone wanted a dead priest?"

I groaned and rolled out of bed, accepting the mug gratefully. "May the gods bless you. Perhaps you aren’t a worthless layabout after all."

He raised his eyebrows in mock offense.

I took a long sniff of the tea and sighed in contentment. "Head on down to breakfast. I’ll join you in a moment. Don’t eat everything."

Once Lucian left, I took time to clean myself up and then sat cross-legged on the floor to memorize my spells. The familiar ritual grounded me, pulling clarity from the chaos of yesterday.

With my spellwork done and stomach rumbling insistently, I descended to the common room.

Lucian was already halfway through a plate of eggs and roasted potatoes, but had—miraculously—not eaten everything. Ameiko was busy behind the bar, but she dropped a fresh plate in front of me with a smirk.

"Figured you’d be up soon. After yesterday, you’ve earned a proper meal."

I gave her a grateful nod and tucked in immediately, eating with gusto. After several long bites and a much-needed drink, I finally looked up.

"I'm thinking we look into the town records first," I said between sips of tea. "Then head over to talk to the resident scholar. It’s still early, and I don’t want to show up at Master Quink’s door while he’s still asleep."

Lucian leaned back in his chair, tearing off a piece of bread. "Town records. Exciting. Truly, this is the life of high adventure."

I smirked. "I know the idea fills you with excitement and anticipation, but maybe we’d be better served splitting up. You could talk to the townsfolk, see how they’re doing, maybe tease out some information on the fire, Father Tobyn, or Nualia."

Lucian raised his mug in salute. "Charming rogue it is, then. I’ll see what I can learn."

I glanced around the common room as I finished my meal. The mood was subdued, but not grim. People were eating quietly, checking in on neighbors, exchanging rumors. Despite the destruction, Sandpoint had survived.

We would begin piecing together the truth today—one clue at a time.

Sandpoint’s Town Hall rose before me like a stone sentinel, tall and resolute, a reminder that the town still stood after the chaos of the goblin raid. I stepped through its open doors into the spacious main chamber, where the rustle of parchment and soft murmurs of clerks echoed beneath the high ceiling. People moved with quiet purpose among desks and ledgers.

At the center sat Orik Tranth—tall, thin, hunched over a ledger, his fingers stained with ink and spectacles resting low on his nose. He glanced up at my approach, squinting.

"Ah, one of our new local heroes. Cassian, wasn’t it?" he said, closing his ledger. "Surely you’re not here to file an official report on goblin fatalities?"

I offered him a tired smile. "Just doing a little investigation for the Mayor and Sheriff, Master Tranth. I need to see the town records from around the time of the fire that burned down the original cathedral. And anything you have on Father Tobyn and his ward, Nualia."

Orik’s expression turned more serious, and he stood with a sigh. "The fire, Father Tobyn, and Nualia, eh? That was a dark time for Sandpoint. Come with me. We keep our records organized by year. Everything we have should be in the archive room."

He led me into a dim, cool chamber that smelled of dust and ink—an archivist’s domain. Shelves groaned under the weight of labeled volumes, and Orik selected several without hesitation, setting them before me on a broad reading table.

I sat down, cracked open the volume on the fire, and began to read.

The blaze had struck five years ago, the night before the Swallowtail Festival. Eerily similar timing to yesterday’s goblin raid. The cathedral burned fast—unnaturally fast. The official report called it accidental, but I could feel the doubt between the lines of the scribe’s careful script.

The death toll was short but grim: Father Tobyn confirmed dead. His adopted daughter Nualia—presumed dead, but no remains ever recovered. Only her father's.

That stood out. Someone, years ago, had even underlined it faintly in the margin.

In the witness accounts, I saw repeated mention of how quickly the fire had spread. Stone and timber alike had been consumed with terrifying speed. Some reported seeing strange figures moving in the shadows near the cathedral that night—shapeless and silent. No one had been able to confirm their presence.

Names caught my eye—Father Zantus, a junior priest at the time, had escaped the blaze. Ameiko Kaijitsu had been nearby. And then there was Alder Vhiski, a Varisian trader, who claimed to have seen movement near the church just before the flames rose.

I turned to Father Tobyn’s registry. He had been stern, devout, respected. No signs of controversy. No enemies. Nothing that would explain why someone would steal his bones.

Then came Nualia’s records.

Abandoned on the cathedral steps, raised by Tobyn, silver-haired and celestial-marked—likely an Aasimar. The town adored her, called her blessed. But that kind of worship could become a cage.

As she aged, she withdrew. Some described her as troubled. One note mentioned she might have been seeing someone in secret before the fire. Whatever had been building inside her, it was never resolved. The fire ended everything. Or so we thought.

I closed the last ledger slowly, the weight of it heavy in my hands. The fire hadn’t been natural. Nualia’s body had never been found. And now, someone had come back for her father’s bones.

Something had taken root in Sandpoint’s past. And now, five years later, it was reaching out again.

After finishing his work in the town hall archives, I left the ledgers behind and made my way down to the front office, where Orik Tranth was already back to furiously scribbling into some new ledger. "Could you point me in the direction of Alder Vhiski?" I asked. "I have some questions for him. Also, if my cousin Lucian shows up looking for me, could you send him that direction?"

Orik looked up from his work with a furrowed brow and a faint sigh. "Alder Vhiski, huh?" he muttered. "He’s a Varisian trader—one of the Vhiskis. His brother’s the troublemaker. Alder’s just a drunk, mostly harmless. Talkative, if you catch him right."

He scribbled something on a scrap of parchment and handed it over. "Try The Hagfish. He practically lives there."

The Hagfish was all salt and smoke and laughter, perched on stilts over the water and teeming with the stink of fish, ale, and too many unwashed patrons. I pushed through the door and scanned the dim interior. Sailors bellowed over dice games, a red-faced man tried—and failed—to stomach a tankard of the bar's infamous tank water, and the general din made The Rusty Dragon seem like a noble estate.

In a dark corner sat Alder Vhiski, nursing a tankard and looking as though he hadn’t slept well in a week. His face was lean, weathered, and vaguely resentful. A few other Varisians sat nearby, engrossed in their own banter. He looked like a man not eager for company.

I approached the bar. "Give me a tankard of whatever he’s having," I said, nodding toward Vhiski. Drink in hand, I crossed the room, slid the tankard onto his table, and took the seat across from him.

"Have the next round on me, Master Vhiski," I said evenly. "My name’s Cassian. I’m looking into some things for the Mayor regarding the attack yesterday. I had some questions, if you don’t mind talking a bit."

He eyed me for a long moment, silent, evaluating. Then, finally, he reached for the drink and took a long pull.

"Cassian, huh? You’re one of them out-of-towners helped fight the little green bastards?"

I didn’t answer. He didn’t need me to.

"Alright," he muttered. "You’ve got questions. Ask. Let’s make it quick."

I leaned back in my chair. "I'm more interested in older fires than yesterday’s. The one that burned down the original cathedral. Town records said you were a witness. I'd like to know what you saw."

He hesitated, swirling his drink. "You’re digging up old ghosts, boy." But he took another drink and set the tankard down with a quiet clunk. "Fine. You bought me a drink. Maybe it’s time someone else heard it."

He told me he’d been walking home late, streets quiet, festival preparations underway. That’s when he saw them—figures near the cathedral. Tall, too tall for goblins. Shadowy, precise, moving with the kind of purpose that didn’t belong in a drunkard’s imagination. Then he heard whispers—low and fast, words that didn’t sound like any language he knew. Not Taldane. Not Varisian. Not anything.

"It felt old," he said. "Like something waking up after a long sleep."

He leaned forward, voice dropping. "Then the fire started. And one of ‘em, the tallest, just stood there. Watching the cathedral burn. Like they were proud of it. The rest vanished."

I let the silence stretch a moment. Then I asked, "These whispers... anything specific? Any faces?"

He shook his head. "Nothing I could understand. Just the rhythm. A chant, almost. And no faces. Just shadows. But that tall one... they didn’t run."

I stood and extended a hand. He took it, his grip firm. I left a gold coin on the table beside his mug.

"For your time," I said. "Have something better than that next round."

He stared at the coin, then at me. Finally, he nodded. "You dig up more ghosts, Cassian—just don’t let them pull you under."

I stepped out into the street, the door of The Hagfish swinging shut behind me, the noise receding into the salt-heavy air of Sandpoint's docks. Time to find Lucian.

I made my way back toward the market square, the soft clatter of hammers and the creak of wheelbarrows echoing through the air as Sandpoint's people set about repairing what the goblins had torn down. The smell of smoke still lingered faintly, mixed now with the earthy scent of sawdust and fresh lumber. Amid the bustle, I spotted Lucian leaning casually against a post near a stone bench, charming a young Varisian woman with one hand on his belt and the other gesturing animatedly. She laughed at something he said, and I didn’t even have to call out—Lucian caught sight of me first.

With a rakish grin and a parting bow, he murmured something to the girl that earned another soft laugh before he turned and strode toward me. “Ah, cousin! Just in time. I was about to uncover a groundbreaking revelation regarding Sandpoint’s ale selection, but I suppose I can be pulled away for more serious matters.”

He fell into step beside me, his grin fading slightly as he studied my face. “Judging by your look, you’ve got something. So, what did you dig up from the land of parchment and very serious men?”

I gave him a dry look. “I’d avoid The Hagfish if I were you. Whatever they serve comes from the same place hope goes to die.”

I gave Lucian the full breakdown—my research at the town hall, the details of the fire, and my conversation with Alder Vhiski. When I got to the part about shadowy figures, whispering voices, and the lone watcher who didn’t run when the flames erupted, Lucian’s smirk faded entirely.

“That’s… unsettling,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Shadows lurking the night of the fire? Ritualistic chanting? Someone standing there, watching the place burn? That doesn’t sound like some random accident.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Now you’re catching on.”

Lucian exhaled and leaned against a nearby post. “Well, I’ve got news of my own. Spent the morning talking to anyone not busy boarding up their shop. People around here remember Nualia, but they don’t all agree on what she was. Some thought she was a saint. Others say she brought bad luck like a storm cloud.”

I nodded. “That tracks with what I read. She was burdened by all the town’s expectations.”

Lucian continued, “There were rumors she was acting strange before the fire—keeping to herself, skipping church, not helping with the festival. A few people said she was seeing someone. No one could name the suitor.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “But the strangest part? One fisherman swore he saw markings carved into the stone after the fire. Symbols. Like someone left a message in the wreckage.”

My brows furrowed. “And no one followed up on it?”

Lucian shrugged. “No one wanted to. People want to believe it was an accident. Believing otherwise means someone local—someone they knew—might’ve started it.”

He met my gaze. “And if that someone just stole Father Tobyn’s bones? That means this isn’t over.”

I exhaled, folding my arms. “Let’s put off the historian for the moment. I think we need to find the Sheriff.”

Lucian raised an eyebrow. “Going straight to the source?”

“I want to know what Hemlock really thinks about the fire,” I said. “Not just the official line.”

And with that, the two of us turned, striding toward the heart of Sandpoint to find the one man who might finally shed light on the darkest chapter of the town’s past.

Lucian and I made our way toward the Sandpoint Garrison, a squat stone building on the western edge of town. The air was filled with the hammering of repairs and the murmur of anxious voices—Sandpoint, for all its resilience, still bore the wounds of yesterday’s goblin raid.

Outside the Garrison, Sheriff Belor Hemlock stood with two guards, listening intently as one of them spoke of increased patrols along the northern roads. He looked tired—more than tired, worn. As we approached, Hemlock dismissed the guards with a nod, then turned to us.

"If you two are here to make my life easier, I’ll be pleasantly surprised," he said dryly, folding his arms.

I offered my hand. "Good to see you, Sheriff. I assure you I'm not here to make your life more difficult. I can't promise it won't happen anyway, but it won't be on purpose."

That earned the faintest smirk from Hemlock as he shook my hand.

I took a breath, choosing my words with care. "I've looked at the official records, and I’ve spoken to a witness—Alder Vhiski—about the fire that killed Father Tobyn. I know what the official line says. But I’d like to know what *you* think. Especially if it differs. I'm not trying to stir up old pain, but I believe the fire and last night’s raid are connected. And if I’m right, it might be important."

The sheriff studied me for a moment, weighing my words. Then he nodded toward the Garrison. "Let’s not have this conversation in the street."

Inside, the Garrison was cool and quiet, the stone walls muffling the sounds of the street. Hemlock led us to his office, a simple space filled with maps, reports, and the smell of old leather. He closed the door and leaned back against his desk.

"I knew someone would start asking these questions eventually," he said. "I just didn’t expect it to be an out-of-town wizard and his charmingly insufferable cousin."

Lucian offered a bow. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Sheriff."

Hemlock ignored him and looked straight at me. "You want the truth? Fine. I never believed that fire was an accident."

He folded his arms, voice low.

"It spread too fast. Too hot. That place went up like it had been waiting to burn. People needed to believe it was a freak event—something simple. We had no proof to say otherwise."

He hesitated.

"But I always suspected someone set it deliberately. Not just to burn the cathedral, but to destroy everything in it. And I think Nualia was at the center of it."

My brow furrowed. "You think she started it?"

Hemlock shrugged. "I don’t know. People liked to see her as a gift from the gods, but she was a girl—troubled, from what I remember. There were rumors that she was seeing someone in secret. No one knew who. A lot of things stopped adding up right before the fire."

I nodded slowly. "And the markings? Carved symbols in the wreckage—did you ever hear about those?"

Hemlock’s eyes sharpened. "No. That’s the first I’ve heard of it. If that’s true, I want to know why it wasn’t in the report. Someone kept that quiet. Or missed it entirely."

He leaned forward.

"Keep asking questions, Cassian. We’ve lived under the shadow of that fire for five years. If something’s coming back to finish what it started—I want to be ready."

I nodded once. "So do I."

The past wasn’t finished with Sandpoint. But neither was I.