Father Zantus waited just inside the cathedral as we emerged from the depths. The lines on his face had deepened since this morning, and his voice carried the weight of dread when he asked, "You’ve returned. What did you find?"
Lucian stretched with a sigh, glancing toward me. "Well, cousin? Who do we tell first that Sandpoint might’ve lost something very important?"
I offered Father Zantus a quick, efficient summary—the empty sarcophagus, the remnants of warding symbols, the sense that whatever had once been sealed away had long since fled. I suggested Sheriff Hemlock post guards at the entry to the undercroft, both to prevent townsfolk from wandering down there and to ensure the site remained undisturbed until Brodert Quink could examine it. I stressed that we hadn’t found anything immediately dangerous aside from an old trap, but it was better to be cautious. Zantus thanked me, a haunted look in his eyes, and promised to alert the sheriff.
By the time Lucian and I stepped out into the night air, the weight of what we’d seen was beginning to sink in. I said little on the way back to The Rusty Dragon, my thoughts turning toward preparation rather than rest.
The inn was quieter than the night before. Fewer patrons lingered in the common room, and the conversation was low, subdued. Ameiko met us at the door with a knowing smile.
"Ah, my favorite bookworm and his devilishly handsome cousin. Solved any ancient mysteries tonight?"
"Only one or two," I murmured, accepting the hot meal and cider she handed me.
Lucian collapsed into a nearby chair with a groan. "I, for one, am going to sleep like the dead. No offense, cousin."
But I wasn’t ready for bed just yet.
I approached Ameiko at the bar and asked if she knew of anywhere in town that sold arcane-quality scribing materials. She pointed me to a shop called The Feathered Quill, run by a scribe named Corlan near the market square. She even offered to send someone to check if he was still open, but I declined. It would be faster to go myself.
The streets were quiet as I made my way through the market district. Most lanterns had been snuffed out, but I saw a faint light still burning behind the windows of a narrow shopfront. I knocked, and after a moment, a thin, spectacled man answered—Corlan, the proprietor. He eyed me curiously at first, but when I introduced myself and explained I was working on behalf of Father Zantus and the sheriff, he welcomed me in.
His shop was tidy, lined with parchment, ink, and ledgers. The back shelves contained the good stuff—arcane inks and vellum, sealed with wax and neatly labeled. I told him I needed enough for two scrolls of Mage Armor. He named the price—25 gold, fair and expected—and I paid it without haggling. Reputation mattered in small towns.
"You have a fine shop," I told him as he packaged the materials in a neat leather case. "If our stay here stretches on, I imagine I’ll become a regular."
Corlan looked up with a spark of curiosity in his eyes. "In that case, Master Valerius, let me know if you ever need vellum for more... specialized inscriptions. I have some rarer inks tucked away."
I thanked him and returned to the inn under a starless sky. Lucian was half-dozing when I walked in, and Ameiko smirked from her place behind the bar.
"Back from your scholarly errand? Should I be worried you’ll start turning my tables into a wizard’s tower?"
"Only if you’ve got a spare tower lying around," I said, heading up to my room with the materials tucked under one arm.
Tonight, I would scribe.
The morning passed with quiet purpose. I met with Sheriff Hemlock first, and to his credit, he didn’t argue when I requested guards to secure the entrance beneath the cathedral. He even agreed to send someone to disable the trap Lucian and I had discovered—a welcome precaution. If something had been sealed away down there, I wasn’t keen on letting anyone else stumble into it unprepared.
With the area secured, I brought Brodert Quink down into the ruins. He practically vibrated with excitement as we descended, his eyes wide behind his spectacles. The old scholar wasted no time in examining every inch of the carvings and broken structures, muttering to himself in a mix of Common and Thassilonian. He confirmed my suspicions—this place predated Sandpoint by centuries, likely constructed by the ancient Thassilonians as some form of prison or containment facility. When he said he wanted to stay down there and study for a while, I didn’t argue. Lucian and I had seen what we needed.
While I left Brodert to his work, I sent Lucian back into town to do what he does best: talk. He mingled with the locals again, catching the undercurrent of their mood. The town was recovering, but cautiously. People were grateful the goblins had been driven off, but there was a lingering sense that something was still wrong. Lucian asked around about Nualia, and while no one knew anything definitive, there were whispers. That she had withdrawn before the fire. That she might have been involved with someone. That she had wanted to leave.
I spent the afternoon at the town hall, combing through records. Most of it was dry reading, but there were a few curious details. Nualia had been Father Tobyn’s adopted daughter, raised in the temple, held to high expectations. Around the time of the fire, there were a handful of unexplained disappearances. Nothing anyone had thought to connect to the tragedy. And there was that odd report from a fisherman—that someone had been lurking near the cathedral the night it burned. It wasn’t much, but it added weight to the theory that the fire was no accident.
That evening, Lucian and I returned to The Rusty Dragon. The mood in the common room was subdued but warm. I settled in with a drink, letting my thoughts settle as I watched the flickering firelight. Lucian sprawled in the seat across from me, still energetic despite the long day.
"So, cousin," he asked, resting his arms on the table, "what's the next step in our ever-growing mystery?"
I took a sip from my mug and leaned back. "I think we're at something of a dead end until more information turns up. Maybe Shalelu will return with something useful. Until then, it's waiting and preparation. I know how much you love waiting."
He groaned and muttered something about dying of boredom, but he didn’t argue. We’d stirred the pot enough for one day. Now we just had to wait and see what boiled over next.
It was the third morning after the goblin raid when a stir moved through Sandpoint. I was seated at my usual breakfast table in The Rusty Dragon, sipping tea and working through my notes, when the murmur of conversation reached my ears. Someone had returned. Moments later, Lucian nudged me with his elbow, smirking.
"Sounds like our elven friend is back."
Shalelu Andosana. That meant news.
We left our breakfast behind and headed straight for the garrison, where we found Sheriff Hemlock standing outside, deep in conversation with Shalelu herself. She looked as sharp as ever, lean and precise, but there was a tightness in her expression I didn’t like.
As we approached, she gave me a nod.
"You were right to suspect something bigger was behind the attack."
Lucian muttered beside me, "Well, cousin, here's that boiling pot you were waiting for."
"That's another thing to add to the Not Good list we're compiling," I sighed. "Lucian, what else is on that list?" I turned to Shalelu. "I'm not terribly surprised, but give us everything you discovered. Did you figure out who was behind it?"
Shalelu didn’t mince words.
"I’ve tracked goblin activity for years. They don’t work together. They fight. They squabble. They fall into chaos at the drop of a bone. But now... they’re cooperating. That doesn’t happen unless someone forces it."
I felt that cold certainty settle in my gut. This had never been about a random raid.
"Do you know who?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Not exactly. But I heard them mention a 'longshanks' — a human. Someone powerful enough to unite the tribes. The attacks are no longer random. They're part of a plan."
Lucian let out a low whistle. "A human? Now that is interesting."
Shalelu's eyes met mine. "If they attacked once, they'll attack again. That was just a test. Next time, they'll come for the town."
I nodded slowly. "What goblin tribes are in the area? Which ones are involved that you know of?"
She ticked them off on her fingers.
"The Birdcrunchers, east of town. Least aggressive. The Licktoads, swamp-dwellers in Brinestump Marsh. Firebombs, crude but dangerous. The Seven Tooths, living in Shank’s Wood. Scavengers. The Mosswood Tribe—largest, but disorganized. If they’re in this, someone truly dangerous is in charge. And the Thistletop goblins. Most organized. Dangerous. They’re based in ruins on an island. If there's a leader pulling the strings, they’re likely hiding there."
I turned to Sheriff Hemlock. "Do you have enough guards to repel a concerted attack by the goblins?"
His frown deepened. "No. I’ve got a dozen real guards, and the rest are militia. Good folk, but they're not trained soldiers. We held them off once. If they come in force, we’ll need more than pitchforks and bravery."
"Is Sandpoint under another principality’s protection? Magnimar or Korvosa, perhaps? Might be time to alert them and ask for aid. That’d fall to the Mayor, I assume. We should probably bring her in on this conversation."
Shalelu glanced at me. "The Birdcrunchers haven’t been seen with the others. Could mean they refused. Could mean they were driven off. Either way, they might still be of use."
Lucian leaned against the wall, his gaze thoughtful. "So, cousin—diplomacy, scouting, or straight to the heart of the problem?"
I shook my head. "We can’t decide anything without the Mayor involved. We need her. And Father Zantus, too."
Hemlock agreed. He waved over a nearby guard and sent him to fetch Mayor Deverin. Shalelu offered to bring Father Zantus.
As they left, I stood with Lucian in the quiet before the next step. War was coming. Or something worse.
The main chamber of Sandpoint's town hall had the distinct tension of a place about to decide something important. I sat at the wide wooden table with Lucian beside me, while across from us were Mayor Kendra Deverin, Father Zantus, Sheriff Hemlock, and Shalelu. The expressions on each of their faces ranged from grim to worried, and for good reason.
Shalelu and I laid out what we had learned—about the goblin tribes uniting under a mysterious longshanks, about the Thistletop goblins being the most organized of them, and about the potential for another, larger attack. When we finished, the room fell into silence.
Mayor Deverin was the first to speak, her voice steady but tight. "This is… worse than I feared. Magnimar should answer a request for aid, but whether they send enough to make a difference? That remains to be seen."
She turned to Sheriff Hemlock. "Would you be willing to take the request yourself?"
Hemlock nodded, jaw set. "Yes. If we’re doing this, I want to be there in person to make our case."
"Then it’s settled," the Mayor said. "I’ll draft the formal request. Hemlock, you leave at first light."
Father Zantus leaned forward. "And what of Sandpoint in the meantime? If the goblins strike again before help arrives, we may not be able to stop them."
"That’s why I suggest we scout the Thistletop goblins and the Birdcrunchers," Shalelu added, arms crossed. "If we can get a better sense of their numbers—or even weaken them—we might stand a chance."
She looked directly at me. "What do you think?"
"If you're willing to hear suggestions," I said, turning to the Mayor and Sheriff, "I have a couple. First, send extra funds with Sheriff Hemlock. If Magnimar can’t or won’t help, hire mercenaries. A big city like that has swords for sale. Second, notify the local Pathfinder Lodge about the Thassilonian ruins beneath the cathedral. Give them permission to investigate. If they send agents, they’ll defend themselves should an attack come. That helps Sandpoint, whether they mean to or not."
The Mayor considered that, then gave a tight nod. "Mercenaries we can do. I’ll send funds with Hemlock. As for the Pathfinders… they dig up trouble more often than they solve it, but you make a fair point. I’ll send word."
Shalelu smirked at my next comment. "I think checking out the Birdcrunchers is wise," I said. "But I have to warn you, I’m a terrible scout. I’m clumsy, I can’t ride a horse to save my life, and I couldn’t sneak up on someone if they were three days dead."
"Good," Shalelu said. "I need a negotiator, not a scout. The Birdcrunchers might be the only tribe not working with the others. If they’re independent, there’s a reason. And if they’re willing to talk, you might be able to convince them to help."
"Then let’s bring something to trade," I said. "A few samples of shortswords, short spears, maybe a couple of crossbows. Better than what they have, but not so much it looks desperate. Just good faith. If that works, we can negotiate further. Maybe hunting rights or trade. Baby steps."
Mayor Deverin agreed. "Safe hunting grounds, weapons, maybe some food—those are things goblins understand. If they can be turned into informants or even allies, that could tip the balance."
Hemlock sent a guard to fetch the weapons while Shalelu checked her bow and Lucian packed our travel gear. It wasn’t the kind of alliance I ever thought I’d be negotiating, but if Sandpoint was going to survive, we had to be creative.
When the guard returned with a canvas bundle of weapons, Hemlock handed them to me with a look that said everything.
"Be careful," he said. "Goblins aren’t known for loyalty. Or patience."
"Neither am I... well, I'm not patient." I said, slinging the bundle over my shoulder. "Let’s hope they’re in a cooperative mood."