Too Many Goodbyes

Dear Diary,
 
Another night approached, leaving us sprawled across the rough benches of the Southroad Tavern's common room. The exorbitant price of our rooms still stung (seriously, sixteen gold for a room that smelled faintly like mildew? Highway robbery!), but at least we had a roof over our heads and a full belly (thanks to the unexpected cake windfall).
 
However, that dessert couldn't erase the unsettling feeling that had settled in our stomachs like a particularly stubborn pebble. Those shifty newcomers, with their secretive glances and their incriminating flyer… the words "Freehold Guild" echoed ominously in our minds. A quick history lesson from yours truly (because apparently, remembering stuff is a valuable skill) brought back the nasty business with the guilds a hundred years ago. Seems they tried to overthrow the king, a power move that didn't exactly go over well with the knightly crowd. Revolution quelled, guilds banned, associations squashed like week-old bread – the whole mess. Even magic users had to walk on eggshells, their academies and grand mage unions a thing of the past. The king wasn't taking any chances of another rebellion. Which explained the whole "magical items are illegal unless you're a knight" thing.
 
So, here we were, a ragtag bunch of adventurers with pockets full of contraband (well, some of us anyway). Alistan suggested just handing them over at the city gate and hoping for the best. Easy come, easy go, right? Me, not being a big fan of the idea, proposed stashing them back at the inn. Maybe they offered a cloakroom service for potentially illegal magical artifacts? Liliana decided to put the question directly to Brok, the friendly innkeeper.
 
Brok, however, seemed as clueless about magical item storage as a fish out of water. Apparently, magical items weren't exactly a dime a dozen around here (shocking, I know). The whole "banned" thing had inflated the black market prices to a ridiculous degree, making them more expensive than a pet dragon (and probably half as cuddly). Selling them was an option, though the thought of parting with our hard-won items left most of us uneasy, especially Gael whose magical bow was literally made from the body of his life-long friend.
 
Luckily, Brok, touched perhaps by our wide-eyed desperation (or maybe just the promise of a few extra coins), offered a solution. He could stash them in the inn's basement – a temporary haven for our potentially troublesome trinkets. As long as our stay was short, it seemed like a decent option. The jury was still out on whether the damp basement would be safe from wandering hands. With a sigh, we decided to sleep on it (metaphorically again – the lumpy beds in this place wouldn't exactly inspire restful slumber). Who knew that our arrival in Keralon would be so… complicated?
 
Exhaustion finally won the battle, and we retreated to our respective rooms. My sister and I shared a cramped space, the thin walls doing little to muffle the sounds of snoring from rooms around us. Thankfully, the Collins siblings and Gael and Dorr had managed to snag rooms of their own, their weary faces a testament to the long journey.
 
Sleep, however, proved to be a fickle friend. Liliana, our resident light sleeper, bolted upright in the dead of night, jolted awake by the sounds of a heated argument. Apparently, the six suspicious figures were having a particularly loud disagreement in their room. Like a sleep-deprived knight charging into battle, Liliana roused everyone around her (thankfully, I was blissfully unaware of the drama until later). Dadroz, Alistan, and a bleary-eyed Liliana marched into the common room, determined to restore some semblance of peace. Alistan, ever the diplomat (or maybe just the one least likely to get punched), politely requested that they take their scheming down a notch. One of the men, however, wasn't exactly receptive. He puffed out his chest and snarled at Alistan to mind his own business. A tense standoff ensued, the air thick with hostility. Alistan tried to defuse the situation, suggesting they all hit the hay before things got out of hand. Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed, and the argument eventually fizzled out.
 
But the night wasn't over yet. A pungent odor, acrid and unmistakable, yanked us all out of our slumber. It was the unmistakable smell of smoke. Alistan’s voice cracking with panic as he yelled "Fire!" Liliana, still half asleep, mumbled something about fire being bad, her brain clearly not operating at full capacity.
 
The commotion brought the rest of the group scrambling to their feet. Hayley emerged from our room, and I, startled awake by the noise, stumbled out into the hallway. There, Dadroz was in the process of picking a lock, his face grim. He pushed open the door, revealing the smoldering aftermath of the argument. The six suspicious men were nowhere to be seen, but their parting message was etched into the wall – the words "Death to the Usurper King" burned black against the wood.
 
Brok, the innkeeper, materialized out of nowhere, his booming voice echoing through the smoke-filled room. Alistan showed him the burn marks, prompting a string of colorful curses from Brok. Apparently, he'd suspected the men were trouble from the get-go, and "vandals" didn't quite capture the severity of the situation. He bustled around, flinging open windows to clear the air and dabbing at the burn marks with a damp cloth (a frantic attempt at preventing a full-blown fire). Muttering reassurances about the fire hazard being under control, he shooed us back to bed, a hint of grudging respect in his voice for Alistan's quick thinking. Sleep, once again, seemed like a distant dream, replaced by a nagging sense of unease. Somehow trouble seems to keep following us…
 
Sleep, that elusive temptress, finally graced us with a few precious hours after the smoke-filled fiasco. Waking up, however, wasn't exactly a walk in the park. Alistan resembled a particularly haggard owl, his eyes puffy and his hair sticking out at odd angles. Bless his valiant heart, the smoke incident had clearly taken its toll. I urged him to catch some more shut-eye, but the man was a whirlwind of misplaced energy, insisting he was "too busy" to nap. Busy with what, I wasn't sure, but arguing seemed pointless. Maybe he was channeling his nervousness about entering the city into a flurry of non-existent tasks.
 
The burning message on the tavern wall, a cryptic accusation of a "usurper king," gnawed at our minds. Sure, a secret guild rebellion wouldn't exactly win them any popularity points with the current king, but the whole "usurper" bit threw a wrench into the theory. Keralon, as far as I knew, hadn't exactly been through a royal family drama recently. No deposed princes, no vengeful cousins plotting a comeback tour – just the same old royal lineage. It was a puzzling addition to the whole "rebellious guild" equation.
 
With a resigned sigh, we tackled the issue of our magical contraband. Brok, the innkeeper, emerged as an unlikely hero in this particular saga. He offered to stash our items in the inn's basement for a small fee – a silver piece a day. Considering the potential consequences of getting caught with them at the city gate (confiscation, imprisonment, maybe even a stern lecture on the importance of following the rules), a silver a day seemed like a steal. Besides, stealing our magical goodies would probably earn Brok a whole lot less than the lost trust and potential bad rap from a band of disgruntled adventurers. Win-win, right?
 
Brok led us down a rickety staircase into the depths of the inn. The air grew colder, the musty scent of damp earth filling our nostrils. Finally, we reached the "storage unit" – a crate overflowing with… potatoes. Yep, potatoes. Apparently, these were Brok's prized winter stash, and with a mischievous glint in his eye, he declared them the perfect hiding place for our magical trinkets. He even went the extra mile and marked the crate with a special symbol. Our Immerglade stones and magical artifacts would hopefully be safe and sound (and not sprouting eyes in the potatoey darkness).
 
With our secret stash secure, it was time to face the city gates. The queue stretched out before us like a slow-moving serpent, a motley crew of hopeful travelers eager to enter the fabled Keralon. Hayley noticed the guards scrutinizing travellers with a strange crystal – a magic detector, no doubt. Not wanting to part ways with her trusty magical dagger just yet, she hatched a cunning plan. Fiachna, her raven familiar, soared into the sky, the dagger securely fastened to his leg. A brilliant (and slightly unorthodox) way to bypass the magic check.
 
There were two gates leading into the city: Southbank and Newtown. Alistan declared we needed to reach Northwall, a completely different direction altogether. Thankfully, a kind stranger pointed us towards the Southbank gate, a bustling hub of activity. The queue moved at a decent pace, the guards efficient in their checks. A cursory glance at us, a muttered "next," and we were through the gate, officially citizens (or at least temporary residents) of Keralon. No magical item meltdowns, no accusations of treason – just us, a little lighter in the backpack department, and a whole lot more curious about what awaited us within the city walls.
 
We spilled out of the Southbank gate blinking in the sunlight, Keralon sprawling before us like a giant, bustling beast. Our first stop? A chaotic, cacophonous "caravanserai." Think a marketplace on steroids – merchants hawking their wares, caravan guards looking perpetually grumpy, managers barking orders, and enough paperwork fluttering around to make a paper airplane enthusiast weep with joy. It was a sensory overload in the best (or maybe worst) way possible.
 
A towering structure, its windows gleaming like watchful eyes, stood sentinel beside the gate. Figures in flowing robes milled about, clutching scrolls and books – mages, I had hoped. A grand bridge, elegantly arched, stretched across the River Lorerun, a silver ribbon snaking through the city. Apartment blocks, imposing and boxy, lined the streets, offering a glimpse of city life for those who couldn't afford a better life further into the sprawling metropolis.
 
Alistan approached the guards about a patrol to Logvale. The guard, bless his weary heart, just sighed and pointed him towards some distant barracks in the "Northwall" district. Then, with a not-so-subtle shooing motion, he urged us to move along – apparently, city gates weren't meant for extended chit-chat.
 
Curiosity piqued, I wandered towards the tower. A large sign proclaimed it to be the "Trade Register." Intriguing. Stopping a seemingly knowledgeable passerby, I inquired about the place. Turns out, it was a library, but not just any library – a treasure trove of trading records, apparently a very important thing in these parts. Interesting, sure, but not exactly the magical academy overflowing with spell-wielding wizards I'd been dreaming of. I bid the stranger farewell as he shook his head mumbling about tourists.
 
Returning to the group, I found them in a mild state of disarray. Liliana, the free spirit, had vanished like a wisp of smoke. A panicked shout of her name from Alistan and a frantic search later, Dadroz, our resident tracker, unearthed her from the throng. The sheer size and bustle of the city seemed to have overwhelmed her, poor thing. A metropolis, it turned out, was a far cry from the quiet village life we were all used to. Guess we had some adjusting to do.
 
Deciding to head for the city center, we made our way towards the colossal bridge that spanned the Lorerun River. The sheer size of it was jaw-dropping – a majestic archway heaving with the weight of countless carts and pedestrians. Below, a bustling flotilla of boats weaved its way up and down the river, the water reflecting the city's vibrant energy. Docks lined the banks, a testament to Keralon's bustling trade scene.
 
As we neared the bridge, a voice, high-pitched and inquisitive, cut through the city's hum. A girl, no older than fourteen, with short, messy hair and clothes held together with more patches than fabric, appeared beside us. "New in town?" she chirped, her eyes gleaming with an almost predatory glint. "Need a guide? I can take you anywhere!"
 
Liliana, ever the social butterfly (and admittedly a little overwhelmed by the city's sprawl), readily agreed. Our destination, the barracks in Northwall, was duly mentioned, and a silver coin exchanged hands. With our makeshift guide leading the way, we embarked on our journey across the bridge.
 
The bridge itself was a marvel. Carts rumbled by, their drivers barking orders and dodging pedestrians with impressive skill. Below, boats bobbed on the water. The far side of the river offered a stark contrast to the rough-and-tumble chaos of the Southbank district. Trimmed hedges bordered meticulously manicured lawns, and grand mansions, their facades gleaming in the sunlight, lined the streets. This, we gathered, was the "Truesilver" district – a place where our guide, with her patched-up attire, was clearly not welcome.
 
"They don't like my kind over there," she mumbled, leading us through a maze of narrow alleys that snaked through the "Canalside" district. This area, unlike its posh neighbor, was all business. Warehouses replaced mansions, their occupants merchants clad in practical clothing rather than fancy silks. The streets were a labyrinth of twists and turns, and while Liliana and I tried our best to keep track of our location, it was clear our "guide" wasn't exactly taking the most direct route.
 
"Uh, excuse me," Liliana piped up, her voice laced with growing suspicion, "but why all the zig-zagging? Can't we just walk straight there?"
 
Our guide, her face an innocent mask, shrugged. "This is just how Canalside is built, miss."
 
Liliana's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, right," she muttered under her breath. "Look, we appreciate the help, but can we take a more direct route?" Her voice, usually light and friendly, had taken on a steely edge. "Or are we being led into an ambush?" she hissed, her hand instinctively reaching for her sword.
 
The poor girl, overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events, bolted down the street. Alistan sputtered, "Great! Now we are lost without a guide", as he took in the winding streets of the dense city.
 
Thankfully, Hayley stepped in. A quick muttered spell, a wave of her hand, and our guide toppled over in her flight. Sleep, the great equalizer, had descended upon her.
 
A few moments later, we woke her up, the situation a complete mess (with Alistan's profuse apologies and Liliana's mumbled "not my fault"). Hayley, her voice a low whisper laced with magic, gave the girl clear instructions: lead us to the barracks, the most direct way possible. The girl, her eyes glazed over, nodded numbly and set off again. This time, she led us along the canal, its murky water reflecting the bustling city life above. Finally, she brought us to a large, imposing fort. "Barracks," she mumbled, the sleep spell wearing off, and bolted like a startled rabbit. I am not sure how I feel about my sister’s reliance on mind control magic in this situation, and I did feel quite sorry for the girl. That being said, it was efficient.
 
We took in the sight of the barracks, a hulking structure that looked like it could withstand a dragon attack (or at least a particularly grumpy troll). The gate stood open, guarded by two knights who looked about as cheerful as a wet sock. Hayley, drawn to the siren song of a good market stall, wandered off in search of something more appealing than rations, while Alistan tried to get everything sorted to send aid to Logvale. He approached the guards, a nervous smile plastered on his face, and after a series of hand gestures and confused glances, managed to extract directions on how to request a patrol.
 
Inside the fort, a large hall awaited us, bustling with activity. Offices lined the walls, each one presumably containing another stern-faced guard ready to dispense information and aid (or lack thereof). Alistan launched into a dramatic retelling of the Logvale situation – the strange mists, the fey attacks, the whole shebang. Gael chimed in, adding the chilling detail of our petrified travel companion. Their pleas for a knightly patrol to investigate seemed to hit the right note – the guard, while not exactly cracking a wide smile, at least seemed to understand the urgency.
 
However, curiosity, it seemed, was a two-way street. The guard, in turn, inquired about our travels. Liliana and Alistan, with a sheepish grin and a touch of creative license, explained that we'd managed to traverse some "shortcuts" through the Feywild. Our place of origin, Tarn, also drew some scrutiny. The guard, after a long, hard look at a map to find all these places we were mentioning, finally grunted out a welcome to Keralon.
 
Gael then expressed his desire to join the aforementioned patrol. The guard, clearly not the one responsible for such decisions, simply asked for our lodging arrangements (gotta check with the bosses first and then send a notification, you know, protocol and all). We rattled off the addresses – the fancy De la Roost manor for some of us, another posh noble manor for Edward and Elsa (living the high life, those two). We also inquired about our poor abandoned carriage and horses. The guard, surprisingly helpful considering his initial stoicism, mentioned that if Gael did indeed join the patrol, retrieving our belongings might be a possibility.
 
Finally, the guard launched into a rapid-fire rundown of Keralon's "dos and don'ts." No magical items within the city walls unless you had a shiny knight badge, no fancy family symbols or guild affiliations (those pesky guilds were apparently still a sore spot), and absolutely no crime of any kind (stealing, murder, the usual suspects). He even threw in a tidbit about challenging people to duels – apparently, that was a knight-only privilege. Should any disputes arise, though, we were free to seek assistance from the guards or one of the knight orders (helpful, if a tad intimidating).
 
Alistan, never one to miss an opportunity, inquired about the nearest temple (our amnesiac friend was in desperate need of some divine intervention). The guard, pointing a finger towards a specific direction, directed us towards the Solemn district. But before we journeyed there, our band was slowly disbanding.
 
Bidding farewell was an emotional rollercoaster. Edward and Elsa, our noble companions, said their goodbyes with a flourish. Edward offered a handshake and a promise of future encounters (apparently, staying in the city was a shared goal). Elsa, the picture of elegance, doled out hugs that were surprisingly warm, leaving me breathless and blushing. Dorr, the dreugar with a heart of questionable gold, also decided to part ways. A parting jab about "not hunting down his companions" (referencing the rather unfortunate Hillfield incident) earned him a playful threat from Liliana (who promised no murderous retribution as long as Dorr stayed on the straight and narrow). Alistan echoed the sentiment with a teasing "no promises," and we all shared a laugh, the tension momentarily broken. With a final wave goodbye, they disappeared into the bustling city.
 
Following the canal's gentle curve, we arrived at an island that seemed trapped in a perpetual state of twilight. The buildings, adorned with gargoyles that looked more grumpy than decorative, exuded a somber air. Guards stood at the bridge, their uniforms adorned with unfamiliar symbols that offered no clues about their allegiance. Liliana approached them with a question: where could we find help for our amnesiac friend? Thankfully, they pointed us in the right direction, steering us away from the imposing edifice that turned out to be a "house of the dead" (not exactly the cheery atmosphere we were looking for) and towards a much more promising destination – the grand temple of Belenus.
 
The temple itself was a sight to behold. Gleaming walls soared towards the sky, and the large, stained-glass windows cast a kaleidoscope of colors across the interior. Stepping inside, we were met with a reverent hush, the only sounds the soft murmur of prayers and the rhythmic chanting from a hidden chamber. Liliana approached a robed figure – a cleric of Belenus, as it turned out. Explaining our predicament, she requested his help in restoring our amnesiac friend's memories.
 
The cleric, a kindly man with a gentle smile, ushered us to a bench and set to work. Three spells he cast, his brow furrowing with each muttered incantation. Finally, he shook his head, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. "No magical curse, no lingering disease," he explained, "at least, nothing within my power to cure."
 
Liliana, undeterred, pressed on. "Is there someone… higher up? A high priest, perhaps?" The cleric, looking slightly offended, explained their flat organizational structure – no hierarchy, no grand pooh-bahs to escalate to. "And my healing skills are some of the best," he added defensively, a hint of pride flickering in his eyes.
 
A heavy sigh escaped our amnesiac friend. Resignation flickered in his eyes, yet he seemed determined to make what he could of his new life. A name, however, was needed. Alistan suggested "Feyris," after the saint of the Tree. The cleric, seeing an opportunity, chimed in with an offer. He could help Feyris (our newly christened amnesiac friend) find a job – not within the temple walls, but perhaps with one of the patrons who frequented the services. Feyris, eager to start anew, readily agreed. Thanking us for a week of unexpected companionship (and a healthy dose of near-death experiences), he promised to find a way to repay us someday. Liliana and Alistan insisted it wasn't necessary. With a final farewell and a heartfelt wish for good luck, Feyris departed, leaving us with only our small band.
 
We finally reached the De la Roost manor, Liliana and Alistan’s home away from home in the posh Northwall district. It wasn't far from the market where Hayley, bless her always-hungry soul, had procured some pre-adventure sustenance. The house itself wasn't bad – a decent view of the canal (albeit slightly marred by the looming mausoleum across the water), and a faint aroma of coffee wafting through the air (promising, very promising).
 
Liliana practically burst through the door, her eyes scanning the room for her elusive eldest brother. The interior was surprisingly cozy – a small library to the side with two overflowing bookshelves flanked a sitting area. Curled up on a pillow next to a plush armchair, a dog the size of a small pony (seriously, that thing could have taken down a goblin with ease) snored peacefully. Liliana cautiously approached the slumbering beast. Alas, her calming techniques backfired spectacularly, and the dog, startled awake, launched into a ferocious growl that could have curdled milk.
 
Just as we thought things couldn’t get crazier, we heard a flurry of footsteps from behind. A woman, seemingly in her middle-ages, appeared clutching a rather substantial bread knife. Her expression, it goes without saying, was not one of warm welcome. A tense standoff ensued - the woman demanding our identities and threatening to summon the guards, Liliana and Alistan sputtering explanations about their ownership of the manor (and the rather convincing key in their possession).
 
The situation, to put it mildly, was about as awkward as a troll in a tutu. The woman, however, wasn't swayed by their pleas. Her voice rose several octaves as she threatened, yet again, to call the guards. Liliana and Alistan, at their wit's end, finally agreed. Guards it was.
 
We spilled out onto the street, Alistan muttering under his breath about the "joys" of mistaken identities. The woman, surprisingly calm now, joined us and explained the situation to the guard who, thankfully, showed up rather promptly. Intruders in her house, she claimed. Liliana and Alistan, desperately clutching at straws, explained the whole convoluted story – the key, the address. The guard seemed to find their explanation, complete with the aforementioned key, to be the result of some misunderstanding.
 
He then suggested settling the whole mess at the barracks. The woman, her initial fury simmering down, agreed to follow us and try to sort things out. As we walked, Alistan offered a sheepish apology for the whole debacle. The guard, with his professional demeanor (or maybe from just being used to dealing with bizarre situations), simply shrugged and said it was all part of the job.
 
Finally, we found ourselves ushered into a rather large dining room within the barracks. The air was thick with anticipation (and maybe the lingering smell of yesterday's stew). After what felt like an eternity (or at least enough time for the stew smell to really set in), a door creaked open and a figure lumbered into the room. This wasn't your average knight-in-shining-armor type. This guy, Nordic, was more like a walking butter churn – corpulent, bald, and sweating profusely despite the cool stone walls. He clutched a book the size of a small table, its leather cover worn smooth from years of thumbing through (hopefully not involving any particularly greasy meals).
 
Nordic, wiping his brow with a handkerchief that looked like it had seen better days, introduced himself as an administrator of the keep. Seems there was a bit of a mix-up with the whole "mansion assignment" thing. He flipped open his giant book, its pages crackling like autumn leaves, and squinted at the De la Roost name. "Ah, haven't seen your lot in Keralon for a while, have we?" he wheezed, his voice like air escaping a punctured bellows.
 
Apparently, a recent "change" had occurred. A local noble family, the Tarrins, had lobbied the king and managed to snag a better mansion, leaving the De la Roost family with the short end of the stick. Seems the king owned all the land in Keralon and doled out houses like a grumpy toddler with his toys. However in practice, a council of administrators did the "dividing up" bit, so politics (and possibly some hefty bribes) often trumped fairness.
 
Nordic, bless his sweaty soul, did manage to scrounge up a new address and key for Liliana and Alistan. A new "mansion," he called it, with an air quotes gesture so subtle it could easily be missed. "Decent place," he assured us, wiping his brow again. "Still Northwall, just a tad closer to the wall and, well, a tad smaller. But hey, better than where I live!" (That wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement, but beggars can't be choosers, right?)
 
Apparently, all the furniture had already been moved, which saved us the hassle of lugging it ourselves (small mercies, I guess). Nordic also mentioned something about petitioning for a different house in the future – a glimmer of hope amidst the bureaucratic nightmare. We exchanged strained pleasantries (mostly on our part – the man was practically melting), and with a final, "I’ll probably see you at court, De la Roosts!" (which sent shivers down my spine), he lumbered back up the stairs, leaving the two noble siblings to face their new reality.
 
As we stepped out of the barracks, I couldn't help but mutter under my breath about Fey deals and their apparent vulnerability to politics and bureaucracy. It is kind of ironic that this family was so keen on keeping their riches and fancy house by selling one of their children to the Fey, and still would be subject to something so trivial. The Fey protection didn’t seem to extend as far as Keralon, but of course there might be other forces at play. Or is this Ulther or Vivienne’s way of teaching the siblings a lesson, or keeping them on the edge so as to never renege on their agreement? It is hard to tell as it may still all be just a giant coincidence.
 
The new house, upon arrival, confirmed Nordic's "tad smaller" assessment. Tightly locked, with nary a soul in sight, it looked more like a forgotten relic than a noble residence. Inside, a layer of dust rivaled the snowdrifts back home. The furniture, piled haphazardly in the front rooms, only added to the feeling of neglect.
 
But hey, on the bright side, as Liliana ever-optimistically pointed out, it was a blank canvas. No stuffy decorations to replace, no previous owner's questionable taste lurking around every corner. Four bedrooms (including one for servants in the basement – fancy!), a decent layout – it wasn't a palace, but it was a start.
 
Liliana and Alistan, rolling up their sleeves, started sorting through the furniture. We quickly volunteered our aid. I muttered a quick spell, and a swirling dust bunny materialized beside me – my magical servant, ready to tackle the grime. The rest of the day was spent in a flurry of cleaning, dusting, and rearranging. By evening, the house wasn't exactly posh, but it was at least breathable.
 
Our stomachs, however, were definitely grumbling in protest. We ventured out into the bustling market nearby, our pockets lighter but our backpacks laden with enough food to feed a small army (or at least a very hungry group of teenagers).
 
Back at the house, a heavy silence settled over us. The realization hit us like a ton of bricks – only a handful of days remained until Liliana's ill-fated deal with the Fey was due. The thought of her becoming some stuck-up elf's slave/bodyguard was about as appealing as a week-old goblin pie. We settled in for a restless night, the weight of the approaching deadline hanging heavy in the air.
 
The next morning, a sliver of sunshine peeked through the dusty windowpanes, revealing a curious sight – Liliana's sword, back in its rightful place (her room), gleaming ominously. Attached to the hilt was a note, the elegant script dripping with sarcasm. "Take better care of your gifts," it read. Liliana's face turned the color of a particularly moldy cheese as she read it. That sword felt like a ticking time bomb, a reminder of the shackles that awaited her.
 
Gael suggested disguising the weapon – a simple sheet, he reasoned, so it would not be impounded by the knights of Keralon. Liliana clutched the sword close, a newfound fear flickering in her eyes. Navigating the city with dangerous goods would require some serious caution.
 
The day brought a flicker of good news amidst the looming threat. Word arrived from the barracks – the patrol to Logvale was a go, and Gael was officially on board! A glimmer of hope sparked in his eyes – a chance to go and maybe find Robert, our lost bard friend. As for Ileas, it seemed the satyr rebellion in Hillfield had fizzled out. He was summoned back to his family, an outcome I secretly cheered for (no offense to Ileas, but his service to the De la Roosts has never sat well since we visited them in Hillfield - even if his family’s involvement with the rebelion made them into extreme fanatics).
 
Another piece of news, delivered with a hint of amusement, was Feyris's new job – an innkeeper's assistant! The amnesiac fellow, it seemed, was embracing his new life with gusto. We all chuckled at the image, picturing Feyris fumbling with tankards and wiping down tables.
 
On the 17th of Lug, the day dawned clear and crisp. A bittersweet farewell was said to Gael and Ileas as they rode out with the patrol, their forms disappearing into the horizon on horseback (no magical shortcuts on this mission, apparently). We were a smaller group now, the silence heavier than ever.
 
Our peaceful routine in the De la Roost townhouse was shattered on the 20th of Lug. A knock on the door, a grim expression on the knight's face – it wasn't exactly the welcome party we were hoping for. The news hit us like a rogue troll's club – Alistan and Liliana's older brother was dead. Found in his bed, decapitated. The air grew thick with a suffocating silence as the weight of the news settled in. Alistan had spoken fondly of his brother, and I know he wrote him frequent letters.
 
Apparently, his brother had defeated the cursed Black Knight, but as legend spoke, anyone who bested it faced death within a year. Alistan's brother had scoffed at the superstition. Seems the curse had the last laugh.
 
The knight handed over his brother's personal effects – a full set of plate armor and a sturdy shield. The shield, the knight mentioned, was specifically requested to be given to Alistan. Liliana, her eyes red-rimmed, placed a hand on her brother's shoulder. "Keep the armor too," she whispered, "and that thick head of yours safe." A faint smile played on Alistan's lips, a flicker of warmth amidst the grief.
 
The next day loomed heavy. Liliana's departure date arrived, a bitter pill to swallow. Most of us accompanied her to the fey gate, a silent procession of worry and unspoken promises. As it was on our way, we moved our magical trinkets to Caern Fussil – no point in leaving them in a potato-filled basement.
 
As we reached the gate, I nudged Alistan, a question about our plan to break Liliana free from the Fey deal burning on my tongue. He simply shook his head, a resigned sigh escaping his lips. Liliana, it seemed, was determined to fulfill her duty, a misguided sense of responsibility chaining her to a fate worse than cleaning out a goblin horde's lair.
 
As much as I hated the idea, who were we to dictate Liliana's choices? The burden of being a sibling, Alistan explained, sometimes meant supporting even the most questionable decisions (a sentiment I was sure my own sister would readily echo)
 
However while he may have been willing to respect his sister's wishes, giving up wasn't his style. His plan, it seemed, had shifted – free Liliana, sure, but also free the next generation of De la Roosts from the clutches of that conniving archfey, Ulther.
 
A tearful goodbye, a promise to stay strong – Liliana was whisked away by Vivienne, leaving a void in our little group. We spent the night at Caern Fussil, the silence heavy with the weight of her absence. The next morning, we returned to Keralon, the city lights shimmering in the distance. Liliana might be gone, but our fight wasn't over. Even if it takes months or years. We had a plan, a purpose – and maybe, just maybe, a chance to defy fate itself.