The Safehouse

Maren takes Darius and Elara to her safehouse for a chat.

Lightning cracked again, briefly illuminating Storm harbor’s jagged skyline. Maren turned, her cloak whipping around her ankles, and gestured for them to follow.

“There’s somewhere we can talk. Not out here,” she said. “Too many ears.”

Darius hesitated, then nodded. “Lead the way.”

They followed her through narrow, wet streets slick with rain. Storm harbor hadn’t changed the same scent of sea and stone, the same shouts in the distance, muffled by the weather. But everything felt different now.

They ducked into an old glassblower’s shop near the inner district, its windows clouded with soot and age. Inside, the space was warm and quiet, lit by low lanterns. Shelves lined the walls, filled with delicate ornaments: spirals of colored glass, crystal birds, and strange shapes bound together by wire and string. In the corner hung a large, faded painting; a seaside cliff, not unlike the one near Edgemont, but wreathed in unnatural fog.

Elara studied it warily. “This place yours?”

“It was Mother’s,” Maren said. “Before she vanished. My safehouse now.”

She motioned to a table scattered with papers, maps, and something else a sealed letter with the broken wax sigil of House Vale. A brittle silence settled as Darius stepped closer and picked it up. Inside, the parchment crackled with age. His eyes scanned the first line.

To my heir, should I fall before I can undo what I’ve begun…

“It’s from him,” Darius said, his voice barely above a whisper. “From our father.”

Maren sat down heavily. “I found it tucked behind the painting the day after the rebellion. He was preparing for something. Some...ritual. Something ancient. He needed you for it. He needed me to secure the political ties. And he needed some crystal.”

Darius touched the satchel at his side, suddenly aware of its impossible weight.