Ryan's 800th Birthday

The group had been in Nightstone for several days, healing and taking a much-needed break. For some reason Sameria had seemed annoyed at the group’s presence and had suggested some possible jobs that they could take outside of the city. The group was not interested, Varkoth had beaten them, and they needed to figure out where he was and what he was planning. The assassins would keep coming otherwise.

Miri returned home, Norbert teleported the ogre back home. The attacks on her home had stopped which was promising. Sameria had hired a cleric that was able to resurrect Honkess, who seemed unfazed by being disintegrated. It was not long before members of the group started to feel bored. Sameria proposed that the group accompany her on a visit to some other kingdoms, the fame of the Trollskull Syndicate might help her in her trade negotiations. Reluctantly the group agree.

Bob was horrified to find out that Sameria wanted to paint his airship pink and black for the tour. She had hired his ship and now wanted to adorn it in the official colours of Nightstone. Bob was horrified at the thought but Sameria had offered enough gold that Bob said yes. He still hated every watching it happen to his ship. He would have put back to rights as soon as this tour was done. With his share of the treasure and with what Sameria was paying, Bob could finally start working on his plans.

The group was invited to the opening of a new restaurant in Nightstone called the Olive Grove. It was a vegetarian place and was said to have an elven chef that produced some of the best dishes in the world. The group found that the food was truly amazing and were enjoying the evening when they were approached by a tall light haired woman with a man that appeared to be her husband in tow. They introduced themselves as Ryanne and Ryan Reynolds, astral travellers who had come from a place called Sigil. They were fans of the group, and had been in the City when the defeated Faneara and the Ashen manticore.

Ryanne told the group that it was going to be Ryan’s 800th birthday in a few days and hoped the group would come to the party. The group agreed to go to the party, and Ryan gave Norbert a token that would allow him to teleport to Ryan’s estate in Sigil. The group left for Sigil the next day.

***

The air inside the Sigil arena was thick with anticipation, the scent of sweat and smoke weaving through the crowded stands. Blueterion stood near the entrance to the fighting pits, her blue-scaled skin gleaming under the glow of arcane lanterns. Her mithral chain armor felt cool and reassuring against her skin.

From the shadows, Ryan approached—a tall man whose polished smile never quite reached his calculating eyes. Beside him stood a stout, grinning figure, the arena’s promoter—a wiry man clad in a vibrant vest embroidered with gold thread and strange runes.

“Blueterion,” Ryan said, voice smooth as silk, “the arena’s been buzzing about your feats. We want you to fight in the Grand Sigil Tournament. Of course, only if you’re ready to face the strongest warrior we have.”

The promoter clapped his hands, and the crowd hushed to a low murmur.

“With pleasure,” the promoter said, and with a subtle gesture, a shimmering portal opened.

From it stepped a tall figure clad in dark samurai armor, his blue scales almost matching Blueterion’s own. Sontar, champion of the arena, his katana gleaming at his side, bowed deeply.

Blueterion narrowed her eyes. “I accept, but only if I face your best.”

Sontar smiled, a glint of respect—and something softer—in his eyes. “Then it’s decided. Tomorrow, the arena will see a battle worthy of legend.”

After the formalities, the crowd dispersed, and Ryan stepped back into the shadows.

Sontar approached Blueterion, voice low, almost shy. “If I may... before we clash blades, would you join me for dinner? There’s a place called On The Edge—they say it has the best sushi in Sigil and a view of the astral plane that takes your breath away.”

Blueterion hesitated, then nodded. “Very well. One night to know your honor.”

Later that evening, at On The Edge

The restaurant hung suspended over a swirling vista of stars and cosmic storms, the astral plane’s ever-shifting colors bleeding through the transparent floor. Soft lantern light flickered on lacquered tables as diners sipped exotic drinks and whispered stories of gods and demons.

Sontar and Blueterion sat side by side, sharing platters of shimmering fish and delicate seaweed rolls. Their conversation was careful at first, respectful—then warmer, tinged with laughter and shared glances.

“I’ve fought many, but none like you,” Sontar admitted, eyes locked on hers.

Blueterion smiled, her usual fierceness softened. “And I’ve never met a warrior who asks for dinner before a fight.”

They talked long into the night—about honor, the weight of battle, the loneliness of those who live by the sword. For a moment, the world outside their little table slipped away.

But both knew tomorrow’s dawn would shatter the peace.

When they finally stood, ready to part, Sontar bowed once more. “May the best warrior win.”

Blueterion nodded, voice steady. “I will.”

They parted with a kiss, the stars of the astral plane shimmered above, indifferent to the mortal struggles below. Sontar carried a sense of guilt as he walked away. When he got home he sat and stared at the bottle of poison he had been given, his sense of honour pulled at him.

***

The moon cast silver light across the manicured gardens of the estate, where fountains whispered over marble and the scent of midnight jasmine lingered in the breeze. The manor of Ryanne and Ryan loomed in the distance, all perfect lines and impossible wealth, surrounded by opulent guest houses like jewelry around a crown.

Norbert adjusted his robes, peering down a narrow gravel path as a slender figure approached—graceful, poised, unmistakably elven.

“Norbert,” she purred. “You are exactly where I hoped you’d be.”

Satine, tall and radiant beneath her sapphire hood, smiled with mischief dancing in her eyes. Her moon-pale hair tumbled in soft waves, and her gait was more sway than step.

“Satine,” Norbert said evenly, clasping his hands behind his back. “You’re late.”

“I had to make an entrance,” she said, trailing a finger along his arm. “Besides, I heard a certain brilliant wizard needed help snooping through aristocratic secrets. How could I resist?”

“I didn’t invite you to flirt.”

“Oh, darling,” she said with a sly smile, “that was implied.”

Norbert’s brow tightened ever so slightly. “I’m married, Satine.”

She waved a hand airily. “Yes, yes. Queen Sameria, the brilliant, beautiful, untouchable queen of the Nightstone. Everyone’s heard the story. It's just that... not everyone gets to meet the wizard who defeated the Ashen Manticore, and saved the Queen Sameria’s kingdom. You can’t blame me for trying.”

“I love my wife,” Norbert said simply. “You’ll find no opening here.”

Satine blinked, then chuckled—genuinely. “Stars above, you are frustrating. And honorable. Fine. Let’s find out what Ryanne and Ryan are hiding.”

The guest house they approached was smaller than the others—elegant but unoccupied. The windows were shuttered. A faint metallic tang hung in the air.

The door creaked open under Norbert’s spell.

Inside, the house was dustless, silent. The furniture untouched. No servants. No warmth. The only sound was the low hum of magical wards, quiet as breath.

They searched in silence. Satine knelt at a bookshelf, while Norbert investigated a fireplace that seemed oddly placed—slightly off-center.

He tapped it.

Click.

The hearth slid aside with a deep mechanical groan, revealing a stone passage slanting downward into the dark.

Norbert lit a globe of arcane light. Satine drew twin daggers from her belt.

“After you,” she whispered.

***

The Trollskull Tavern was alive with the usual hum of tankards clinking and boots scuffing wood. A fire crackled in the hearth beneath the mounted skull of the tavern’s original namesake, and the smell of roasted venison drifted from the kitchen. Laughter and bardic music floated on the air, though Bob sat in a corner booth beneath the mezzanine, unsmiling, cradling a mug of something bitter and dark.

He was alone—by choice. The others were off in Sigil. He watched the door out of habit.

Then it opened.

And in walked Dennis.

Bob’s hand went immediately to the dagger beneath the table.

Dennis paused—just long enough to see if he’d get stabbed—then raised both hands slowly and walked in. A shorter, nervy-looking man followed, glancing around like he expected a bar brawl to break out at any second.

“Evening, Bob,” Dennis said. His voice was casual, but it strained at the edges.

Bob didn’t say a word. Just gestured to the empty side of the booth with a twitch of two fingers.

Dennis slid into the seat across from him. Mac remained standing, fidgeting with a coaster.

“You’ve got nerve walking in here,” Bob finally said.

“I’ve got a story that might make it worth it.”

“Start talking.”

Dennis glanced around the tavern. No one seemed to be paying attention—but the Syndicate always listened, whether you saw them or not.

He leaned in. “You remember the last time we crossed blades. Up near Waterdeep, ambush gone wrong.”

“I remember you running.”

“Right. And you let me run. I haven’t forgotten that.” Dennis tapped his chest. “You gave me something to think about. I left the gang. Tried to do better. Ended up in Nightstone.”

Bob tilted his head slightly, saying nothing.

“And then... weirdest thing. I stop an assassin. Not a bar fight, not a purse-snatcher—a full-blown, knife-in-the-dark assassin, halfway to Queen Sameria’s neck. She hired me after that. Brought in my friend Mac, too. Said she wanted people who weren’t afraid to get dirty.”

“Is that right,” Bob said. He still hadn’t touched his drink.

Dennis nodded. “It was fine at first. Good pay. Bodyguard work. Then… she changed. Got cold. Started forgetting people. Trusted no one, not even her own advisors. She talks different. Moves different.”

“Different how?” Bob asked.

“Like someone trying to be her,” Dennis said, voice low. “She doesn’t touch her tea anymore. Never asks about her falcon, the one she doted on for years. I heard her call her sister the wrong name last week. She laughed it off, but I saw the look in her eyes. Flat. Dead.”

Mac finally sat down and added, “She’s not acting strange. She isn’t her.”

Dennis leaned in, voice just above a whisper.

“I think Queen Sameria’s been replaced by a doppelganger.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the pop of the hearth and the clatter of a spilled tankard across the room.

Bob studied Dennis’s face—eyes sharp, weighing truth.

“You’re either lying,” he said, “or someone’s about to die.”

Dennis met his gaze. “I came here because I owe you. And because I couldn’t trust anyone else.”

Bob stood, throwing back the last of his drink. “Then you’re coming with me. We’ll find out what she really is.”

He looked toward the back stairs that led to the Syndicate’s war room, where shadows gathered, and plans were made.

“Trollskull doesn’t take kindly to impostors.”

***

The Arena of Sigil pulsed with energy—planes converged in this space like breaths held before a storm. Thousands watched from floating platforms and crooked balconies, the smell of ozone and blood thick in the air.

In the center stood Blueterion, the blue-scaled berserker barbarian of the Trollskull Syndicate. Her towering frame was wrapped in furs and cracked armor, her greataxe humming with stormlight. Her eyes burned with a primal fury, lightning dancing across her shoulders.

Across from her, calm as still water, stood Sontar, the blue dragonborn samurai of the Izzatar Line. He was the picture of precision—midnight armor polished like obsidian, katana drawn and held in perfect balance. His breath came slow. Focused. Ready.

The arena bell tolled.

Sontar moved first, blurring into motion. His katana flickered like a serpent’s tongue—fast, controlled, slicing along Blueterion’s shoulder. A flash of blood. She didn’t flinch.

Instead, she laughed.

“Hope you brought more than pretty footwork.”

She exploded into motion, axe swinging in a brutal arc that forced Sontar into a backflip. Sand exploded beneath her boots. The air cracked with energy.

Sontar landed lightly, pivoted, and surged in. A quick series of slashes—a dancing hurricane of blade—but Blueterion caught the rhythm, letting rage guide her. She tanked two hits, then used the opening to slam her shoulder into his chest. The impact echoed like a drumbeat. Sontar hit the ground hard, sliding across the arena.

He rolled to his feet, panting.

“Your style is chaos,” he spat, wiping blood from his lip.

“No,” Blueterion growled, “My rage is the storm. You're just trying to balance in it.”

She charged.

Sontar met her with a cry of his ancestors, sword glowing with radiant discipline. They collided in a tempest of raw fury and razor-sharp form. Blueterion struck like a thunderclap—every swing meant to kill. Sontar deflected, redirected, danced between each attack like flowing water—but each movement cost him more.

A missed parry.

Blueterion’s fist crashed into his ribs. Something cracked.

He staggered.

Another blow—her greataxe’s haft slammed down onto his shoulder.

He dropped to one knee, eyes blurring.

With a howl, Blueterion raised her axe for the killing blow—

But paused.

Sontar looked up at her, defiant despite defeat. Bloodied, kneeling, but unbroken.

She lowered the blade, barely.

“Your technique’s pretty,” she said. “But next time, bring a soul that burns.”

Then she headbutted him.

Sontar collapsed, unconscious.

The crowd went wild.

Blueterion raised her greataxe as the Master of the Arena stepped forward.

“By strength and storm,” the voice boomed, “Blueterion claims victory!”

The sky above Sigil cracked with thunder, echoing her name.

***

The passage led deep beneath the estate, to a vault-like chamber carved into bedrock. The air was cold. Stale. The walls glowed faintly with embedded runes, casting long shadows between rows of lifelike Kappa statues.

There were thousands of them.

Kappa, small, green-skinned, turtle-like humanoids with their signature bowl-shaped heads that had been emptied of water.

Frozen. Unmoving. Lifeless… but not statues.

Satine starred, her confidence flickering. “What in the hells…?”

Norbert stepped between the rows, examining the tubes. “Stasis. Perfect preservation. These aren’t servants. These are soldiers.”

“Ryan and Ryanne are building an army.”

“No,” Norbert said grimly. “They’ve already built one. This is a vault for war. Look at that empty space over there, it appears some of that army is not here.”

He turned and headed toward the exit.

Satine followed silently, her flirtation forgotten.

As they reached the surface, she asked, “What now?”

Norbert’s eyes were hard behind his spectacles. “Now… we confront the lords of this estate.”

And the wind carried the cold promise of reckoning.

***

The thunder of the crowd rose like a crashing tide as Blueterion raised her greataxe, her chest heaving with victory. Sontar lay unconscious behind her, defeated but spared. Above the blood-streaked sand, the storm-lit skies of Sigil rumbled approval.

From the arena stands, Arace stood tall—gleaming in golden plate, arms crossed, silent and proud.

Beside him, Morthos leaned lazily against a pillar, idly plucking at his lute. “She really does know how to make an ending,” the bard mused, tail twitching.

Then—

Something in the crowd shifted.

Morthos narrowed his eyes.

“Arace. Left balcony. Do you see it?”

The paladin turned. His trained gaze locked on movement just above the crowd: hooded figures, drawing shortbows, their arrows tipped in green-glinting poison. Aimed directly at Blueterion.

Time slowed.

“No!” Arace shouted, already moving.

Morthos’s fingers flicked through the air—Cutting Words magic and whispering curses—then launched into a full sprint toward the assassin perch. “Typical. Let the girl win her duel, then stab her in the back.”

The assassins loosed their first volley.

Arace raised his shield. “Sanctuary!” A shimmer of divine light enveloped Blueterion just as the first arrow curved midair and missed, thudding harmlessly into the sand.

The crowd didn’t even notice.

Arace bounded up the stone steps toward the assassins. The first lunged at him with a dagger, but the paladin smashed him with his shield, sending him over the railing.

Morthos flipped over a merchant’s stall, landing on the ledge with a grin. “Bad form, boys. Haven’t you heard? Assassinating heroes in front of a crowd is so last plane.”

He unleashed Dissonant Whispers, and one assassin dropped his bow and clawed at his ears, screaming as illusory voices tore at his mind. Morthos caught him by the collar and kicked him off the platform.

The last two turned, drawing poisoned blades—but Arace was already upon them.

Steel met steel in a blur. One assassin went down with a crushed throat; the other turned to flee—only to stumble as a glowing blade of bardic energy struck him in the back.

Arace stepped over the bodies, breathing heavily.

Morthos brushed blood from his sleeve with theatrical distaste. “You’d think they’d try not to be obvious.”

Below, Blueterion looked up, eyes narrowing at the disturbance above.

Arace called down, “You had admirers. We handled them.”

She raised an eyebrow. “More assassins? Who are these people?”

Morthos grinned. “Hopefully not fans of the samurai.”

The cheers turned to screams and panic as the fight with the assassins unfolded.

Arace sheathed his sword. “Blueterion's safe but I think we should be leaving my friend.”

Morthos nodded, slipping a silver coin between his fingers. “And maybe next time, we watch from closer, but with those guards coming and we should be on our way.” The guards were moving towards the dead assassins, but they did not seem to spot the Morthos and Arace. The crowd was fleeing and the two companions slipped out with the crowd.

***

Moonlight spilled like silver oil across the polished stone of the Nightstone Palace rooftops. Three shadows clung to the edges of the garden wall, silent as breath. Bob, clad in dark leathers and forest-toned cloak, moved with ghostlike precision, the whisper of divine nature magic curling around him.

“Pass Without Trace. Stay close, stay silent,” he murmured.

Dennis and Mac nodded, pressing low as they scaled the ivy-covered wall and dropped silently into the inner courtyard.

Guards patrolled in pairs, but their footsteps were slow, bored, and predictable. Bob raised a hand—pause—then gestured forward. They weaved between hedges, skirted torchlight, and slipped through a servant’s door left ajar.

Inside, the palace halls stretched long and candlelit. They moved like phantoms, hugging walls, ducking behind columns. Once, a knight turned a corner just ahead—Bob pressed Dennis and Mac into a side alcove, his hand on a dagger, until the knight passed without seeing them.

Up marble stairs.

Past painted windows.

Into the Queen’s wing.

And then—Sameria’s chambers.

Bob eased the door open.

There she lay: Queen Sameria. The golden-haired monarch, strong and wise, the one Blueterion had sworn to protect, and Norbert had wed. She lay beneath silk sheets, breathing evenly, a book open on the nightstand. A warm breeze fluttered the drapes.

But something was wrong.

Dennis began to search the shelves and drawers quietly. Mac hovered by the door.

Bob moved toward the bed, gaze sharp.

No scent of perfume. No ring of moonlight around her head—Sameria always slept with the moonstone circlet on, even when she napped in Trollskull back in the early days. And the book by the bed? It wasn’t the Elvish poetry Sameria adored. It was a ledger. Written in Deep Speech.

Dennis turned, whispering. “It’s her. Or something wearing her.”

Bob looked down at her face. Peaceful. Too peaceful. The lines of emotion too smooth, the details too perfect.

Dennis drew his dagger. “Let’s finish it. Before it wakes.”

Bob hesitated.

He remembered her laugh. Her voice when she sang with Norbert in the lounge.

Then he looked at her again, and it wasn’t her anymore.

He gritted his teeth.

“Move.”

With a single motion, he drew his shortblade and plunged it into the thing’s chest.

There was no cry. No blood. The flesh twisted like wax, and the illusion dropped. The doppelganger’s grey, boneless form convulsed silently once, then slumped, lifeless.

Bob wiped the blade clean on the sheets.

The room shifted—its warmth gone.

“Grab the book,” Bob said, already moving for the window.

Dennis scooped up the ledger, and the three slipped back into the hall. Guards passed them unaware, still under the veil of Bob’s fading spell. They retraced their steps, quiet as breath, past lanterns and murmuring guards, out the servants’ door, over the wall, and into the city beyond.

Only when the lights of Trollskull Tavern glowed in the distance did Bob finally speak.

“That wasn’t her,” he said.

But his voice carried a shadow of doubt.

***

The market district of Sigil buzzed with interplanar chaos. Carts drawn by mechanical oxen clanked past stalls run by demons, devas, and at least one mimic pretending to be a produce stand. Honkess flitted overhead, eyes scanning the labyrinthine street below, and dropped into a narrow alley that opened into a courtyard of strange alchemical shops.

The scent of sulfur, basilisk blood, and something unmistakably fermented filled the air.

Inside a shop with a door made of interlocking gears, Honkess poked through a rack of shimmering bottles, each labeled in at least three languages.

“Three for the price of two if you can pronounce this,” croaked the goblin alchemist, holding up a vial.

“K’vraska’thonk-dol’min’aka,” Honkess chirped smoothly.

“...Show-off.”

Honkess grinned and bought:

• A Potion of Voidstep (teleport 30 feet as a bonus action, once)

• A Bottled Scream (opens to unleash a deafening banshee wail; single-use stun)

• A suspiciously glittery Elixir of Serpentine Reflexes (+2 AC for 1 minute)

He paid in gold, feathers, and a favor the shopkeeper now owed him.

Further down, in a dwarven forge gilded in planar brass, he found it: a sleek suit of mithral chain armor, light as spider silk but strong enough to stop a hammer. It shimmered like starlight in his arms as he slung it over one shoulder and haggled the price down with a handful of sky sapphire dust from the Elemental Plane of Air.

Then she saw it—posted on a magical notice board above the market square:

"Sontar the Blade, Champion of the Arena, to Face New Challenger: Blueterion the Barbarian. 10:1 Odds."

Honkess squawked, feathers flaring.

“Fools. They’re all fools.”

She darted to the nearest betting booth, slapped 2,000 platinum down on the counter, and hissed, “Blueterion.”

The bookie blinked. “That your name?”

“No. That’s the winner.”

Honkess collected her receipt, tucked it into the lining of his new armor, and shot like a feathered comet back toward the estates—where Norbert had gone to investigate strange rumors with that elven woman, Satine.

***

The roar of the crowd in the Sigil Arena still echoed through Blueterion’s ears as she stepped into the shadows beneath the archway. Blood dripped slowly from the cuts across her arms and shoulders—honest wounds, hard-earned. Sontar knelt where he had fallen, one hand clutching his side, the other propping him up. His blade lay several feet away, untouched by anything but her strength.

She turned to leave.

“Wait,” he said, breathless.

Blueterion stopped, just at the edge of the corridor.

“I need to tell you something.”

She turned her head, half her face cast in the lanternlight.

Sontar raised his eyes to hers, voice filled with shame. “I was paid to kill you.”

Silence.

“They gave me a poison. Said to coat my blades. It would’ve killed you, no matter how strong you were. I—I didn’t do it.”

“Why?” she asked, her tone unreadable.

“I saw you. I saw your fury, your discipline, your honor. And I realized I wanted to face you fairly. Not murder you on someone else’s orders. If that costs me my life, so be it. At least I die with honor intact.”

He waited for her response.

Blueterion turned fully to face him. No anger. No smile.

She stared at him for a long time, then simply said, “Varkoth.”

Sontar nodded. “He’s hunting you.”

She turned again. Walked away.

Ten steps.

Fifteen.

Twenty…

“Come with me if you want to live,” she called over her shoulder.

Sontar’s head snapped up. Blueterion didn’t look back.

***

Honkess arrived just as Norbert and Satine were emerging from a side building on Ryanne and Ryan’s sprawling estate. The wizard looked pale, his eyes distant behind his spectacles. Satine’s usual flirtatious tilt was gone—her hand hovered near the hilt of her dagger.

“What did I miss?” she asked, walking into the room.

Norbert didn’t waste time. “We found a hidden chamber. Thousands of Kappa soldiers, frozen in stasis beneath one of the guest houses.”

Satine added, “The take the water from their head to put them in a type of stasis.”

“Ryan and Ryanne?” Honkess asked.

“We don’t know for sure,” Norbert said, adjusting his robes. “But they own the building. And no one else could've placed such a large-scale enchantment without notice.”

“I’d say that calls for confrontation,” Honkess said, eyes narrowing.

“We were just about to do exactly that,” Satine said, smiling grimly. “With or without your new sparkly pajamas.”

Honkess flared her wings dramatically. “Good. Let’s knock on their door—and see if their secrets are as well-dressed as they are.”

Together, the three turned back toward the main manor, beneath Sigil’s ever-turning sky, ready to confront the power couple hiding an army in their basement.

The estate was ablaze with enchantments and lanterns, each tree hung with floating candles that sang soft melodies in elvish. Waitstaff glided past with crystal glasses and trays of glimmering hors d'oeuvres. A jazz band played something planar and strange.

Norbert, robes rumpled from travel, stood nose-to-nose with Ryan, who looked resplendent in a shimmering cloak of void-silk, champagne in hand. Satine hovered behind Norbert, fingers on her dagger hilt. Honkess circled above, wings tense. The mood was brittle.

“You’re keeping an army under your estate,” Norbert said coldly. “Thousands of Kappa in stasis.”

Ryan smiled without blinking. “I’m not an evil man, Norbert. I simply provide services to those who can afford them.”

“You sold them to Varkoth.”

“I rented them,” Ryan corrected. “Twenty thousand. For use in the Northlands Campaign.”

Norbert’s nostrils flared. “You’re enabling a warlord.”

“I’m enabling profit. And if he fails, well, that’s his miscalculation, not mine.”

Just then, Blueterion strode through the crowd, flanked by Sontar, blood still drying on his armor. The crowd parted in awe or fear. Ryan raised an eyebrow.

“A party’s not the place for politics,” Ryan said smoothly. “Let’s not ruin my birthday. You’re welcome to stay. Drink, eat, dance. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“No,” Blueterion said.

Norbert nodded. “We’re done here.”

He raised his hand. In a blink, a sigil burned in the air—a teleportation circle flaring to life at his feet.

“Satine. Sontar. Are you coming,” Norbert called.

Satine stepped through without hesitation. Sontar hesitated only a moment before following.

The Trollskull Syndicate vanished in a flash of blue light.

The music at the party resumed. Ryan turned back to his guests with a smile, but a shadow passed behind his eyes.

***

The hour was late. Most of Trollskull Tavern was dark, lit only by the low glow of embers in the hearth and a single lantern flickering over the common room table.

Bob sat hunched over the book, its cover cracked and worn, its pages fluttering slightly despite the stillness of the air. He had been watching it for hours—letting the words appear on their own, one slow sentence at a time. A long, tense silence stretched as ink bled across the parchment once more, shaping into another chilling exchange.

“The queen arrived. Bound and secured.”
“She’s out of the way now.”
“And the dwarf king?”
“Galgred has been replaced. No one suspects. The plan proceeds.”
“Irongate is ready. Varkoth expects your arrival soon.”
“Then let him know we’ve already begun the quiet war.”

Bob stared at the page. The chill down his spine had nothing to do with the cold.

This wasn’t Sameria reaching out.

This was something else. Something far worse.

He slammed the book shut just as the blue light of a teleportation circle blazed across the floorboards behind him. The Syndicate arrived—dusty, bruised, blood still drying on armor and robes.

Norbert was the last through, his staff crackling faintly with residual energy. “What is it?” he asked, sensing the tension instantly.

Bob looked at them all, and in a low voice, said, “The Sameria we have been speaking to is not your wife.”

Morthos raised an eyebrow. “Then who was it?”

“A doppelganger I killed it but there’s more. I found this book, it seems there are more doppelgangers and they use the book top communicate.

Bob opened the book again, letting the others read the last exchange for themselves. As their eyes scanned the ink, the color drained from their faces.

“They’re talking to each other,” Bob said grimly. “Two doppelgangers. The one pretending to be Sameria, and another in Irongate. They’ve already got Galgred. And Sameria… she’s alive, but she’s being held somewhere.”

Norbert stepped forward, silent. He read the lines once, twice. Then slowly lowered the book.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then—

“I want blood.”

The others turned toward him in surprise.

“We were lucky with the impostor queen. We’ve been stumbling in the dark,” Norbert growled. “But this book? This is light. And I say we use it to burn every last one of them.”

Blueterion cracked her knuckles. “I like this Norbert, let’s bath in blood together.”

Arace’s hand moved to the hilt of his blade. “Justice. Righteous and swift.”

Honkess gave a low whistle. “Irongate’s a fortress. It won’t be easy getting in if they suspect we are on to them.”

Norbert’s eyes glowed faintly as he said, “We don’t need easy. We need in.”

He turned to the group, face hard and cold. “Get your sleep. We leave at dawn. And this time, we aren’t playing defense.”

Morthos leaned back in his chair, grinning darkly. “Oh, it’s finally getting fun.”

The Tavern grew quiet again. Outside, the wind stirred the leaves.