Secrets of Ashenmoor:

  An Artificer’s Tale, Unpaid Debts

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  Despite having squandered most of my goodwill like a gambler on a losing hand, my work had already filed me under “Indispensable.” Not “Valued,” mind you. Not even “Tolerated.” But someone, somewhere, had decided that removing me entirely would cause more problems than it solved.

  A Runekeeper was needed to tend to the Core, and even as they took away my privileges, my freedom, and possibly even my dignity (though I hadn’t been using that much anyway), they couldn’t quite get rid of me.

  And so, I was there that day—the day She arrived.

  ***

  Ever since morning, the Citadel had been in a state of chaos—the very organized kind of chaos that only happens when people are trying very hard to look calm.

  Servants dashed from one corridor to the next like overcharged mana nodes, doorframes were polished to a reflective shine, and the staff were practicing their welcome greetings so many times that the words started to lose meaning.

  After decades of careful preparation, the Core no longer needed hiding. The Knights of the Ashen Order were already spoken of in the kind of breathless reverence normally reserved for myth and miracle. The court mages were hailed as the wisest minds of the age, sought out by scholars from wide and far. And its rulers and magistrates were said to have achieved that rare alchemical miracle of turning influence into gold and gold into even more influence, until they occupied that rarefied social altitude where oxygen is scarce and common sense scarcer.

  For the past week, emissaries from far-flung worlds had arrived in ships, carriages, or strange humming cubes that no one dared to poke too hard. They came in glittering finery, flowing robes, tailored voids, and at least one case of sentient jewellery that demanded diplomatic immunity. They rubbed shoulders—and egos, and, once or twice, knives—with delegates from the most prestigious dynasties of the known realms. They had all come to witness the unveiling of Tomorrow. And if they wanted to be part of that Tomorrow, they would soon find themselves sworn to the Core… and, of course, to the reign of the Citadel.

  From the relative safety of a shadowy alcove—carefully chosen because it was just far enough from the snack tables to avoid polite conversation and just close enough to the ornamental fish fountain to drown it out—Edrik Kain watched the proceedings with the weary exasperation of a man who has just realised that yes, this is indeed the very moment everyone will later pretend they’d seen coming all along.

  At the centre of the Grand Hall, Supreme Chancellor L’shara was wearing the kind of smile rarely seen outside portraits or public executions. A real one, not the thin political smirk she usually deployed like a letter-opener, and it was being used with surgical precision on a procession of overdressed dignitaries, most of whom would happily sell their own mothers for another minute of her time.

  All of it, as out of place in the otherwise solemn hall as the carpet beneath their feet, woven from Luudvark Wool, threaded with Zival fibers, imported all the way from the lofty realm of Ilnval and selected by hand—or something like that. Everything in the hall—from the chandeliers to the servants’ cravats—had been handpicked, polished, and enchanted.

  For as long as Kain had known her, this—this moment—was what L’shara had been working toward. And, though she’d never admit it quite so plainly, very little of it would have been possible without him.

  His runework lined the grand hall like a quiet confession carved into stone. His stabilizers and suppressors kept the Core—currently hidden behind a fortress of crimson curtains—from vaporizing half the guests in an unfortunate display of technological enthusiasm.

  Over forty Ashen Knights stood guard, all gleaming armor and grim purpose, ensuring no one got too close or even thought about peeking. Still, even from a distance, everyone should have been able to feel it. The air thrummed with the kind of energy that made hair stand on end and egos inflate by three sizes.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  People kept stealing glances at it. Some tried not to. Most failed.

  It was a different creature now than the one Kain had first encountered all those years ago—more refined, more dangerous, and, if he was being honest, considerably bolder. He could already see the signs: a few of the gathered dignitaries had that faraway look in their eyes, the one that suggested they’d just heard the Core whisper something flattering about their potential.

  By the time L’shara pulled back those curtains, half the room would already be hopelessly enchanted, ensnared by its silky promises of power.

  After today, there would be no turning back.

  “Why the long face, Runekeeper?”

  Kain wasn’t surprised when Imane appeared beside him. It would’ve been stranger if she hadn’t. He was, after all, probably at the very top of the “Potential Catastrophes” list pinned somewhere in the Citadel’s security office—possibly circled, underlined, and annotated with for gods’ sake, keep an eye on him.

  Not that he had any plans of rebellion left. Not anymore.

  He’d already realized that defiance against the Core was about as productive as shouting at the tide—something that might make you feel better for a moment before you inevitably drowned.

  Because if the Core wanted to, it could squash him like a philosophical bug. It knew everything: his thoughts, his plans, even the occasional uncharitable remark he made about its “sacred ineffable purpose.”

  If it felt the need, it could strip away his position, his gifts, and quite possibly even his personality, and hand them all neatly to someone more obedient. So, he had quietly resigned himself to being a cog in its great, humming machine. A somewhat squeaky cog, true, but turning all the same.

  “It’s just funny,” he said, with the kind of tone that implied it wasn’t. He didn’t bother to hide the disdain in his voice—why would he? Even the Duvains, in all their might and cruel ambitions, were just the Core’s pawns, though they’d never admit it. “For all their talk about divine foresight and celestial balance, not one of the Core’s servants managed to predict rain.”

  Kain raised his gaze to where heavy rain hammered against the windows.

  The downpour had come from absolutely nowhere. One moment the skies were as clear as a saint’s conscience, and the next, the heavens had opened like a divine blessing gone wrong. He couldn’t help but smile—a bitter, private smile, the kind you make when the universe itself seems to share your opinion.

  The calm afternoon had turned into a full storm in minutes, and now, with evening here, thunder grumbled above like an old god being woken up too early.

  But the guests, the Duvains—everyone present within the Citadel—were determined to ignore it. The musicians simply played louder, the laughter grew shriller, and the clinking of glasses became downright defiant.

  “I’d have felt sorrier for anyone still arriving in this weather,” he continued, peering across the rain-streaked city.

  Beyond the Citadel’s polished glass, beyond streets where only a handful of the unfortunate who had yet to find shelter hurried about, the sea was in the process of trying to eat itself. Massive vessels—each one the size and self-importance of a small city—heaved and strained against the waves, their crews no doubt rethinking their career choices.

  “Would have,” Kain continued, “if not for—”

  He never finished the thought.

  The lightning came first, slicing across the sky like a divine signature. Which, in itself, was perfectly in tune with the rest of the evening. What followed wasn’t.

  A moment prior, the harbor had been bristling with masts—hundreds of them, some tall enough to make the spires of Ashenmoor feel underdressed.

  Then came the flash.

  When Kain’s eyes cleared, there were… fewer. Noticeably fewer.

  It wasn’t that the ships had disappeared in the usual way—if village-sized vessels suddenly disappearing could ever be considered ‘usual’. There was no slow, tragic tilting, no desperate cries for help. It was more as if something large and unpleasant had reached up from beneath the waves and decided it’d had enough. Or perhaps the sea itself, in a fit of cosmic irritation, had simply stood up and eaten them.

  “If not for what, Runekeeper?” Imane’s voice was calm, which Kain might have mistaken for courtesy, if it hadn’t sounded every bit like a well-veiled threat.

  He didn’t answer. His eyes were still locked on the horizon as he stepped back from the window, deeper into the Grand Hall, away from the storm and away from what his brain was politely refusing to process.

  Outside, the ocean rose.

  A wall of water as tall as the city’s pride, tearing through homes and towers alike as if they were children’s sandcastles before the tide. It came roaring toward him with the full, uncaring weight of inevitability—a debt unpaid.

  ***

  ‘The more you reach for the heavens, the more the heavens are bound to notice.’ I can’t for the life of me remember which otherworldly traveller told me that, but in that moment, I knew it was true.

  Ashenmoor—or rather, the shining, shimmering city of hope and opportunity it pretended to be before it became Ashenmoor—met its end that day. The sort of end that doesn’t come with grand music or poetic last words, just the wet, inconvenient kind that seems all too karmic in hindsight.

  They’d made a deal with the Devil, and their debt was due with interest.