Shroud of Aethelgard's Secrets

Dreams of Shadow

The morning sun cast long fingers of golden light through the crystal-paned windows of Blanché’s tower, but she barely noticed. Her hands trembled as she pressed them against the ancient leather binding of her family’s grimoire, feeling the pulse of old magic thrumming beneath her fingertips like a second heartbeat.

Not again.

The vision from last night still clung to her consciousness—darkness spreading like spilled ink across a parchment, swallowing stars and devouring light. She’d seen herself standing at the edge of an abyss, watching helplessly as a shadow consumed everything she’d ever known. The taste of ash lingered on her tongue.

“Mistress Blanché?” Her elderly servant, Theron, peered through the doorway. “You’ve not touched your breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.” The words came out sharper than intended. She softened her tone. “Thank you, Theron. That will be all.”

His weathered face creased with concern, but he withdrew silently. Good because she needed solitude for what came next.

Blanché opened the grimoire to where she’d left off the previous night. The pages, yellowed with age, bore the spidery script of her great-grandmother’s hand. Most of the entries detailed herb lore and healing charms—practical magic for practical times. But here, wedged between a remedy for tooth rot and a blessing for pregnant mares, lay something different.

The ink shimmered as she read, letters rearranging themselves:

When shadow rises from forgotten stone, And darkness claims what light has sown, The seeker must to Aethelgard go, Where ancient evils lie below.

Aethelgard. The name sent ice through her veins. Every child in Eldoria knew the tales—a city of sorcerers who’d grown too proud, too powerful. They’d tried to harness forces beyond mortal comprehension and paid the ultimate price. Now it lay somewhere in the Whispering Wastes, abandoned and cursed.

But not dead, she thought, remembering her vision. Never truly dead.

Market Square Encounters

The market square of Thornhaven bustled with its usual chaos—merchants hawking wares, children darting between legs, the smell of fresh bread competing with horse dung. Blanché pulled her hood lower, concealing the distinctive silver-white hair that marked her as one of the Gifted. No need to attract attention.

She’d come seeking information. Someone, somewhere, must know the way to Aethelgard. The prophecy demanded she go, but her family’s grimoire offered no maps, no directions—only warnings.

“Silver for your thoughts, pretty lady?”

The voice came from her left, smooth as aged whiskey. A woman leaned against a fruit vendor’s stall, tossing an apple from hand to hand. Dark leather hugged her lithe form, and twin daggers rested at her hips. But it was her eyes that caught Blanché’s attention—green as spring leaves, sharp as broken glass, watching everything while appearing to watch nothing.

“I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling,” Blanché said, moving past.

The woman fell into step beside her. “Who says I’m selling? Maybe I’m buying. You look like someone with secrets worth knowing.”

“Everyone has secrets.”

“True enough.” The rogue’s grin revealed a gold tooth. “Name’s Avril. And you’re the Thornhaven witch, aren’t you? Don’t deny it—I’ve seen you sneaking about, asking questions about places best left forgotten.”

Blanché stopped walking. Around them, the crowd flowed like water around stones. “You’ve been watching me?”

“It’s what I do.” Avril’s casual tone didn’t match the intensity of her gaze. “Question is, why does a highborn sorceress want to find Aethelgard? Most folks with sense run the other way when that name comes up.”

Because I have no choice. But Blanché couldn’t say that. Trust came hard when you’d grown up knowing that power made you both valuable and vulnerable. “My reasons are my own.”

“Fair enough.” Avril studied her for a long moment. “But here’s the thing—you won’t find what you’re looking for asking merchants and gossips. Aethelgard’s location isn’t common knowledge. It’s...” She paused, seeming to weigh her words. “Protected information.”

“And you have this information?”

“I might know someone who knows someone.” The apple disappeared into Avril’s satchel. “For the right price.”

The Rogue’s Price

They sat in the back corner of The Broken Crown, a tavern that catered to those who preferred shadows to sunlight. Blanché nursed a mug of bitter ale while Avril sprawled in her chair with the boneless grace of a cat.

“I don’t want gold,” Avril said, answering Blanché’s unspoken question. “Got plenty of that.”

“Then what?”

“A favor. To be claimed later.”

Blanché’s laugh held no humor. “An open-ended debt to a rogue? Do I look naive?”

“You look desperate.” Avril leaned forward, elbows on the scarred wooden table. “Listen, witch—I know the route to Aethelgard. Traveled it once myself, though I’d rather forget why. But the Wastes aren’t kind to lone travelers, especially not soft-handed mages who’ve never slept rough.”

Soft-handed. Blanché resisted the urge to show Avril the burn scars on her palms from her first failed fire spell, the calluses from years of grinding herbs and mixing potions. Let the rogue underestimate her.

“You’re offering to guide me?”

“For that favor, yes.” Avril’s expression turned serious. “But understand this—the journey’s dangerous. The Wastes are full of things that shouldn’t exist, leftover magic from the fall. And Aethelgard itself...” She shuddered. “...the place gives me nightmares, and I’ve only seen it from a distance.”

Good. You should have nightmares. Blanché thought of her own dreams, of the darkness spreading like plague. Whatever waited in Aethelgard, it was already reaching out, already touching the world. Soon those nightmares would become everyone’s reality.

“One favor,” she said finally. “Within reason. Nothing that violates my principles or endangers innocents.”

“Agreed.” Avril extended her hand. “Though I should warn you—my definition of ‘reasonable’ might differ from yours.”

They shook on it, Avril’s grip firm and callused. Fighting hands, survivor’s hands. Perhaps that was what Blanché needed—not another scholar or mage, but someone who knew how to stay alive when knowledge and magic weren’t enough.

Preparing for Darkness

Back in her tower, Blanché packed with methodical care. Traveling clothes, sturdy and unremarkable. Her medicine bag, filled with herbs and tinctures. A knife, because magic sometimes failed. And the grimoire, wrapped in oiled cloth to protect it from the elements.

She paused at her desk, quill hovering over parchment. Should she leave word? Tell someone where she was going, why she might not return?

No. They’d only try to stop me.

The vision came again, unbidden—darkness spreading from a central point like blood in water. But this time she saw more. A figure standing at the heart of the shadow, arms raised in triumph or supplication. The face remained hidden, but she felt its attention turn toward her across the gulf of prophecy.

Soon, it seemed to whisper. Very soon.

She burned the half-written letter and scattered the ashes.

Theron found her in the garden at dusk, kneeling among her mother’s roses. The old man said nothing, merely stood vigil as she whispered protection charms over the plants. They both knew she might not return to tend them.

“Mistress,” he said finally, “whatever drives you to this journey, remember—courage and foolishness wear similar faces. The wise learn to distinguish between them.”

“And if wisdom tells me to stay, but duty demands I go?”

His weathered hand touched her shoulder briefly. “Then you go, child. But you go prepared.”

He pressed something into her palm—a small silver amulet bearing the sign of the Thornhaven house. “Your mother wore this when she rode to war. May it guard you as it guarded her.”

Mother died in that war. But Blanché didn’t voice the thought. She clutched the amulet, feeling its familiar weight. “Thank you, Theron. Watch over things while I’m gone.”

“As I always have. As I always will.”

Night Roads and New Alliances

They met at the town’s edge as the last light bled from the sky. Avril had traded her conspicuous leathers for traveler’s wool, though the daggers remained. She carried a pack that seemed too small for a journey to the Wastes, but Blanché suspected the rogue traveled light by both necessity and preference.

“Second thoughts?” Avril asked, noting Blanché’s hesitation.

“Third and fourth thoughts. But I’m here.”

“Good enough.” Avril set off down the road without looking back. “We’ll make for Millhaven tonight, rest at an inn I know. Tomorrow we start earning our blisters.”

They walked in companionable silence, Blanché matching Avril’s steady pace. The rogue moved like someone accustomed to long journeys—efficient, alert, wasting no energy on unnecessary flourishes. Occasionally she’d point out landmarks or shortcuts, building a map of knowledge Blanché filed away.

“You’ve done this before,” Blanché observed. “Guided people places they shouldn’t go.”

“Once or twice.” Avril’s tone discouraged further questions, but Blanché pressed on.

“Why? What drives someone to make a living from other people’s dangerous dreams?”

Avril was quiet so long Blanché thought she wouldn’t answer. Then, “Same thing that drives a sorceress to seek a cursed city, I imagine. Sometimes the safe path isn’t an option.”

No, Blanché thought, touching the grimoire in her pack. Sometimes it isn’t.

The road stretched before them, a pale ribbon in the starlight. Behind lay everything Blanché had ever known—her tower, her gardens, her carefully ordered life. Ahead waited Aethelgard and answers to questions she wasn’t sure she wanted to ask.

But the visions left no choice. The darkness was coming whether she acted or not. At least this way, she might understand it. Might even find a way to stop it.

“Tell me about the capital,” she said, breaking the silence. “We’ll need to stop there for supplies.”

Avril’s grin flashed in the darkness. “Ah, Eldoria’s crown jewel. Beautiful as a poisoned blade and twice as deadly if you don’t watch your step. You’ll love it.”

“I need to find someone there. A scholar who specializes in ancient languages.”

“The University quarter, then. Hope you’ve got deep pockets—those academic types don’t share knowledge cheap.”

Blanché thought of Alex Dunmore, whose treatise on pre-fall magical theory had caught her attention years ago. If anyone could decipher the fragmentary warnings in her grimoire, it would be him. Whether he’d be willing to help was another question entirely.

“I’ll manage,” she said.

The night deepened around them, filled with the sounds of a world settling into sleep. But Blanché felt more awake than she had in weeks. The journey had begun. Whatever lay at its end—salvation or damnation—at least she was no longer waiting for the darkness to find her.

She was going to find it first.