Expansion - Chapter 12

 

12 – Helvar – Miiwan Again

Helvar watches from his office as bladders of watered milk are delivered to the goblins along with the Forge‑Breath meals. He sips his mug of sikah‑nahkaw‑mihtaa and glances toward the single holding cells. For now, Miiwan is the only one inside, but soon they’ll have to place all six Protectors there — and anyone else the Legion marks as khaz‑drulik, a troublemaker.

He tells the Legionnaire to bring Miiwan to the Frag‑durkan, the Questioning‑room. Helvar sets the chamber as usual, including the small pot of root-tea. This time, he adds a covered bundle of treats to the basket he keeps beneath his stool.

When Miiwan enters, Helvar stands and motions for him to sit, offering a cloth cup of tea.

Miiwan smiles as he fills it, the chains on his wrists clanking softly against the stone table. “Why am I being kept separate?” he asks.

“For your protection,” Helvar replies. “The Legion has marked you. We’re keeping you apart for your safety. I’ll soon have to do the same for Veshka and the rest.”

“They are Protectors of the people,” Miiwan says, irritation creeping into his voice.

“But you’re not. Why were you wearing body paint and silk when you were captured?”

Miiwan looks down at the blue wool outfit the Legion issued him. “No. I was wearing the wool and linens of a Tunnel Keeper. A Stone‑Listener.”

“I’ve always heard tunnel keepers work in teams,” Helvar says, leaning back.

“They do — I mean, we do.” He hesitates. “I got separated from them. Lost.”

Helvar places the wrapped bundle on the table. “Lost in a tunnel? How does a stone‑listener get lost in a tunnel he’s maintaining?”

Miiwan’s eyes flick back and forth as he searches for an answer.

Helvar unwraps the bundle, revealing squares of Stone‑Honey Crumble. He picks one up and inhales its warm, grainy aroma. “Freshly made by the cooks.”

He takes a slow bite.

“I’d offer you one,” he says, “but I’m having trouble believing you today. I can’t give a treat to someone who isn’t honest with me.”

Miiwan’s gaze lingers on the cut squares. “Okay. I wasn’t lost. But I got separated from my team.”

“How many were in your team? What are their names?” Helvar lifts his stylus.

Miiwan hesitates again.

Helvar sighs. “I should wrap these up and put them away. I’ll have the Legionnaire take you back.”

“No—wait.” After a long pause, he says, “I was alone. I wasn’t part of a team.”

“Then why were you wearing body paint and silk?”

Miiwan chews his lower lip.

Helvar softens his voice. “Here. Have a square.” He hands one over.

Miiwan takes a bite and washes it down with tea.

“Not quite Glow‑Moss Cakes, but close,” Helvar says quietly.

Miiwan nods, making a small, involuntary sound of pleasure as he takes another bite.

“Now,” Helvar says, “why were you wearing body paint?”

Over time, he draws out more answers. Some are lies. Some are half‑truths. He writes them all down for now.

When they finish, Helvar says, “If you like, I can ask the cook to make some of these for the rest of your people. They haven’t had any treats.”

“Please do that. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m getting something special.”

“Of course not. See you tomorrow.” Helvar calls the Legionnaire to escort him back.

In his notes, he writes:

‘Still don’t know real name. Not a tunnel‑keeper. No‑tools story is false. Likely former border scout. Responds well to idea of being returned to group.’

He closes the barkskin and finishes the last of the treats.

Expansion - Chapter 11

 

Brammir – Strange Tools

He keeps turning the piece of antler over and over in his hand. Eventually, Brammir walks over to Brottan’s cubby.

Knocking on the stone‑framed doorway, he says, “Brottan, can you take a look at this?”

Brottan looks up from the small table where he’s polishing a set of game pieces. A karn‑stone board sits on the edge of the table. His beard is still braided in the loose, forked pattern favored by lone‑wolves. It reminds Brammir of his brother.

“What do you have?” Brottan asks.

Brammir hands him the antler fragment.

“It looks like part of an antler wedge,” Brottan says immediately. “Were there other ones like it? Or wooden ones?”

“I saw pieces of wood, but didn’t think anything about it.”

“I’ve seen them before,” Brottan says, turning the antler over in his fingers. “They put wedges into cracks, then pour water. The wedges swell and split the ore from the rock around it.”

“What are these marks?” Brammir asks.

“Probably the name of the maker.” Brottan smiles faintly. “Or the clan. Hard to say.”

Brammir takes the piece back and studies it again. “Why don’t they just use picks and shovels like we do? Seems like a lot of waiting to do the same thing we just muscle through.”

Brottan shrugs. “I really don’t know. Just a different way of mining. Besides, like we said this morning — why take time to make tools when you already have other ways to do it?”

He goes back to polishing the pebbles for the game.

“Do you want help doing that?” Brammir asks. “And then maybe play you a round?”

“Sure.” Brottan hands him a rough polishing cloth.   

 

The next day, as Brammir works the seam, every time he takes a water break he picks through the debris and sets aside anything that isn’t stone. By Deep‑Meal bell, he’s gathered a small pile of wood and bone. He even finds a few charred pieces of wood.

“None of this makes sense,” he mutters, staring at the odd little heap.

His ore cart stands waiting for him to fill it.

“Stop it,” he says aloud. “You’re a miner, not a surveyor. Fill the cart, earn your coins, and do what the Guild says.”

He grabs his pick and forces himself back into the rhythm:

Swing. Hit. Swing. Hit. Break. Pick up. Swing. Hit…

The only thing that breaks his determination is the echo of the Chapel bell calling him for meal breaks.

When the day ends, Brammir looks at the deep gouges he’s carved into the ore seam and the untouched rock around it. “Tomorrow I’ll have to dig out the area around it,” he sighs. “I’d better have an engineer check the area first.”

 

During Forge‑Breath, the miners hear marching boots entering the campsite. They look toward the western tunnel as three Legionnaires emerge, lamps held high, escorting a female engineer. Her measuring ropes, tool bag, and the long case for her probes make her purpose obvious.

She heads straight for the dining area, scanning for the oldest miner. “Hi. I’m Brenna Stone‑Arc. I’m the replacement engineer.”

Jorvik nods and points toward Brammir. “He asked for you. If you’re hungry, you’ll need to eat quick.”

Brenna crosses to Brammir and extends her hand. “I’m Brenna.”

He shakes it and shifts to make room at the bench.

“You don’t need to do that,” she says with a small smile. “My escorts and I ate before we left Root‑Stone Hearth. We’ll wait for you to finish.”

 

The Legionnaires join the line of miners as they head out. Two take the front, one brings up the rear with Brenna walking beside him. Once they reach the worksite, the Legionnaires step back and watch, letting the miners peel off to their assigned seams or to the ore train that runs up the long, low tunnel toward the smelter.

“Show me what you’ve got,” Brenna says to Brammir.

He places his lamp in the wall sconce and turns the wick up, flooding the small cave with as much light as he can. Brenna sets her own lamp on the floor, adding a second pool of brightness.

“What’s that over there?” she asks, pointing to the small pile of debris that is very clearly not stone.

“It’s wood and bone I found while mining,” Brammir says. “Some of the others think they’re leftover goblin tools.”

“Really?” Brenna kneels and picks through the pile. “Have you documented what you found and where?”

“No. I’m just a miner. What does it matter what goblins did or how they did it?”

She frowns at him. “Realistically, you’re right. But I work with people who could learn something from it.”

“That’s Bimkor talk,” Brammir warns. “Don’t let the Priests hear you say things like that.” He lowers his voice. “The Silent Hammers might hear you too.”

At the mention of them, Brenna’s expression tightens. She stands and focuses on the seam instead, taking measurements of the dug‑out area and soundings of the surrounding rock. Her notes come quickly, her sketches even faster.

“As you dig, leave this stone and form a column here,” she says, pointing. “And another one here. It’ll support the roof better as you continue.”

She glances back at the debris. “What do you plan on doing with this?”

“I’m not sure. For now, I’ll just keep it out of my way.”

Brammir takes his pick and begins carving the rock the way she suggested. Brenna steps back, refining her sketches as she watches him work.

Expansion - Chapter 10

 

Brikel – Shared Notes

“Can any of you read goblin writing?” Brikel asks as he dips his mushroom bread into the mid‑day meal gravy.

Most of the table shakes their heads, but Branik Ore‑Trace mumbles, “Recognize it, but can’t read it.”

They look at him as he continues, “Goblin‑shaped tunnels’ll have little marks and symbols.” He takes a mouthful of food.

Brikel pushes a barkskin toward him. “Like these?”

Branik glances at the markings and shrugs. “When I normally see ’em, it’s where tunnels cross. They’re telling which is which. Like I said — I recognize ’em, but can’t read ’em.”

Yivra holds out her hand. “Can I see them?”

Brikel nods and passes the barkskin to her. “You’ll get my notes at the end of shift anyway.”

“Yes, but make sure to include any writing too. Maybe I can translate what they say.”

Thavrin snorts. “That’s a waste of time. If we want to know what it says, just grab a Bimkor.”

Helka stares at Thavrin like he’s said something unbelievably stupid. “Where have you been for the past year? Even my clan knows the only Bimkor left are around Weaving River.”

Yivra brightens at that. “Helka, can you send a message to your family? Maybe someone still trades down at the River Market?”

“What I really need is a farmer,” Brikel says.

“Why?” Helka asks. “I’ve got relatives with orchards.”

“No. I need a goblin or Bimkor mushroom farmer. They’d know what this says — and how the farm worked.”

Thavrin shakes his head. “No. Just make your maps. The Guild will send farmers, miners, or whoever can best use what we find.”

Olmra Root‑Measure clears her throat. “Maybe I should come with you. I grew up mushroom farming. My family still has a number of farms — a couple I helped improve as an apprentice engineer.”

Thavrin exhales slowly through his nose. “If you have so much time to look at his cavern, then your tunnels are fully mapped?”

Olmra’s shoulders sink. “It was just a suggestion.”

“I think we’ve had enough suggestions for now.” Thavrin stands, grabs his empty plate, and drops it into the hall washbasin for the staff to clean and reuse. “Finish up. Let’s all get back to work.”

 

By the time the Chapel bell rings marking Stone‑Rest, Brikel’s barkskins and slates are full. The Legion team helps him carry back the lamps and the measuring rope. More than once, Hadrun asks why he’s copying down the strange marks.

“Yivra asked me to include them,” Brikel says. “She thinks they could be important to the master map.”

Before they leave, Hadrun and one of the Legionnaires set several markers and temporary rope seals across the unexplored exits.

“Are those really necessary?” Brikel asks.

“Legion orders,” Hadrun replies. “Besides — do you want to come back tomorrow and find a zhul‑durak waiting for you in the shadows?”

Brikel nods at that. “So, you’ll accompany me back here tomorrow?”

“Unless my orders change, we’re to guard you until you finish.”

Brikel gathers his slates under one arm. “Lead the way.”

Expansion - Chapter 9

 

9 – Helvar – Protector’s Questions

Helvar writes Veshka Stone‑Waki on the barkskin, then hesitates. He adds a second line beneath it: Veshka Nodin‑Waki He studies the names written in runes, then quickly rewrites them using the syllabary.

“That looks better,” he mutters. His notes are his and his alone; the official report will be in runes, as required. But his private work? He prefers the syllabary. It captures nuance the priests never bother to learn.

“Too bad the Priests don’t truly understand Durn’s Hreinlog,” he murmurs. “They preach ‘Racial Purity’ like children reciting a chant. So shortsighted. Purity of Spirit and Thought matters far more.”

He pauses, the stylus hovering.

'I’d rather have a squad of true‑believer Bimkor than a legion of the ‘pure.’'

The thought lands heavy. His instructors would chastise him for even thinking it. He closes his eyes and hears Tholmir Kind‑Hand’s voice, calm and steady as ever: “Use whatever and whoever is available. We are the true keepers of Durn’s Laws. Let the zealot priests distract the crowds. We keep society together from the shadows. Even the Guilds are tools. Use them. Exploit them. Keep the faithful on the True path.”

Helvar exhales slowly.

Yes. That is the lesson. And he has never forgotten it.

A sharp knock on the doorframe breaks Helvar’s concentration.

“The goblin you requested,” a Legionnaire says.

Helvar nods. “Bring her in.”

Veshka steps inside. Her manacles clink as she stops across the table.

“Veshka, please sit and get comfortable,” Helvar says in Mishikwe.

She lifts her bound wrists. “If you want me comfortable, why put these on me?” she replies in Durask.

Helvar leans back, stroking his beard — the slightly unkempt look of a man who has slept too little and worked too long. “The Senior Legionnaire requires all of Bruna’s Children to wear restraints when away from their people. They fear you. I can’t change that.”

Veshka glances toward the Legionnaire standing in the doorway and snarls. “You are a coward. I walked the Grand Market with your kind, and now you fear me.”

The Legionnaire takes a step forward.

“STOP.” Helvar rises, voice sharp and commanding. “You enter this building only on my orders. Do you understand, or shall Elder Dorgath Ember‑Voice and I lodge a formal writ against you?”

“No, sir.” The Legionnaire scowls but backs away, eyes never leaving Veshka.

Helvar sits again, his expression softening as he turns back to her.

“You may stand if you prefer, or sit. I’m sitting — it’s easier for me to take notes.” He gestures to a small pot of root tea. “I also have root-tea, if you’d like some.”

Veshka exhales slowly, regaining her composure. “Even if you can’t remove these, root-tea sounds good.” She sits as Helvar fills a cloth cup and hands it to her.

“So, you worked with Peacekeepers during Aniniwiniwin Awnin?”

She nods as she sips her tea. “Yes. During the ‘days of peace’, I often walked with your Peacekeepers. They were strong and honorable.”

Helvar smiles. “Yes, they were. Before I ask anything from you, do you — or your Elders — have any requests to make the lives of your people better?”

She pauses. “I heard you say you work for an Elder. Is this true?”

He nods.

She sighs. “Okay. The infants and new mothers need milk. The food we are fed is what we see you feed the Legion, so we only request milk or mushroom‑milk, so we can keep the young healthy.”

On a separate barkskin, he writes in Durask: goat milk.

“I will see what I can do. We might be able to get some chilled bladders of watered goats’ milk.” He sets the stylus down. “If I tried to explain mushroom‑milk to the Legion supply clerks, I’d confuse them and you’d end up with mushroom flour instead.”

She laughs at that. “We could teach them how to make it.” The iron chain clinks on the table and she immediately frowns. “No trust.”

“I will do what I can. You are doing the best you can for your people. Hopefully soon the Legion will escort you to the River Goblins.”

She brightens. “Is that truly the plan? We’ve heard so little.”

“That is the plan I was told. It makes sense. Your Elders and young are better helped by your own people, and to get there, Protectors like you are needed.”

She refills her cup. “This is hopeful. What do you need from me?”

“Can you give me the names of all the Protectors?”

She quickly names the other five — the same ones the Legion listed as ‘troublemakers.’

“Okay. In your group, are there any border guards?”

She shakes her head. “No. They all either died or went Deep‑deep. They don’t like groups. Too loud and too bright.”

He makes a note and gives her a polite, practiced smile. “Of course. Do you have any stone‑listeners in the group?”

She pauses. “Not that I know of. I can ask around. Will that help?”

“Anything you can tell me is helpful.”

He closes his barkskin and stands. “Let me walk with you. I would hate for you to have an accident on the way back to your area.”

She gives him a knowing look and switches to Durask. “Yes, please walk with me. The way could be treacherous. I would hate to fall and get hurt.”

“Yes. Let’s walk together. Legionnaire, please lead the way.” 

Expansion - Chapter 8

 

8 – Brammir – Old Tools

While quickly eating Forge‑Breath, Brammir hears his companions talking back and forth.

“Have you found any gobblers’ tools?”

“Tools? They don’t have tools. They use rocks like animals.”

“No, I heard they found hard, heavy rocks and used them like hammers.”

“Why not just make iron hammer heads?”

“If you have a heavy rock that already works, why cast or forge iron?”

“How can you tell, if it just looks like a rock?”

“It would have—”

Brottan cuts off Varnik before he can answer. “They would write their name or their family’s name on it.”

Everyone stops and looks at him.

Brottan finishes his root-tea. “That’s what I heard.” He stands. “Almost time.”

Before anyone can ask anything else, Elder Hadrik says, “Yes, if everyone lines up, I will give a blessing for safe work before you depart.”

Varnen adds, “An excellent idea, Elder. Let me help you prepare.”

Brammir finishes and rinses his plate in the wash basin, dries it, and returns it to his cubby. Grabbing his tools, he checks the fuel levels of his lamps again before lighting the helmet lamp and carrying the other, his pick resting on his shoulder.

He gets in line and closes his eyes as the Priest gives the same blessing he offers most mornings. When it ends, Jorvik says, “Let’s go. Listen for the bell’s Deep‑Meal signal.”

They move out at a steady pace, with Brottan bringing up the rear as usual.

 

Brammir’s mine cart still has a little ore in it from yesterday, and it makes a deep rumble as he pushes it down the tunnel he carved and smoothed. At the end of the worked passage, he sets his lamp into the wall sconce and turns the wick up to full brightness. The light spills into the natural cave beyond — the place where he’d only followed the seam, not shaped the stone.

Between the wall lamp and his helmet light, he studies the debris scattered across the floor. He pushes aside the loose rock he’d mined yesterday and crouches to look more closely at what lies beneath.

Wedges.

Not metal — root‑fiber, dried and cracked.

A couple of broken pieces of… bone? Or antler?

He picks one up, turning it in the light.

“How would antler get down here?” he mutters.

He sets a few of the fragments by the wall lamp, the better to examine them later. The stone around him carries the faint echo of other miners — the rhythmic ‘ping‑ping‑ping’ of picks striking rock.

“Enough wasting time,” he says to himself, pushing the thoughts aside.

He hefts his pick, steps back to the seam, and begins digging again.

 

Three cart‑fulls later, Brammir pauses to take a sip from the fountain. His shoulders ache in that familiar way, but his mind keeps drifting back to the fragments he found earlier. He picks up the broken antler piece again and holds it closer to the lamp.

In the brighter light, the details sharpen.

Cut marks.

Not random scratches — worked edges, shaped by a steady hand.

“I wish I could’ve seen it in one piece,” he murmurs.

He turns it, and something catches the light at one end. Strange symbols — lines, curves, angles. Not like runes. Not like tool marks either.

Something deliberate. Something written.

He frowns, takes another sip of water, and sets the antler fragment down.

His fingers linger on it for a moment before he forces himself to grab his pick again.

The deeper tone of the Chapel bell echoes through the stone, signaling Deep‑Meal.

Brammir slips the piece of antler into his pocket without really thinking about it.

He turns the wick of the wall lamp down to a low glow — he’ll be back soon — and shoulders his pick.

When they arrive back at the camp site, the miners see the engineers leaving with a Legion escort. “Must have another assignment” Brammir mutters to himself.

Expansion - Chapter 7

 

7 – Brikel – The Growth Chamber

After Forge‑Breath, as Brikel assembles his equipment, a Legionnaire steps up.

“We are to accompany you as you survey and map the chamber you found. I am Hadrun Slate‑Ward.” He extends his hand.

Brikel shakes it. “I’m happy to have the help. What are you bringing?”

“Each man carries a polished lamp, a hammer, and our usual tools of the trade. Is there anything else you require?”

Brikel shakes his head. “I don’t know yet. I stopped before entering the chamber.”

Hadrun nods. “We heard. My Slate-Leader informed me, which is why this team was assembled.”

“Alright,” Brikel says. “Give me a moment to finish gathering my equipment and we’ll go.”

Hadrun gives a short nod and rejoins his team.

Packing extra barkskins and slates, Brikel walks to the dwelling Yivra is using as the Map Room. She is organizing the notes from yesterday when he enters.

“Did you know about the Legion giving me people for today?” Brikel asks.

She nods and points to the master map. “Where your tunnel ended yesterday looks to be a goblin chamber. If it were one of ours, I’d guess a storage area or maybe a moisture farm, but I’m not good with goblin architecture. I need you to map everything. The Legion only did a quick ‘scan and flush,’ so I wanted them to accompany you with extra lights and security. I’d hate for a ‘silent hunter’ to be hiding and take you hostage — or worse.”

“Is that really a possibility? We haven’t even encountered traps in these recent tunnels.”

“And that’s when they would attack or place new ones,” she says, as if explaining something obvious to a junior draftsman. “Anything else? I have work.”

Brikel shakes his head and returns to the waiting Legionnaires.

 

As they enter the chamber, the wicks of the Legion lamps burn bright. Polished lenses and reflectors throw clean, white light into the deepest corners of the cavern. Brikel lights his grum‑tal, and begins making notes and measurements.

He hands one end of the measuring rope to a Legionnaire at the entrance. Then he moves through the chamber, marking distances in several directions. For every note on his barkskin, he adds a small sketch of the wall, floor, or ceiling surface — the stone’s texture, the angle of a cut, the curve of a trough.

With two guards holding the rope taut, he measures the carved growing troughs, each fed by channels and gutters cut with surprising precision.

Looking upward, Brikel raises his lamp toward a cluster of ventilation holes. He mutters to himself as he jots down notes, while the Legionnaires stand watch, their lamps steady, their posture alert.

“We need a farmer in here,” Brikel says under his breath.

“Why’s that?” Hadrun asks.

“These are fungus‑farm plots. I can map what’s here, but we need someone who knows how these were used — and how we might use them again.”

“In our initial entry, we secured a number of goblin tools,” Hadrun replies. “They’re stored by the Chapel if you need to see them.”

Brikel holds his stylus in his mouth as he lifts his lamp toward a set of stone racks. “Were the tools found here?”

“Some, but not all. Why?”

“There are marks here.” Brikel points to small carved symbols.

“I’m told goblins write. I’ve never seen their script, but I’ve heard it’s made of small symbols instead of letters like ours.” He copies the markings onto his barkskin.

By the time he finishes, he has the full shape of the cavern, most of the growing bins, the moisture troughs, and the vent locations sketched out. The bell sounding Kron‑Midtal echoes faintly from the Chapel.

“Are we breaking for Stone‑Bite?” Hadrun asks.

Brikel looks at the young Legionnaires. “Yes. Leave the measuring rope and the grum‑tal,” he says, blowing out the lamp. “We’ll eat at the dining hall, and I’ll deliver my notes to the map room.”

Hadrun nods and forms the men into a line. Brikel leads them out.

Expansion - Chapter 6

 

6 – Helvar – Protectors and Forge-Breath

Helvar sips hot, roasted root-brew from his stoneware mug as he watches the Legionnaires distribute packets of Forge‑Breath. The goblins stand in a long line on their side of the cavern, each one stepping forward to receive a wrapped packet while a Legionnaire checks their name off the slate. Helvar may not like the Legion, but he has to admit they are efficient.

He notices a female goblin and an elder watching the distribution from the side.

Curious, he steps into his office in the Chapel and pulls the slate list of suspected ‘troublemakers’ the Legion compiled. He hasn’t interviewed all the Protectors yet — and he needs to change that. Maybe he’ll start with her.

He refills his mug with sikah‑nahkaw‑mihtaa.

The priests frown behind his back when he speaks Mishikwe, but some words simply work better. “Bitter‑root drink” is far more beautiful than chikor‑tal or durm‑tal.

He finds her name on the list: Veshka Stone‑Waki.

He tucks a barkskin and stylus into the pocket of his acolyte‑brown robe, then fills a cloth cup with the hot drink before heading back to the cavern.

The line is nearly finished. Helvar smiles to himself as he notes the order: the strongest and most able‑bodied goblins are the last to receive food. That means the elders and children were fed first. Good, he thinks. They still take care of their own.

He spots Veshka at the back of the line and moves to the boundary rope.

When she receives her Forge‑Breath packet, he nods to the Legionnaire and remains on his side of the dividing line.

“Veshka. Veshka Stone‑Waki,” Helvar calls, clear but polite.

She steps closer to the rope. “I am Veshka Stone‑Waki. How can I help you?” she replies in accented Durask.

Helvar lifts the cloth cup and switches to Mishikwe.

“Would you like some sikah‑nahkaw‑mihtaa? It makes the miners’ food bars easier to eat.”

She hesitates. “There are others who should have this instead,” she answers, also switching to Mishikwe.

“Of course,” Helvar says. “But for you to aid others, you must be strong as well. I only have a little, and I want to share it with you because I see how you help your people.”

She accepts the cup, sniffs it, then takes a cautious sip. Her eyes widen. “You drink bitter‑root drink?” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Are you Bimkor?”

Helvar doesn’t answer. Instead, he gestures for her to dip the pressed food bar into the drink. She tries it.

“You are right,” she says. “It makes it softer.”

He smiles. “Now taste your cup.”

She does — and smiles back. “It sweetens it.”

Helvar nods. “I have to start work, but later I’ll ask a Legionnaire to bring you to me. There are forms we need to complete that will help your people. I think you’re someone who can give me the answers I need.”

She lifts the cloth cup slightly. He nods. “Keep it. Share it with those who need it. We will talk later.”

As he heads back toward his office, he sees her return to the Elder she had been standing beside. They speak quietly. Helvar smiles and makes a few notes on his barkskin.

“Time to start a new file,” he murmurs to himself, then takes his pipe, packs, and lights it.