Expansion - Chapter 3

3 – Helvar - Bimadizi‑Kor Holding Annex

Helvar Quiet‑stone reviews the slates the intake Legionnaires have left for him. He studies the runes and marks with practiced calm. The Legion of Stone worries that Protectors are hiding among those being relocated, but Helvar is unconcerned. Let the frail and frightened cling to whoever shelters them. He is not hunting Protectors.

He wants the Zhul‑durak.

Just one running loose can do more damage than a dozen Protectors — or so the Priests of Durn insist. “Let them preach their fears,” he murmurs as he packs his pipe with durn‑shav, the deep‑reed resin. He walks to a wall sconce, lifts the chimney, raises the flame, and draws until the resin catches. A thin puff of bluish‑grey smoke curls upward as he replaces the chimney and returns to his desk.

He exhales through his nose and looks at the next slate.

Miiwan Soft‑Echo.

Found by a Legion engineer during a deep‑tunnel check. No tools. No pack. Nothing.

Helvar picks up the slate and a sheet of barkskin, pipe tightly held in his teeth, and heads toward the Whta‑mishikan — the Room of Questions. Before entering, he gathers a few items and places them in a small, covered basket. Then he informs the Senior Legionnaire:

“Bring Miiwan Soft‑Echo to the room. Keep him separate from the others.”

The carved stone table in the center of the chamber gleams like still water. Helvar often wonders who lived here before the collapse — who shaped such a beautiful surface. He sits at the far end and tucks the basket beneath his stool. Watching the timelamp, he marks the moment Miiwan is brought in and seated. The Legionnaire stands just outside the doorway, watching.

The manacles clank softly as Miiwan rests his wrists on the table.

Helvar smiles and blows a gentle cloud of smoke before setting his pipe down.

“I’m sorry you have to wear those,” he says in unaccented Mishikwe. “The Legionnaires get nervous. Some have been attacked.”

Miiwan’s eyes widen. “I thought all Bimkor were gone.”

Helvar’s smile widens. “Is that what they say in the Deep‑deep? How could they all be gone?” He reaches into the basket and withdraws a small teapot and a woven cloth cup. “Would you like some root‑tea?”

Miiwan nods. While he sips, Helvar begins the questions — name, home, occupation, the circumstances of his capture. Helvar’s stylus moves steadily across the barkskin. Some answers are too smooth, too ready.

So, he shifts the angle.

“Your name — Miiwan Soft‑Echo. That’s almost Durask in its style. Are you Bimkor as well?”

Miiwan hesitates for only a breath. “I tried to make it easier for the Legion. I speak a little Durask, so instead of Miiwan Wishka‑mii, I said Soft‑Echo.”

“Oh, of course,” Helvar says pleasantly.

He writes one word: lying.

He glances at the timelamp. “I’ve kept you longer than I intended. But I have many more questions. I’ll have the Legionnaire bring you back tomorrow.” He lifts the empty teapot. “When you return, is there anything you’d like besides more root‑tea?”

Miiwan thinks for a moment and answers. “If you had moss‑sweet cakes… but it’s been more than a year since anyone’s made those.”

Helvar stands and offers his hand. They shake. He nods to the Legionnaire, who escorts Miiwan back to his holding alcove — still separate from the others.

When the room is empty again, Helvar sits, reviews his notes, and begins planning tomorrow’s questions.