The Crimson Accord

The scroll's crimson glow intensified, casting long shadows across the tavern walls. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the light died. The text remained, but it was ordinary ink now — dark and permanent, as if burned into the parchment. Sable reached the scroll first. Her fingers were quick and practiced — she had it rolled and tucked into her coat before anyone could object. "Finder's fee," she said, meeting Grundar's glare with a smile that did not reach her eyes. "That belongs to everyone who read it," the dwarf growled. "Then everyone can follow me to Ashwick and read it again when we arrive." Brother Aldric laughed — a short, surprised sound, as if he had forgotten he could. "She has a point. The scroll is the contract. Whoever holds it, holds the proof of payment." Whisper said nothing. She was staring at the door through which the cloaked figure had departed. Her silver eyes were unfocused, seeing something the others could not. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "There were wards on that scroll. Old ones. Whoever wrote it wanted only certain people to read it — people already marked by loss, or guilt, or secrets." She looked at each of them in turn. "We were not chosen at random. We were chosen because we are already broken in the exact ways this task requires." A long silence followed. "Well," said Aldric, "that is the most unsettling thing anyone has ever said to me in a tavern, and I once heard a confession from a man who ate his business partner." Grundar shouldered his pack. "Dawn. East road. Bring weapons." He did not say bring courage. They all understood it was implied.