Giles lived in the south wing of the Old Wordsworth Manor, the oldest surviving structure in Othilia since the waterwheel was lost to the river. The manor stood beside an ancient willow tree, its gnarled branches casting a spiderweb shadow when dawn shone over the town. Broken lattice, choked with wild ferns, crept up the stone facade—nature slowly reclaiming its hold. The bricks were cracked, the timber weather-worn and rotting; yet even in its decay, the manor held a quiet grandeur.

  Giles was no lord of this crumbling estate, no heir to the Wordsworth legacy; neither kin to the baron nor the beneficiary of some estranged fortune. His annual retainer, earned through years of unyielding service, scarcely eclipsed that of a common tinker. His only inheritance was his father’s name—known well in Othilia, respected by the many, though the reasons had faded with time. The south wing was his, not by right, but by the baron’s good graces, rented for a pittance in honour of the late Attila Durant.

  The rest of the manor was leased to Iman Lazuli, Executive Manager of Wordsworth Mining Co., the second wealthiest man in Othilia. Giles didn't think too highly of Lazuli. The man was polite enough—neighbourly even—and they had shared dinner, drinks and cards. But Lazuli was a bleeding idiot, his high station rewarded, not of merit, but by blind loyalty. The mining company was bleeding money, and the town sneered at Lazuli’s incompetency. Yet year after year, Baron Wordsworth—a man who looked after his own, right or not—retained Lazuli in his gilded office.

  The baron himself had long since abandoned the manor, relocating to a stately villa atop the eastern hills. Like a hawk perched high, he watched Othilia from afar—his presence felt, but rarely seen.

  For Giles, orphaned at twelve, the manor was both a refuge and a reminder. Out of the smouldering ruin of his childhood home, through the twisting dark beneath the mountains, Giles Durant had emerged, scarred by shadow and flame. Despite all he had lost, despite the slow breaking of the world, the manor walls held and preserved the light of his life. Here was something worth protecting—something he would give his life to defend.

  Broken clouds were moving slowly across the night sky, like the tendrils of frayed cloth. The moon had yet to rise, but between the clouds, stars shimmered, cold and distant.

  The office was still, save for the fan’s tired creak and the faint murmur of voices from the high street pubs. Shadows loomed, pooling in corners, clinging to the worn furniture. Virgil stood beside his desk, eyes fixed on the wall.

  An old photograph hung there—glass cracked, frame dusty. Thirteen men and women stared back—the last of the Othilia Sheriff’s Department. Crisp uniforms. Solemn expressions. Virgil stood at the edge of the group, twenty years younger, tall and broad-shouldered. A man of conviction, once certain that order could stand against chaos.

  He lingered on their faces. Most were gone—retired, scattered, or dead. The department was a relic, its authority dissolved, and its legacy reduced to whispers. Only he remained.

  The memory of the oath came whooshing back. The deputy’s badge, gleaming in the afternoon sun, was pinned to his chest; and although it was but a lightweight sigil forged from copper (as was the sigil of Guardian Force which came after), it weighed as heavy as a tinker’s laden cart. The ritual was performed before an assembly held on the front steps of the Sheriff’s Office, the whole department in attendance, and at least a hundred townsfolk. The baron stood among them, immaculate in his ironed suit, watching with cool approval.

  The Litany of Order needed no prompting, for Virgil had branded it upon his heart.

  I swear to uphold order,

  To stand firm against chaos,

  To bring light where shadows gather.

  I will take responsibility for my actions,

  Knowing that in the smallest of deeds,

  The seeds of great consequence are sown.

  I will speak the truth, even when it is bitter,

  For lies breed disorder,

  And from disorder, ruin.

  I will shoulder the burdens of this world,

  For it is only in bearing the weight

  That I may find meaning.

  I will build where there is decay,

  Restore where there is ruin,

  And protect what is sacred,

  So that those who come after me

  May walk a path more secure.

  I will not falter when chaos rises,

  Nor yield to the despair it carries.

  I will hold fast,

  For it is in the struggle that order is forged,

  And in order, life endures.

  This I swear before the Light,

  The wind that moves through all things,

  And the eyes of those who came before.

  Let my actions be my testimony,

  And my resolve, my shield.

  The sheriff’s revolver exploded ceremoniously over the high street. Applause followed. That night at the Heron’s Blessing, there was wine and cheese, the clink of coins in Two-up, the clack of dice from Twenty Squares, and the boisterous yet lighthearted rowdiness of celebration. Hope was alive that night.

  Now, Virgil stood alone in his office, staring at the faded photograph. His reflection wavered in the cracked glass. He frowned. Time had weathered his body, dulled his hearing, bent his back—but the Litany remained.

  “I will speak the truth,” he whispered. “For lies breed disorder … ”

  His lips pressed thin. The words endured, but felt hollow. For while the words were as ancient letters etched in stone that endured, they were faded by wind and rain, and covered in lichen.

  Virgil sighed, turned from the past, and wrenched open the drawer. The rails groaned. The acrid stench of strife, bitter and sickly, billowed into him.

  He stared at the pouch. The fan wopped away.

  He pocketed it, slammed the drawer. The sound rang sharp, final. He donned his hat, nodded goodnight to Millard, and stepped into the cool night.

  Virgil walked the high street, his steps heavy. For in his pocket, he carried more than the remnants of strife. He carried the weight of an oath, not yet broken, but fragile and worn.

  Giles stood on the porch looking over his wife's garden. Twilight had swallowed its colour. The petals had closed. Bees were buzzing no longer. A faint breeze stirred the leaves.

  He breathed deeply: once, twice, thrice. He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders. With a final breath, he stepped through the door.

  Ambushed. Like a fairy sprite, his daughter sprang from her papers and crayons. Giles barely had time to brace before she threw herself into him, and he dropped to his knees to catch her.

  He was beaming. "Oh! Correct me if I'm wrong, starshine, but I'm getting the impression that you missed me," he said as he cradled her, pressing his lips into her raven-dark hair.

  "I always miss you, daddy! You should never leave."

  "But then I wouldn't get to come back to you."

  Her name was Aurora, his only daughter; his candle in the dark. He cherished her, more than anything, although his eyes, soft and tender, told more than my words ever could. They were the eyes of a man who knew the meaning of love. They were the eyes of a man who knew the meaning of life.

  Aurora broke into a breathless account of her day at the schoolhouse. “We learned about oliphants!” She tossed an arm into the air excitedly, mimicking a titanic trunk. "Mrs Birk wants to take a trip to Calla Lily to see the tinker who comes down from the mountains. His oliphant isn't as big as the ones across the sea. I think it would still be awesome to see him, even if he is small."

  "It would be very awesome," Giles admitted, his smile widening. "But I don't think you'll be calling him so small when you see the oliphant for yourself."

  "How do you know?" Aurora asked, alight with curiosity.

  He winked. "Because I've seen him myself."

  She gasped with delight, which was almost too much for Giles to bear. Giddy with anticipation, she gasped, "Can I ride him?"

  Giles tilted his head, feigning grave consideration. "No promises there, starshine."

  Aurora pouted. "Mother said the same thing."

  Giles laughed. "Well, mother knows best! We need to get you on a horse before you try an oliphant, my dear. Baby steps." He thought about this and quickly reconsidered. "Actually, I think it might be best for you to keep your feet firmly on the ground."

  "That's no fun."

  Again Giles burst into laughter, a deep, rolling sound that echoed through the room. He kissed her forehead. They continued to gabble about nothing particular at all, the kind of whimsical yet meaningless talk that somehow meant everything to him. It was the way Giles liked it—the way he needed it.

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  Virgil stalked through the dim streets. He took the path of least light, through the darkest corners of the town where most of the bloofire streetlights had gone dark.

  He reached Old Forest Road, where the houses thinned and the land rose in undulating bluffs. The air cooled as he climbed, carrying with it the pleasant tang of damp earth and the fresh fragrance of distant trees. The town unfolded beneath him: the faint glow of streetlights like the scatter of islands on a black sea.

  Once, this view was stellar. When Virgil was a boy, every streetlight in Othilia glowed with the strong, steady brilliance of bloofire, and from these heights, the whole town, from Cujo’s Crossing to Wiseman’s Inn, radiated. But with the shrinking of the Empire—and the fading of the gnomes, whose genius had brought bloofire into the world—the stockpiles of those miraculous globes had dwindled, and were now almost entirely exhausted. Year after year, the streetlights of Othilia died. And so, like the swelling of the waters in an unhurried deluge; first the lowlands are swallowed, then hillock and hill sink into the water, until the land is reduced to stranded pockets of civilisation; so the shadows of Othilia had begun to reclaim the night.

  The road climbed higher, winding around a crumbling waystone. Its inscriptions were faded, shallow, indecipherable—whatever stories it once told were lost. Old Forest Road continued, straight as the arrow flies, vanishing into the thick shadows and towering trees of Emu Forest.

  But Virgil did not follow Old Forest Road. Fifty paces beyond the waystone, he turned at an intersection, the fractured bitumen giving way to cobblestones. The road was now lit by kerosene lampposts, flickering softly.

  He came to the villa where the baron lived. A high stone wall surrounded the estate, its surface pristine, neither marred by cracks nor clinging weeds. An iron gate barred entry, an impressive W woven into its design. Beyond the gate, the courtyard stretched out in perfect symmetry: slender junipers shot into the sky; a stone fountain bubbled at its centre. The great house loomed, its windows glowing with warm light, though only a handful of souls dwelled here—the baron, his nephew, and their servants.

  From the guardhouse emerged Ajax. Bald and broad. Eyes like razors. Surely Bilgamesh of Babylon, the warrior king of legend, was no less imposing. He moved with the deliberate strength of one who knows their power, yet who wields it wisely.

  Once a toiler of the mines, as so many in Othilia were, the baron had seen something in Ajax—a brawn that could be tempered by loyalty and forged into a shield. And so, as one buys a horse more swift than their own, the baron dug deep into his wallet. Ajax left the mines and came with the baron; and now, wheresoever the baron went, Ajax followed.

  Virgil paused at the gate. Ajax met his gaze. Like the wolf that leers at an intruder on its woodlands, so Ajax stared.

  Virgil found his hand buried in his pocket, clutching the pouch of strife. He wondered if Ajax could smell it.

  “Ajax,” Virgil said.

  “Chief.” Ajax glanced at the frayed clouds, which were slowly swallowing the stars. “A dark night to be walking without a light.”

  “I know my way without it,” Virgil said. “And the eyes soon adjust to the dark.”

  Ajax let out a low grunt, an acknowledgment without agreement. “You don’t have an appointment.”

  “I don’t need one.”

  Ajax stared, unblinking. Although they had known each other for years, and shared no serious grievance, still Ajax couldn’t shake his quiet unease of Virgil Decinta. It was his fearlessness. Most men in Othilia bowed before him, their voices faltering, their postures slumping, all under the mere gravity of his presence. Even the covenant man had hesitated (if only briefly). But not Virgil. No, Virgil stood tall, never wavered. Virgil stood like an ancient pillar, unmoved in the broiling storm that was Ajax.

  “The baron has retired to his study,” Ajax said finally, as if this would defer the Chief Commander. “He has poured himself a brandy, and I do not see him emerging again before bed. Might I suggest returning in the morning.”

  Not a question, but a command—a command Virgil ignored.

  “I would see him now, Ajax.”

  His voice was hard, but it held no anger—only the quiet yet firm finality of a man who had spent a lifetime issuing commands. Ajax did not flinch; and for a moment, it seemed as if he would refuse.

  Then without a word, and looking slightly defeated, Ajax withdrew. He returned with the key. The gate creaked open.

  “Go on, then,” he said. “You won’t mind if I follow.”

  “I would be shocked if you didn’t,” Virgil said.

  Giles stepped into the kitchen and found his flower. He crossed the floor with a feather-light step. Like a lost soldier following a flickering light through a dark woodland, Giles was drawn to her. His hands rested on her waist as he leaned down, kissing the nape of her neck. She let out a soft laugh as he eased her into his arms—and suddenly, the last of his weariness was gone. Their kiss lingered, unhurried, for the span of several breaths.

  Clementine Dawson was the most beautiful woman in Othilia, if not the whole barony. She had a heart-shaped face, with deep eyes that sparkled like sunlit ponds and flowing golden hair. But it was her grace that set her apart—grace in movement, in word, in silence. Some said she had fairy blood in her, and perhaps they were right. Many men in Othilia still clung to hopeless dreams, but Clementine’s heart had long belonged to Giles. For that he called himself the luckiest man under the stars.

  How, you ask? How did this unassuming, steadfast man find his way into the arms of a moonchild? Did he obsessively court her with flowers and trinkets? Did he craft sonnets to serenade her beneath the moonlit sky? No. Giles had given her something far rarer. He had offered not only his heart, but also his word.

  I will always tell you the truth, he had said.

  And she had believed him.

  "How was your day, sweetheart?"

  Giles didn't hesitate. "Frustrating." He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. He wouldn’t tell her about the demon spice. Not yet. "It was just Virgil and I, and he wasn't supposed to be there. He was in one of his moods all day. We barely made a dent on the archives. I feel like pulling my hair out."

  "Lucky for you I like bald men," she said, tugging playfully at a lock of hair.

  "Oh really? Since when?"

  "Since right now. Thinking of you as an old, old man."

  He chuckled, leaning in. “You’ve got quite the imagination.”

  She smiled and kissed the corner of his mouth. "Why don't you head down to the Heron? Get a drink. Let your petty woes drift for a while. Your roast won't be ready for another hour."

  Giles shook his head. "Nah. I was going to look for that book about the purple oliphant that leads the little girl to the fairies. I know we have it somewhere. You remember the one, right?"

  "Of course I remember it. It was one of my mother's favourites. Should be on the top shelf of the linen cupboard."

  Giles nodded. “Thanks.”

  "You're a good father," she said, peering over her shoulder. A faint frown touched her brow. "But don't you dare promise her a ride on one of those damn beasts."

  "Don't worry. I already broke her heart."

  She smiled again, radiant and warm. "I love you, Giles."

  "I love you back," he said.

  The baron’s house was a testament to an age in decline. High ceilings and thick rugs spoke of grandeur, but the flicker of flames lighting its halls betrayed the decay of time. There was no bloofire at Villa Wordsworth—not for lack of desire, but for lack of supply when the villa was built. On the walls hung portraits of the Wordsworth family, stern men and women, some proud, some vain, a few outright scornful, as if watching their descendant squander a legacy.

  When they came to the study door, Ajax raised a hand. Virgil stopped. No words exchanged—the gesture was routine.

  Ajax knocked, three sharp raps.

  “My lord, forgive my intrusion,” he said, voice edged with bitterness. “I come as an escort for the Chief Commander. He demands an audience.”

  Virgil’s eyes narrowed, but said nothing.

  From within: “Enter, Virgil. Alone.”

  Ajax’s irritation flickered, but he obeyed. He held open the door, then stepped aside to his usual post in the shadows beside the portrait of a rat-faced ancestor.

  The baron sat at his desk.

  Ancient tomes lined the dust-laden shelves. A stack of books lay open on his desk, histories of the Last Empire scribbled with precise annotations. A crystal decanter of brandy caught the firelight. Its contents were nearly empty.

  The baron’s suit was still sharp, but his blazer lay over his chair. His cuffs were rolled, tie loosened. He was an old man, thin but not skinny, his hair silver and swept back. He had a face like a hawk. His wrinkles spoke, not of humour throughout his years, but of a seriousness that breached into severity.

  “The hour is late, Virgil,” the baron said, his voice calm yet heavy with expectation.

  “The matter is serious,” Virgil said.

  “As I expect.”

  Like the creaking of a cart loaded beyond capacity, so the baron came to his feet, groaning not for the pain of his body, but for all he had inherited and all he had hauled onto his own shoulders.

  His hand reached for the decanter, and poured two glasses, offering one to Virgil. Without a word, Virgil accepted and followed the baron to the lounge at the centre of the room. The baron’s movements were refined, ordered, learned in his youth and maintained through his years. Unlike the leather-skinned farmer of the field, or the miner pale from years without sunlight, he was not wearied by age.

  They drank in silence. The fire crackled.

  “I smell strife.”

  Virgil’s gaze hardened. He leaned forward, pulled the stained pouch from his pocket, and tossed it onto the table. Like the man who casts away his wedding ring, disturbed by the infidelity of the woman who had worn the matching ring, yet relieved to be rid of the reminder; so Virgil threw down the remnants of strife. The acrid stench seemed to grow stronger, curling into the room like an unwelcome guest.

  “Your nose is better than your henchman’s,” Virgil said.

  “I brought Ajax into my house for reasons other than his strength of scent,” said the baron. “But you would do well to remember he is more perceptive than he lets on.”

  The baron’s lips thinned as his eyes fell on the pouch—as if the sight of it disgusted him. He took another sip of his brandy.

  “Where was it found?”

  “Giles Durant stumbled upon it,” Virgil said.

  The baron’s eyes darkened as Virgil recounted the discovery. He listened, silent and brooding.

  “The boy is too zealous,” the baron said. “That fire of his—it will be his undoing if left unchecked.”

  “I’ve tried to temper it,” Virgil said. “But I fear his resolve burns hotter than my cautions.”

  The baron nodded gravely, swirling the last swallow of his brandy. “His spirit is admirable, but Durant’s penchant for principle is a recipe for recklessness.

  “The gossip of this town is not unknown to me: I hear everything, if not with my own ears. There is no small dislike for myself. Your boy Vashe is sleeping with Madison Tucker; and rumour is, her husband has caught on, but hasn’t the courage to confront a Guardian—pathetic, really. I hear the butcher changes his prices on the whim of whomever walks through his doors; and that Deas is importing cheap timber from Castle Hill.

  “But there isn’t a whisper of strife—and for now, it remains outside the tabloids. Which means either no-one is speaking about the demon spice for fear of the Harvester, or the bleed into Othilia is not so widespread. I am confident of the latter—and because I do not make a habit of issuing you commands, I would beg you, Virgil, as my right hand, we must maintain this silence. Let me be clear: there is no room for crusaders in Othilia, not now.”

  “Giles will hold his tongue. I’ll see to it,” Virgil said.

  “See that you do,” said the baron. “I eradicated strife from this town—I declared it destroyed. To admit that it has returned?” The baron shook his head, then downed the last of his drink. “I must maintain order. And doing so, in these dying days, demands a blind eye.”

  “And if more is found?” Virgil asked.

  The baron leaned forward. He plucked up the pouch and cast it into the fire. The flames hissed, flaring green. A pungent stench curled into the air—sharp, alien, like the bitter scent of a crushed ant.

  “Make it disappear,” the baron said.

  The fire swallowed the pouch whole, leaving only ash. Virgil watched as the green flames faded. He nodded, took one last sip of his brandy, then rose to his feet.

  “As you wish, my lord,” Virgil said, bowing slightly.

  The baron remained seated, clutching his empty glass as he stared at the fire. Ajax straightened as Virgil emerged. The stench of strife lingered, like a curse.

  Giles sifted through the remnants of his mother’s library, most lost to the fire that took both her and his childhood home. He found the book. It nearly fell apart in his hands: the leaf jacket was long gone, the hardback was blackened and frayed, and lesions exposed the dusty cardboard. Yet on the cover there remained the gilded profile of an oliphant, faintly gleaming.

  He flicked through the pages, finding them intact, if a little loose. He carried the book to his favourite chair beside the dormant fireplace. Aurora climbed into his lap, teeming with excitement as she nestled against him. Her raven-dark hair spilled over him.

  “The Purple Oliphant,” he said, his voice rich with promise.

  His daughter squealed.

  Giles read. Soon, they were away—bound for Fairyland atop the same oliphant Giles had ridden as a boy. Aurora hung on every word. Her wonder warmed him. By the time they were called to dinner, they had finished four chapters.

  Over roast lamb and warm bread, the Durants laughed and traded stories.

  Later, Giles read more. Aurora’s eyelids drooped, her breathing slow. Soon, soft snores filled the room. He closed the book gently, carried her to her room, and tucked her in. For a time he lingered, watching his daughter sleep, and in the presence of her radiating peace and unconscious beauty, the sudden urge to cry rushed over him. He shed tears in the doorway, then as he wiped his eyes, he was overcome with a divine humour that complemented his tears.

  Giles and Clementine retired. They whispered in the dark, made love, and drifted into sleep.

  Outside, the wind stirred the trees. The creeping clouds swallowed the last of the stars.

  Rain fell steady over Othilia.

  Coming up in Chapter 4…

  A scent rises in the dark.

  And in the shadows of the Heron’s Blessing, something stirs.

  Chapter 4: The Lonely Miner

  Coming next Thursday.