Mergo Hensya

We're here to fix your problems

We entered the sanctuary in a hush, its purpose unknown to me, yet its ambiance was undeniably serene. It was akin to a greenhouse, if not for the imposing stone walls. Verdant foliage spilled from pots, and blooms of Fittere, a sight I believed lost to me, flourished in vibrant defiance.

Our path led to a central fountain, now a cradle for plant life rather than water, reminiscent of a similar structure in Dithune, adorned with flora. Amidst the blossoms perched a statue of a robust woman, her identity lost to my memory. The people here revered a pantheon of deities, each presiding over their own domain of miracles—crops, weather, fertility, love, death, magic...

A sudden movement caught Damien's attention; footsteps hastened toward us. An elderly woman emerged from behind a towering bloom, her gasp punctuating the air as her eyes fell upon us. She halted, sinking to her knees—a gesture I found distasteful.

"Valea, de A lai," I approached, extending my hand to lift her from her undeserved prostration. Her grey robe pooled around her on the floor, the white of our uniforms a clear signifier of our status.

She raised her head tentatively, her gaze lingering on me before settling on Damien, who remained a silent sentinel behind me. The woman stayed rooted to the ground, ignoring my outstretched hand, instead offering a cascade of apologies in a voice roughened by age or sorrow.

I bowed slightly, a concession to her fear. It was a loathsome thing, to have someone kneel and beg forgiveness for no fault of their own. She could not have anticipated our arrival; we were, after all, accustomed to moving without announcement. Her eyes, wide with terror, spoke volumes of the tales spun about my family in these remote corners. Perhaps she feared a swift and unjust retribution for any perceived slight.

"Ceatta mossi et ratt'u?" I offered, reversing the roles of aid. If she would not accept my help, perhaps I could serve her instead.

"Ratt'u?" she echoed, her confusion palpable as she searched for the appropriate response. I nodded, unwilling to repeat myself, especially not in the corrupted dialect that had taken root here. "Anallea ratt'u..." she murmured, her voice a whisper before unleashing a torrent of words, each one laden with an urgency that demanded deciphering.

The sanctuary's air was thick with tension, a silent battle of wills unfolding within its ancient walls. Damien's presence loomed beside me, a silent guardian as I sifted through the old woman's words. "She claims the commander is absent, that only the common folk tread these sacred grounds," I translated, though I knew Damien's grasp of the language was as innate as the blood coursing through his veins.

"Then where might he be?" Damien pondered aloud, his fingers rifling through the dossier with a sense of urgency.

I rose to my feet, the image of our quarry in hand—a man whose appearance belied his rank, his visage not one of authority but of impending retirement. "I inquired about the guard, not the man." I said, bending down to the praying woman. Fear had enveloped her, a palpable shroud. "A catta is musso?" The photograph was met with a fleeting glance and a shake of her head.

"She's lying," Damien declared, a statement as clear as day. A subtle twitch from the woman caught my eye; she understood more than she let on—she understood the Imperial tongue.

The commander had to be close; the sanctuary's confines were not vast. "Finding him will be a simple task," I assured myself, knowing full well that Damien would heed my command.

"No magic," he reminded me, a warning that drew an involuntary eye roll from me as I unsheath my sword—not with the intent to harm, but to ensure our safety.

The sanctuary's secrets were not deeply buried. A door to the right beckoned, and I approached, resisting the urge to use a spell to gain entry. The handle resisted, then gave way, revealing an empty room—or so it seemed. The shadow and the sound of breathing betrayed the presence of another.