Fiafia Haoa perched on the edge of the dock, her legs swinging above the clear waters of the Northern Bay. Her wild, brown hair was tied back in a silk bandana. Her skin was tanned and freckled. She popped a handful of steamed shrimp into her mouth and watched the ships trundle in and out of the harbor.
They reminded her of her father and growing up on his vessel. Blue ocean, blue sky, and a horizon that went on forever. Gods, she’d loved it. But her father had been a pirate, and in the end, the law had caught up to him, and that had been that.
Orphaned and alone, Fiafia had set off for Praetoria in search of a fresh start, fortune, and fame.
She’d found her fresh start working odd jobs around the docks. The pay was barely enough to put food in her belly and a roof over her head. For now, though, it was enough. There would be time enough for fortune and fame later.
“I won’t take those!” an irritated voice rang out.
Fiafia turned. Halfway down the dock, Ralk the harbormaster leaned on his cane and glared up at an elf. Despite the goblin’s diminutive stature, the elf took a step backward and raised his hands defensively. In his right, he held a sheaf of papers.
“Look,” the elf said. “There was no plague in Blue Harbor when we left port. My wares aren’t infected. You can’t just turn us away.”
“Either you produce the proper documents,” Ralk said with a sneer, “or that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
With the ships and their trade came rumors of the plague sweeping Praetoria. Entire villages infected. People sick, dead, or driven mad. The Creeping Plague they called it. No one knew where it came from or how it started, although some said a man in black wearing a bird-like mask always appeared before it began.
Ralk the harbormaster caught sight of Fiafia seated at the end of the dock and shot her a disapproving glare. She finished her shrimp, wiped her hands on her leather breeches, and hopped to her feet. Then she got back to work.
She spent the rest of the day tending to the docks, the ships, and their cargo. By the time she finished, Ralk had long since limped off to shore, leaning on his cane. The sky had darkened to a deep navy blue. A full moon and blanket of stars lit the water. The shadows of the ships bobbed and swayed. The water lapped at the docks and the shore. And Fiafia was beyond exhausted.
She hefted her toolbox and plodded off the docks and onto shore, where Ralk’s supply shack stood. It was the size of an outhouse, made of ill-fitted wooden planks and listing drunkenly to one side. She unlocked the door and tugged it open. The hinges squealed their customary protest. She dropped the toolbox on a workbench and turned to leave.
That’s when she saw it: a parchment jutting from a thick, leather-bound book on an end table beside the door. Something about the script caught her eye. It was jagged and rough. She poked her head out the door to make sure Ralk wasn’t limping down the road toward her. Then she pulled the parchment free and, by the light of the moon, read it.
Receive Doctor Blight in your warehouse at midnight. The Venari have connected a tunnel from the Realm of Silence. Afterward, rendezvous with us to the south... unless you want to be among the plague-ridden.
Fiafia frowned. Realm of Silence? Venari? Doctor Blight? She didn’t understand any of it. But she understood the plague, and if she was to believe this letter, the plague was coming to the Northern Bay.
Fiafia tucked the letter back into the book, locked the shack, and set off into the night. She briefly considered alerting the authorities, but the only thing the law had ever done for her was take her father away.
So instead, she set off for Ralk’s warehouse.
It was set off from the docks at the edge of the village, over a hill in a copse of trees. Fiafia started off at a jog toward it. Her feet pounded down the narrow dirt road that cut between ramshackle shops and houses. At this hour, the streets were all but deserted.
Receive Doctor Blight in your warehouse at midnight. And judging by the position of the moon, that wasn’t far off.
She veered off the road and stumbled up the hill at the village’s edge. At its peak, she stopped and stared. A rectangular wooden building stood in the moonlit clearing of trees below. Ralk’s warehouse. Through its windows, a light flickered.
Fiafia hurried down the slope and ran in a crouch through the trees and across the clearing until she reached the warehouse. She pressed her back against its wall. Her heart thundered in her chest. She crept along its length until she reached the door. She wondered what she’d do if it was locked.
But it wasn’t locked. It opened with a faint click, and she held her breath and listened. Silence. She eased it open and slipped inside.
Stacks of crates, barrels, and various miscellany filled the interior of the warehouse. At its far end, the light flickered dimly. Fiafia slunk between the crates and barrels as she made her way toward it. The scent of hay filled the air and tickled her nose. Gods, don’t let me sneeze, she thought.
She stole forward until she reached a large crate and peered around it. Ralk was there, in the far corner of the warehouse. His back was to her. He’d set his lantern on the ground beside him and opened a trapdoor in the warehouse’s floor.
