[center][h2]Stone[/h2][/center] 
[center][h3][i]Arren Hold, Kedoren[/i][/h3][/center]


The land south of the Windwall was so warm! She could feel the beads of sweat running down her back and her eyes stung from the salty drops dripping from her forehead.  It was hard to imagine that foreigners regarded Kedoren as cold; did they even know what [i]real[/i] cold was? It was even harder to imagine how much warmer it had to be in the southern kingdoms - how could those folk even work in such a blistering heat? Well, she’d find out soon enough, as her journey seemed to be taking her ever further from her home. 

Stone took a long sip from her waterskin and emptied what remained on her head. She could afford to be wasteful here – the land was bountiful and there were plenty of streams where she could refill it. Likewise, the number of trees here was staggering; the vegetation along the path was so dense that she had to take out a small axe to clear a way. The narrow, paved path wasn’t the main road leading to Saltbrook, but Stone had heard that there was an ancient shrine located somewhere in the vicinity, so she’d allowed herself this small detour. She’d never travelled this far south before and it would be interesting to see how the locals had portrayed Elonar in the old days. 

So far it had been quite the journey. She’d started out in Port Torin, but it quickly became apparent that the young Strolund’s tracks led further to the south. Finding a ship to Greenport had been easy, though that had only been the beginning. The next weeks were spent combing the great port-city and the countryside for any information. Lady Strolund had outright accused the Crowtons, rulers of Greenport, of taking her son and indeed, most people seemed to believe the same. The feud between the two Houses stretched back since before King Torin’s time – the Crowtons had always wanted to claim the Bay of Lights as their own, while the Strolunds had never forgiven their rivals for the destruction of their Hold. Even though they had fought on the same side during the War of the Eagles, the enmity between the two remained strong to this day. 

It was natural to think that the Crowtons were involved, but Stone wasn’t convinced - she made it a habit to look past people’s petty struggles. Kalan Strolund was no mere boy to be used in the bickering of the great families. He’d been born under a fateful sign, the twelfth day of the twelfth month of the year. During these past weeks the number twelve held a constant place in her mind. The scriptures taught that Elonar had twelve disciples that had spread her word in the lands of Athiar, which would one day become Kedoren. There were twelve bright stars in the night sky, each a gift from Eirtu to his wife. Finally, her Order had twelve commandments that every Sister had to observe at any given moment. How was the heir of House Strolund connected to all of this? 

No, there was more going on here than a rivalry between two Houses. Her findings had confirmed as much. Two drunks in a dockside tavern had told her that they’d seen a young man, matching Kalan’s description, taken by a band of sellswords. Their traces led away from Greenport and, village by village, all the way to the Highcliff. Interestingly, they didn’t stop there, but turned sharply south, on a course for Saltbrook – by foot. It was a very roundabout way and their refusal to board a ship betrayed their intention to avoid The Doors of Saltbrook. Likely, the group wished to avoid confronting House Arren’s men, who kept a close watch on the ships travelling the Greylin. 

She kept walking down the path for at least another hour. Apart from the rustling of the trees and the occasional songbird nothing else could be heard. It was strange that she’d met no other travellers thus far. True, this wasn’t the preferred way, but there were supposedly a number of villages in the area, so Stone was expecting to at least encounter a trader or band of woodcutters. Still lost in those thoughts, she came to a fork in the road. The paved way continued onward, but there was a dirt path leading off to the side. She paused, looking around. 

An old fir next to the trail had a faded symbol carved on its bark – two interlocking circles, signifying the unity of the Moons. Though overgrown and seemingly forgotten, there was no doubt in her mind that this was the way to the shrine. Quickening her pace, she followed the twisting path, deeper into the woods. If the road had seemed quiet and abandoned, then this place was truly forsaken; there were no signs that anyone had passed through here in ages. The sky was nearly obscured from the dense growth so it was hard to tell just how long she had been walking. A few moments later, something caught her attention. 

The Sister knelt down to inspect the ground. She wasn’t a hunter, but she’d spent enough time in the wilds to know that the tracks before her weren’t left by animals. These belonged to a human – a group of them in fact. It struck her as odd, as all the trails she’d come across didn’t seem to be frequented by hunters, let alone others. Keeping her eyes on the ground, she advanced, pondering. Could this be another group of pilgrims, like herself? 

With every passing moment she grew tenser. Stone couldn’t quite explain it, but her honed senses had never lied to her before. There was something amiss here. Suddenly, she froze, narrowing her eyes at a low-hanging branch. Blood. A few drying droplets, their light colour suggesting it was recently spilled. 

Stepping softly, she edged forward. It didn’t take her long to discover more blood – a little on a tree’s bark, a few more drops on a branch, even some seeping into the trail’s dirt amidst the tracks. Stone took a deep breath, steadying herself and relaxing her muscles. Whatever was happening here, it was bad – she was sure of it. She had to be ready. 

Screams of agony echoed from further down the trail – a woman’s screams. Stone wasn’t startled, she was already anticipating this. A small clearing was ahead of her, so she left the path and began moving from tree to tree. When she drew near, her features twisted in disgust. 

There was no doubt now that this was the shrine. A wooden statue stood at the clearing's centre, depicting a hooded woman. What drew her ire, however, was the grisly scene unfolding before the statue’s gaze. Two haggard men, with torn clothes and unkempt hair were standing over a captive. Blood was splayed everywhere and the woman at their feet had grown deathly still. One of the men, holding a crooked knife in his bloodied hand, brought something to his mouth and took a bite. It took a moment for Stone to realise what he was holding. 

He was [i]eating[/i] the dead woman’s heart. It was still squirting blood as his teeth burrowed into it. His companion looked up, lifting his hands to the sky and began chanting. 

Stone had seen enough. She ran into the clearing, bringing up her sword in one fluid motion.

“Flesh-eaters!” she shouted, her normally calm voice quivering with anger. 

The heathens regarded her for the briefest of moments and then came at her as one. The knife-bearer, the larger of the two, lunged at her with his curved blade. Stone spun out of the way and tripped him, all the while slashing her sword across the other man’s chest. She drew blood and he staggered; wasting no time she drove her blade through his gut. Taking a step back, the Sister assumed a defensive stance, her sword pointing at the burly man who had managed to regain his footing. He let out a beastly cry and threw himself at her, swinging wildly. Stone rolled out of his way, then in a burst of motion she came up from behind, running her sword through his back. As he toppled over, she felt the blade severing his spine. A moment later, silence fell on the grove. 

She kicked the dead body, rolling it over. There was nothing interesting about the man’s face. Stone knelt and checked his pockets, but she found nothing of note. She moved over to the other body and examined it as well, finding nothing. These two were both Kedorians and both of them were peasants by the looks of it. They were certainly not trained fighters, as she had dispatched them with ease. With her sword still in her hand, she made her way to the body of the woman. The girl's face was a mask of pain – she had been alive while her heart had been carved out. The Sister uttered a short prayer and then glanced up at Elonar’s visage. 

The statue was ancient, that much was clear. It was carved from a single trunk of wood, in a time long before Ardall had introduced stonemasonry to Kedoren. It depicted a hooded woman, her eyes downcast and her features obscured. It was not so different than the way she was portrayed in the north. The left hand was hidden in the folds of her robe, but the other should be outstretched, holding an orb. Stone moved closer and noticed that the statue’s right hand had been violently removed. The statue had been defiled, most likely by these scum and their ilk. 

“Elonar, forgive us…” she whispered, lowering her head. 

At almost the same moment, she heard movement behind her, but it was too late. Pain exploded in the back of her head and the world went black. 

Stone came to as a pair of rough hands gripped her neck, trying to choke her. Pushing through the pain, she cleared her vision and focused. A scrawny man, with crazed eyes had straddled her and was shouting something incomprehensible, spittle flying from his mouth. She hit him with her fists, but that didn’t deter him in the least bit. Her vision began to swim and she felt the strength draining from her, almost out of breath. Groping desperately, her hand felt something on the ground – a stone. She slammed it into his head as hard as she could. 

The madman cried out, his hold on her weakening. Stone gripped his wrist and twisted sharply, until she felt it snap. Her enemy howled in pain, clutching his broken hand. Wasting no time, she drew a knife from her sleeve and jammed it straight into his throat. The man gurgled, spitting blood on her. With a grunt, she pushed him away and got to her feet, her head still spinning. 
 
She looked around, grabbing her sword. Her breathing was ragged and her hands were trembling slightly. Stone had been carless and she almost paid for it with her life! Recalling her training, she willed herself to focus and relax. A glance at her attacker revealed that he was as dead as the other three. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the treeline for any signs of movement. Eventually, she determined it was safe. 

A glance down at her robe revealed it was stained in crimson. She looked like a bloody Red Sister! Stone took out a piece of cloth from a pocket and used it to wipe the blood off her sword, which she then sheathed. Slowly, she approached the statue, laying a hand on the wood. She felt a wave of invigorating energy wash over her. The Sister smiled – let fools speak what they want, the Goddess was not gone! Still keeping her hand on the statue she began circling it, wishing to see what was on the other side. 

She gasped and withdrew her hand at once, as if burned. Despite everything today, she’d managed to keep a rein on her emotions. But now…now, the colour drained from her face. 

On Elonar’s back a symbol had been painted in blood. She had never seen it in her life, but everyone in Kedoren or rather, everyone in Ardacia knew what it was.  

It was the mark of the Sun.