[Day One]

Chapter 1: Arrival in Fairmarket

Fairmarket | Town Square | Midday

The road into Fairmarket was dusty and well-traveled as Ser Lucan Farrow approached the bustling market square. He could hear the hum of life from the town long before he saw it—vendors calling out, the shuffle of feet on cobblestone, the bleating of sheep, and the clatter of wagons as they rolled past.

Lucan nudged Buck, his chestnut steed, forward, taking in the scene as he entered the square. It was alive with energy, but something felt off. The square should have been full of easy banter and haggling, yet there was a tension that lingered beneath the surface. Townspeople moved quickly from stall to stall, heads bent close in hushed conversations. The air was thick with unease, a current of whispered rumors darting between the stalls like shadows.

Lucan slowed Buck as he approached a group of townsfolk gathered near a fruit stand. His sharp brown eyes caught the glances they threw his way, fleeting but assessing, as if measuring whether he might be friend or foe. He caught snippets of their conversation as he passed.

"They've been here for weeks now…" one woman muttered, clutching her basket tightly.

"A curse, I tell you. The Rovashka bring nothing but trouble," another man growled, shaking his head as he picked through a basket of apples.

Lucan straightened in his saddle at the mention of the Rovashka. He'd heard whispers of them on the road, a nomadic group that had made camp near Oldstones, a name that itself carried weight and mystery. Oldstones, the seat of the long-dead House Mudd, was a place steeped in old, forgotten power, now nothing more than crumbling ruins and ghost stories. But the tension in Fairmarket was very real.

Ahead, standing near the steps of the town hall, Thorne, the village elder, was speaking with a group of townsfolk, his voice loud and commanding. Thorne was a tall man, with graying hair and a face carved from stone. His piercing blue eyes swept the crowd as he gestured wildly with his hands, as though delivering a sermon. His wife, Melara, stood beside him, her arms folded, listening but silent.

"They bring misfortune with them!" Thorne bellowed, his voice carrying over the din of the marketplace. "Everywhere the Rovashka go, chaos follows. We've lost sheep, crops are failing, and now, a child goes missing!"

The crowd murmured in agreement, nodding along with his words. Brynna, a stout woman with a stern face, gripped her apron, nodding as Thorne spoke. Beside her, Farlen, the town's blacksmith, crossed his thick arms over his chest and spat on the ground, as if to punctuate Thorne's statement.

Lucan dismounted from Buck, his boots landing softly on the cobblestones. He led his horse to the edge of the square, tying him to a post as he kept one ear on the conversation. He approached a vendor's stall under the guise of examining the wares but was focused on the elder's tirade.

Thorne's voice was rising in anger, fueled by the crowd's growing unease. "We should drive them out, once and for all. Fairmarket is a place of honest, hard-working folk. We don't need their kind lurking in the shadows, bringing ruin to our doors."

Lucan's gaze swept the faces in the crowd, reading the fear and resentment etched into their expressions. His hand instinctively rested on the pommel of his sword. He had traveled through enough small towns to know how quickly fear could turn into violence, especially against outsiders like the Rovashka.

"Seems you've got a bit of a problem on your hands," Lucan remarked, stepping closer to a stall selling bread. The vendor, an older man with tired eyes, glanced at Lucan, then at Thorne, before nodding slightly.

"Aye, the Rovashka showed up a few weeks back, camped out by Oldstones," the vendor muttered. "Things ain't been right since. Strange happenings, lost sheep, that sort of thing. Thorne says they're cursed."

Lucan took a piece of bread, chewing thoughtfully as he scanned the square. Cursed? He had heard the superstitions surrounding the ancient ruins of Oldstones, but curses weren't usually something a sword could fix. Still, the unease here was real, and it was building.

As he finished his bread, Lucan caught Thorne's eye. The elder scowled, his gaze narrowing as he spotted the stranger among them. The crowd quieted slightly, sensing the change in the air.

"You there," Thorne called out, taking a step toward Lucan. "You're a knight, aren't you? What say you to all this? Surely you've seen what outsiders bring with them—nothing but trouble."

Lucan met Thorne's gaze steadily, his jaw tightening slightly. "I've seen many things on the road, Thorne," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Trouble doesn't always come from outsiders."

A murmur rippled through the crowd, but Thorne's scowl deepened, his hands clenching at his sides. Melara placed a hand on his arm, but Thorne shook her off.

"Mark my words," Thorne said, his voice low but sharp. "If you stay here long enough, you'll see for yourself. The Rovashka are nothing but trouble. And the sooner we get rid of them, the better."

Lucan said nothing, but the weight of the elder's words hung in the air. He could feel the eyes of the townspeople on him, watching, waiting. He knew this wasn't just about superstition or missing sheep. There was something darker brewing here, something that tied the Rovashka and Oldstones together in ways he didn't yet understand.

But he intended to find out.

Town of Fairmarket | Fairmarket Sept | Afternoon

The Fairmarket Sept sat at the edge of town, modest but well-kept, its stone walls washed in the soft orange glow of the late afternoon sun. The small structure was simple, with a pointed roof and tall, narrow windows, each framed by a modest carving of the Seven-Pointed Star. Inside, the air smelled of incense, and candles flickered on the altar, casting long shadows across the worn wooden pews. The only sound was the crackling of the flames, though Lucan had the distinct feeling that the sept itself held its breath, waiting for something.

Lucan stepped inside, his boots making a dull thud against the stone floor. At the front of the sept, Septon Branson knelt before the altar, his robes hanging heavily around him, as though weighed down by the seriousness of his prayers. The firebrand preacher was in his late forties, his balding head catching the light from the flickering flames, but the look in his sharp, blue-gray eyes was far from old or weary.

Branson had the appearance of a man always ready for a fight, though his battles were not fought with steel but with words that struck like a hammer. His face was gaunt and weathered, lined with the marks of someone used to hard work and harder truths. His robes, worn but well-maintained, clung to his frame like a second skin, their beige fabric emblazoned with the seven-pointed star of the Faith. A simple silver pendant in the shape of a star hung around his neck, resting just above his heart.

Lucan cleared his throat softly, and Septon Branson rose from his prayer with a deliberate grace. He turned to face Lucan, his eyes hard and searching, as though he could see right through to the hedge knight's soul.

"Ser Lucan Farrow, is it?" Branson's voice was deep and commanding, though there was a subtle edge of suspicion, as if he were constantly weighing a man's worth in his mind. "What brings a knight like you to Fairmarket, of all places?"

"I'm passing through," Lucan said, his tone casual but respectful. "Looking for work, maybe some rest. Word on the road was that Fairmarket could use a sword every now and again."

Branson's eyes narrowed slightly, as though he was trying to read more into Lucan's words than was offered. He stepped away from the altar, folding his arms over his chest. "Work? Aye, there's always work for a sword in these parts. But you'd best watch your step, hedge knight."

Lucan arched a brow. "Something I should know?"

Branson's mouth twisted into a tight frown, and he glanced briefly toward the windows, where the light of day was beginning to fade. "Have you heard of the Rovashka?" His voice had dropped to a lower, more serious tone, one that bristled with the weight of warning.

"I've heard the name. Travelers, aren't they?"

"They are more than travelers," Branson said, his voice sharpening. He began to pace slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. "They're cursed. Their kind has always brought ruin wherever they go, and now they've set up camp near Oldstones."

Lucan's curiosity piqued at the mention of Oldstones, but he remained silent, allowing the septon to continue.

Branson's eyes lit with something darker as he spoke, the fervor of his belief boiling just beneath the surface. "Oldstones is a place forsaken by the gods, Ser Lucan. It was once the seat of House Mudd, kings of old, before their line was wiped out. They say the spirit of Tristifer the Last still haunts those ruins, seeking vengeance on those who trespass." His lip curled. "And now, these Rovashka, these wandering fools, have the gall to camp there, stirring up ancient curses with their blasphemous ways."

Lucan leaned against one of the pews, folding his arms as he listened, though he kept his expression carefully neutral. "What exactly makes them cursed?" he asked. "Superstition?"

"Not superstition," Branson hissed, his eyes burning with zeal. "Fact. Everywhere they go, death follows. I've seen it before—animals go missing, crops fail, children vanish without a trace. And now, one of our own has gone missing. A child, lost in the woods since the Rovashka arrived." His voice rose slightly, thick with accusation. "Mark my words, Ser Lucan, these people will bring nothing but death to Fairmarket if we allow them to stay. The gods will not suffer their presence for long."

Lucan shifted slightly, rubbing the back of his neck as he considered the septon's words. He'd encountered plenty of men like Branson in his travels—fiery, fervent, and convinced that every ill could be traced back to an outsider or a curse. Still, there was no denying the tension in Fairmarket, and the Rovashka were at the heart of it.

"I take it the villagers agree with you?" Lucan asked, his voice deliberately calm, though he was already anticipating the answer.

Branson snorted. "Of course they do. Even the most simple-minded among them can see the truth. Thorne, the village elder, speaks for the people. He knows what needs to be done, and he has the courage to see it through. I expect the council will make their decision soon."

Lucan straightened, meeting the septon's gaze. "And what do you expect me to do about it?"

Branson stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he looked up at Lucan. "I expect you to stay away from them. You're a hedge knight—this isn't your fight, and it would be wise to keep it that way. Let the gods handle the Rovashka, and let the villagers do what needs to be done."

There was a long pause between them, the silence heavy with unspoken meaning. Lucan's instinct was to push back, to question the septon's firebrand logic, but he knew better than to challenge a man like Branson outright. The septon believed what he believed, and nothing would change that.

Instead, Lucan offered a small, non-committal shrug. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, his tone even.

Branson's eyes flickered with a brief flash of suspicion, but he stepped back, seeming satisfied for the moment. "Good. You're a smart man, Ser Lucan. Stick to your own path, and the gods will reward you."

Lucan nodded slightly, but as he turned to leave the sept, the weight of the conversation settled on his shoulders. There was more at play here than simple superstition—he could feel it in the air, in the way the villagers talked, in the way Branson's eyes flashed with righteous anger.

As Lucan stepped out into the fading light of the afternoon, the warm air of the sept gave way to the cool, crisp breeze of the Riverlands. His mind was already churning with thoughts of the Rovashka, of Oldstones, and the curse that Septon Branson seemed so certain about.

Whatever was happening in Fairmarket, Lucan knew he couldn't just walk away.

Town of Fairmarket | The Red Oak Inn | Evening

The Red Oak Inn was bustling that evening, a warm contrast to the cool twilight settling over Fairmarket. The smell of roasting meat and freshly baked bread filled the air, mingling with the smoke from the hearth that crackled and popped with the occasional spark. Lanterns flickered from iron sconces on the walls, casting a soft, golden light over the crowded room. The townspeople of Fairmarket gathered around tables, tankards of ale clutched in their hands, exchanging gossip and news in hushed tones.

Lucan Farrow pushed through the door, the din of the inn washing over him like a wave of warmth. He paused for a moment, taking in the sight: a room full of men and women, all busy with their drinks and conversation. But his eyes were immediately drawn to the far side of the room, where a familiar, booming voice rose above the chatter.

Thorne, the village elder, sat at a large table near the hearth, his arms crossed and his face flushed with drink. His eyes burned with the fire of a man eager to be heard, and his voice, though slightly slurred, still carried with it the authority of his position.

"I'm telling you," Thorne barked, pounding his fist on the table for emphasis, "those Rovashka are nothing but trouble! They bring their curses, their thieving ways, and now—now they've taken one of our children!"

The room quieted slightly as Thorne's words rippled through the crowd, a murmur of agreement rolling from table to table. Eyes turned toward Thorne, a mixture of fear and anger sparking in their depths.

At Thorne's side sat Yoren, the village blacksmith, his broad shoulders hunched as he leaned back in his chair. Yoren was a man of few words, his face lined with the marks of a life spent near the forge. His long, white hair was tied back, and his beard, streaked with silver, rested on his chest like a well-worn companion. Yoren's sharp, blue eyes were fixed on Thorne, but unlike the others, they weren't filled with agreement.

"They've taken a child, have they?" Yoren said, his voice low and gruff, but loud enough to carry across the room. "And what proof do you have of that, Thorne?"

Thorne turned to face him, his eyes narrowing. "Proof? What more proof do we need? The child's gone, vanished since those Rovashka set up camp by Oldstones. Coincidence? I think not."

Yoren's lip curled in skepticism. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "That's not proof. That's fear talking. We don't even know where the child wandered off to."

Several of the townspeople exchanged glances, unsure whether to side with Thorne or Yoren. At the next table over, Harwin, a quiet man with a strong, rugged build, sat nursing his drink. He had a reputation for being a good listener, rarely speaking unless something of importance needed saying. Harwin's dark eyes flickered between Thorne and Yoren, but he remained silent, his expression unreadable.

Lucan, watching from the bar, tilted his head slightly, intrigued. He ordered a tankard of ale from the innkeeper and moved to a nearby table, close enough to overhear the conversation without drawing attention to himself.

Thorne, undeterred by Yoren's skepticism, turned his attention back to the room, his voice growing louder. "It's not just the child. It's the crops, the sheep—everything's gone wrong since they arrived. Mark my words, they'll bleed us dry if we let them stay. It's time we sent them packing before more of us suffer."

There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd, but Yoren wasn't finished. "And where do you suggest they go, Thorne? You want to chase them off like wild dogs? They're people, not monsters. We can't go pointing fingers every time something goes wrong."

"People?!" Thorne spat, his eyes flashing. "People don't bring curses with them. People don't make children disappear in the dead of night. You're blind if you can't see it, Yoren. They're dangerous."

Yoren shook his head, a look of disgust crossing his weathered face. "You're letting fear control you. Maybe that child wandered off, maybe the sheep got taken by wolves, or maybe it's just bad luck. But blaming the Rovashka won't solve anything. If anything, it'll only make matters worse."

Thorne's face flushed red with anger. "And what would you have us do, Yoren? Sit here and do nothing while they bring death and ruin to our door? We need to act before it's too late."

The room was thick with tension now, the townspeople shifting uncomfortably in their seats, unsure which side to take. Lucan took a sip of his ale, his mind racing. The situation in Fairmarket was worse than he'd realized. The fear, the suspicion—it was palpable, and Thorne was feeding it like a fire that threatened to consume everything.

Harwin finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. "Maybe Yoren's right," he said quietly, though his voice cut through the noise. "Fear makes people do foolish things. We should be careful."

Thorne shot him a sharp look but said nothing, his jaw working as he tried to rein in his temper. Instead, he turned back to the crowd, his voice lowering but still full of conviction. "I don't expect all of you to agree. But mark my words, if we don't act now, we'll all regret it."

Lucan leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the elder. Thorne was dangerous, not because of his words alone, but because of the way people were beginning to listen. Fear had a way of clouding judgment, and if the townsfolk fell too far into that fear, they might start something they couldn't undo.

As the conversation died down, Lucan quietly stood and made his way toward the door. He had heard enough to know that tensions were rising, and Thorne was the spark ready to ignite them. But Lucan wasn't ready to pick a side just yet. He needed more information, and the answers, it seemed, lay not in the inn but in the Rovashka camp at Oldstones.

He stepped out into the cool evening air, the sound of the tavern fading behind him. The road ahead was uncertain, but if the rumors were true, there was more to this curse than fear and superstition.