The air within the abandoned cathedral was cold and thick with the scent of dust and damp stone. Moonlight streamed in through the high, arched windows, illuminating the motes of dust dancing in the shafts of light and casting long, skeletal shadows across the cavernous space. Five figures, each draped in all black, occupied the remnants of the nave. The silence was heavy, broken only by the crackle of a lone pipe and the soft, rhythmic purr of a cat.
The reporting figure emerged from the shadows near the entrance, their cloak swirling slightly as they approached the others. "She took the bait," they stated, their voice muted in the vast space.
A figure with a cane and spectacles, holding a serene-looking cat in their lap, nodded once, the glass of their spectacles catching the light. "Good," they replied softly. "The asset is secure for the moment." The smoking figure beside them merely grunted, exhaling a perfect ring of smoke that dissolved near the altar. Slumped in a pew further back, a fourth figure continued to sleep, undisturbed. The fifth, a feminine shape, sat elegantly on the edge of the stage, her legs crossed, an air of deadly patience about her.
"Patience is wearing thin," the figure with the monocle interjected, their voice a quiet, precise sound. "We need to push the issue. The Duke's guard won't be fooled for long."
The others agreed with quiet nods and clipped answers. The decision was made to leverage the town's existing network—gossip and magical reports—to force the woman's hand. The group settled back into their ominous silence, waiting for their plan to unfold.
In her small, muted room in Whimster, Ms. Anscalt lived within a constant state of paranoia. Every creak of the floorboards outside her door, every raised voice in the street below, sent a jolt of adrenaline through her system.
Days 1-6 were a monotonous routine of survival. Each morning she would rise early, perform a quick, nervous check on the still-sleeping Flash, and then head to the local church for morning prayers, a normal act designed to project a mundane life. She would make quick trips to the market, buying small amounts of food from different vendors to avoid suspicion, her eyes constantly scanning for the guards' blue and silver uniforms. She returned home early, locking the door and spending the rest of the day in the plain, unremarkable room, nurturing Flash and preparing her supplies for an inevitable, sudden escape. Her anxiety eased only when she was alone with the silent infant, his small, warm presence a strange comfort amidst the fear.
Days 7-14 focused entirely on the small life she was protecting. The narrative shifted to the quiet beauty of motherhood amidst chaos. Flash began to show signs of growth, his small legs kicking, a faint gurgle of a laugh escaping his lips. He tried to walk when held upright and babbled in that innocent, meaningless way babies do. He was always quiet, though, sleeping more deeply and for longer stretches than was perhaps normal, a small detail Ms. Anscalt, in her terror, overlooked. She performed a simple, private baptism for him on Day 14, a quiet acknowledgment of his soul and worth, a final quiet act of defiance against those who had discarded him.
The stormy afternoon arrived with a vengeance. Rain lashed against the timbered buildings of Whimster, the thunder a low growl that shook the windowpanes of Ms. Anscalt's room.
She noticed the shift immediately. The town below became a flurry of activity, despite the storm. More guards were present, pointing and whispering, their movements coordinated. Her watchful eye caught a woman below pointing directly at her building. A report had gone wide through the magical channels of Whimster: a local fortune teller, using her scrying orb, had captured an almost clear depiction of a woman with something living in her hands the "thief" who had allegedly stolen a valuable item. Someone had spread this image across the magical prints and sold her out.
Ms. Anscalt, having prepared for this exact moment, sprang into action. She grabbed her pre-packed bags, carefully securing the now-awake Flash to her chest beneath her thick cloak. She sprinted down the stairs and into the rain, a handful of coins already in her fist.
She spotted a carriage man and thrust the money at him. "Southeast," she instructed, her voice urgent. "As far and fast as you can manage. To Airabel."
He took the payment without question, the large sum silencing any potential queries. She clambered into the carriage just as the first guards turned the corner onto her street, their shouts lost to the roar of the storm. The carriage lurched forward, its wheels cutting through the muddy road. Ms. Anscalt didn't look back. She clutched Flash tightly as the carriage rattled out of Whimster, heading southeast toward the poor, quiet town of Airabel—the home of her biological adult son, her only remaining hope for raising Flash Safely.