Ravenholm, the 12th Day of Frostfall
To my dearest Mother Miriam,
Now that I am bound away from Ravenholm, I write to unburden the heart that service and silence have long constrained. The coach that bears me west waits as I write these lines, and the chimneys of that blighted city in Heartland diminish behind me like a fever departing the flesh. I would have you know what manner of place it is, that your prayers might be well-aimed for those who remain.
Ravenholm—what the locals yet call the City of Glass—is a town where labor once sang and now only echoes. The furnaces still burn, though the glass that leaves their mouths gleams cold and joyless—beautiful work made by weary hands for greedy masters. Smoke clings low to the river, and in it men wander as if between waking and dreaming. The Arafel, that unseen miasma of despair, has made its kingdom here. It seeps through cellars, whispers from steeples, and persuades the heart to lesser bargains. Whole streets stand like sermons on the wages of sin: debtors who smile with empty purses, mothers who bargain dignity for bread, children who learn early the art of looking away. The Arafel needs little sorcery when men themselves invite it in.
Yet not all was corruption. The forge and factory still grant honest hands a purpose. Some elders, their backs bent by decades of firelight, remember when the craft was pride, not penance. And the gardens—green pockets amid the soot—endure through the tending of patient women who keep life alive one petal at a time. Even in a tomb, the faithful plant seeds.
My detachment of Watchmen numbered six. We were charged with cleansing what the townsfolk called the “underways”—mines and drains where both vermin and worse had found purchase. The air there was older than scripture, and the walls sweated as though alive. We uncovered chambers that had once stored salt and now stored bones; shafts where singing could be heard though no man’s throat gave it voice. Some creatures we fought were of flesh, some only of vapor. All were hungry. When we sealed the last of those tunnels, the earth shuddered like a beast relieved of its own sickness.
Above ground, our missions led us through the city’s other darknesses. We burned plague-straw in the tenements, drove blood cultists from their makeshift altars, and witnessed the slow suicide of a populace content to rot provided the rot was shared. There were nights when the bell at the old glassworks tolled by itself, and every windowpane trembled with a note that set men weeping without knowing why. I have come to believe the Arafel feeds not on fear alone, but on that peculiar grief men feel for what they themselves have spoiled.
There were small victories. A bridge rebuilt over the east canal, now sturdy enough for the orphan wagons. A collapsed gallery shored and blessed so miners might return without trembling. Once, at dawn, we found a child still breathing amid the wreck of a burned boarding house, and the sight of her first cry against the cold gave even our captain pause. Such moments remind a man why he lifts his hammer again the next day.
Now, as the horizon swallows the last smoke of that accursed city, I feel less triumph than wearied gratitude. The Order calls me to calmer quarters, though I suspect calm is but an interlude before the next descent. Ravenholm will not heal quickly. Its vices are deep-rooted, and the Arafel never relinquishes a conquest fully. Still, there is hope in the arrival of fresh eyes and steady hearts. I saw them as I departed—new Watchmen disembarking at the outpost gate, their uniforms unsoiled, and an eagerness to serve marked their faces. They will soon learn what manner of shadows walk those streets, and the city will test them as it did us. Yet every age must have its sentinels, and perhaps they will succeed where we only endured.
Pray for them, Mother. Pray that they keep their courage and their compassion both, for one without the other is no defense against the dark. The bells of Ravenholm will ring for them soon enough.
Your devoted son,
Ephraim Hale
Combat Engineer, Black Order (Ravenholm Detachment)
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