As Fates Foretold, pt. 2
As Fates Foretold
Part 1 | Part 2
Bartholomew pulled his cloak tighter as he walked through the winding streets of Ravensport, the cobbles slick from a light rain that had begun to fall in the afternoon. His shift was over, and the guardhouse had been as lively as ever. But now, as the city opened up before him in the fading light of day, there was no laughter, no banter. Only the quiet tension that had settled over the streets.
The market square, known locally as Marrow’s Bend for the crooked shape of its outer streets, was less crowded than it had been just weeks ago. Stalls that once brimmed with skyfruit, coarse salt, and crates of Akethan grain now stood half-empty, their vendors casting wary glances at anyone who lingered too close. The sickness, or whatever it was, had tightened its grip on Ravensport, and Bartholomew could feel it in the air. People moved quickly, their faces hidden beneath hoods or scarves, their voices low and hurried. It wasn’t just fear of the sickness itself - it was the fear of what it meant. Of what it might bring.
He turned down a narrow alley that led toward the heart of the city, toward the Spiregate whose bells tolled the changing of the tides. The stone buildings loomed tall on either side, their eaves sagging like tired shoulders. The scent of salt and damp stone clung to the air, but beneath it, faint and sharp, was the smell he couldn’t shake: the faint rot of old fish mingled with something darker - something faintly sweet, cloying, and wrong.
“Bartholomew!”
The voice startled him, and he turned to see her - Isla, standing by the doorway of a small tavern. She was a wiry woman, younger than him by a few years, with auburn hair tucked beneath a woolen cap. Her face lit up as she approached, her hands tucked into the folds of her cloak to ward off the chill.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, her tone teasing but her eyes sharp, searching.
Bartholomew forced a smile, though it felt like it might crack under the strain. “Maybe I have,” he said, his voice gruff. “Or maybe it’s just this damned town getting under my skin.”
Isla raised an eyebrow. “You sound worse every time I see you. What is it this time? The rain? The captain? Or Harlan’s mouth?”
“All of it,” he muttered, though his hand instinctively brushed against his shin beneath the cloak. He changed the subject quickly. “What are you doing here? Thought you’d be holed up with your books by now.”
She shrugged, stepping closer. “Thought I’d see if you’d finally take me up on that drink. Or are you still too proud to let me buy?”
Bartholomew chuckled, a sound that felt almost foreign to him now. “I’ll take the drink. Just don’t expect me to stay long.”
The tavern was warm, a stark contrast to the damp chill outside. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the low hum of conversation filled the space. Bartholomew followed Isla to a table near the back, his eyes scanning the room out of habit. The tavern was plain but comfortable - wooden beams darkened by years of smoke and salt air, the walls adorned with carved plaques of fishing vessels and hand-painted sigils of the Old Guilds. Most of the patrons were locals, their faces worn and drawn, roughened by the winds of The Drown and the chill of the Brinemarsh that bordered the city’s east.
But in the corner, by the far window, he thought he saw them - the riders. Four cloaked figures, seated in shadow, heads bowed as though in silent communion.
He blinked, his chest tightening. But when he looked again, the figures were gone. The corner was empty, save for a stack of barrels marked with faded seals of trade from Aketh and a stray cat licking at the scraps of someone’s meal.
“You alright?” Isla’s voice cut through the haze, and he realized he’d been staring.
“Yeah,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Just tired. Long shift.”
Isla studied him for a moment, then leaned back in her chair. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately. Long shifts, tired eyes. You’re starting to sound like one of the old-timers.”
“Maybe I am,” he said, forcing a smirk. But the truth sat heavy in his chest. He couldn’t tell her about the mark. Couldn’t tell her about the fever creeping through his veins, the way it made his thoughts twist and blur. And he certainly couldn’t tell her about the riders - if that’s even what they were. She’d laugh, or worse, she’d worry. And he didn’t want her worrying about someone like him.
A commotion near the bar drew their attention. A man, pale and shaking, was arguing with the barkeep. “It’s not what you think!” the man insisted, his voice rising. “I swear it’s not!”
The barkeep, a burly man with a thick beard and a Guildmaster’s sigil burned into his wrist, crossed his arms. “Aye, that’s what they all say,” the barkeep sneered, his voice heavy with scorn. “Blight-ridden wretch like you will be hacking blood in a week and bringing it in here with you.”
“I just need food,” the man pleaded. “Please. My family…”
“Get out,” the barkeep growled, his tone final.
The man hesitated, his eyes darting around the room. For a moment, Bartholomew thought he might lash out, but then he slumped, defeated, and shuffled toward the door. The room fell silent as the door slammed shut behind him.
Isla frowned, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “It’s getting worse.”
Bartholomew nodded, his gaze fixed on the empty corner. “Yeah. It is.”
They sat in silence for a while after that, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. Bartholomew’s thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the riders. To the stories his mother had told him, the ones he’d tried so hard to forget. The Fates are always watching, she’d said. Even when we think we’re alone.
He shivered, though the room was warm. The mark on his leg throbbed faintly, a reminder of the thing he couldn’t outrun. He didn’t know what the riders meant, or if they meant anything at all. But he knew one thing for certain: the fear in Ravensport wasn’t just in the streets, or in the sickness, or in the whispers of what might come.
It was in him.
And it wasn’t going away.