William’s Vardo

Fríġdâ, the 27th of Ostaramonað in the year 267

They stepped out into the raging storm, rain lashing the cobblestones, yet not a drop dared touch them as they approached an ornately crafted vardo. Its surface gleamed with intricate gold floral designs that curled gracefully around expertly sculpted animals, a wise owl, a fierce wolf, and a majestic horse, imbuing it with an air of beauty and significance.

The entrance sat at the front, polished golden steps rising toward a spacious platform. Four elegantly carved chairs flanked a central walkway that exuded a dignified purpose. There were no braces for horses, no fixtures for beasts of burden, nothing to imply that ordinary transport had ever been intended.

As William ascended the steps, he paused at the top and glanced back. Marko stood below, wide-eyed, drinking in the vardo’s artistry as though gazing upon a holy relic.

“This is god craft?” he whispered, awestruck.

William hesitated for a heartbeat. “Yes. Now come,” he beckoned, eager to proceed inside.

Marko hurried up the steps, his light footfalls betraying his reverence, only to recoil in surprise as the steps retracted behind him, replaced by a solid barrier sealing the entrance.

“Blessed are you, oh Kanum,” Marko murmured, bowing his head.

William bowed his own in gentle mimicry. “Bless Kanum,” he replied softly before leading the way inside.

The door opened.

Marko stepped through.

His foot came down on a solid floor, but the floor was wrong. Too smooth. Too level. The air smelled different. Not wood and canvas and rain. Something else. Something clean and sharp that made his nose prickle.

He took another step.

The ceiling soared above him.

No.

His breath caught. He stopped, one hand shooting out to grip the doorframe behind him. The ceiling was, it couldn’t,

It stretched upward. And upward. Higher than the vardo’s roof. Higher than any roof he’d ever seen. Higher than the great hall in the prince’s keep.

Impossible.

His stomach lurched. The ground felt solid, but his mind screamed that it shouldn’t be there at all. He was inside a wagon. A wagon. Wagons didn’t have ceilings that disappeared into shadow. Wagons didn’t have.

His knees trembled.

“My lord?” His voice came out thin, reedy.

William turned, and something flickered across his face. Sympathy, perhaps. Or amusement. “You’re safe, Marko.”

Safe. The word meant nothing. Marko’s heart hammered against his ribs. Sweat prickled along his spine despite the cool air. He forced himself to look around.

A barrier shimmered ahead. Transparent. Like water frozen mid-fall, but standing upright. He could see through it, see another room beyond, impossibly vast, impossibly bright.

His throat tightened.

From beyond the glass barrier, a figure rose from where he’d been seated at a long table covered in scrolls. Alaric, William’s architect, his closest confidant, the man who’d stood beside him through a dozen campaigns and twice as many impossible projects, moved toward them with the easy grace of someone completely at home in this impossible space.

He was tall, nearly William’s height, with dark auburn hair pulled back in a practical tail that revealed sharp, intelligent features. His clothing was simpler than William’s, a charcoal tunic over dark trousers, sleeves rolled to the elbows as if he’d been working. But it was his eyes that caught Marko’s attention: keen and assessing, yet softened by a hint of amusement as he took in their bewildered visitor.

“Another convert to the wonders of dimensional architecture?” Alaric asked, a slight smile tugging at his lips as he approached the barrier. His voice carried the same educated cadence as William’s, but with a drier edge to it, the tone of someone who’d seen William’s dramatic presentations many times before.

William’s expression softened further, the familiarity between them evident in the subtle shift of his posture. “Be gentle. He’s had quite the introduction already.”

“I’m always gentle,” Alaric replied, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. “It’s you who insists on the dramatic entrances.”

Marko swayed slightly, still disoriented by the vardo’s impossible interior. Alaric’s gaze softened, and he stepped closer, offering a steadying hand.

“Welcome aboard,” he said quietly. “First time in a dimensional space?”

William chuckled. “Alaric, meet Marko. Prince Vladimir’s latest... assistant. Marko, this is Alaric, my most trusted colleague and the directorial genius behind most of our projects.”

Alaric raised an eyebrow at William. “Most trusted? I’m honoured.” His tone was dry, but his eyes gleamed with genuine affection.

“Someone has to keep you from getting entirely carried away,” William retorted, the familiar rhythm of their banter filling the impossible space.

A moment of shared courtesy passed between them.

“You’ll be happy to hear the Cloister Case has been finalised,” advised Alaric.

“What’s the cloister case?” Marko asked, brow arched in curiosity.

Alaric chuckled, a hint of nostalgic fatigue in his eyes. “A rather complex investigation William and I worked on a few months back. The Council and we exchanged revisions for some time.”

Marko nodded along, trying not to look too overwhelmed, though he was entirely.

William’s tone shifted. “Prince Vladimir has assigned Marko to assist us temporarily.”

“Good,” Alaric replied pragmatically. “We have scant knowledge of this region.”

“Scant is generous,” William muttered. “It perfectly describes their record-keeping.”

“Oh?” Alaric leaned in.

William passed him several rolled parchments. “This is the entirety of the records concerning the twenty-three attacks.”

Alaric unrolled one, scepticism already mounting.

“Apparently,” William continued, “the provincial priests responsible for administration are far too busy to record details. The same goes for their staff and their parishes. Though certain things must be documented, such as births, deaths, and marriages, mainly for tax purposes.”

“Why marriages?” Alaric asked.

“Well,” William said, “everyone must pay taxes to the provincial office. Women generally don’t pay unless unmarried; that responsibility transfers to the husband. According to Bogdan, everyone is legally required to marry unless exempt, such as by joining the priesthood.”

He added, “Those who fail to marry or become engaged by the statutory age must pay the unmarried person’s tax.”

Marko cleared his throat nervously. “When did Master Bogdan tell you that?”

William smiled faintly. “I’m a mensopath. I can read thoughts and speak directly into minds.”

Marko’s eyes widened. “You can…” He swallowed hard. “The Rémezabrak is in two years. I haven’t received Kanum’s sign yet, and I don’t know if I can marry.”

William’s expression softened. “I understand your concern. We’ll find a solution before then, I promise. But right now, we need to focus on the investigation.”

Alaric cleared his throat, returning to business. “Right… Almond has two attacks. Mangdum four. Mossland five. Mainland eight. Prestway four. The most recent,” He shuffled pages. “Here in the Mainland, within the parish of Damaviena.”

William nodded. “Fortunate for Marko, he’ll return home earlier than expected.”

Marko blinked. “Damaviena is… where I live.”

“Then we’re heading there now,” William said. “A two-hour journey for most. We’ll arrive in half an hour.”

“H-how?” Marko breathed.

“You’re in the Field Operation Command Centre,” Alaric replied, filing documents. “We’re already in motion. Automatic propulsion, no horses needed.”

Marko stared, speechless.

William smiled. “As you see, it’s bigger on the inside than the outside. We fold space with craft and magic. I prefer the technological method; it keeps our minds sharp.”

Marko gave a breathless laugh, still overwhelmed.

“With that in mind,” William said warmly, “how about some lunch? My team can prepare anything you’d like, from countless worlds.”

Marko lit up, following the kitchen’s inviting glow.

Meanwhile, William turned to Alaric, his expression darkening. “Pull up the Procurement Team’s findings. All of them.”

Alaric’s fingers moved swiftly across the console. Data streams flickered to life, attack patterns, witness accounts, crude sketches of shadows with too many limbs. “Edmund’s communiqué mentioned a supernatural presence,” he said quietly. “But look at this.” He tapped a sequence of dates. “The attacks are accelerating. Two weeks between the first and second. Four days between the last two.”

William leaned closer, jaw tightening. “It’s learning. Adapting.”

“Or multiplying.” Alaric’s voice dropped. “Will, there shouldn’t be any supernatural beings here. The records show the last was defeated over six thousand years ago by halëdrúmans.”

“I know.” William’s hand curled into a fist. “Which means either our records are wrong, or something has been deliberately hidden from us.”

“Edmund said these attacks are peculiar,” Alaric continued, pulling up images of claw marks scored deep into stone. “He hasn’t seen one himself, but the survivors’ descriptions…” He hesitated. “They don’t match anything in our databases.”

William straightened, his gaze distant, calculating. “If it is supernatural, if something this powerful has been hiding here for millennia, then we’re not just investigating attacks.”

“We’re walking into a trap,” Alaric finished.

Silence stretched between them, heavy with implication.

William’s eyes snapped back into focus. “Set the vardo to combat readiness. Full shielding, weapons to combat readiness. And send a priority signal to the Magisterium, we may need reinforcements.”

Alaric’s hands flew across the controls. “Done. ETA to Damaviena: twenty-eight minutes.”

“Good.” William turned toward the corridor where Marko had disappeared, then back to Alaric. “Whatever’s out there, it’s already killed eight people in one parish alone. We’re not letting it claim a ninth.”

The vardo hummed, its engines shifting to a deeper, more urgent pitch as it hurtled through folded space toward the waiting darkness.