Beginning credits: In This Moment - "In The Air Tonight" [Official Lyric Video]
Title Card: "Fleetwood's Home, Thaumont 9, 1000 AC"
Weather: Fine
INT. FLEETWOOD'S HOUSE – EARLY MORNING
Background Music: Beneath the Bell Tower - Calming Dark Fantasy Music for Respite
Fleetwood wakes with a slow, peaceful breath, the warmth of the morning sun peeking through the shutters. For a rare, fleeting moment—no fights, no conspiracies, no Bargle. Just Clarion, resting beside him, arm draped across his chest, the slow rise and fall of her breath, the quiet serenity of a world untouched by trouble.
He smiles, savoring it. Then— A furious pounding at the door. Fleetwood exhales sharply, tension flooding his muscles. The thundering voice of Aric Thornshield rips through the stillness.
ARIC: (booming, furious) “Hawk Fleetwood! You faithless, dishonorable—OPEN THIS DOOR!”
Clarion stirs slightly, groggy, but Fleetwood is already moving, grabbing the nearest blanket and pulling it around himself as he strides to the door. With a braced breath, he opens it.
CUT TO:
Aric Thornshield stands in full paladin regalia, his expression a storm barely contained, eyes blazing with righteous fury. Then—his gaze flicks past Fleetwood, into the room. He sees Clarion. In Fleetwood’s bed. Sees the very obvious implications. And his rage explodes.
ARIC: (snarling) “First Aleena—now her?! You disgust me!”
Fleetwood’s brow furrows, confusion flashing across his face before irritation takes root.
FLEETWOOD: (sleepily) “What in the Nine Hells are you talking about?”
Aric grits his teeth, fists clenched.
ARIC: (furious) “I saw you! With Aleena! In her chamber! Kissing her! And now—this?! Do you have any honor left in you?”
Clarion, now fully awake, sits up, blinking groggily, and registers the conversation. Her expression hardens immediately.
CLARION: (flatly) “Excuse me?”
Fleetwood exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose, already done with this nonsense. Aric, blinded by righteous fury, is barely listening—his hand already drifting toward his sword. This is about to get messy.
Fleetwood blinks away the haze of sleep, shaking his head sharply, trying to force clarity into his fogged mind. The sheer absurdity of Aric’s accusation claws at him, grating against his instincts, his truth.
FLEETWOOD: (low, firm) “I think there’s ample proof that I have not left here for some time.”
He starts to close the door, but Aric shoves it open again, glaring, unwavering, the fury in his eyes burning too hot to let logic sink in completely.
ARIC: (snarling) “Lies! I saw you myself! Just this morning! Just now!”
Fleetwood grits his teeth, rubbing his temple, trying to piece this together.
CUT TO:
Clarion, now fully awake, frowns sharply, frustration flickering across her expression.
CLARION: (low, tense) “Fleetwood speaks the truth.”
Fleetwood exhales sharply, forcing himself to focus.
FLEETWOOD: (serious, measured) “If you saw something, it sure as the Nine Hells wasn’t me.”
Aric flinches slightly, the doubt creeping in—but his temper is still raw, still volatile.
The argument teeters on a knife’s edge—Fleetwood has broken some of Aric’s certainty, but not enough to stop a fight if it comes to that.
FLEETWOOD: (To Clarion) “This reeks of Bargle’s hand. I’m just not sure why he’d bother.”
ARIC: (furious) “Impossible! This Bargle character hasn’t been seen since he fled Mistamere!”
Fleetwood narrows his eyes, frustration tightening across his jaw.
CUT TO:
Clarion sitting up fully now, sheet wrapped around herself, watching the conversation shift from personal outrage to deeper conspiracy.
Fleetwood exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders, keeping his tone steady but pointed.
FLEETWOOD: “Then who else benefits from… whatever this is?”
Aric hesitates—just slightly—but his anger is still raw, his conviction still burning too hot to let reason sink fully in. Fleetwood knows he has planted doubt— but doubt is not enough. This will take more than words to unravel. Fleetwood’s gaze flicks across the room, searching for the familiar weight of his sword—his lifeline, his certainty in chaos.
It is not there.
His jaw tightens. A beat—his mind racing back through the events of the night, retracing his steps, trying to force clarity into his sleep-fogged brain. Then—the realization dawns. He almost slaps his forehead.
CUT TO:
Fragments of memory flash—discarding his sword in haste before collapsing into bed, exhaustion overtaking him completely.
A mental checklist running through his mind, frustration gnawing at his edges.
Clarion watching him, now fully awake, raising an eyebrow as she senses his distraction.
Fleetwood exhales sharply, irritation flickering in his eyes, but his focus remains locked on Aric—because this is about to turn violent if he doesn’t get his bearings fast.
The missing sword is a problem. But Aric’s anger is the more immediate threat. The tension between Fleetwood and Aric simmers on the brink of eruption, steel-willed tempers barely held in check. Fleetwood, frustrated and cornered, still searches for logic in this absurd accusation, while Aric remains locked in his righteous fury, blind to reason.
Then— Aleena arrives in the dooryard, breathless from the morning’s brisk pace, eyes scanning the scene—Fleetwood, Clarion, Aric, the unmistakable storm hanging thick in the air.
She pauses, taking in the sight—Fleetwood standing half-covered in a blanket, Aric visibly enraged, Clarion still sitting up in bed. Her brow furrows.
ALEENA: (cautious, confused) “What in the Nine Hells is going on here? Do you know what they’re saying in the temple?”
Fleetwood, still caught between defending himself and making sense of this mess, exhales sharply, watching Aleena carefully. Aric’s rage flickers—momentarily—at the sound of her voice, but his fists remain clenched.
CUT TO:
Aleena’s expression shifting—concern deepening as she senses the hostility in the room.
Clarion making sure the sheet covers her, clearly frustrated with the entire situation.
Fleetwood straightens slightly, forcing clarity into his voice.
FLEETWOOD: (firm, focused) “Aric seems to think I was with you in your chambers, sometime earlier today.”
Aleena blinks. Once. Twice. Then—her face twists into sheer bafflement.
ALEENA: (flatly) “What?”
Aric takes a sharp breath, stepping forward, his fury still burning.
ARIC: (snarling) “I saw it! You and Fleetwood—I walked into your chambers myself! That scar, right there! It was him!” (He points to an old battle scar on Fleetwood’s bare arm)
Aleena’s expression hardens. She crosses her arms, her voice low, measured, but edged with frustration.
ALEENA: (serious) “You saw something. But whatever it was—I can assure you it wasn’t us. I just got back to my chambers after vespers. Dozens of people must have seen me there.”
Fleetwood, exhaling slowly, finally sees it. A set-up. A deception. A perfectly placed illusion. Aric steps forward, unrelenting, voice edged with accusation.
ARIC: (sharp, demanding) “Then where is your engagement ring, Aleena?”
Aleena freezes. Her breath catches—she lifts her hand instinctively, but her fingers meet nothing. Her eyes widen, horror creeping into her expression.
ALEENA: (soft, shaken) “It’s… gone?”
Aric’s rage burns hotter, his certainty solidifying. Fleetwood, still processing the absurdity of this situation, watches her reaction carefully—his mind racing, trying to grasp the impossibility of it all.
Then—Clarion moves. Her gaze flicks toward the dresser, catching the faintest glint of metal in the morning light. Her mouth opens, and she covers it with her hand. A gleam of gold. A familiar shape. Aleena’s ring.
Clarion’s expression tightens—because she knows with absolute certainty that Fleetwood hasn’t left all night. He couldn’t have taken it. He didn’t have it before. And yet—here it is.
CUT TO:
Aleena staring at the ring, utterly bewildered.
Fleetwood narrowing his eyes, now fully alert.
Aric watching, his fury shifting into something sharper—an unspoken challenge.
Clarion tense, gripping the sheets, processing the implications.
Clarion exhales sharply, tugging the sheets higher around herself, ensuring dignity is preserved while she sits upright, now fully engaged in the brewing storm between Fleetwood and Aric. Her eyes lock onto Aric’s, not with hostility, but calm, steady resolve.
CLARION: (measured, firm) “Sir Aric. You are letting your emotions blind you to the truth.”
Aric stiffens, his jaw tight, his fists clenched—but he hesitates. Fleetwood watches carefully, sensing the moment shift. Clarion continues, voice low, certain, unwavering.
CLARION: (persuasive, strong) “Fleetwood has not wronged you, or Aleena. Or me. You saw something—but what you saw was meant to be seen. And not by her doing.”
CUT TO: A close-up of Aric’s expression, his rage cracking at the edges, the weight of her words piercing through his conviction. The fury does not vanish—but logic begins to take hold.
Aric shifts, eyes flicking toward Fleetwood, toward Aleena’s missing ring, toward the sheer improbability of all of this. His breath slows, his posture eases just slightly, the battle-ready stance shifting into contemplation.
Fleetwood notices immediately, relaxing just enough, knowing that Clarion has opened the door to reason. Aric exhales sharply, his jaw tight, his pride burning beneath the weight of what’s unraveling—but the challenge of truth cannot be ignored.
There is still anger. Still tension. But now—there is doubt. And doubt changes everything. Aric exhales sharply, his fury settling into frustration, the conviction of his accusations now fractured by logic.
CUT TO:
Aleena still staring at her missing ring, confusion and unease twisting in her expression.
Clarion steady, watching Fleetwood carefully.
Aric runs a hand through his hair, exhaling roughly.
ARIC: (low, unsettled) “I don’t understand. If it wasn’t you, who else could have taken it. How did they get into your home without a trace. It couldn’t have been this Bargle person - everybody is looking for him, surely he would not be stupid enough to remain around here.”
Fleetwood rubs his temples, irritation flickering across his face. Then—he pauses. His brow furrows. His eyes scan the room again. His sword—still missing.
CUT TO: Fleetwood’s expression shifting, the realization sinking in deeper now—the implications pressing at his instincts.
FLEETWOOD: (low, tense) “And I still don’t know where my sword is.”
A beat.
Aleena glances toward Fleetwood, concern deepening. Clarion tightens her grip on the sheets, thoughtful. Fleetwood straightens, exhaling slowly, forcing his mind to sharpen despite the absurdity of the morning. Something doesn’t add up.
Someone set this up. And that means they’re still moving. Somewhere. Watching. Waiting. Fleetwood exhales slowly, rubbing his temples, frustration simmering beneath his breath.
FLEETWOOD: (low, thoughtful) “Whoever orchestrated this—they enjoy the spectacle.”
Aric crosses his arms, still unsettled, but the edge of his rage has dulled into frustration. Aleena glances toward Fleetwood, considering. Clarion, pensive, sharp-eyed, tilts her head slightly.
CLARION: (musing, quiet) “There’s a wicked sense of humor at play here. Almost… mischievous.”
CUT TO:
Then—Clarion’s expression shifts. Her eyes widen slightly, realization dawning like a cold splash of water. She straightens, voice laced with urgency.
CLARION: (sharp, measured) “Hawk… what if the imp we ran into at Mistamere isn’t truly gone?”
A beat. A pause. Silence thickens. Fleetwood narrows his eyes, tension rippling across his jaw. Aric scoffs slightly—but hesitates.
CUT TO:
The stolen ring.
Fleetwood’s missing sword.
The perfectly staged illusion.
The lingering chaos.
Fleetwood exhales sharply, tension solidifying.
FLEETWOOD: (low, serious) “Then we might have been playing right into its hands.”
Fleetwood runs a hand through his hair, exhaling as he considers the implications of Clarion’s realization.
FLEETWOOD: (low, thoughtful) “If it is the imp, how do we find it?”
Clarion adjusts the sheets around herself, thinking carefully, then nods.
CLARION: (measured, sure) “We need Felonious and Silverleaf.”
Fleetwood starts to step forward, moving toward the door—then freezes. A beat. A realization. He glances down. Blanket. Only blanket.
His expression shifts—something between horror and sheer exasperation. Fleetwood inhales sharply, regaining his composure, then turns toward Aleena.
With a calm, deliberate movement, he extends her ring back to her, placing it in her palm.
FLEETWOOD: (firm, steady) “Hold onto this. And both of you—wait outside.”
Aleena blinks, still processing the absurdity of the morning, but nods. Clarion smirks slightly, watching Fleetwood struggle with the indignity of it all.
The door closes, leaving Fleetwood and Clarion to get dressed—preferably before their unseen tormentor gets any more entertainment out of this disaster. Fleetwood fastens the last buckle on his armor, adjusting the fit, forcing his mind to focus on the mystery ahead.
Clarion, still fixing her own attire, hesitates slightly, eyes lingering on him—not with suspicion, but with something deeper.
CLARION: (low, measured) “I know you didn’t stray, Hawk.”
Fleetwood glances up, catching the edge in her tone, sensing something fragile beneath the words.
CLARION: (quieter) “But did you regret it? Choosing me instead of Aleena?”
Fleetwood blinks, caught off guard—not by the question, but by the wound it touches. His heart is sure—his choice was made without doubt. But the way she asks it—the way her voice carries something deeper— that is what unsettles him. He steps closer, voice soft but steady.
FLEETWOOD: (firm, genuine) “Never. Not once.”
Clarion holds his gaze, reading him, weighing his words against something unspoken. His sincerity is real, but something in his delivery falls just short of what she needed. She nods slowly, accepting it—but Fleetwood can see the faint hesitation, the flicker of something unresolved.
CUT TO:
Fleetwood, watching her carefully, frustration flickering at the edges—he knows he meant what he said, but he also knows she needed more.
Clarion, brushing off the moment, straightening her stance, burying whatever uncertainty still lingers.
The tension between them—not distrust, but something deeper, something left unsaid.
Fleetwood exhales quietly, adjusting his bracers, shaking off the moment. They move forward. But the question remains—unspoken, lingering. The morning was already chaotic. Now, it carries an unseen weight.
EXT. THRESHOLD STREET – DAY
Background Music Shifts: Doom - Imp Song E1M2 - Remake by Andrew Hulshult
Fleetwood moves with steady purpose, eyes sharp, instincts finely tuned—Silverleaf at his side, her keen senses picking through the layers of deception laced into the air.
The imp is elusive, slippery, crafting illusions woven so seamlessly into the streets that most would dismiss them outright. But Fleetwood and Silverleaf know better.
CUT TO:
A merchant swearing that his coins just vanished—only for them to tumble from his sleeve moments later.
A child chasing what they believe is a stray cat—only to run straight into a barrel.
A guard tripping over seemingly nothing—cursing at the street itself.
Silverleaf tilts her head, watching carefully, picking apart the patterns.
SILVERLEAF: (musing, dry) “Ah, yes—classic imp nonsense. Frustratingly harmless. Infuriatingly clever.”
Fleetwood nods slowly, eyes narrowing as he starts to connect the dots. A trail. A sequence of minor disruptions. A breadcrumb path leading into the heart of the street’s morning chaos.
CUT TO:
Fleetwood stepping forward, tracing the unseen movements.
Silverleaf grinning slightly, tracking alongside him, intrigued.
The magic in the air—faint, mischievous, layered in deception—but there.
The imp is near. Watching. Playing its game. But Fleetwood and Silverleaf are ready to turn the tables.
EXT. BACK ALLEYS – DAY
A labyrinth of narrow passageways. Shadows stretch long, curling into unseen corners.
Felonious strides forward with razor-sharp precision, his fingers twisting through intricate motions—arcane energy crackling at his touch. This is more than mere sight. He reaches beyond the veil of perception.
Beside him, Clarion moves in sync, her stance taut, gaze sweeping the alleyway. Their target—an elusive imp—has left disturbances, faint signatures woven into the air.
A trickster. Slippery. Dancing just beyond notice. Felonious knows the game.
CUT TO:
Felonious, muttering incantations—his eyes glowing with latent magic.
Clarion, scanning—reading movement patterns, catching disruptions.
A sudden, almost imperceptible ripple—a playful shimmer, something unnatural.
Then—Felonious halts. His gaze locks onto an empty patch of shadow.
Not empty at all.
A form wriggles within the dim light—a tiny, wicked grin flashing back at him.
Clarion catches his shift, her hand instinctively drifting to her weapon.
CLARION: "You see it, don’t you?"
Felonious smirks, magic pulsing at his fingertips.
FELONIOUS: (smooth, pleased) "Oh, most certainly."
The imp tilts its head, flicking its claws together in a mock applause.
They’ve found it.
Felonious and Clarion stand poised, locked in a silent standoff with the imp.
Then—like a ripple breaking the surface of a still pond—the creature drops its illusions.
The shimmer fades.
A small, wiry figure, sharp-toothed and smug, lounges against the alley wall.
IMP: (grinning, lazy clap) "Well done, Felonious. As sharp as ever."
Felonious tilts his head, studying the imp with amused skepticism.
IMP: "I must say, your work at the Salty Harpy—" (chuckles, eyes gleaming) "—more chaos than I could’ve caused in a century."
CLARION: "It knows you?"
Felonious allows himself a smirk, magic thrumming at his fingertips.
FELONIOUS: "Oh, it’s one of Bargle’s conjurings. It knows me only too well."
The imp tilts its head, sharp claws clicking together—mocking applause, delighted malice.
IMP: (playful, conspiratorial) "And yet, here you are, hunting me. Curious, isn’t it?"
The tension thickens. Felonious lifts a hand. Magic hums—ready.
EXT. BACK ALLEYS – DAY
The imp’s laughter rings through the narrow passageway—high, sharp, mocking.
Then—footsteps. A metallic clink. Fleetwood and Silverleaf emerge from the shadows.
Fleetwood’s expression darkens, his presence filling the space with quiet authority.
FLEETWOOD: (sharp, demanding)"Enough games. Where’s my sword, you little monster?"
The imp leans back, utterly unfazed, eyes glittering with mischief.
IMP: (grinning, casual) "Oh, that lovely thing?" (beat, smirking) "Seems to me that priestess had it last night."
A heavy pause. Fleetwood’s jaw tightens. Silverleaf’s brows rise, catching the shift between them. The imp’s grin widens, delighted by the tension now thick in the air.
IMP (mock-innocent, teasing) "What? You thought I wasn’t watching?"
Fleetwood’s fists clench. Clarion’s hand drifts—not to her weapon, —fingers weaving through the air as she murmurs the incantation. Divine light sparks at her fingertips, crackling with intent.
The imp simply watches, amused. A sharp pulse—magic surges forward. Then—it collapses. The spell fails. Clarion staggers, shocked at the resistance. The imp laughs, delighted.
IMP: (mocking, sing-song) "Oh, dear priestess, that’s not going to work on me."
Felonious narrows his eyes, measuring the creature’s unnatural defiance. Clarion stiffens, frustration flickering across her face. The imp stretches—casually, leisurely—before stepping back toward the shadows.
IMP: (grinning, taunting) "But don’t feel bad. I’ll be watching when the fireworks begin."
Felonious’ expression hardens. Clarion presses forward, but—too late. The imp vanishes. A final ripple in the air—a shimmer of dark laughter lingering behind.
The alley falls silent. Clarion exhales sharply, fingers still buzzing with magic.
Felonious tilts his head.
FELONIOUS: "He’s still loose. That’s never good."
Clarion sets her jaw.
CLARION: "No. It isn’t."
The air is charged, the imp’s laughter lingering like an echo in the shadows. Fleetwood turns to Felonious and Clarion, eyes sharp.
FLEETWOOD : (firm, impatient) "What do we do about this?"
Felonious watches the space where the imp vanished, considering.
Then—his smirk fades.
FELONIOUS: "A little too convenient, don’t you think?"
Fleetwood crosses his arms, waiting. Felonious turns to him, his voice measured, thoughtful.
FELONIOUS "That thing wasn’t just toying with us for sport." (beat) "It showed up after we tore through the Salty Harpy. Stirring trouble. Deliberately."
Fleetwood’s jaw tightens. Clarion exhales, nodding—realization settling in.
CLARION: "A distraction."
Felonious tilts his head, magic still humming faintly at his fingertips.
FELONIOUS: "And I’ll bet my books it’s not done yet."
A beat—Fleetwood processes that. Silverleaf watches them all, eyes cool, calculating.
SILVERLEAF: "Then the question is—what comes next?"
Silence. Felonious lets his smirk return—but this time, it’s sharper.
FELONIOUS: "Something loud, I imagine."
FADE IN:
EXT. CITY STREETS – DAY
Temple bells toll, heavy and insistent, cutting through the air. Clarion’s eyes widen—recognition flickering in them instantly.
CLARION: (urgent, under breath) "Something’s happened at the temple."
She heads toward the temple, trying to discern what is happening.
Felonious: “And here we go.”
Fleetwood, Felonious, and Silverleaf exchange quick looks before following her, weaving through the crowded streets toward the towering structure of Chardastes’ temple.
EXT. CHARDASTES’ TEMPLE – DAY
Background music: Dead Can Dance - Song of the Stars
They arrive to a scene of unrest. The faithful gather, murmuring, uncertain. At the temple’s steps—Adept Elwyn stands, rigid, pale. A sword rests on a velvet cloth before her. A sword that does not belong here.
Fleetwood stiffens - he recognizes the blade. But how it got to Elwyn, to whom he has honestly never paid a lot of attention, he doesn’t know. Though he suspects.
SENIOR CLERIC: (firm, measured) "Adept Elwyn. You stand accused of breaking your sacred vows and taking up a sword."
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Elwyn swallows, glancing once—briefly—toward Clarion. Staring daggers. Clarion’s breath catches. Fleetwood exhales slowly, barely containing his frustration.
FLEETWOOD: (low, cold) "Of course. The imp wasn’t done yet. That’s my sword it used."
The murmurs deepen—whispers threading through the gathered faithful like wildfire. Fleetwood’s sword. Many have seen him carrying it. A new wave of shock washes through the onlookers. Elwyn doesn’t speak—her posture stiff, gaze forward. Fleetwood exhales slowly, measured. Clarion’s breath catches—not in surprise, but in realization. Felonious tilts his head, his smirk faint—knowing. Sherlaine’s gaze sharpens, cutting through the layers of intrigue.
PATRIARCH SHERLAINE: "Adept Elwyn. Explain this transgression."
Elwyn lifts her chin, but she doesn’t look at Fleetwood. She doesn’t look at Clarion. She says nothing. The weight of accusation lingers in the air—thick, suffocating.
Elwyn trembles, not with fear, but seething rage. Her gaze locks onto Clarion—sharp, burning with accusation.
ELWYN: (low, shaking, venomous) "Of course. Of course it’s you, Ox! You've always been looking for a chance to get me. Your lover’s sword? No coincidence there. Did he help you put it in my chambers, or did you trick him too?"
Clarion draws breath, steady—watchful. The gathered faithful murmur—uncertainty blooming like wildfire. Elwyn’s hands clench.
She rips the holy symbol of Chardastes from her neck, the chain snapping with a sharp crack. Gasps ripple through the room. Sherlaine’s eyes darken, but he does not speak. Elwyn throws the symbol—it shatters at Sherlaine’s feet.
ELWYN: (furious, shaking) "And you, your grace!" (She spits his title bitterly) "You accused me without investigation. Condemned me with NO proof."
Fleetwood steps forward to stop her from harming the Patriarch, but Elwyn is already moving away. Her voice rises, trembling with raw fury.
ELWYN: "You will all regret this."
She turns, storms out—her footsteps echoing through the temple’s sacred halls. The doors slam open, then closed. A weighted silence settles.
FADE IN:
INT. TEMPLE COURTYARD – EVENING
A soft dusk settles over the courtyard. The air is cool, flickering lanterns casting gentle shadows against stone pillars.
In the background, Patriarch Sherlaine speaks quietly with Fleetwood, handing him his sword. Fleetwood’s expression is unreadable as he answers whatever question is posed about how it came to be where it was found.
At a nearby bench, Clarion sits with Aleena, her posture tense, hands clasped together. Aleena studies her with quiet understanding, sensing the unspoken tension.
ALEENA (soft, careful) "I’m sorry about this morning. Whatever got into Aric, whatever he was ranting about… I don’t know. But it struck a nerve, didn’t it?"
Clarion exhales, gaze dropping to her hands. A long pause. Then—she speaks, hesitant but honest.
CLARION: "When we were novitiates, I admired you." (beat, quieter) "No, I wanted to *be* you. Your beauty, your charm... it was effortless. Next to you, I felt like what Elwyn always called me—a clumsy ox."
Aleena’s brows knit slightly, listening. Clarion keeps going, the words spilling from somewhere deep.
CLARION: "I watched the other priestesses with their suitors, wondering when—if ever—it would be my turn."
She glances toward Fleetwood—just for a moment. Aleena follows her gaze, then speaks—gentle, reassuring.
ALEENA: "But now it is your turn."
Clarion’s breath catches—but she doesn’t look relieved. Her voice is quiet.
CLARION: "And I’ll ruin it. Just like Elwyn always said I would."
Aleena softens, sensing the weight of those words.
ALEENA: "Clarion—"
But Clarion shakes her head, restless.
CLARION: "It’s not just that. There’s this awful pirate captain. Every time we run into her, she flirts with Hawk. Shamelessly. How could he not be tempted?"
Her voice fades, frustration curling at the edges. Aleena watches her carefully. Then, she places a hand over Clarion’s—firm, steady.
ALEENA: "Well, you’ll admit I have some insight on all of this? When he’s given his word, nothing will move that man. Hawk will stay with you. No matter what."
Clarion hesitates, torn between belief and fear. Her voice is barely above a whisper.
CLARION: "But what if he’s miserable?"
A pause. Aleena tilts her head, considering—then simply shrugs.
ALEENA: "He didn’t look miserable the last time I saw you together."
Clarion blinks, her breath catching. The response is so simple—so matter-of-fact—that it unsettles her more than if Aleena had reassured her with flowery words. Aleena watches as Clarion processes that, offering a quiet smile. Clarion glances toward Fleetwood, still speaking with Patriarch Sherlaine in the distance. He looks… fine. Not restless. Not frustrated. Fine. Clarion swallows, her fingers curling slightly.
Aleena gently pats her hand.
ALEENA: "You have nothing to worry about, Clarion."
Clarion exhales slowly, but doesn’t answer. Her fears don’t vanish. But for a brief moment—they falter.
FADE IN:
EXT. STREETS NEAR THE JUGGLING OGRE – NIGHT
Background music shifts: Suspense | D&D/TTRPG Music | 1 Hour
The moon looms low, casting jagged shadows over the uneven cobblestone streets.
Felonious moves swiftly, his robes whispering against the night air, iron-shod wizard’s staff clattering over the cobblestones. The weight of the evening clings to him—thick, watchful. He looks around, sensing. The night is too quiet. Too deserted. Something is wrong.
INT. FELONIOUS’ LABORATORY – NIGHT
Felonious closes and bars the door behind him—too quickly. His fingers tighten for just a moment around the handle before he exhales, shaking his head. It’s nothing. Surely.
Placing his staff in the corner, he turns toward his desk, rummaging among scattered parchments, arcane tomes, half-spent candles. Then—
A presence. He stiffens.
A glint. Red. His breath catches as his gaze snaps to the window. For just a moment—a hulking shadow. A massive shape. Watching.
And then—gone with a loud snort.
Felonious shudders, fingers twitching. His magic hums at his fingertips—but it does not chase. He closes the shutters, but he dare not turn out his light. Because he knows. This thing knows where he lives.
FADE TO BLACK.