Whispers of Poison and Empire

1588-01-05
Tavern of the Crescent Moon, Bonona

I lingered in Bonona after my training, often returning to the Crescent Moon to warm my hands over its smoky hearth.
Cheap wine loosened tongues there, and dice tapping against wood set a rhythm to the murmurs in the corner.
One night I caught fragments of a conversation between a few of Master Maros’s guildmates.
They spoke of duty and the city’s safety, of stopping a meeting that should never have happened.
A name slipped out—an old master of mine—and with it a hint of bitterness, as if something foul had been slipped into a cup meant to toast an alliance.
There was talk of a duke from a far-flung corner of the Empire with ambitions beyond his borders, rumours of banners marching toward the capital where Bonona sits.
The men muttered that the city had to be protected at any cost.
I could not tell whether they were bragging or confessing, but each word felt like the weight of a blade on my shoulder.
I thought of how the guild had saluted at Master Merryen’s funeral and how those same hands might have tipped a vial.
It struck me that the art I loved was tangled in politics I did not understand.
Bonona thrives in the Empire’s shadow and yet claws for its own freedom; Maraisbourg swears loyalty to the Emperor yet teaches its own traditions; dukes and cities whisper of war while their swordsmen practise forms.
If I stayed, I would be drawn into their web.
That night, with the taste of sour wine still on my tongue, I decided to slip away.
I would find a ship heading west and hide aboard it.
Where it would carry me I could not know, only that my next steps would be taken far from Bonona’s watchful eyes.