Chapter Text
It was a crisp, early morning in September and the weather had just begun to cool off when Jesper awoke to the sound of someone shuffling about in his and Wylan’s shared room. It had been several months since the downfall of Jan Van Eck, but he jolted from his bed nonetheless, the training of a thief sewn deep into his bones.
Instead of an intruder, he was greeted to the sight of Wylan carefully organizing his bag. A pang of excitement filled Jesper’s chest—Wylan hadn’t picked up that bag since taking over his father’s empire. Had he been given a new mission? Maybe a new set of bombs Kaz needed?
But if that was the case, why didn’t Jesper know about it?
“Kaz needs something?” Jesper swung his gangly legs over the side of the bed. Wylan blinked up at him and smiled.
“No, I’m going to visit family,” he brushed his rust-colored curls out of his face as he rolled up what seemed to be a map, placing it delicately into his bag. “Extended family, on my mother’s side.”
“I’m not bailing my father out.” Wylan laughed, having apparently taken notice of Jesper’s worried expression. He dusted off his pants when he stood up and walked over to Jesper, pecking a kiss onto his cheek.
“Where are you meeting them?” Long, spindly fingers found their way into Wylan’s soft bed of curls. The boy sighed contentedly in response.
“A town called Ilvernath, I believe,”
Jesper frowned in thought. He’d heard of Ilvernath from stories passed down by his mother, but most thought it to be long abandoned. The most traction that town had seen in recent years was as a temporary safe haven for Grisha during the civil war. Rumored to be the birthplace of the Grisha, magic was embedded within the soil itself.
“That place has been abandoned for centuries, Wy. Are you sure someone’s not luring you into a trap?”
“Actually, they didn’t call me out there,” Wylan let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “I doubt they have any idea that I exist. I’m seeking them out for myself.”
“If you’re sure, just don’t die on me out there,” Jesper’s grin returned. “No mourners,”
“No funerals,” Wylan finished for him.
With a quick kiss goodbye, Wylan swiftly made his way downstairs. He was wary of being inside his father’s house again after all this time. The memories still haunted him at times, and he worried they always would, but he was getting better. Very, very slowly.
When he exited, he was greeted by the sight of his mother in the gardens, an easel in front of her. She was humming a familiar tune as Wylan approached.
“You’re leaving so soon?” Marya’s voice still wavered as it had during her tenure at St. Hilde’s. She rose from her stool.
“I’ll be back, I promise.” He smiled down at her—it was still a bit strange that he was taller than her now. Maybe it would’ve felt more natural had she always been a part of his life. It was bittersweet to be leaving her again so soon after bringing her home, but he couldn’t deny his curiosity.
She opened her arms for him, and he stepped into the embrace in turn. They stayed like that for a while until the noise of sailors at work inevitably pulled his attention elsewhere. He waved back to his mother as he pulled back, and began moving towards the ship that had docked itself in the harbor.
He smiled up at the familiar Suli girl in captain’s garb, her long, dark braid flowing gently behind her in the ocean breeze. Inej looked more alive than she ever had before. As content as she’d seemed to be by Kaz’s side as the Wraith, there was a light in her eyes that Wylan hadn’t known was missing until now. It made his smile brighter as well.
“Are you ready?” Inej offered him a hand as he stepped aboard. It wasn’t until then that he realized that they hadn’t been on a ship together like this since the Ice Court heist. A point in time that both seemed so long ago and as though it had just happened yesterday.
“As I’ll ever be,” Wylan nodded, adjusting the bag over his shoulder.
Inej moved to man the steering as they departed. It never ceased to amaze him. He himself had been trained in classical ballet, and had watched his fair share of performances when he was young, but she somehow moved more gracefully than any dancer he’d ever seen.
He cast his gaze back at the house—his house—and at the figure that was most certainly Jesper in the window. It lingered there for a moment before the sound of the waves lapping at the bottom of The Wraith drew his attention out at the vast expanse of the sea.
“It’ll be a long journey to Ilvernath,” Inej spoke from beside him, Wylan hadn’t even heard her approach. “How are you going to recognize them?”
“I’m…not sure. All I have is the last name, from the book” Wylan hummed in thought, slipping the book out of his bag.
A Tradition of Tragedy, according to what Inej had told him. A detailed exposé on the secrets of Ilvernath’s curse, written by an unknown author from the Grieve family, one of the seven connected to it.
His search had started around a month ago. Hidden deep in the bowels of his father’s office, a letter on paper he didn’t recognize. He’d run it by Jesper to see what it might say.
Dear Jan Van Eck,
I have heard news of my daughter’s unfortunate passing. We send our condolences from Ilvernath.
Marianne Lowe
Given the date on the envelope and the aging of the paper, it was logical to assume that Marianne Lowe was related to Wylan’s mother. And yet, Jan Van Eck had never spoken once of anyone with the surname “Lowe”.
Even running the name by Kaz didn’t come up with anyone in Ketterdam. He’d heard vague talk of a place called Ilvernath, but as no jobs had taken place there, he didn’t know much about it. He recommended that he speak with Inej. She’d been travelling a fair amount on her mission to hunt slaver ships, so he thought she might’ve heard of something.
As it turns out, she’d heard about both the Lowe family and Ilvernath, thanks to a book she picked up on her travels.
And thus, that brought Wylan to where he stood, looking at the jumbled letters on the cover of that very same book.
“You’ll find a way. You are a Crow, after all,” Inej spoke after a moment of silence. She was smiling gently when he turned to look at her.
She had certainly been right about the journey being long. Not particularly arduous, thankfully, though perhaps a little bit of chaos would’ve quelled his ever increasing boredom. After a while of staring into the distance, he resorted to memorizing the entirety of the book. Inej would sit beside him and read a passage or two aloud as Wylan came up with a melody on his flute to remember it by. Something from an old ballet he’d watched as a child. They’d repeat it as much as necessary, or until Inej had to return to her duties as captain.
The history behind Ilvernath’s curse was as intriguing as it was cruel—what was supposed to be a protection spell turned into a curse for reasons unknown. Every twenty years, one of the seven cursed families had to send out one of their own into a tournament where only one would be left standing at the end of it all.
The words of the book itself were bitter, almost mocking each of the families for the things they both did and didn’t do in regards to the tournament. He recognized the tone as one of frustration. The author was trapped within Ilvernath’s clutches, desperate for someone to hear their voice.
A desperation so familiar to Wylan that it made his stomach churn.
The book’s description of the Lowe family was certainly less than favorable, they apparently won the tournament more times than not, thanks to their unique cruelty. Based on the author’s description, Wylan would’ve thought them to be more closely related to his father than his mother. Perhaps that was the reason why Marya left in the first place.
Ilvernath was located somewhere along the Ravkan side of the Dya Stolba mountain range. Wylan wasn’t amazing at speaking in Ravkan—he always ended up with a distinctly Kerch accent—but he’d been brushing up on his skills recently in preparation for the trip. He hoped that he was conversational at least. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to read or write in Ravkan, though that was the same for every other language as well.
As long as the journey by boat was, it didn’t hold a candle to the distance from the Os Kervo docks to Ilvernath itself. He’d have to travel through Kribirsk and Os Atla, and then even farther south to Ilvernath. He just hoped that the kruge he packed would be enough to make a round trip with some left over for food, amenities, and anything else he needed to purchase along the way.
The Wraith eventually docked itself in the Os Kervo harbor, it was time to bid Inej farewell. She smiled warmly and tipped her hat at him.
“No mourners,” she began.
“No funerals,” he completed. He hoped that this task wasn’t dangerous enough to need luck—seeing as Kaz had no part in planning it and he wasn’t doing anything illegal—but it didn’t hurt to have.
The days of the trip bled into one another. A mess of questionable hotel rooms, mediocre food, and long train rides with only the scenery to distinguish them. But still, he was grateful for the chance to observe how things worked in Ravka, even aside from his personal mission. The Ice Court heist was one very few times in recent memory that Wylan had ever been outside of Kerch, and that wasn’t exactly a sightseeing trip. It was fascinating to see the way other cultures dressed, how they spoke to one another, their body language, everything that distinguished them from the people of Ketterdam he had grown so accustomed to.
The consistency between all of Ravka’s cities that Wylan found most intriguing was the hushed excitement that only seemed to grow with each new train he boarded. One name came up more than any other—Ilvernath. People travelling there to see the Blood Veil fall, carrying well used copies of A Tradition of Tragedy. Surprisingly, there was a decent percentage of people who didn’t look to be Ravkan, some didn’t even speak the language.
The train ride into Ilvernath from Os Atla was cramped, buzzing with energy and anticipation. People speculated on who the mysterious author was and made bets on who they thought would win. The name Lowe came up a lot in the latter conversations, the name Grieve did not.
According to the chatter, two of the seven families had chosen their champions. Elionor Payne and Isobel Macaslan. Wylan couldn’t imagine how it must’ve felt for their parents, knowing their children were likely being sent to their doom. Part of him worried that he wouldn’t be able to make it in time to meet whichever cousin of his was chosen to be the Lowe family’s sacrificial lamb.
It wasn’t as if he could make the train move any faster, all he could do was wait and pray that he’d make it in time.
It was late into the night when they finally arrived at their destination. People rushed from the train station to claim a spot in one of Ilvernath’s few hotels, the energy buzzing in the air like its own kind of magic that Wylan couldn’t help but get swept up in. Of course, he’d already scouted out a place to stay beforehand. He was one of Kaz Brekker’s men after all.
As he walked to the hotel, he took in the sight of the city. He’d seen it on the map, but maps showed nothing of how houses and stores were constructed. Buildings were spread farther apart than those of Ketterdam with little alleyways between them, most of them seemed quite old. Ilvernath proper wasn’t very big, but the area around it was all considered a part of it as well. Wylan had grown so used to Ketterdam that it was strange to see the Dya Stolba mountain range that flanked the southern side of Ilvernath. The climate was about the same, if a little drier than back home, miraculously. At least he wouldn’t have to buy a whole new wardrobe, he quite liked his assortment of sweaters and blouses.
He placed a handful of kruge on the receptionist’s desk, and she handed over his room key. The stairs were rickety wood and he was a bit worried they would collapse under his weight, but they held up well enough for him to make it to his room.
The room itself wasn’t unlike something one would find in Ketterdam—small and cramped, with visible water damage on the ceiling and threadbare bedding. It was a strangely familiar sight, Wylan wasn’t sure if he should find comfort in that fact or not. At least there was a proper window that wasn’t shattered or boarded up.
A red haze was cast upon the room just as he went to set his bag down. Wylan’s instincts made him freeze and pray not to be seen, but the light drew his eye to the window.
He tapped his fingers against the tabletop, humming the melody softly to himself.
F#, B, C#, D, E, F#, D, F#
“Next time the Blood Moon rises and the tournament begins, it won’t just be Ilvernath watching.”
One of many songs his mother liked to sing when he was little, from that ballet they’d seen together. Even if she couldn’t remember them all in more recent years, he could in her stead.
The Blood Moon had risen once again, the sky stained with the blood of its innumerable victims. Soon enough, six more lives would be claimed. Would anyone remember their names after they were gone? Would Wylan’s cousin, whoever they were, be just another body in a few week’s time? Would he even get the chance to meet them first?
He had heard tales of the red moon that came every other decade, once thought to be a natural phenomenon. Wylan had never seen it for himself until now. The last time it happened—the previous tournament—had been exactly twenty years ago, four before Wylan was born, and many more before he gained consciousness.
A yawn broke him from his train of thought. The excitement of arriving in Ilvernath was starting to give way to the exhaustion of the journey. He slipped off his boots and made his way onto the hotel room’s thin mattress.