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swordplay—patterned strokes and thrusts could be too easily read and countered. Entering the unknown—this seemingly abandoned town, for example—with scripted preconceptions could be just as dangerous. He leaned into the gate, swinging it open slowly. The first stone in this Fate Fall was Chance. The next, he expected, would be Mystery.
    His eyes darted left and right, searching for any movement, but nothing awaited him. He found only an empty street and several rats scurrying for cover. Tiny dervishes of dust skipped across the avenue, disappearing between houses.
    He walked slowly, watching the open windows and doors of the stone and wood cottages, looking for the tips of arrows or the flash of readied blades. Or perhaps the frightened faces of hidden villagers waiting to learn the intentions of this silent stranger. No one met his shaded gaze. All seemed abandoned and overrun with rats and birds, no doubt feuding over forgotten crusts of bread. He heard the flutter of wings echo down the otherwise quiet street.
    Quinsareth contemplated the vacant town. Unlike fellow aasimar he’d met in his travels, he enjoyed his isolation, and did not brood over the loneliness of such an existence. He typically saw only the worst in people when called by the shadows—the faint voice of Hoar, his patron deity—and preferred to spend as little time with others as possible. Thus, he feared those he hunted less than their victims, daunted by the ordeals of conversation and social etiquette.
    He stared into a window, his eyes adjusting to the darkness within. Dim ambient light illuminated the cottage’s interior in shades of gray. A table was laid out for dinner, the carcass of a chicken festering in its center, swarmed by flies and crawling with maggots. A loaf of stale bread was all but gone, devoured by rats and mice. A quick look into a few other homes revealed much the same, prepared meals left for vermin and any inhabitants utterly missing.
    He wondered at the scene, uneasiness and dread settling in his blood. He knelt on one knee, listening to the distant rolling tide. Evening drew closer and weak sunlight faded behind ominously hushed storm clouds. Then he saw it—a dark stain spattered across a large garden stone, rust-colored and almost black, spilling across the wooden border of a flower bed. The sight of blood was almost comforting. Better a morbid clue than a complete mystery, he thought.
    A strong draft blew down the avenue then, casting dust into Quinsareth’s eyes and mouth. He coughed and spat as a loud clatter sounded behind him. Instantly, his hand went for Bedlam’s hilt, drawing the first few inches of blade as he spun to face the source of the staccato noise that shattered the town’s heavy silence.
    As he watched the gates crash together, blown by the sudden gust, he eased Bedlam back into its scabbard. The garden stone forgotten, he stared at macabre splashes of blood and gore across the inside of the weathered gate.
    Most recognizable were the hand prints. Some were clearly defined, others smeared downward as their owners were dragged beneath what could have been a sizeable crowd. The smears indicated a mob, all pushing on a gate that he had opened easily. Had the gates been sealed—by some force or magic—not to keep something out, but to keep it in?
    He turned away, grimly searching for more and expecting the worst. It was a philosophy that had rarely failed him. “Prepare for the worst” matched his experiences better than “hope for the best.” The empty streets suited him just fine as he strolled from house to house, relegating the possible fate of Logfell’s population to the back of his mind. He would sort it out in time.
    On his way to the eastern wall, Quinsareth paused, noticing something in a west-facing window at the end of a broad street. Looking in, he studied a small broken figure lying on the floor of a bedroom. Rather than lingering, he determined the town’s secrets had moved on, and he