From the memoirs of Dr. Leopold Tempes – Vitria, 286 A.T.S.

It Who Is The Harbinger. That was where I began my search.

The name was distinct and evocative, not only in the poetic sense of the word but also of other more familiar names.

Lal Tia, She Who Bore Magic. Lal Sera, She Who Bore Creation. Lal Kales, She Who Bore Riddles. Lal Viren, She Who Bore Challenges.

Was this connection to the Four Mothers imitative? A way for this Harbinger to claw some measure of status out of a non-existent connection by name alone? Was it coincidental? Mocking? Did it imply the existence of four male counterparts, as heretical theologians had long rumored?

Answers to such questions were anything but forthcoming.

I spent nearly two months in Reburn, and four more in the Imurian capital of Ilstar in the aftermath of the Burning of Cere. In the end, I came away with precious little to show for my time. Imurian governmental documentation of the village was almost non-existent, though unsurprisingly, their tax records proved slightly more robust. Through those, I was able to confirm a scant handful of critical facts.

- The settlement of Cere dated back to at least 196 B.T.S.

- The village's population had dropped sharply during the reign of Regia Amari, decreasing from several thousand to roughly seven hundred.

- The population remained alarmingly stagnant in the centuries that followed.

Of the Harbinger and his cult, I found nothing substantive. Civil authorities knew little of the town, save perhaps gossip regarding recent happenings. Religious scholars in the area expressed some curiosity about my tale, but none could provide worthwhile insight.

In hindsight, the only meaningful information I gleaned during those wasted months came from the lips of a drunken linguist with whom I spent my evenings carousing. During one of our revelries, I had lamented to him the clumsy nature of repeating "It Who Is The Harbinger" on every occasion I wished to discuss my work, and he had suggested a shortened name.

At the time, I was unaware that the Four Mothers' common names were also their titles. Lal Tia was at once a name but also literally translated to "She Who Bore Magic" in ancient Illuvian. Under that same paradigm, it was child's play for my companion to reverse the process to provide a proper name for It Who Is The Harbinger.

Kol Daua.

Even now, the name haunts me. It appears vile on the page, as though I should strike it through and set the paper alight for good measure. But I digress.

With name in hand and little else to show for my trouble, it had been my full intention to return to Vitria. I had been gone months longer than intended, and though my curiosity remained piqued, I had struck a dead end in my investigations.

Ironically, my decision to return to work provided the breakthrough I needed.

A significant facet of my original research on the continent was focused on population data in the Principalities. It had been my hope that obtaining such information, both from the Principalities and later from Imuria, would provide an expanded dataset for comparison and study. In theory, such documentation would allow for the identification of patterns and outliers for further investigation.

I had never expected it to be so immediately practical.

The return trip was slated to take weeks by carriage to the Middle Sea, then another two weeks by sea, with the latter primarily spent in port. This provided me with ample time to review my compendium, and with a fresh set of eyes that knew to look, Cere's sister city was all too obvious.

Laye was a small fishing village on the south-eastern shore of the Principalities. It was far enough from national borders to be uncontested, close enough to a major city to be ignored as a port, and inconvenient enough to be ignored by traders. It had been founded centuries earlier and suffered some sort of population collapse roughly around the advent of the System.

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They were notable similarities, but nothing so definitive on their own. The System's establishment had shattered many of the existing pillars of societies, leading to large-scale migration and wars that would easily explain the drastic change in population.

Still, the parallels were enough to cause me to disembark well short of Vitria and to engage a team to take me safely to the capital.

My contemporaries were perplexed to see me again, but more than welcoming when I indicated that I had further need of their archives. The collaborative arrangement between our two organizations bore fruit, and within a fortnight, I had what I considered to be compelling evidence:

- The settlement of Laye dated back to at least 253 B.T.S.

- The village's population had dropped sharply in the 27th year of Prince Mias (14 B.T.S.), decreasing from 1,800 to roughly six hundred and seventy.

- The taxable population remained stagnant following that collapse.

- Centennial records taken in 100 A.T.S and 200 A.T.S. showed signatures from the village foreman that looked functionally identical.

- Though birth and death records for the village were available, they were filled with irregularities. Most notably, it seemed that births and deaths typically coincided within days of one another and always matched in gender.

It took over a month and a despicable number of bribes before I was able to plead my case before Prince Duval in private. For nobility, he was refreshingly polite and attentive during a meeting that was scheduled for fifteen minutes and lasted for over three hours. Concerned that our meeting would be cut short, I led the discussion with my findings from Cere, most notably, that the people there seemed to have gained a class that predated the system, a fact which I had kept close to my chest during all previous discussions. To his credit, he immediately recognized the importance and moved the conversation from his walking gardens to his private chambers.

I spent approximately an hour laying out my case, and we spent the next two discussing strategy and implications. News of the Burning of Cere had preceded me by some months, for such a violent end to a settlement was rare outside of wartime. Prince Duval wanted no part in such a tragedy, and idly floated the idea of leaving the village alone, though he smothered the suggestion with his own objections before I even had the chance.

A village of seven hundred awakened was no trifling matter. It had taken the Imurians a considerable army to put down their rebellion, and they had leveled the village in the process. I wished no part in such a slaughter and warned him that capturing Laye and its people intact would require impeccable planning and overwhelming force.

"Fortunately, we have both," was Prince Duval's reply.

The raid, as I understand it, was entirely one-sided. Whatever dark powers their Harbinger imbued them with, the villagers of Laye did not have the forewarning of Cere. The Principality forces struck like lightning, and though a small handful of villagers regrouped long enough to mount a defense, they were swept aside by a high-ranking Awakened before they could pose a considerable threat.

So it was that I entered the city of Laye, accompanied by a smattering of my fellows and a large security force. Unlike Cere, the incident in Laye did not make publication. To my knowledge, it has not been remarked upon publicly in the years since. The cultists of Laye relied upon their anonymity to conceal themselves, and that anonymity allowed the Principalities to act on them with impunity. No one mourned, or even remarked, on the passing of Laye.

I could not say what happened to the population. I was offered the opportunity to sit in on early interrogations, but they were fruitless. It was as though the whole of the town had defensively gone mad. Some sat in vacant silence, as though they were no more than a fleshy idol in the shape of a man. Others had been reduced to gibbering idiots. Still more self-harmed, or in one case, cannibalized one another. I could discover no rhyme or reason to their affliction, but as it was not my specialty, I left it to those with greater talents.

The cliff face overlooking the town proved a more fruitful ground for study, but I am ashamed to admit that in this instance, I was less than forthcoming. One look at that misbegotten village, with a high cliff dominating a low shoreline, and I knew where I would find the village idol, just as I knew what lay beneath. I took them to the former and let them study the depiction of a man draped in shadows, peering out from behind a half-open door.

Then in the night, I surreptitiously removed what I knew lay beneath it.

This village had taken better care of its Codex. It reeked of magic, even to my mundane senses, and my inspection skills could make nothing of it, returning only gibberish. As a creature of philosophy and reason, I have long struggled with the idea of morality, of what makes something good or evil.

But sure as I breathe here now, that book was evil.

Yet I could not part with the thing. I could not give it to another, nor destroy it outright, as it so righteously deserved. Not out of any magical compulsion I am aware of, but a sincere belief in the preservation of knowledge. Book burning goes against the fundamentals of my being, even if the book in question radiates a sense of… wrongness.

Yet despite that magical find, the true worth of Laye was not found on the cliffside, but on bookshelves in the foreman's home.

Over three hundred encrypted volumes, written not in the indecipherable script of Cere but in the familiar continental alphabet.

Three hundred years of a cultist's coded journals.

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