Sir Hiss and the Shadow League of Belmoor

More about Sir Hiss and the Shadow League of Belmoor

A Master of Masks Weaves His Web
The marshes of Belmoor were not silent. They whispered. In the wind of the willows, in the rippling of the murky canals, in the creaking of old jetties, one heard stories no one would ever tell aloud. And yet, among those who knew much, there was talk of a place deep in the mists where masked men met—the Shadow League, a secret coven that spun threads like spiders—invisible but deadly. Sir Hiss did not come by chance. His appearance was immaculate: green silk with gold embroidery, a cloak of twilight violet, a hat with a single, long feather. He carried himself like an ambassador, spoke with the calm of an old advisor—and every sentence was a carefully honed instrument. What distinguished him was not what he said—but what he left out. He had forged documents with him: a secret letter from Ilvenmark, a list of names of supposed enemies of the League, an amulet with a seal that no one recognized – and yet no one contradicted. He was granted entry. And like a drop of poison in water, he began to work. At first, he offered only "help." He mediated between two factions that quietly distrusted each other. He suggested examining old archives. He casually mentioned that one of the Elders might not be quite what he seemed. He never made a loud noise – but he was always there when he was needed. Soon, the League's meetings were characterized by silent glances, unspoken tensions. One council member died – supposedly of an old fever. Another disappeared after a ride, leaving only an overturned inkwell. Sir Hiss deeply regretted both cases – and was unanimously asked to take the minutes himself from now on. In truth, he had long since made copies of all the Shadow Letters. He knew who was secretly sending messages to the capital. Who was moving gold. Who was speaking with old enemies. And he forged new letters—so precise that even the recipients doubted they themselves hadn't written those words. His greatest move, however, was the forged Shadow Decree: a document seemingly signed by five council members—all of whom suspected nothing. When it was read aloud, trust was finally shattered. Masks fell. Blades were drawn. And Sir Hiss? He rose slowly, smiled gently—and declared it was time for a new beginning. The next morning, the chapel was empty. A smoking altar. No book, no bundle, just a purple quill on cold stone. Sir Hiss was gone—with three signet rings, a gold card, and the only key to the archives. They say he now lives in Tannwyn. Under a new name. But anyone who meets him there recognizes him—by his red eyes, his polite nod, and his quiet, razor-sharp smile.