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Chapter Text

As the warm glow of twilight spilled through the tall, arched windows of the kitchen, Randel stood near the dining nook, arranging plates on the counter with practiced ease. The scent of fresh bread and warm stew filled the air, mingling with the cheerful hum of family life. The sounds of laughter and footsteps echoed faintly from the garden, where Zander and Leianna were finishing their game of tag.

Tonight, most of the household staff had been given the evening off, leaving Randel in charge not only of the children but also of dinner. He had just poured the cups of milk when his ears caught the light pitter-patter of Leianna’s feet as she ran inside, her cheeks flushed from play.

“Daddy, where’s Momma?” she asked, tilting her head up at him with wide, curious eyes.

“She’s at the castle, helping Aunt Maddie,” Randel replied, crouching to her level and brushing a stray curl from her face.

Leianna frowned, her little brow furrowing. “Why does Aunt Maddie need help? Did she get a boo-boo?”

Before Randel could answer, Zander came bounding in, his usual energy on full display. “No, silly! Aunt Maddie’s having a baby. That’s what Momma’s helping with.” He puffed out his chest, clearly pleased to have the answer.

Leianna’s eyes widened. “A baby? Really? Can we go see it?”

Randel chuckled, standing to his full height and gently steering them toward the washroom. “Not tonight, sweetheart. Babies take time to arrive, and Aunt Maddie needs quiet. Now, go wash up for dinner. Both of you.”

The children scampered off, their chatter trailing behind them as they debated what their newest cousin would be named. Randel shook his head with a fond smile, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. Moments later, the sound of water splashing—and an unmistakable giggle from Leianna—echoed down the hall.

“Zander!” Leianna squealed. “You’re getting water everywhere!”

Randel leaned against the doorframe of the washroom, arms crossed as he took in the scene. Zander was attempting to rinse his hands while simultaneously flicking water at Leianna, who was using the towel as a shield.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Randel said, his voice firm but amused. “Zander, focus. Leianna, dry your hands properly. Dinner’s almost ready.”

With mock-serious nods, the children obeyed, though Zander couldn’t resist one last playful flick before grabbing the towel.

Back in the kitchen, Randel finished setting the table as the children took their seats, their excitement palpable. They froze briefly in surprise, staring at the table where bowls of steaming stew and fresh bread were neatly arranged.

“You made all this?” Zander asked, his eyebrows raised in astonishment as he slid into his chair.

“Yes, I did,” Randel replied with mock indignation as he placed a bowl in front of his son. “Is it really so shocking that I can cook?”

“Well... yeah,” Zander admitted, grinning.

Randel shook his head in mock defeat as he served Leianna her portion. “For your information, I learned how to cook from your great-grandmother Helayne. When I was a boy, Uncle Garthan, Grandpa Jareth and I used to help her with dinner. It was one of her ways of keeping us out of trouble.”

Leianna’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Did you like cooking with her?”

“I loved it,” Randel said with a fond smile. “She’d let us help chop vegetables and stir the pot… though Grandpa Jareth usually spilled something… and she always made the best honey-glazed bread.”

Zander leaned back in his chair, his face thoughtful. “Your life must have been exciting, Dad. You know, before...”

The words hung in the air, and for a brief moment, a shadow crossed Randel’s face. He felt the tug of bittersweet memories… of Helayne’s laughter, Vesryn’s grin, of childhood chaos, of the trials and loss that had shaped him. But the warmth of his children’s presence grounded him, pulling him back to the moment.

“It was an adventure,” Randel said softly, brushing the thought aside with a faint smile. “But you know what? This… sitting here with you two… is my favorite adventure yet.”

Zander groaned dramatically at the sentimentality, earning a laugh from Leianna.

“Eat your stew,” Randel said with a chuckle, ruffling Zander’s hair as he sat down to join them.

As they ate, the conversation was lively and filled with laughter. Zander regaled them with tales of his adventures in the garden, embellishing wildly to make Leianna giggle. Leianna, in turn, described her tea party with her stuffed animals, which had apparently been interrupted by Zander pretending to be a dragon.

Randel listened with a contented smile, occasionally chiming in to playfully challenge Zander’s more outrageous claims or to remind Leianna not to talk with her mouth full.

By the time the plates were cleared and their simple dessert of fruit compote was served, the children were winding down, their earlier excitement giving way to a cozy calm.

-*-

After dinner, Randel pulled out a set of dice and tokens for a few quick rounds of their favorite family game. Zander, ever competitive, tried to strategize his way to victory, while Leianna played with exuberant randomness, often giggling at her own moves.

When the game wrapped up and the yawns began to surface, Randel clapped his hands together. “Alright, my little adventurers, it’s time to head upstairs for baths. Let’s get you cleaned up and ready for bed.”

Leianna groaned dramatically. “But Daddy, I’m not even dirty!”

“Sure you’re not,” Randel teased, scooping her up and holding her at arm’s length as if inspecting her. “You’re just covered in garden dust and bread crumbs. Absolutely spotless.”

She squealed with laughter as Randel handed her off to Silla, the family’s ever-loyal Ughlánas helper, who had been quietly observing the evening with a fond smile. “Take her away, Silla,” Randel said, mock-seriously. “This one needs a thorough scrubbing.”

Silla chuckled and bowed theatrically. “As you wish, my lord.” She led Leianna toward the bathing chamber in Randel and Karina’s room, where the sound of splashing and giggling soon followed.

Zander rolled his eyes with a grin. “I don’t need help, Dad. I can bathe myself.”

“Good,” Randel said with a smirk. “But I’m still going to check behind your ears afterward.”

Zander laughed and darted upstairs, leaving Randel to clean up the kitchen.

As Randel cleared the table and wiped down the counters, the laughter and splashing from upstairs filled the house with warmth. He paused for a moment, leaning on the counter and closing his eyes as he listened. The sound of Leianna’s playful squeals and Silla’s gentle laughter mingled with the faint hum of Zander moving around in his own room.

A quiet smile spread across Randel’s face, and he murmured a silent prayer of gratitude. For his children, for Karina, for the life they’d built together.

And to think, I was afraid of this… once…

After tidying the kitchen, he moved to the sitting room to put away the dice and books the children had left out, shaking his head with a smile at their scattered clutter. The chaos of family life was a far cry from his younger days of epic quests and uncertain futures, but it was a chaos he wouldn’t trade for anything.

The house had grown quieter by the time Randel headed upstairs to tuck Leianna in. He peeked into her room, only to find it empty, the bed still neatly made. Frowning slightly, he turned and made his way to his own bedchamber. Sure enough, Leianna was there, curled up in the middle of the large bed with a stuffed dragon clutched in her arms. She looked up as he entered, her eyes wide and innocent. “Daddy, can I sleep here tonight? Please?”

Before Randel could answer, Zander appeared in the doorway, freshly scrubbed and still toweling off his damp hair. “I’ll stay here too,” he announced, plopping onto the bed next to Leianna.

Randel gave Zander a mock-stern look. “I’ll need to inspect behind those ears, you know.”

Zander laughed, dodging Randel’s playful attempt to grab him. “No way! I’m clean, I swear!”

With a dramatic sigh, Randel relented, walking into the dressing room and changing into some pajamas. “Alright, you win. But no wiggling, and definitely no kicking me in your sleep,” he warned as he climbed into bed between them.

Leianna snuggled close, clutching her dragon, while Zander stretched out on the other side, still grinning.

“Now,” Randel said, looking down at Leianna, “what story would you like to hear tonight?”

Before Leianna could answer, Zander piped up with a mischievous glint in his eye. “You should tell her about your five-year mission to find the Goblin homeland.”

Randel raised an eyebrow. “You’ve heard those stories a thousand times, Zander. You could probably tell them better than I can.”

“Maybe,” Zander admitted with a sly smile. “But Leianna hasn’t heard them yet.”

Leianna’s eyes widened with excitement. “Daddy, is it true? Did you really go on a big adventure?”

Randel looked between his two children, Leianna’s eager face and Zander’s knowing grin. He shook his head with a chuckle. “Alright, you win. But don’t blame me if you can’t sleep because of all the excitement!”

Leianna clapped her hands with delight and snuggled closer. Randel leaned back against the headboard, settling in to begin. His voice dropped to a low, dramatic tone as he started:

“It all started when your grandfather realized our people could not survive without a true home… and sent me into the unknown to find it.”

The room grew quiet as the children listened, the warm glow of the bedside candles casting soft light over their captivated faces. “It was just after sunrise,” Randel continued, his voice low and steady as his children nestled in close beneath the blankets. “The kind of morning when the mist clings to your cloak and makes you wonder if the world is holding its breath. That was the day I left.”

"Did you say goodbye without crying?" Leianna asked.

Randel’s voice grew quiet. He looked at his children, their eyes wide with wonder. “No,” he added softly, “I didn’t cry. Not where they could see me, anyway…”

-*-

A Circle Unbroken

The Goblin Encampment, Over a Thousand Years Earlier…

The sun had barely risen over the edge of Pritaní, casting a pale, misty light across the camp as Randel finished fastening the last strap on his pack. A faint chill lingered in the air, curling around him like a reminder of the journey’s unknown dangers. He had packed all he could carry, but he knew that no supplies would weigh as heavily as the responsibility he was taking with him… a responsibility handed to him by his king. His brother. His closest friend.

He took a steadying breath, his heart pounding as he turned and saw Jareth and Garthan approaching. They moved quietly, their expressions solemn. Even though they were all young men—barely more than boys—they carried burdens that should have belonged to older, wiser shoulders. But they had learned to carry them together.

Jareth’s blue eyes met his, serious and steady, but with a trace of sadness. For a moment, Randel remembered when they were little, running through the woods, daring each other to climb trees higher than they should. Those days were long gone. Now, there were crowns and missions and the future of their people to think about.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked. What he meant was, Are you sure I can do this?

“I know this isn’t an easy thing I’m asking you to do,” Jareth said, his hand resting on Randel’s shoulder. “But you’re the only one I trust to find our people a home. A place where we can finally be safe. I wouldn’t be sending you if I didn’t believe in you, with every bit of faith I have.”

Randel swallowed hard. “I won’t let you down,” he promised. “Whatever it takes, I’ll find a place where we can live in peace. Somewhere we can finally put down roots.”

Jareth gave a short nod, but the look in his eyes said everything. “Just remember,” he added, “you’re not alone out there. We’re with you, every step of the way.”

Then Garthan stepped forward. In all these years, there were some things about Garthan that never changed. He didn’t always show his feelings, but a person could tell when he was suffering with them. He was pale in the early light, his platinum hair catching what little sunlight there was.

“You carry all of our prayers with you, Randel,” he said. Simple words. But they meant everything.

He clapped Garthan on the shoulder. “I know.”

For the rest of his days, Randel would remember the way Jareth looked at him in that moment. Not as a king. Not even as a brother. Just as someone who believed in him.

“I can’t tell you how long it will take,” he said. “But take whatever time you need. Our people… they’ll wait for the right place. A place that’s truly ours.”

Randel nodded. “I’ll find it,” he said again. “For us. For our people.”

He placed his hand on Randel’s shoulder again. Just for a moment. But in that moment, he felt everything—his trust, his hope, his faith.

“Stay safe,” Garthan said quietly. There was emotion in his voice, rare for him.

“I will,” Randel told him. “And I’ll bring us all home.”

He hesitated as they reached the edge of the cliffside, his steps slowing beneath the weight of something heavier than the pack on his shoulders. It wasn’t just the mission. It was everything they had already lost.

Vesryn. Helayne.

They had been more than leaders. They were parents—to Jareth by blood, and to Garthan and Randel by choice. Their deaths had left a hollow in all of them, one they rarely spoke of. Looking at Jareth, he could see them both reflected in his features. He was much too young for the weight he carried, and yet he carried it anyway—because someone had to. Because they would have expected him to.

Jareth had stepped into his parents’ mantle with a courage that awed Randel, even as it inspired him. Garthan buried his grief in silence, always the stalwart that held them all standing. And Randel… well, he had no crown, title, or mythical bloodline. Just a promise he wouldn’t break: to find a place where their people could live, not just survive.

Just before he stepped onto the path down the cliff, the three of them came together one last time. Without a word, they moved into the old circle—arms around each other, foreheads pressed close. That quiet knot of brotherhood they always fell into when the world felt too big.

When he turned to leave, he felt their presence behind him like a shield.

-*-

The morning sun cast a golden light over the shoreline. Everything was so quiet. Randel had the odd thought that even the birds were holding their breath.

That was when Tremane Deganna showed up, grinning like he was off to a festival instead of into the unknown. His auburn hair caught the sun like copper, and his topaz eyes sparkled like he already saw the happy ending.

“Are you ready for this, Randel?” he asked, nearly bouncing with excitement. “We’re going to find a new homeland! Build a place for our people! And I’ll bet there’ll be adventure at every turn!”

Randel laughed. “You’re always the optimist, Tremane.”

“Someone has to keep your spirits up!” he said. “Can’t have you moping about all serious.”

Then came Devan Fanniver. Quiet as a shadow, calm as always. He had dark hair and those sharp brown eyes that always saw more than you thought. He didn’t talk much, but when he spoke to you, you listened.

“Are you ready, then?” he asked.

“Yes,” Randel told him. “And I’m glad to have you both with me.”

Devan nodded. “We’ll see this through, Randel. We all believe in this.”

They were just kids. All three of them. But they were ready. Somehow.

A rustle of leaves, a flicker of green—and there they were. The Ughlánas. Small, sharp-eyed, clever as anything. Kren stepped forward, the leader of their little squad. Randel smiled with genuine pleasure.

“Kren,” I said. “I’m glad you’re with us.”

“Someone has to keep you tall folk sharp and out of trouble,” he said with a grin.

Tremane clapped him on the back. “Sharp is what I aim for!”

Devan, ever the calm one, just nodded. “We’re lucky to have you.”

Randel looked at all of them—Tremane, Devan, Kren and the others. They were young, yes. But they were united. And that made them strong.

As they walked down to the boat, Randel looked back.

Jareth and Garthan stood on the cliff above, their cloaks stirring in the wind. They didn’t wave. They didn’t need to. Just seeing them there, standing tall, was enough.

He whispered a prayer.

Goddess, may I be worthy of their trust...

Tremane, Randel and Devan

Chapter Text

Zander was already bouncing on the bed. “Did you really fight a sea monster?”

Randel raised an eyebrow. “Did I say I fought it? No, no… I said we crossed the Channel.” He leaned back against the headboard with a grin. “But the Channel… well, it had ideas of its own…”

-*-

The sea stretched out before them, a dark and seemingly endless expanse under a shrouded sky. Fog clung low to the waves, thickening as Randel, Tremane, and Devan set off in their small wooden boat. Tucked down under the seats were Kren, Leef and Foogle. They sat with their arms around their knees, a decidedly green cast to their already green skin. Randel could sympathize… the waves were twisting his stomach into knots, too.

Randel rowed with steady, determined strokes, setting a pace as the icy saltwater sprayed his face. The cold cut through his cloak, seeping into his bones, but he pushed the discomfort aside, keeping his focus on the journey ahead. The Channel was dangerous on its own, but with each stroke, he reminded himself that this crossing was just the first step in a much larger journey… a journey that might mean survival for his people.

The sound of oars cutting through the water was the only noise, muffled by the fog that hung around them. It made the sea feel endless, as if they were floating in a void, isolated from anything familiar. Every so often, Randel glanced back at Tremane, who was doing his best to keep pace despite the strain. His auburn hair, damp with seawater, clung to his forehead, and his usual easy grin had faded to a tense smile.

“Not quite the adventure I had in mind,” Tremane muttered, his breath forming small clouds in the chill air. “I’d hoped our first challenge wouldn’t be rowing ourselves halfway across the world.”

Randel chuckled, though he felt the strain in his own arms. “The journey hasn’t even started, Tremane. Save some strength for when we reach shore.”

Devan said nothing, keeping his gaze forward, his strokes methodical and powerful. Randel had always admired his quiet determination; he seemed unfazed by the cold or the mist, his focus unwavering.

They rowed in silence for some time, the only sounds the creak of wood and the faint, rhythmic splash of oars dipping into the water. Randel kept his breathing steady, concentrating on the horizon, but a sense of unease prickled at the edge of his awareness. The air felt colder, heavier, and something about the mist seemed darker now, thickening as if it were hiding something.

The faint, low sound of shifting water reached his ears, a rumbling that seemed to come from beneath the waves.

Randel tightened his grip on the oar, glancing around. “Did you hear that?”

Tremane looked over, his face pale. “Please tell me that was just the tide.”

Devan frowned, his eyes scanning the water. “No… something else.”

As if in response, the water beside them began to ripple, subtle at first, then more violently. Waves began to form, rocking the small boat. Randel felt his heart pound as the ripples grew, spreading outward in ominous, circular patterns.

Then, without warning, a massive, scaled tentacle erupted from the water, rising into the air with terrifying speed and force. It was thicker than any tree Randel had ever seen, covered in dark, rough scales that glistened in the dim light. The tentacle arced over them, casting a shadow over the boat, and Randel’s blood ran cold.

“Druumnar!” he shouted, his voice filled with both fear and urgency. He had heard tales of the Druumnar. A legendary sea creature as old as the sea itself, known for lurking in the oceans with ferocity and a hunger that could never be sated. They were said to attack any who dared cross, their tentacles capable of pulling ships and entire crews beneath the waves.

They were also attracted to magic. The innate magic that all Goblins carried…

“Row! Faster!” Randel yelled, his voice hoarse with panic.

The three of them dug their oars into the water, rowing with all the strength they could muster. Tremane’s face was pale, but a glimmer of his usual spirit shone in his eyes as he looked over at Randel. “This… this is the kind of adventure I was hoping for!” Tremane shouted, though his voice wavered. “Now, let’s outsmart this beast, shall we?”

Devan rowed with grim determination, his eyes narrowed, his face set in a mask of concentration.

The Druumnar let out a guttural roar that sent a chill down Randel’s spine. The tentacle came crashing down, slapping the water mere feet from the boat, sending a geyser of icy seawater into the air. The force of the impact rocked his boat violently, nearly throwing him overboard. He clung to the sides, his knuckles white, as he struggled to regain his balance.

“Randel, we gotta do something!” Tremane shouted, his eyes wide with fear as he glanced over at the massive shadow beneath the waves.

Randel’s mind raced. He knew they couldn’t out-row the creature; their small boat was no match for the Druumnar’s strength and speed. But perhaps they could use the mist to their advantage. He glanced back at Devan, then at Tremane.

“Magic,” he muttered, feeling the hesitation in his voice. Using magic so openly was dangerous, especially here. But they didn’t have a choice.

If the glamour didn’t fool it… there’d be no second try.

Taking a deep breath, Randel steadied himself, focusing and sending a pulse of energy toward a fish that had been swimming under their boat. The surface shimmered, distorting as a glamor formed around the fish, slightly to the right. The fish lit up with magical energy, swimming away from them at a breakneck speed.

The Druumnar hesitated, its tentacles pausing mid-air as it tried to make sense of the two magical signatures. It twisted in the water, turning toward the glamored fish, and for a brief moment, they had a chance.

“Now! Row!” Randel shouted, pushing against the oars with every ounce of strength he had left.

They surged ahead, the small boat cutting through the water and moving away from the creature. Randel kept his gaze forward, watching as the faint outline of the shore grew closer, the rocky cliffs looming through the fog.

But the Druumnar wasn’t fooled for long.

With an enraged roar, it turned back toward them, its tentacles flailing in fury. One tentacle slammed down just inches from the boat, sending a wave crashing over him. Tremane gripped the sides of the boat, coughing as he spat out a mouthful of seawater.

“Come on, beast!” Tremane yelled, his voice defiant despite the fear in his eyes. “You’ll have to do better than that!”

Devan remained focused, his eyes locked on the shore as he rowed with rhythmic, powerful strokes. Randel could feel his own strength fading, his arms trembling with each pull, but he pushed through, gritting his teeth as they drew closer to land.

The shore was within reach now, only a few dozen yards away. But the Druumnar wasn’t done yet. Its tentacles lashed out one last time, one of them arching toward their boat with terrifying speed.

In that instant, Devan shouted, summoning a burst of yellow energy that flashed across the water, striking the Druumnar’s tentacle. A thunderclap cracked the fog as the magic struck true, lighting the sea with a blinding yellow flare. The creature recoiled, letting out a furious, pained roar as the magic seared its flesh. The tentacle retreated, and Randel seized the moment.

With a final push, they reached the shallows, their boat scraping against the rocky seabed. Randel leaped out, stumbling onto the shore, his chest heaving, his muscles aching, Devan scrambling right behind. The Ughlánas quickly scampered out of the boat and huddled beside him. Tremane followed, collapsing onto the sand with a breathless laugh, his face pale but victorious.

“We… we made it,” he gasped, his grin returning as he looked back at the water. “Now that was a crossing I won’t forget anytime soon!”

Randel glanced back at the dark, churning water, the Druumnar’s shadow retreating beneath the waves, defeated—for now. He felt a surge of relief, tempered with exhaustion, as he turned to his companions, a tired but grateful smile on his face.

Devan gave a silent nod, his gaze steady as he looked back at the sea, then at Randel and Tremane. “Sorry about that… using the levin-bolt, I mean.”

“No choice,” said Randel. “But we need to get out of here before someone comes sniffing around.”

They swiftly pulled their armor, weapons, and supplies from the boat, strapping the various packs to their bodies quickly, their eyes darting around.

Randel stood in the sand, the wind tugging at his damp cloak. That had been too close. And it was only the beginning.

With a final glance at the dark waters of the Channel, he turned toward the inland path, ready to lead his friends into the unknown, knowing that this journey had only just begun.

-*-

Crossing the Channel

Chapter Text

“Did they really sound like her?” Leianna's voice was small.

Randel didn’t answer right away. He stared at the flickering candle, remembering the mist, the whispers. “They did. That’s what made it so dangerous.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “But we found our way through. Because we didn’t walk it alone.”

-*-

The sunlight barely pierced through the thick canopy of leaves as Randel and his companions entered the forest just beyond the coast where they’d landed. What had initially seemed like a regular stretch of forest had quickly morphed into something otherworldly. The trees were ancient, towering in twisting, unnatural shapes, thick and gnarled, spiraling across the forest floor like veins. Shadows seemed to creep from the branches, moving as if they had lives of their own, watching and whispering.

The air was thick and still, a quiet that seemed to swallow every sound. The ground was carpeted with strange, luminescent fungi that glowed softly in shades of blue and green, casting an eerie light over their path.

Randel felt a chill settle over him. It wasn’t just the cold. The very air felt different, heavy with a strange, oppressive magic. He glanced back, barely able to make out the entrance they had come from; the forest seemed to close in behind them, sealing them in.

“Stick close,” Randel murmured, keeping his hand near the hilt of his sword, though he doubted a blade would be any use against the forest’s spirits.

Tremane tried to lighten the mood, as he always did, but even he seemed subdued, his usual grin replaced with a tense smile. “Can’t say I’ve seen a forest this… lively,” he quipped, though his voice was tinged with unease.

Devan, ever quiet and watchful, simply nodded, his sharp eyes scanning their surroundings. He didn’t seem swayed by the forest’s oppressive magic, but his focus was intense, as if bracing himself for something.

The group pressed on, their footsteps muffled by a thick carpet of moss that covered the ground. The small, luminescent fungi that grew from the base of trees cast an eerie glow that illuminated the mist swirling around them. The deeper they went, the more otherworldly it all felt, like stepping into a twisted dream. The forest seemed alive, every tree and shadow watching, waiting.

And then, the whispers began.

“Randel…”

The voice was soft, barely a whisper, but unmistakable. Randel stopped dead in his tracks, his heart pounding. He recognized that voice… it was his mother’s voice. He looked around, but there was no one there, only shadows and mist.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tremane and the other warrior looked at him, their expressions puzzled.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Tremane replied, frowning. But as he spoke, his face changed, his eyes widening as another voice… soft, almost mournful… echoed through the trees.

“Tremane…”

The voice was feminine, tender, filled with an aching sorrow. Tremane’s face went pale, his usual bravado slipping away as he took a step forward, his gaze searching the shadows.

“Randel… it sounds like… her…” Tremane whispered, his voice laced with confusion and longing.

Devan grabbed his arm, his expression firm. “This is the work of the Murmures,” he said in a low, steady voice. “I heard about them in a story… they can mimic the voices of those we love. They’re trying to pull us in.”

Randel nodded, trying to shake off the effects of the magic. He too recalled the stories he’d heard of the Murmures… spirits of Fae women, some said, or fragments of the forest’s magic itself. They were creatures that used voices to lure travelers deeper into the woods, only to leave them lost, feeding on their fears and slowly draining their life force. Those who followed the whispers rarely returned.

“Keep your focus,” Randel said, his voice steadier now. “Don’t listen. Just stay close to me.”

But the forest seemed to have other plans.

The voices grew louder, more insistent, calling out in pleading tones. Randel heard his mother’s voice again, softer this time, filled with gentleness that made his heart ache. It was the same way she used to call him when he was a little boy, bringing him inside from playing. The pain of loss hit him, sharp and deep, and for a moment, he found himself reaching out toward the shadows, as if he could pull her back.

“Randel… come to me…” The voice was so real, so close, that he could almost feel her hand on his shoulder. He took a step forward, drawn toward the sound, his heart pounding.

But then Devan stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “It isn’t real,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the fog. “They’re only voices. Remember why we’re here.”

The words brought Randel back to himself, and he shook his head, clearing away the fog of emotions clouding his mind. He took a shaky breath, nodding in gratitude. Devan was right. This was a trick, an illusion designed to make them lose their way.

Beside them, Tremane was struggling. He took another step forward, his face filled with longing and pain as he listened to the voice calling his name. His usual lightheartedness was gone, replaced with a vulnerability Randel hadn’t seen before.

“Tremane,” Randel said, grabbing his friend’s shoulder, his voice urgent. “It’s not real. Don’t listen to it.”

Tremane blinked, his gaze clearing, and he nodded slowly. “Right… right. I know it’s not real. I just… it felt so close.”

Randel tightened his grip, giving him a reassuring look. “That’s what they want. Stay close, and don’t look back.”

They continued through the forest, but the voices didn’t stop. If anything, they grew louder, more desperate, shifting in tone, taking on new voices with each step. Sometimes the voices were pleading, other times angry, and occasionally, they laughed… a high, eerie sound that echoed through the trees, twisting into something almost maniacal.

“Randel…”

“Devan…”

“Tremane…”

Each voice seemed more real, more desperate, filled with emotions that tugged at their hearts. The ground grew uneven, soft and marshy, with twisted roots snaking across their path like obstacles waiting to trip them. The forest seemed to darken around them, the shadows closing in, pressing down, suffocating.

Then, the ground itself began to shift.

Randel’s foot sank into a patch of ground that seemed solid a moment before. He yanked it out, only to watch as the mossy surface rippled, moving like a pool of water. Around them, the trees seemed to sway and twist, their shapes blurring, creating a disorienting effect that made it hard to tell which way was forward.

“This place is alive,” Tremane muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

“It’s more than that,” Devan replied, his eyes narrowed. “It’s changing. Trying to confuse us.”

Tremane stumbled, a choked sound escaping him. Devan’s hand clenched around his sword hilt. The voices continued… soft… insidious. Each man heard something different, something meant to break them.

Randel’s vision blurred. The whispers were growing louder now, weaving around his thoughts like ivy. They didn’t come from any one direction—they surrounded him, soft as breath, insistent as a drum. His mother’s voice became clearer, coaxing, warm with promise. Somewhere nearby, he heard his father’s laughter… a sound he hadn’t heard in over a century.

Another step, and the forest seemed to tilt. Logic unraveled.

He took a step toward the voice, then another. His heartbeat echoed in his ears—until a melody cut through the spell.

Kren had begun to sing.

It was the same old marching tune that the Ughlánas would always sing when going about one of their tasks, one that the Othánas knew down to their bones. Leef joined in, his tone bright and crisp. Foogle’s quiet harmony followed, binding the song like thread.

The fog seemed to hesitate. The voices weakened.

Randel blinked, his head clearing. Just ahead, on the bark of a twisted elm, he saw it—a carved symbol, faint but familiar. A marker. The path. Randel squinted, his gaze sharpening as he looked closer. He saw it now… the faint marks that formed a trail, leading deeper into the forest but offering a way through. Whoever had marked these trees had done so to navigate the forest’s illusions. Following this path was their best chance.

“Look,” he said. “Some of these trees are marked. We can follow them.”

“Good eye,” Devan said with a nod. “Let’s move.”

They followed the markings, ignoring the voices that grew angrier, more hateful, shouting and cursing as they realized the Othánas were slipping away. With all of his might, Randel kept his focus on the song the Ughlánas were singing. He felt his skin prickle as the voices turned shrill, filling the air with an unnatural, high-pitched keening.

But he forced himself to keep to the path, each step bringing him closer to the forest’s edge. Tremane kept close, his face pale but determined, and Devan remained focused, his gaze steady as they moved along the marked trail.

Finally, after what felt like hours, they saw a faint glow ahead… the light of day, filtering through the last row of trees. Randel quickened his pace, his heart pounding with relief as they approached the edge of the forest. They broke through the final row of trees, stumbling into the open air, the sunlight warm and bright on their faces. The air felt thinner here, cleaner—free of the heavy magic that had pressed against their minds. For a long moment, no one spoke. The spell was broken, but its weight lingered.

Randel sank to one knee, letting his fingers dig into the soft grass. Only now did he realize how close he had come to giving in. It was the Ughlánas’ song that had saved them. That—and the fact that none of them had walked alone. Together, they had endured what would have shattered them apart.

Beside him, Tremane laughed. A shaky, breathless sound, but filled with relief. “I think I prefer forests without voices,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “I thought… I thought I’d never leave that place.” Devan nodded in agreement, his expression grim and a bit fearful.

Randel looked back at the forest, watching as the shadows shifted and writhed, as if the trees themselves were seething with anger at their escape. He knew they had barely survived, and that the forest’s magic would haunt him for a long time. But they had made it through, and he felt a renewed sense of purpose, a determination to face whatever came next, knowing that he could rely on his friends to guide him through even the darkest places.

“Let’s keep moving,” he said quietly. “Before it changes its mind.”

As they gathered themselves to move on, Devan glanced at Kren. “How did you resist it?” he asked. “Those voices… they nearly had us.”

Kren scratched behind one ear and shrugged modestly. “We hear things differently than you do. The Murmures—they layer their voices. But we can pick up sounds most Othánas can't. Beneath the voices, there’s a pattern. A pulse. The real voice of the creatures, if you like.”

“So you could tell it wasn’t real?” Tremane asked, still pale.

“We could tell it was dangerous,” Kren replied. “So we figured the best thing to do was drown it out with something stronger. Something real. The song gave you something to hang on to.”

Randel met his gaze, his voice quiet but full of gratitude. “You didn’t just give us something to hold onto, Kren. You guys pulled us back. You saved us.”

Leef gave a dramatic bow, nearly tipping forward under his pack. “That’s our job, Randy. That’s why we’re here.”

Even Foogle cracked a grin at that.

With a final glance at the forest, they turned their backs on the shadows and walked forward, ready to face the unknown, together.

-*-

The Enchanted Forest

Chapter Text

“Did you ever want to turn back?” Leianna’s voice was hushed.

Randel looked toward the window, his thoughts far away. “More times than I can count.”

He glanced back at them with a small smile. “But turning back wasn’t an option. Not when our people were counting on us.” He leaned in, voice lowering conspiratorially. “Now, let me tell you about the Gorge…”

-*-

The path wound through dense forests and rocky terrain until it brought Randel and his companions to the edge of a sheer, jagged gorge. The air was thinner here, colder, carrying a faint metallic taste that reminded Randel of blood. He gazed across the ravine, seeing nothing but mist and shadows filling the chasm below. The other side was barely visible… a narrow ledge disappearing into the thick fog that clung like ghostly tendrils to the rock faces.

The gorge stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction, its walls carved by centuries of water and wind. Randel knew there was no way around it. Their only choice was to cross… a dangerous endeavor, even before taking the gorge’s rumored enchantments into account.

Tremane peered over the edge, his usual grin gone, replaced by a wary grimace. “Now, that,” he muttered, “is one nasty drop. I’m guessing none of us fancy a swim in that mist.”

Randel nodded, his own apprehension mirrored in Tremane’s eyes. “According to that geography tome we studied, this gorge is known for its magic,” he said. “Some call it the Gorge of Dead Ends. The enchantments here were designed to keep intruders from passing through safely. We need to be alert. Every step could be a trap.”

Devan scanned the gorge, his gaze calculating and steady. He gestured toward a series of thin, rocky bridges spanning the ravine at irregular intervals. “The bridges seem passable… but I wouldn’t trust them.”

The first bridge, barely wide enough to walk across, extended over the gorge like a skeletal finger, cracked and weathered by time. Randel stepped forward, testing the edge of the path, feeling the wind whip against his face. Each gust seemed to carry a warning, a reminder of the danger lying in wait.

“Let me go first, Randy,” said Kren. “I’m not as heavy as you.”

Randel swallowed hard, “If you think you should… but… be careful, Kren.”

The Ughlánas nodded, stepping forward warily. They watched with bated breath as Kren made his painstaking way across, his diminutive form becoming ever smaller the farther away he moved. After what seemed like forever, he made his careful way back.

“It makes a lot of noise… might not want to be bunched up as we cross,” Kren said grimly. “And that wind… it’s no big thing for us since we’re little, but you guys might have a hard time with it.”

“Stay at least ten feet apart and keep your balance,” Randel instructed, his voice steady though his heart pounded in his chest. “We’ll take it slow.”

“Randy, one of us will follow behind each of you,” said Leef. “If… if we have to, we can transport you to the ground below.”

“Yeah… good idea,” said Tremane. “Keeping away from transporting won’t do us much good if we’re splattered on the floor of this gorge.”

“I agree,” said Randel. “We’ll use it as a last resort.”

They stepped onto the first bridge, moving carefully, one foot in front of the other. The bridge creaked and swayed under their weight, but they moved in unison, each watching the others’ movements, staying synchronized.

But halfway across, the wind picked up, and Randel felt a surge of magic ripple through the air. The bridge suddenly lurched to the side, tilting at a sharp angle as if trying to throw them off. Tremane cried out, grabbing the edge to steady himself, his knuckles white as he fought to stay upright.

“Hold on!” Randel shouted, as Kren reached out to steady Tremane.

Devan, his face tense but focused, spread his arms to balance himself. “It’s the enchantment… keep moving, slowly, and don’t make sudden lunges. The magic reacts to any shift in weight.”

Randel nodded, guiding them forward step by step. They moved slowly, shifting their weight as little as possible, until they finally reached the other side of the bridge and stepped onto solid ground. Randel let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“That was… close,” Tremane muttered, his voice shaky.

Randel forced a smile, but the relief was short-lived. The path before them wound along the edge of the gorge, leading to the next bridge—a longer, more precarious one that twisted as it spanned the chasm, with gaps in the stone exposing jagged rocks below.

They stepped onto this second bridge, feeling the magic’s pressure intensify as if it were pushing against them, testing their resolve. The bridge creaked and groaned, twisting as they advanced, the path seeming to shift beneath their feet.

Randel’s heart raced as he glanced over the edge, seeing only fog swirling below. A voice echoed in his mind, whispering doubts, fears he’d tried to bury. It was the gorge’s magic, digging into his mind, sowing seeds of unease.

“It’s just illusions,” he murmured, more to himself than the others. “It’s feeding off our fears. Keep moving.”

But as they approached the midpoint of the bridge, another enchantment took hold, casting strange, warped shadows across the rocks. Randel blinked, and suddenly, the bridge seemed to stretch, growing longer, the other side fading away.

“It’s… it’s changing,” Tremane stammered, his face pale. “Is it… endless?”

Randel gritted his teeth, forcing his mind to focus. “No. This is an illusion. Don’t let it get to you. The end is still there—we just have to believe it.”

Devan took a deep breath, grounding himself as he placed a steadying hand on Tremane’s shoulder. “Focus on my steps. Follow my lead. Don’t look down, and don’t listen to the shadows.”

Together, they pressed forward, following Devan’s lead. Each step felt like an eternity, but Randel kept his eyes on the stones beneath his feet, forcing himself to ignore the whispers and distortions around them. The other side seemed to flicker in and out of view, a mirage, but they didn’t waver.

At last, they reached the end of the bridge, their feet meeting solid ground again. Randel felt a wave of relief wash over him, but as he looked up, he saw the final bridge… the longest and most dangerous of all. This bridge arched high above the gorge, its stones worn and cracked, and a faint shimmer in the air hinted at a powerful enchantment.

“This one feels… different,” Devan murmured, his eyes narrowing.

Randel nodded. “This is the last test. Be prepared for anything.”

They stepped onto the final bridge, moving with careful, measured steps. But as they crossed, the air grew colder, and a heavy silence settled around them. Randel felt the magic tighten, pressing against his mind like an iron vice, whispering dark fears.

Then, as they neared the middle of the bridge, the magic shifted again, and Randel felt a wave of terror wash over him. Visions flickered in his mind… images of his people, lost and suffering, his friends lying injured, defeated. He saw himself falling, tumbling into the gorge, his body shattered on the rocks below.

The whispers grew louder, feeding on his fears, filling his mind with doubts. He felt his steps falter, his resolve weakening.

But then, he felt a little hand take his… solid, grounding. Leef’s face appeared beside him, his gaze steady. “Randy,” he said quietly. “Don’t let it get to you. This is just another illusion.”

Randel blinked, the vision fading as he focused on the Ughlánas’ voice. Leef’s presence anchored him, pulling him back to reality. He took a deep breath, feeling his strength return.

Devan stepped forward, his face calm but resolute. “Let’s end this,” he said, his voice filled with quiet determination.

They moved forward together, each step bringing them closer to the other side, their minds battling the illusions, their resolve unshaken. The magic pushed harder, trying to break their focus, but they pushed back, drawing strength from each other.

Finally, they reached the end of the bridge, stepping onto solid ground. Randel felt a surge of relief as the enchantments faded, the whispers silenced. Randel turned to his companions, his heart filled with gratitude and pride. “We made it,” he said, his voice steady but filled with emotion.

Tremane grinned, his usual spark returning. “Well, I’m never going near a gorge again. But I have to admit, that was… exhilarating.”

Devan simply nodded, his calm gaze filled with a quiet satisfaction.

With one final look back, they turned and continued on their path, the echoes of the enchantments fading behind them.

-*-

That night, they made camp just beyond the gorge, the fire crackling low as the stars stretched overhead. Randel sat with his back to a boulder, rubbing resin into the strap of his gauntlet when a sharp ‘pop’ sounded beside him.

Leef popped into view, his shoulders weighted down with ration bags. “Evening, gentlemen,” he announced cheerfully. “Just came from seeing Kingy.”

Randel looked up, brows lifting. “You saw Jareth?”

Leef grinned and tossed a small packet of dried fruit toward Tremane, who caught it midair. “Sure did. Gave him your report. Told him how you faced down a Murmure, crossed the gorge, didn’t die horribly—he seemed pleased.”

Devan snorted. Leef’s expression softened. “He and Garthan both send their greetings. And their confidence. Said, ‘Tell Randel I never doubted him. He’ll get us there.’”

The campfire popped softly. For a moment, no one spoke.

Randel stared into the flames, a quiet warmth rising in his chest. He could almost hear Jareth’s voice, steady as stone, Garthan’s dry smirk in the background. It was more than comfort. It was fuel.

He nodded once. “Thanks, Leef.”

Leef saluted with two fingers. “Anytime, Randy.”

Randel leaned back, letting the stars fill his vision. He still didn’t know what lay ahead. But tonight, he remembered why he walked this road—and what was waiting at the end of it.

-*-

The Gorge

Chapter Text

“Were you ever really scared?” Zander’s question came just before the candlelight flickered.

Randel smiled faintly. “Lots of times.” He gazed over at the fire burning cheerfully in the fireplace. “But fear isn’t always a warning to run. Sometimes, it’s a warning to listen.”

Leianna snuggled closer as his voice softly continued. “This happened during a storm…”

-*-

The rain didn’t fall so much as hurl itself from the sky. Wind howled through the trees like a living thing, bending branches nearly to the ground, lashing at cloaks and stinging skin with needle-sharp drops. Lightning split the sky in jagged bursts, casting eerie, skeletal shapes through the forest around them.

“Remind me again,” Tremane shouted over the thunder, “whose brilliant idea it was to travel during monsoon season?”

“Yours,” Devan replied grimly, shielding his eyes as another flash lit the way.

“I was being optimistic!” Tremane grumbled.

Randel trudged ahead, soaked through, mud sucking at his boots with every step. His hood had blown back miles ago, and his hair was plastered to his face, dripping into his eyes.

They were beyond miserable. The storm had turned the forest path into a mire, and the wind made it dangerous to camp beneath trees. They needed stone. Walls. Shelter.

“There!” Devan pointed, and they all stopped, blinking against the sheets of rain.

Through the downpour and the fog, a broken silhouette emerged on the hill above—a crumbling tower, hunched against the storm like a crooked finger pointing at the heavens.

Tremane squinted at it, then gave a theatrical shudder. “Oh lovely. Clearly cursed. Possibly haunted. Definitely a great place to sleep.”

Randel gave him a long-suffering look. “It has walls and a roof. That’s good enough for me.”

“You assume the roof hasn’t collapsed.”

“I’m willing to risk it.”

Tremane sighed dramatically but fell in behind them as they pushed up the hill, half-stumbling, half-sliding through the soaked undergrowth. The Ughlánas stayed close, miserable and quiet, hoods drooping like soggy flowers.

As they reached the stone steps, the wind surged again, slamming into them like a wave. The tower loomed above—tall, black, and crooked, its upper floors fractured by time and weather. One narrow archway led inside, yawning open like the mouth of a waiting beast.

“Well,” Tremane muttered, “if this ends in death by ghost, I’m haunting you.”

“You’d have to get in line,” Randel said, and stepped inside.

The air inside the tower was damp and cold, like a tomb that had been cracked open. What remained of the great hall stretched before them in murky shadow—crumbled walls, rotting timbers, and the ghost of grandeur long decayed. A few half-collapsed columns framed what must have once been a hearth, though time had reduced it to little more than a shallow pit and a ring of moss-slick stones.

Randel sloshed across the ruined floor, pushing aside the shattered remnants of a wooden bench with his boot. “This’ll have to do.”

“No offense,” Tremane muttered, wringing out his cloak with a wet squelch, “but your definition of ‘shelter’ is generous.”

Even the Ughlánas looked defeated—Leef’s usual energy was reduced to a slow shuffle, Foogle had his arms crossed and chin tucked in like a sulking cat, and Kren’s ears drooped so low they nearly touched his shoulders.

They were all soaked to the bone. Water dripped from armor, cloaks, and even their boots with every step. Randel was shivering despite himself, and he saw the others weren’t faring much better.

“I’ll get a fire going,” he said, kneeling by the ruined hearth. He pulled out a bundle of kindling from his pack—miraculously dry inside its waxed wrapping. The larger logs nearby were another matter entirely: damp, half-rotted, and useless without help.

Devan crouched beside him, rubbing his hands together. “We can’t risk staying cold. Use the spell. Any Fae that’s foolish enough to be out scrying in this weather will be dead anyway.”

Randel hesitated for a breath, then nodded. “All right. Everyone back.”

They stepped clear. He muttered the incantation under his breath, tracing the sigil with practiced hands. A warm orange light flickered at his fingertips, then leapt into the kindling with a small whoomp. The soaked wood hissed and steamed, but the magical flames caught—and held.

Tremane groaned in delight, practically collapsing beside the growing fire. “You beautiful, rule-breaking wizard. I take back everything I said about your cooking.”

“You’ve never insulted my cooking,” Randel said.

“Oh, didn’t I? Huh. Must’ve been planning to.”

Faint smiles circled the fire. The Ughlánas crept closer, peeling off wet cloaks and extending their clawed hands toward the heat. Foogle gave a soft sigh of relief.

For a few minutes, the tower felt less like a crypt and more like a haven. The worst of the storm pounded against the stone outside, but here inside, there was warmth, laughter, and the scent of wood smoke curling toward the rafters.

But behind that comfort, something else stirred. Something old. And watching.

-*-

The fire crackled and popped, casting flickering light against the crumbling stone walls. Shadows danced like restless spirits across the broken masonry. Tremane was halfway through a dramatic retelling of a goblin folktale involving a talking pig and a cursed frying pan when the fire suddenly hissed… and dimmed.

Everyone went still.

“What did you do?” Devan asked, narrowing his eyes at the fire.

“Nothing!” Tremane protested. “I was at the part with the exploding stew pot!”

The flames, which had burned bright just moments ago, now guttered low, flickering like they were struggling for air. A sudden chill swept the room. Randel turned, scanning the hall. The air felt heavier—like they were being watched.

“Probably a draft,” he muttered, though he didn’t believe it.

Somewhere above them, a board creaked. Slowly. Once. Then silence.

The Ughlánas huddled a little closer. Leef’s ears twitched. Foogle was staring at the far wall, squinting hard.

“Anyone else feel like we’re not alone?” Tremane asked, looking around with theatrical suspicion.

“I’ve felt that since we walked in,” Kren said flatly.

Then came the whisper. Faint. Almost not there. Like a breath through dry leaves.

“Go… back…”

They froze.

Devan slowly stood, hand drifting to his sword hilt. “Did anyone else hear—”

“Shh,” Randel said, rising with him.

Another whisper, closer this time.

“Not… safe…”

Randel turned toward the far end of the hall. That’s when Foogle pointed.

“There.”

They followed his small claw to the corner where firelight barely reached. At first, it looked like just another shadow. But it was standing. Slightly hunched. Draped in what might have once been robes, but now rippled like smoke in water. A face—long, gaunt, half-shrouded—floated in the gloom.

The figure didn’t move. It just watched.

Randel’s heart pounded. “Specter,” he said softly. “Everyone back. Slowly.”

“What tipped you off?” Tremane whispered. “The terrifying gloom figure or the death whispering?”

They edged away from the hearth, toward the center of the hall. The specter did not follow. But as they moved, so did the shadows around it—tendrils stretching along the walls like oily vines, beginning to peel from the stone.

Leef made a high, nervous noise and ducked behind Randel’s leg.

The specter’s eyes began to glow faintly, pale green and cold.

Then the shadows lunged. Dark tendrils shot across the floor, seizing onto cloaks, wrapping around boots and ankles.

Tremane let out a startled yelp as his sword clanged uselessly through the air. “IT WENT THROUGH IT! WHY DID IT GO THROUGH IT?!” he shouted, hopping backward and swinging wildly.

Devan cursed and tried to slice through a writhing shadow creeping up the wall—but his blade passed through harmlessly, dispersing it like it was made of mist, before it reconstituted itself.

Randel raised his sword just in time to bat one tendril away from Leef, who was doing a surprisingly effective job of kicking shadows in the shins—if shadows had shins.

“Blades are useless!” Randel barked. “Use shields—now!”

He dropped to one knee, slamming his palm into the stone as he chanted under his breath. A shimmering arc of golden light pulsed outward, forming a half-sphere of magical protection just as another tendril lunged for his throat.

Devan followed suit, adding a second overlapping barrier. Sparks of arcane light crackled along the edges where the shields met. Tremane, caught mid-flail, dove through the barrier and landed in a heap beside the fire.

“Next time,” he grunted, pulling himself up, “let’s camp in a nice cheerful graveyard instead.”

The shadows hissed and circled the shields, pounding at the barriers with an unnatural, soundless pressure. The specter hadn’t moved—but its eyes burned brighter now, and its form shimmered, more solid than before.

Kren knelt beside Randel. “We’re not going to hold them for long.”

Randel grit his teeth. “I know.”

Just beyond the barrier, one of the shadows pressed forward—and its face began to change. It took on the shape of a human man’s face, or perhaps an elf’s, twisted with pain and rage. It opened its mouth and screamed—but no sound came out.

Leef ducked again. “That’s it. I want to go back to the Murmures.”

“Even they didn’t throw stuff at us,” Kren added, eyes wide.

The walls groaned. The fire shrank. Shadows closed in from all sides.

They were running out of time.

The magical shields sparked and flickered as tendrils battered them in rhythmic pulses, like a storm pounding on a door. Cracks of magical strain appeared at the seams, faint but growing.

“Shields are failing,” Devan said tersely.

“I noticed,” Randel muttered, his eyes scanning for options—there were none.

Tremane looked up from where he was shielding Leef behind him. “Well, it’s been a lovely evening. Who’s up for being consumed by living nightmares?”

Leef whimpered. “I’m too young to be a ghost!”

Foogle, crouched near the edge of the barrier, stared hard at the specter. His ears twitched. His tiny clawed hands curled into fists.

The specter floated closer. It didn’t walk—it glided in that way only cursed things could manage, its lower body vanishing into mist that lapped at the edge of the shield like smoke at a campfire. The face beneath the hood was more defined now—hollow cheeks, dark eyes glowing like dying stars.

“Back… leave… this place is not… yours…” Its voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Randel stood, sword still in hand though he knew it wouldn’t help. “We don’t want to fight you,” he said. “We just needed shelter.”

The specter ignored him. The shadows gathered behind it like a silent army. Then— Foogle stood.

“Excuse me!” he snapped, stomping a foot. “What kind of hospitality is this?! We’re soaked, we’re tired, and we were very polite about your drafty, decrepit tower!”

Everyone froze. Even the shadows hesitated.

The specter tilted its head slowly—whether in confusion, curiosity, or offense was unclear.

Foogle marched closer to the barrier, claws on hips. “You don’t speak to guests? You don’t offer tea? You just summon writhing darkness and start shrieking? Is that how you treat travelers?!”

Randel blinked. Devan’s mouth actually fell open.

“I—what—FOOGLE,” Tremane hissed, “what are you doing?!”

“I’m parenting a ghost, apparently!” Foogle snapped back.

The specter didn’t move. But something changed. The glow in its eyes flickered. The tendrils around the shield stilled, unsure.

Randel looked from the specter… to Foogle… and back again. “Is it… confused?” he asked.

“Oh, we all are,” Tremane said. “I’m just trying not to show it.”

The specter had recoiled from Foogle’s outburst, but it didn’t strike. Instead, it hovered in place, wavering like a flame caught between wind and will. Its robes fluttered softly, though the air was still.

Foogle cocked his head at the specter, his tone shifting to one of almost… sympathy. “Why are you so angry? What happened?”

For a few moments there was no reply. Then, in a voice like crumbling parchment: “I… came back too late.”

The fire flickered low again, and the silence that followed felt deeper than before.

“I went to war. I told them to stay here—it was safe here. Safer than the front. Safer than the roads. My wife, Merial… my sons, Cadric and Benen… and my little girl, Elienne.”

The specter turned its face away from them as though the memory itself had weight. “I came back when the fighting ended. Rode hard, thinking only of them. I saw the tower from the hill… and the stones were broken.”

He drifted toward the hearth, barely touching the floor. “The rain had weakened the foundation. Lightning struck. The upper floors collapsed. They never had a chance.”

His form flickered, parts of it pulling like smoke, unraveling and knitting back together. “I searched the ruins. I called their names. I tried to dig them out… with my hands.”

A pause.

“I didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Didn’t even know when the pain stopped. Only that the voices began. I didn’t realize I’d died until the seasons changed and I hadn’t.”

The shadows curled tighter around the figure, hissing and twisting—but no longer hostile. “They moved on. I couldn’t. I’m what’s left of grief that won’t let go.”

The Ughlánas stood very still. Foogle’s lip trembled, but he didn’t speak. Then Leef squinted and stepped a little closer to Randel, his eyes flickering with that far-off, otherworldly gleam they sometimes held when magic brushed them.

“I can sense the echoes,” he whispered. “The wife. Two of the children. Some others… servants, maybe. Their souls passed clean. But…” He frowned. “Not the girl.”

Randel turned to him, heart tightening. “What do you mean?”

“The girl,” Leef said. “Elienne. I don’t feel her echo. She didn’t die here.”

A long silence followed. The specter’s form wavered—uncertain, as though a long-held truth had just cracked. “She… didn’t die here?” the voice rasped, fragile now, like wind through dry reeds.

“No,” Randel said softly. “She didn’t.”

Leef stepped closer, carefully respectful. “We Ughlánas… we can sense the way spirits leave a place. The echoes of souls who pass on. It’s like a scent—faint, but real. Your wife and sons left their mark. Your servants too. But your daughter’s trail… ends elsewhere.”

Kren nodded, his voice low. “It means she lived. For a time, at least. Maybe she was away. Maybe someone found her in time. We can’t know everything—but we know this: she did not die here.”

The specter swayed, the shadows around it rippling with unease—no longer violent, just lost. “I stayed,” the specter whispered. “Because I thought they were all gone. That none of them… none of them made it. I thought I’d failed.”

Randel took a steady breath, lowering his sword completely now. “You protected them as best you could. That’s what fathers do.”

Devan stepped beside him. “And even if you couldn’t save them all… one of them got away.”

The specter floated still for a moment, and then—slowly—the shadows began to fall away from it. Like ink dispersing in water, they melted into the stone, leaving only the faintest smudge of darkness in their wake.

“I’ve held onto grief for so long,” the specter said. “I didn’t remember what hope felt like.”

“You don’t have to hold it anymore,” said Randel. “Let us help.”

The specter hovered, lighter than before, but still tethered—still uncertain. One of the Ughlánas—Kren—tilted his head thoughtfully. “We can do more than sense echoes,” he said quietly. “If you have something… something personal, something of your family—we might be able to find where her line continued.”

The specter turned slowly, drifting toward the far wall. With a faint gesture, it pointed toward a shadowed niche in the stone.

Randel stepped forward cautiously and reached in. His hand closed around a cold chain, and when he drew it out, a pendant shimmered in the firelight—a delicate crest etched into silver. Time had tarnished it, but the emblem was still clear: a tree with three stars nestled in its branches.

“My wife’s,” the specter murmured. “She wore it always.”

Kren took it gently from Randel’s hand, cradling it in both palms. His eyes fluttered closed, and a faint green glow pulsed from beneath his fingers. His ears twitched once. Then he blinked.

“I’ve found something,” he whispered. Without another word, he vanished—gone with a slight popping of air.

The others stared.

“Did he just—” Tremane began.

“Yep,” said Leef, “didn’t say goodbye either. Rude.”

A few long moments passed. Then, just as suddenly, Kren reappeared, his hands closed around something small. He stepped forward and held it out to the specter.

A ring.

Worn with age but still bearing the same crest as the pendant. Small, delicate—clearly meant for a woman. A family heirloom, passed down through generations.

“This belonged to your great-great-great-granddaughter,” Kren said softly. “She wore it with pride. She told stories of an ancestor who defended his kingdom with honor.”

The specter stared at the ring. His form quivered. “She… lived,” he whispered. “She grew. She remembered me...”

He reached out with transparent hands, cradling the ring as though it were made of starlight.

The tower quieted. The shadows vanished completely. The specter looked to Randel, to the Ughlánas, to all of them. And he smiled.

“Thank you.”

With a breath like morning wind through a field of grass, he faded—light and all—leaving only the fire, warm and steady once more.

For a long time, no one spoke. The only sound was the crackle of the revived fire and the occasional drip of rain still leaking through the cracks in the roof.

Then Tremane leaned back on his elbows and sighed. “Well,” he said, “I think we all learned something important tonight.”

Devan arched a brow. “Such as?”

“That Foogle is terrifying when he’s angry.”

Leef snorted. “He didn’t even blink.”

“I wasn’t angry,” Foogle muttered, poking the fire with a stick. “I was polite. There’s a difference.”

Tremane held up a hand solemnly. “Remind me never to arrive late for dinner at your place.”

Everyone chuckled—tired, but lighter.

Randel looked into the flames, his expression thoughtful. “We came in here expecting to fight a ghost. That’s what we always do—draw swords, raise shields, get ready to battle whatever’s in our way.”

He glanced at each of them in turn. “But tonight, we didn’t need steel. We needed listening. And a little courage.” He nodded toward Foogle, who blinked in surprise. “Not all problems can be solved with swords,” Randel said. “Sometimes, they need something gentler.”

The fire popped, sending a small spray of sparks upward like fireflies.

Outside, the storm had passed. And inside, for the first time all night, the tower finally felt at peace.

-*-

The Tower

Chapter Text

“Did anyone ever get left behind?” Zander asked it like a challenge, but his voice was soft.

Randel stared into the hearth for a long moment. “Once. And I swore it wouldn’t happen again.” He sighed deeply.

“This was the time we ran into both Fae... and spiders.”

-*-

The sun was slipping behind the jagged hills, casting long shadows that stretched like claws across the scrub-covered landscape. The group had made good time that day, crossing uneven terrain with a steady, practiced pace. The air smelled of pine and iron, and the only sound was the soft crunch of boots and claws on dry earth.

“Three days without being chased,” Tremane declared. “That’s a new record. I think we deserve a holiday.”

“We’re already on one,” Devan said without looking back. “Just one of the kind where you might die.”

Tremane nodded solemnly. “Ah, yes. A survival retreat. Very trendy.”

Randel smirked, but he was only half-listening. Something felt off.

He paused at the top of a low ridge and scanned the valley behind them. The hills curved in a long crescent, funneling wind—and anyone else—toward their path. The shadows were deep now, too deep for comfort. He narrowed his eyes.

“Kren,” he said quietly. “Do you smell anything?”

Kren sniffed the air. His expression darkened. “Smoke,” he said. “Old fire. Horses. Metal.”

Devan unslung his shortbow. “Fae?”

Kren gave a curt nod. “Warband. Maybe a day behind. Maybe less.”

The good mood vanished like a snuffed flame. Randel’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. “We need cover. Fast.”

Foogle pointed with one clawed hand. “Cave mouth. There—just beyond that stand of thornbushes.”

They broke into a run, boots thudding against rock, the Ughlánas darting ahead like green shadows.

Behind them, down in the valley, movement shimmered—a glint of silver helms and dark banners sliding like ink through the twilight.

“They’ve seen us,” Devan snapped. “Move!”

As they dove through the thorns and into the gaping cave, the sky behind them flared orange with sunset—and somewhere in the distance, a horn sounded.

-*-

The cave swallowed them whole.

The air changed the moment they stepped inside—cooler, damp, and tinged with the scent of stone and something older. The echo of their footfalls bounced off walls that narrowed too quickly, forcing them into single file. Light from the cave mouth vanished behind them, replaced by a soft, eerie gloom.

“Remind me,” Tremane muttered, “why the creepy dark hole was our best option?”

“Because the Fae have horses and javelins,” Devan said flatly. “And we don’t.”

“Still doesn’t make this any less murdery.”

Randel raised a hand. “Keep it quiet.”

They pressed on. The passage sloped downward, winding in lazy switchbacks. Patches of damp moss slicked the rock underfoot. Now and then, a gust of wind would whistle through some unseen vent, bringing with it the faint sounds of the surface—hoofbeats, shouted commands—chilling reminders that danger was still close behind.

The Ughlánas moved carefully, their clawed feet making little noise. Kren took the lead now, glancing back only to motion for silence. His ears twitched at every sound—each scrape of stone, each drip of water. “I don’t like this,” he muttered. “This cave isn’t right. Too still.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Leef whispered. “Still means safe.”

“No,” Kren said, his voice lower now. “Still means hiding something.”

They kept moving.

The walls began to change—no longer just rock, but patterned with thin, silvery threads, like veins running through the stone. Randel paused to examine one, then slowly drew his fingers away.

“Webbing,” he said.

“Please,” Tremane whispered, “let that mean a spider once lived here. Like, ten thousand years ago.”

Randel didn’t reply. Neither did anyone else.

The deeper they went, the more threads they saw. Some stretched like cables across the tunnel ceiling. Others lay draped across the floor like forgotten traps. Kren crouched near one and touched it lightly. The thread vibrated, sending a faint tremor through the wall.

“We’re not alone,” he said.

A skittering sound echoed above. Then another. And another.

Foogle looked up. “Oh no.”

The skittering grew louder. Not from one direction—but from many. Above. Behind. Somewhere far down the passage ahead. It was a dry, clacking sound, like bone on stone. And it was getting closer.

They stopped moving. No one spoke. Even Tremane, usually the first to crack a joke, stood frozen—his hand on his sword, eyes scanning the dark ceiling above them.

The webbing now gleamed faintly with moisture and hung in long strands like the fringe of a corpse-shroud. The air had changed again—no longer just cold, but heavy, as though something vast and silent was breathing just beyond the reach of the torchlight.

“Don’t move,” Kren whispered. “They’re listening.”

A single strand of web across the floor vibrated. Then another. Leef’s breath hitched. Foogle slowly crouched beside him, pressing them both into the shallowest of shadows.

“I really don’t like spiders,” Leef whispered. “Not the big ones. Not the little ones. Not the ones that sing songs with too many legs—”

“No one likes spiders,” Devan muttered. “Hate them later.”

A rock dislodged from above and struck the floor between them with a soft clack. They all looked up.

And saw the eyes.

Dozens of them—glinting like beads of wet glass—reflected their torchlight from above.

The ceiling was moving.

The first spider dropped without a sound. It landed behind them, massive legs absorbing the impact like springs. Before anyone could shout, it lunged—grabbing Kren with two hairy limbs and slamming him against the wall. He grunted, dazed, but managed to twist free with a clawed slash.

“MOVE!” Randel roared.

Then the ceiling erupted. Spiders poured down like rain, some the size of hunting dogs, others as large as ponies—chitin clicking, mandibles snapping. The tunnel lit with bursts of torchlight and sparks of hastily cast magic.

Devan spun, throwing up a shield that deflected one spider mid-leap. Tremane shouted, swinging his sword in an arc and severing two legs from a beast that screamed like tearing parchment.

Foogle ducked under Randel’s arm, claws out, slashing at strands of web that flew like nets from the walls. “They're everywhere!”

In the chaos, no one saw it happen.

A spider, huge and silent, skittered along the ceiling and dropped directly behind Leef. A strand of silk shot forward, striking the small Ughlánas like a whip. In one blink, he was wrapped—legs bound, arms trapped, his voice muffled.

“No—Leef!” Randel lunged too late. The spider yanked him upward, vanishing into the dark crags above. For one terrible moment, all Randel saw was the trailing end of the web cord disappearing into shadow.

And then he heard Leef’s panicked, muffled cry echo down the tunnel.

The spiders began to withdraw—melting back into the gloom as quickly as they’d come. But the damage was done. The party was panting, wounded, web-snarled—and Leef was gone.

Foogle stood frozen, staring up at the darkness with wide eyes. “They took him.”

Randel’s voice was low and dangerous. “We’re going after him.”

Devan nodded grimly, eyes already adjusting to the new direction. “Deeper?”

“Deeper,” Randel confirmed.

Tremane brushed a strand of webbing from the edge of his armor. “Spiders and caves,” he muttered. “Would vacation here again.”

Randel lit a new torch from the dying flames of the first and turned toward the black corridor ahead. “Stay close,” he said. “And don’t touch the webs.”

They disappeared into the dark.

-*-

The tunnel narrowed into a funnel of silk.

What had once been stone walls were now wrapped—coated in glistening layers of web that shimmered in their torchlight like frost. Every surface was slick with it. The silence was eerie, broken only by their footfalls and the faint skitter of legs somewhere above, too fast to track.

And then they smelled it.

Rot. Old blood. The sour tang of decay that seeped from the stone like a warning.

“Down here,” Kren whispered, nose wrinkled. “I can smell him.” They rounded a curve—and there he was.

Leef.

Wrapped head to toe in layers of silk, wide eyes blinking from a face half-covered by gauze-like threads. He hung from a lattice of web like a child’s toy caught in a net, trembling violently but clearly alive.

“Leef!” Randel rushed forward, slashing at the threads around the Ughlánas with his dagger. “You’re okay—you’re going to be okay.”

Leef’s muffled voice was panicked, but not incoherent. “Can’t—can’t jump! The web—magic! Can’t… go anywhere!”

Randel glanced at Kren, who was already clawing at the cocoon with careful precision. “He’s right. These webs… they’re laced with something.”

“They’re enchanted,” Devan confirmed, casting a small witchlight and studying the threads. “Runes woven right into the silk. He can’t teleport. Not without unraveling it first.”

A low vibration rolled through the cave floor. Everyone froze. Then came the sound.

Click. Click. Click.

It was slower. Heavier. Not the scampering rhythm of the smaller spiders. A shape began to move in the darkness beyond their torchlight. Something… massive.

Eight legs. Each one thick as a man’s torso. Glossy black shell that caught the firelight in gleaming arcs. Fangs as long as daggers. And a single pale marking across its bulbous head—an hourglass-like symbol that pulsed with faint green light. The colossal spider crept forward, its eyes glowing like coals, its movements slow and deliberate.

This was not a scavenger. This was a predator.

Tremane took a shaky step back. “Why,” he whispered, “do the big ones always move slower?”

“Because they don’t have to hurry,” Devan said through gritted teeth. “We’re not prey. We’re… an offering.”

The spider reared up slightly, front limbs raised.

Randel turned to the others. “Shred the silk. Get him out. Now.”

Kren and Foogle leapt to the task, slashing with claws, while Devan drew his blade—not to strike, but to guard. Leef thrashed, kicking weakly as the strands around him started to fall away.

“Faster!” Randel barked. “It’s watching us!”

The spider took one step forward. Then another. The sound was deafening, like stone grinding against stone. It stopped just beyond the circle of torchlight. Its body rose and fell with each breath—if it even breathed. Fangs twitched, twitch-twitch-twitch, slick with venom that hissed softly as it dripped to the stone floor. Its many eyes didn’t blink. They didn’t need to.

It was measuring them.

A strand of web trembled above, and they realized with a sick twist that the smaller spiders had gone silent—not in retreat, but in deference.

This was their queen. Or worse.

“Why is it just standing there?” Tremane whispered, blade drawn.

“It’s waiting for us to panic,” Devan said grimly.

Randel didn’t answer. His hand was steady as he sliced through the last of the webbing around Leef’s legs. The Ughlánas tumbled free into Kren’s arms, gasping for breath.

“Can you jump now?” Randel asked.

Leef shivered. “Not yet. Almost. The magic’s thinning…”

“Good,” Randel said. “Because it’s about to get messy.”

The spider hissed. And lunged. It moved faster than anything its size had a right to. Its legs slammed down like battering rams, cracking stone, sending webs fluttering. Fangs slashed toward the group, and they scattered—barely in time. Randel dove left, dragging Leef with him, while Devan vaulted over a silk-covered boulder and landed sword-first in one of the beast’s front legs.

The blade scraped off the chitin with a hideous screech.

“No good!” Devan shouted. “It’s too thick!”

Tremane leapt forward, ducking beneath one of the flailing limbs. He shouted something unintelligible as he drove his blade up, targeting a softer seam just behind the spider’s forward joints. This time, the blade sank in—just a little.

The spider shrieked, a horrible, high-pitched sound like iron screaming underwater. Kren darted in, slashing at another joint with his claws. Foogle and Leef circled to the back, drawing its attention with flashes of light and illusionary images.

The spider turned—fast—and reared. Its fangs descended directly toward Foogle.

Tremane threw himself in the way. The fangs caught him in the side, but he was able to twist his body out of its jaws before they closed. He gasped, eyes going wide, but held his ground. His sword lashed upward again, embedding into the soft tissue beneath one of the spider’s eyes.

Randel shouted and drove his own blade into the spider’s exposed abdomen. A gout of black ichor exploded outward. The beast screamed again, limbs flailing. Devan caught one, driving his short sword into the wound Tremane had opened. Another shriek—and then the spider convulsed, legs curling inward. It collapsed.

Silence rushed in like a wave.

The group stood panting, slick with sweat, spider blood, and shaking adrenaline. The torchlight flickered over the twitching remains of the beast.

Randel turned, eyes immediately scanning. “Tremane—”

“I’m fine,” Tremane said, staggering slightly, hand pressed to his side. “Just got nicked. Big bug. Clumsy.”

“You’re bleeding,” Devan snapped, catching his arm.

Tremane laughed weakly. “Maybe it didn’t have venom. That’s why the little ones feed it, right? Parasite queen. Makes sense.”

Randel’s jaw tightened. “We’re getting you out of here. Now.”

“I can walk,” Tremane said, forcing himself upright. “Swear to Danu. Don’t leave me in here with the bug guts.”

Kren gave him a skeptical look. “You smell like poison, for the record.”

“Yeah, well, so do you,” Tremane muttered, and staggered forward with a grin.

Randel didn’t smile. He simply nodded, slung Tremane’s arm across his shoulder, and led the way out.

-*-

The cave opened into cold air and dying light.

Randel squinted as he stepped just short of the exit. From the shadows, he could see the slope beyond—rolling grass, scattered rocks… and figures moving below.

Fae.

There were at least two dozen. A warband, for sure. Their silvery armor gleamed faintly under the overcast sky. Some stood guard near a firepit. Others prowled the perimeter, bows in hand, scanning the hills. Horses were tethered nearby. Spears leaned against rocks.

“Well,” Tremane murmured behind him, “that’s unfortunate.”

Kren peered around a bend. “We’re surrounded.”

Randel grimaced. “Not quite. The slope veers east, toward the riverbank. There’s cover, but not much.”

Kren frowned. “We could jump out—transport, one by one.”

“They’ll trace it,” Randel said immediately. “If they’re carrying scrying runes, even the faintest jump will light us up like a flare.”

Devan nodded. “So we sneak?”

“One at a time,” Randel said. “Spread out our risk. Take the high path east. Low crawl if you have to. We’ll meet by that dead oak two hills over. Twenty-minute intervals. I go last.”

Tremane stepped forward. “Then I go first.”

Randel looked at him. “You sure?”

Tremane offered a faint grin, pale beneath the grime. “I'm a little banged up, but I can still move quieter than a Fae on stilts. If I’m caught, you’ll know before you commit.”

No one argued. He slipped out of the cave mouth and was gone.

Twenty minutes passed. No alarm. No movement. The Fae carried on as if nothing stirred.

Devan went next. Silent. Steady. Vanished into the rocks. Then came Kren, Foogle, and Leef—each taking a different tack, using shadow and shrub and crumbling stone.

Randel waited. Twenty more minutes. Still no shouts. No horns. No sign of discovery. He exhaled slowly, shouldered his pack, and stepped out.

The wind tugged at his cloak as he crawled and crept across the hills, heart pounding with every crunch of grass beneath his boots. But his luck held. The Fae never looked up. Never sniffed the air. Whatever wards shielded them held true.

The dead oak loomed ahead. Devan was there, crouched beside a boulder. Kren and the others waited nearby.

But Tremane was not among them.

Randel’s heart skipped. “Where is he?” he asked, scanning the darkening slope behind them.

Devan shook his head slowly. “He hasn’t come through.”

Randel stood completely still as the wind picked up. “Then we wait,” he said. “If he’s not here in ten minutes, we go after him.”

No one argued.

The group waited in tense silence, eyes fixed on the slope where Tremane should have appeared. Then Kren’s ears twitched. “Movement,” he said softly. “Downhill.”

They all turned. Near the Fae encampment, torches flared. Figures gathered—clustered around something. A commotion stirred, subtle but unmistakable. Two Fae soldiers dragged a figure between them, barely visible in the twilight. Armor scraped stone. Even at this distance, Randel recognized the silhouette.

Tremane. He wasn’t struggling.

“Danu’s mercy,” Foogle whispered. “They got him.”

Randel stared, jaw clenched, every muscle coiled. “They didn’t see the rest of us. They probably think he was alone.”

Devan didn’t blink. “Then we have a chance.”

“Yeah. We follow them,” Randel said flatly. “And we get him back.”

The others nodded without hesitation. No more words were needed. Above them, the clouds deepened into night. Below, the torches burned.

And in between, five shadows began to move.

-*-

The Spider Queen

Chapter Text

“He named Aunt Lily after a Fae?!” Zander’s jaw dropped.

Randel smiled faintly. “He did. And when you hear why, you’ll understand.” He paused a moment, thinking back. “This was Tremane’s story—the time he met the only kind Fae any of us had ever known... at least up until then.”

-*-

The world came back in pieces.

First the pain—a dull, bone-deep ache pulsing through his side like a war drum, each beat worse than the last. Then the cold. Damp, unkind, the kind that crept into your lungs and clung to your skin. And then the smell: mold, manure, and rotting hay.

Tremane blinked, but the darkness didn’t change. Wherever he was, the light was faint and sickly, filtering through cracks in warped wooden planks above. He tried to move and found himself shackled. Wrists bound by iron manacles inscribed with restraining runes, ankles chained to a ring set in the floor. He shifted, hissing in pain as a jolt lanced up his ribcage—where the spider had bitten him. His skin burned there, fever-hot and swollen.

Spider bite. Capture. The cave. The river slope.

Everything after that was a blur.

A rusty door creaked open. He squinted against the light and saw the silhouette of a Fae soldier entering. Tall. Arrogant. Armor with the gleam of rank. A scar split his lip at a cruel angle.

“Well, well,” the Fae said, voice smooth and mocking. “An Othánas this far from Eire. What could you possibly be doing in our lands?”

Tremane said nothing. It wasn’t defiance. It was exhaustion. Even blinking was a monumental effort.

The Fae frowned, stepped closer, and crouched. “I asked you a question, animal.”

Tremane let out a slow breath, eyes heavy. The world tilted. The Fae sneered and struck him—one hard slap to the face. Tremane’s head snapped sideways, stars bursting behind his eyes. But he barely felt it. The venom dulled everything now. Numbed his limbs. Weighed down his thoughts.

The Fae stood and walked away in disgust, muttering something about “not worth the trouble.”

The door slammed shut again, plunging the barn into silence.

-*-

Tremane lay still, eyes half-lidded, breath shallow. Fever sweat rolled down his temple. He couldn’t tell if it was night or day. Couldn’t tell how long he’d been there. The world spun in quiet misery.

He drifted again—into blackness laced with strange dreams and whispers. Until a voice broke through. Gentle. Young.

“Are you awake?”

The voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it sliced clean through the haze in his mind. Tremane blinked, disoriented. For a moment, he thought it was another dream—another venom-born illusion. But then he saw her.

A little girl crouched just inside the barn’s half-open door. She wore a pale green dress and a cloak too big for her, the hem frayed and damp. Green hair framed her delicate face in loose waves, catching what little light crept through the slats. And her eyes—

They were golden. Bright. Unmistakably Fae.

But they weren’t cruel. They weren’t mocking or cold or curious in the wrong way. They were… kind. Like the eyes of someone who knew what pain was and didn’t want anyone else to feel it.

Tremane’s heart thudded once—cautious, uncertain. “You’re real?” he croaked, his voice more rasp than sound.

The girl nodded solemnly and tiptoed closer. “Don’t worry. They’re all at supper. I snuck away.”

He tried to push himself up and failed. “Why…”

“You’re sick,” she said simply. “I could smell it. Like rot and fire. I brought medicine.” From a small satchel at her side, she pulled out a wrapped cloth and a tiny wooden vial. “I’m not very good with the wrapping part,” she said, unrolling the cloth to reveal herbs crushed into a coarse salve. “But my mother showed me which ones help with spider venom.”

She dipped two fingers into the paste and gently touched it to his swollen side. Tremane flinched—then breathed out as a coolness seeped into the burn. “You’re… helping me,” he murmured.

She nodded again, focused on her work. “You need help.”

“I’m Othánas,” he said. “You know that, right?”

“I do.”

“Then… why?”

The girl met his gaze, tilting her head slightly. “I can feel what people are like. Good or bad. Some lie with their faces, or even their voices. But not with… their hearts.” She tapped his chest gently. “You’re good. So, I’m helping.”

Tremane stared at her, throat too tight to answer. After a moment, she offered him the vial. “This part tastes terrible, but it helps.”

He drank it without protest. She sat beside him in the hay, small and still, like she belonged to the quiet.

“My name’s Lili,” she said after a while. “What’s yours?”

“…Tremane.”

She smiled, and it was warm like a sunrise. “I’m glad you woke up, Tremane.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Not just because of the venom or the chains. But because for the first time since the spider bite, he didn’t feel like dying.

-*-

The hours passed in waves of pain and silence, broken only by the creak of the barn door and the shuffle of boots. The Fae soldiers returned, one by one or in pairs. They questioned him repeatedly—asking what an Othánas was doing so far from Ardalon, who had sent him, what his mission was. Tremane gave them nothing.

He kept his eyes half-lidded, his breath shallow, and let the fever do its work. He played the part of a dying prisoner perfectly—limp, pale, dazed. When they pressed harder, he simply let his head loll back as if unconscious. By mid-afternoon, they were convinced.

“I think he’s already half-dead,” one soldier muttered, nudging Tremane’s side with a boot.

“Poor thing,” another replied with a smirk. “Probably ran off from the others. I heard their King has been sending boys even younger than him to fight now. No wonder he bolted.”

“Coward,” the first one said with a snort. “Imagine running away from your own kind and getting caught by us. Not much of a warrior, is he?”

They laughed and walked off, leaving him alone with their words echoing behind them. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to react. Every insult, every cruel joke—they only steeled his resolve.

They didn’t know him. But they would.

Just after sunset, the door creaked again—quieter this time. Lili slipped in with her oversized cloak bundled in her arms. “I brought food,” she said, setting a napkin-wrapped bundle beside him. “And more salve. Your color’s better today.”

She crouched beside him and pulled a fresh vial from her cloak pocket. “This one tastes even worse than the last one. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll survive,” Tremane rasped, managing a crooked smile.

She unwrapped a bit of bread, a chunk of dried meat, and a sliver of cheese. “Eat slowly.”

He did, grateful for every bite.

“You’re braver than they are,” she said suddenly.

He blinked. “What?”

“The soldiers. They’re scared of everything. That’s why they laugh so loud.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re very wise for someone so young.”

Lili shrugged. “My mother says I was born watching.”

Tremane looked at her for a long moment. “Thank you,” he said. “For this. For all of it.”

She smiled again. “You’re welcome.”

-*-

By the following day, the guards barely glanced at him.

Tremane kept up the act—body limp, eyes dull, the occasional dry cough for good measure. One of the soldiers came in briefly to toss him a bucket of stale water, muttered something about "waste of rations," and left without so much as a question. They thought he was dying. And that suited him just fine.

He tested the strength of the manacles when no one was watching. Considered how many steps a guard would have to take from the door to reach him. Wondered if he could lunge fast enough—bite, kick, grab something sharp.

Maybe, he thought. One-on-one, if I caught them by surprise.

But the door creaked again.

Not a soldier this time. Lili slipped in like a breeze, balancing a wrapped bundle in her arms. She beamed at him as she crossed the barn floor. “I brought a treat,” she whispered, kneeling beside him. “It’s berry bread. Cook was in a good mood.”

Tremane’s stomach growled as she unwrapped it—dark bread with flecks of red fruit baked into the crust. It smelled like something he hadn’t known he missed until that moment. “You’re a miracle,” he said.

“I’m just clever,” she replied, grinning. “And quiet.”

They sat together in the straw, and for the first time, Tremane told her stories. Nothing dangerous. Nothing important. Just little tales from home—how Kren snored like a boar when he slept on his back, or how Foogle once got his head stuck in a chamber pot and blamed it on ghosts.

Lili laughed so hard she nearly dropped the bread. “My cousin did something like that once,” she said. “He tried to trap a pixie in a jam jar. It bit him and used his hair for a nest.”

Tremane chuckled. “Sounds like someone I’d get along with.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “You’d probably like the goats better.”

They laughed together, the sound soft in the barn’s gloom. For a few minutes, he forgot he was chained. He forgot about the fever that still simmered low in his blood. “This place,” he said after a while, “where is it? It doesn’t feel like the cities I’ve seen.”

“It’s not,” she replied. “This is an outpost. A border manor. Papa says it’s the farthest we’ve ever built. They’re trying to grow a town from it. Make it ours.”

Tremane nodded slowly. He memorized every word. “Are you leaving soon?” he asked carefully.

She shook her head. “No. Papa says we’re to stay and guard the line.” She stood, brushing straw from her dress. “I’ll come back tomorrow. I think there’s honey biscuits cooling tonight.”

Tremane grinned. “You’ll spoil me.”

Lili gave a mock-curtsy. “Heroes deserve to be spoiled.”

Then she slipped out as quietly as she had come.

-*-

The next day passed in silence.

No soldiers. No taunts. No laughter beyond the barn walls. No Lili.

Tremane lay in the straw, heart thudding too hard, too fast. The fever had eased, and his limbs no longer trembled with every breath—but he hadn’t moved. Not even to test the chains.

Because something had changed.

The absence of cruelty was somehow worse than cruelty itself. The barn felt like a tomb. He didn’t drift. He didn’t sleep. He waited. And when night fell—finally, mercifully—the door eased open.

Lili slipped through the gap, her green cloak drawn tight around her shoulders, eyes wide and uncertain. This time, she didn’t smile. She looked afraid.

“They’re going to send you back,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I heard Papa talking to the other officers.”

Tremane sat up slowly, chains clinking.

Lili swallowed hard. “He said they’re taking you to Ardalon in the morning. As a warning. ‘Let them know we’re watching the borders,’ he said.”

Tremane felt the blood drain from his face.

Ardalon.

The capital of the Fae. There would be no escape from there. And goddess only knows what they’d do to him.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His expression told her everything. “I won’t let them,” she said, and her hand emerged from her pocket—holding a small brass key. It trembled slightly in her fingers, but she held it out like a sword.

Tremane stared. “Lili…”

“I mean it,” she said fiercely, stepping forward. “I know what this means. I know I’m not supposed to. But it’s wrong.”

He reached for the key slowly, reverently. But before he could take it, she held onto it tighter. “I know you could have hurt me,” she said. Her voice was still soft—but it shook less now. “You could have grabbed me. Used me as a shield. Broken the chains. You didn’t.” Her eyes searched his, luminous in the dark. “You didn’t… because you’re good.”

Tremane’s throat burned.

“I can’t let them take you. I won’t.” She stepped forward and inserted the key herself, turning it with a quiet click. The manacles loosened and fell from his wrists. She repeated the process with the iron cuffs around his ankles.

“Lili—” he began, but his voice cracked.

She looked up at him, solemn and steady. “Go,” she said. “Now.” She pushed the now-useless chains aside and helped Tremane to his feet. He swayed for a moment, muscles stiff from days of captivity, but the fire in his limbs had returned. He could move.

He would move.

“Follow the path behind the barn,” Lili whispered, guiding him to the back door. “It cuts through the orchards and down to the river.”

He listened carefully, memorizing every word.

“If you cross it before they realize you’re gone, they probably won’t follow,” she added. “They’re too proud to admit they let an Othánas slip past their perimeter. And they probably won’t tell anyone they had you, since no one would believe them.”

He paused at the threshold, the night wind brushing his face like a blessing. Tremane turned back to her, eyes dark with gratitude. “I’ll always remember this. You.”

Lili gave a small smile, that same strange mix of childlike calm and ancient insight. “I’ll remember you too.”

She stood back, hands clasped in her cloak, and watched as he stepped into the night.

-*-

Tremane moved quickly but carefully, hugging the shadows as he slipped past the sleeping stables and down the orchard path. The grass was damp, the trees low and full, their branches like arms shielding his escape. He crouched low as a pair of guards passed along the perimeter, boots crunching in the gravel.

They didn’t see him.

The river was ahead—he could hear it now, rushing low and fast through the valley. The sound filled him with hope. A few more steps, and he would be free.

He was nearly to the river when the cry rang out. “Stop!”

A torch flared behind him—then another. Tremane spun, heart hammering. One of the outer patrols had circled back early. A lone guard had spotted him emerging from the orchard path. Now three more were charging from the side of the estate, blades drawn, shouting to rouse the others.

Run.

Tremane bolted for the river, sprinting down the hill with everything he had left. Pain tore through his side with each step, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Arrows hissed past his ears, thudding into trees and dirt. Shouts echoed in the night, boots hammering behind him. The river came into view—wild, swollen from recent rains.

It wasn’t a calm crossing. It was a cliff.

Whitewater plunged over the edge of a sharp drop into mist and crashing spray. The river was the edge. Tremane skidded to a halt for half a breath, saw the furious water, the jagged rocks beyond—and leapt. The wind tore the breath from his lungs. The world spun. He hit the water hard, the cold slamming into him like a wall. Down, down, into the depths.

His body flailed, the current wrenching him one way, then the next. He fought to rise, but the river wanted him. His head slammed against something, and the black began to rise.

So this is how it ends, he thought, fading…

Then… a small hand grabbed his. Then another. Then a larger one. He felt himself being dragged out of the water, then dragged over the ground. He could hear voices around him... familiar voices.

The world snapped back into focus.

Cold air hit Tremane’s face, along with the scent of pine and moss. He coughed hard, water pouring from his mouth as he was rolled gently onto his side. Arms steadied him. Hands pulled him upright. Blinking, shivering, he looked up into a circle of faces.

Randel. Devan. Kren. Foogle. Leef. They were soaked. Mud-smeared. Bruised. But alive—and here.

“Took you long enough,” Tremane rasped, coughing again.

Randel barked a short laugh, then pulled him into a one-armed hug. “You’re insane.”

“You came after me,” Tremane said hoarsely.

“Of course we did,” Devan said, shaking his head. “What did you think we were going to do—leave you?”

Tremane leaned back, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. His limbs felt like soaked leather. His ribs ached with every breath.

“I was ready to teleport into a Fae patrol circle to find you,” Leef grumbled, mostly to cover the way his voice shook. “Do you know how bad that smells?”

“I missed you too,” Tremane murmured, smiling faintly.

But inside, the weight of the moment struck him hard. He’d escaped. Barely. But if he hadn’t… they would’ve come for him. No hesitation. No retreat. Randel and Devan would’ve attacked the outpost themselves if that’s what it took. And the Ughlánas would’ve been right behind them, blades drawn. They wouldn’t have let him go. They never would.

He swallowed hard, eyes misting. “I had help,” he said at last. “From a Fae girl.”

That made them pause. “A Fae girl?” Devan asked, one eyebrow raised.

Tremane nodded. “Young. A child. Bright eyes. Kind heart. Her name was Lili.”

The others exchanged looks. “A kind Fae?” Foogle said. “Is that like… a polite dragon?”

Randel snorted, “I’ve met one of those…”

Tremane gave a tired grin. “She saved my life. Treated the venom. When she found out they were going to send me back to Ardalon, she freed me. If she hadn’t—” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Randel rose from his crouch beside him, eyes thoughtful. “Huh. Maybe not all of them are like the ones we’ve known.” He glanced around a bit before looking back down at Tremane. “We can’t stop here,” he muttered. “He needs warmth, but we’re too close to the Fae. We have to move.”

Devan nodded grimly. Together, they slung Tremane’s arms over their shoulders, half-carrying him as they slipped back into the trees. The Ughlánas melted ahead into the underbrush, scouting a safe place to stop.

-*-

Tremane leaned back, arms wrapped loosely around his knees, watching the fire flicker. “She was kind,” he said softly. “And she could tell—I wasn’t her enemy. Didn’t matter what I looked like or where I came from. She knew.”

The fire cracked gently, and no one interrupted. “It took real courage to do what she did,” he added, voice low. “And if it’s ever within my power, I’ll find a way to honor her memory.” He gave a soft, tired chuckle. “Maybe someday… if I’m lucky enough to have a daughter of my own, I’ll name her after that Fae girl. In her honor.”

Leef sniffed. “Better than naming her after me.”

The others chuckled, and the moment softened.

Tremane sat quietly, letting the fire’s warmth seep into his bones, and thought of a brave little Fae girl with golden eyes and a defiant smile. As the others settled in around the fire, checking wounds and sharing quiet rations, Tremane looked up at the stars overhead—sharp, bright, endless—and whispered to the night.

“I’ll remember you, Lili. Always.”

And somewhere, far behind them, in a manor of stone and shadow, a little Fae girl looked out her window… and smiled.

-*-

Lili the Fae

Chapter Text

“You found a village?” Leianna leaned forward, eyes wide. “Like a secret one?”

Randel chuckled. “Oh, it was a secret, all right. Looked like paradise at first. Quiet, peaceful, full of kind folk who smiled like they had no cares in the world.” He paused, gaze distant. “But even the prettiest valleys can cast long shadows… if you stay long enough to see where they fall.”

-*-

The valley was the kind of place you didn’t expect to find—especially after years of travel, blood, and fear.

They crested a low ridge near dusk and looked down into a hollow cradled between hills. A village lay there, aglow in amber light. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the scent of hearthfire and baked bread drifted faintly on the breeze. Randel motioned for the others to crouch behind the ridge of tall grass. Tremane joined him with a quiet grunt, eyes narrowed as he studied the settlement. The thatched rooftops glimmered golden in the sun’s last rays, and wildflowers blanketed the fields. The sound of gentle music drifted faintly on the wind. It looked… perfect.

Too perfect.

“Is that real?” Tremane asked, squinting.

“If it’s not,” Devan muttered, “it’s the best hallucination we’ve had yet.”

Randel stood still, eyes narrowed. There were no walls. No watchtowers. No guards patrolling. Just people—moving slowly, smiling faintly, sitting on porches or tending goats with a kind of sleepy contentment.

“It could be a trap,” Randel murmured.

“It could be,” Tremane agreed. “But we’re out of food. If we don’t eat soon, we’ll be walking on hope alone.”

Leef gave a low snort behind them. “We’ll nick what we need when it gets dark. No sense waltzing into the arms of trouble.”

Before Randel could reply, a figure emerged from the edge of the field, with long, pointed ears and an almost ageless poise. She wasn't an Elf, though she resembled one. Unlike Elves, she was tall, slender, with long fingers and a soft expression. But there was something else too. Something Fae, though gentler. No sense of superiority or danger… just an endless calm, like a lake with no ripples.

She walked past them as if she hadn’t a care in the world, her steps unhurried, her eyes serene. As she passed, she offered a warm smile and a soft greeting in a dialect that sounded faintly musical. A bit taken aback at how quietly the woman had come upon them, Randel rose slowly, holding his hands out in as non-threatening a manner as he could. "We mean no harm,” he called out with cautious politeness. “Might we buy some food?”

The young woman tilted her head, smile widening. “There is no need for coin. Come, walk with me. You are welcome here.”

Randel glanced at Tremane, then at Devan. None of them spoke for a long moment. The breeze stirred the tall grass around them, heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and something roasting over a fire. He heard a soft rumbling sound from the vicinity of Tremane’s stomach. It echoed the rumbling from his own.

Finally, Randel gave her a small nod. “Alright,” he said warily. “We’ll come.”

Together, they followed her down the path, each step more cautious than the last. The village itself was nestled in a shallow vale, surrounded by orchard trees and vegetable gardens. Modest cottages lined the narrow path, each one tidy, their windows aglow with warm candlelight. As the group passed, the villagers looked up from their work and smiled—soft, serene expressions that made the hairs on Randel’s neck rise. No one seemed surprised to see them. No one asked questions.

A group of elders offered soft nods as they passed. A woman with silvery hair pressed a piece of dried fruit into Leef’s hands with a wink. Even the farm animals lay quiet and content, their eyes half-lidded as if dreaming.

The young woman who had found them led them to a small stone cottage near the village center. It was clean, comfortably furnished, and—oddly—empty, as if waiting for them. “Rest here,” she said. “Stay as long as you like.”

Randel eyed the space warily, but his stomach clenched with hunger. As if on cue, a knock came at the door. A young boy stepped inside, balancing a wooden tray bearing slices of roasted pork, stewed root vegetables, and coarse bread still warm from the oven. He set it down without a word, gave a little bow, and vanished.

They didn’t speak for a while. Hunger overwhelmed suspicion. Within moments, the food was gone, and only then did Randel lean back against the wall, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“Well,” Devan murmured, glancing toward the door, “that was either the kindest welcome I’ve ever seen… or the prettiest trap.”

“At least the food is good.” Leef whispered.

After they finished tidying up, they sat beneath a trellis behind the cottage, where the scent of blooming night-flowers mingled with the lingering warmth of roasted meat. The stars above were sharp and clear, unclouded by torch smoke or watchfires. A breeze stirred the hanging vines, and the quiet hum of insects gave the illusion of deep peace.

Tremane leaned back on the bench, arms crossed behind his head. “Maybe this is it,” he said softly. “Maybe this is where our people could build a home.”

Devan sat nearby, chewing on a splinter of wood he’d snapped from the trellis. “It’s one thing to welcome a few travelers,” he muttered. “It’s another to absorb thousands of Goblin refugees. You really think they’d be that open?”

“Not here, maybe,” Tremane admitted. “But nearby. We wouldn’t need to take anything from them. We could build our own village—just having neighbors who weren’t hostile would be a start.”

Randel looked to where Kren crouched at the edge of the porch, his eyes scanning the treeline. “What do you think?”

Kren didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “It’s peaceful, yes. But something feels… off. There’s a scent on the air I can’t place. Not dangerous, exactly. Just…" he sighed softly. "Different? Maybe that's it. It's... different.”

They sat in silence for a while, the wind gently stirring the leaves above.

Tremane finally broke it. “Let’s stay a few days. No one’s pushing us out. Maybe it really is worth considering. Even if it isn't, we could use a rest.”

Randel nodded, slowly. “All right. But I want watches posted. Quiet ones. Just in case.” He said it with a smile, but the weight in his chest didn’t lift. Peaceful or not, something in this village refused to sit right with him. And the unease settled deep in his bones.

-*-

The days passed easily. Too easily.

The villagers asked no questions, gave no orders. They offered food freely—honeyed fruits, soft cheeses, fresh bread—and expected nothing in return. Children played in sun-dappled meadows, and elders dozed in the shade of enormous apple trees. No one hurried. No one argued. It was a village with no tension… and no urgency.

The Othánas helped where they could—mending fences, gathering firewood—but were gently waved off more often than not. “No rush,” the villagers would say, smiling with dreamy eyes. “There’s always time.”

Randel sat beside Kren one afternoon, watching some villagers paint slow, swirling patterns across a cottage wall in silence. “These people,” he said softly. “They’re not quite Elves… but not Fae either.”

Kren nodded. “Something in between, maybe. Or something older.”

“Could they be hybrids?” Devan asked, not far off, eyes narrowed in thought. “Elven blood mixed with Fae?”

“Maybe,” Tremane said. “That would explain their looks. And how they seem… tuned to magic. But where’d they get that height? They’re as tall as an Othánas.”

Leef sat cross-legged in the grass, chewing thoughtfully on a honeyed fig. “I don’t care what they are. This place is amazing. Nobody’s tried to stab us in days.”

That earned a chuckle from the others, but Randel stayed quiet.

There was something in the air—not wrong, exactly. Just… dulled. Like the sharp edges of life had been smoothed over too far. As if even sorrow had been pushed aside to make room for comfort.

It was peaceful, yes. But peace without questions often meant that someone else had already done the bleeding.

And Randel had learned to trust his instincts.

-*-

It began on the fourth night.

A man named Melior, who had shared roasted apples and stories with them just the evening before, failed to appear the next morning. He wasn’t in his garden, nor on his porch, nor strolling along the central green where he usually lingered.

Randel asked one of the women—an elder with silver hair and cream-colored robes—if she’d seen him.

She blinked at him slowly. “Melior?”

“Yes,” Randel said, cautious. “Tall. Graying hair. Had a braid behind one ear. He lives on the edge of the orchard.”

Her eyes drifted toward the hills. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

Randel frowned. “He was with us last night.”

She gave a vague smile. “You must be remembering wrong.”

That evening, as the group sat by the reflecting pool near the square, Randel brought it up again—quietly, carefully. “I think someone’s gone missing.”

“Maybe he went for a walk?” Tremane offered, though his tone was uncertain.

Foogle, who had taken a liking to Melior’s collection of carved stones, shook his head. “He wouldn’t leave without his walking stick. It’s still on the porch.”

They asked two more villagers. One shrugged. “He’s probably in the hills.”

Another looked slightly annoyed. “Why do you ask so many questions?”

That’s when the seed of unease took root.

When the second person vanished—a woman named Sarelle, who had sung with Leef by the garden walls—no one could ignore it anymore.

“She was just here,” Leef said, voice rising with disbelief. “She gave me those peaches yesterday!”

Kren’s voice dropped low. “They know. They just don’t care.”

“No,” Devan said grimly. “It’s worse than that. They’ve accepted it.”

Randel looked toward the heart of the village—the largest building, a domed structure made of pale, seamless stone.

“We’re getting out of here,” he said. “We leave at first light.”

-*-

This time, it was Foogle.

He was there last night—telling a joke that made Tremane snort honeywine through his nose—and gone sometime during his watch. His bed was empty. His pack still by the door. No note. No sound. No sign of struggle.

Leef was inconsolable. “He wouldn't leave. Not without us. Not without telling me.”

They searched every corner of the village. Every field. Every garden. They demanded answers—but now, the villagers recoiled at their questions.

“You’re disturbing the balance,” one muttered. Another said, “He’s part of it now. Leave it be.”

That’s when Randel drew his blade. “Tell me where he is,” he growled, eyes blazing. “Or I swear to the stars, I will turn this pretty little place inside out.”

“Randel,” Devan said sharply, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Wait.”

But the tension was growing. The Othánas and Ughlánas stood at the edge of fury, and the villagers… simply watched, hollow-eyed.

Then—quiet footsteps. A man stepped out from the shadows near the orchard wall. It was Aeiric, Sarelle’s husband. His hands trembled as he approached, but his jaw was set. His face looked drawn—older than it had days ago. “She was taken,” he said softly. “My Sarelle. Like the others.”

Randel turned to him slowly. “The others? Then you know what’s happening.”

He nodded, eyes gleaming with anger. “I knew. We all did. But no one ever speaks of it. Not aloud.”

“Why not?” Devan demanded. “Why let this go on?”

“Because if you speak of it…” He glanced around. “You might be next.” He swallowed hard. “But I’m done being afraid. Your little friend—Foogle—he was taken last night. I saw the glow from the old hall. I’ll show you. I’ll help you. Before it’s too late.”

-*-

Aeiric led them through a narrow, moss-slick passage beneath the village hall—older than the village itself, he whispered. Older than even the Fae.

The air grew thick as they descended, heavy with magic gone wrong. Shadows pooled where no light should have cast them, shifting along the walls like things alive. Whispers echoed through the stone—half-thoughts, half-lament. At the bottom, they entered an ancient chamber carved from black stone, its walls marked with symbols that pulsed faintly, as though remembering old rites. Symbols of hunger. Of sacrifice. Of worship.

And there—at the center—was Foogle.

He was lying on what looked like a stone altar, faintly glowing strands of magic webbing around him like veins of silver lightning. His eyes fluttered beneath closed lids, as if trapped in a dream he couldn’t wake from.

“Foogle!” Leef cried, rushing forward—only for Kren to yank him back with surprising strength.

“Wait… something’s here,” Kren hissed. “Something ancient.”

Then the shadows moved. A form emerged from the dark—long-limbed, eyeless, more suggestion than substance. It shifted like smoke, its voice a whisper against their skin rather than their ears.

*You enjoy the peace. The plenty. The calm. This is the price. I ask for so little. Just one. Now and then. It is a fair trade.*

Randel stepped forward, eyes blazing. “You feed on them.”

The creature gave no reply. It merely hovered, tendrils twitching lazily, as if amused by the outrage. Then it said softly: *They gave me this place. Willingly. Long ago. They made the bargain. Most of them choose to forget.*

Tremane drew his blade. Devan raised a glowing hand. The being didn’t flinch.

*You will not kill me. You are travelers. Vagabonds. Not executioners.*

Silence hung thick as fog. Then Randel’s voice cut through, sharp as steel. “You want to bet on that?”

Dim, ember-like eyes ignited with the fire of the void, locking on them. Hunger. Rage. Eternity.

Randel didn’t hesitate. “Now!”

Three bolts of crackling levin-light split the air, striking the creature in a blinding flash. The entity shrieked, a sound like stone screaming, and pulled its mass inward, tendrils writhing. Tremane and Devan blinked across the chamber—short-range teleports to confound its senses. Another volley. More shrieking.

As the creature recoiled, its form flickered, weakening. Tremane hurled a final bolt. It sliced clean through the central mass, revealing for an instant the carvings beneath the writhing dark—twisted symbols, bound in patterns of pain.

“Whatever it is, it’s not a specter… it can be hurt!” Randel shouted.

At the far edge of the chamber, Aeiric made his way to Foogle. The little Ughlánas was bound in tendrils of magical shadow, pale and unmoving. Aeiric surged forward, slicing the bonds with a curved dagger. Foogle collapsed into his arms—alive, but barely.

Then a blast of dark energy slammed into Aeiric’s back. He crashed to the ground, skidding hard against the stone. Blood streaked the floor, but he rose—gasping, eyes full of something fierce and final. “No more,” he snarled.

With one last cry, Aeiric hurled himself at the entity, blade flashing in the dark. The Othánas followed. They attacked in synchronized bursts—vanishing, reappearing, slashing through shadow. The creature twisted and shrieked, each blow forcing it back, each strike cutting deeper. For a moment, it seemed they would win.

Then the creature lashed out. A tendril like a blackened tree trunk swept across the chamber—wild, vengeful. It struck Aeiric squarely, lifting him from the ground and slamming him into the far wall.

“Aeiric!” Tremane shouted.

The brave villager groaned once. And then was still.

The entity reeled, wounded and fading, retreating deeper into the dark. It slipped through cracks in the stone, pulling its dying mass away, deeper into whatever void had birthed it.

Silence returned.

Randel approached Aeiric’s fallen form, knelt beside him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll remember,” he whispered. “You gave them more than they deserved. And us more than we hoped for.”

-*-

They carried Aeiric’s body up the winding stair. Past the pulsing carvings. Past the oppressive shadows. Past the threshold of that cursed hall.

The village was still. Doors remained closed. Windows shuttered. The people, once so welcoming, now turned inward—as if ashamed, or afraid. Not one stepped forward. Not even to say goodbye.

The Othánas and Ughlánas walked past them in silence, Foogle cradled in Leef’s arms, Aeiric’s body borne between Randel and Tremane. Beyond the fields, beneath the trees at the forest’s edge, they found a quiet place where the wind whispered in the leaves and the ground was soft.

There, they dug a grave.

Kren carved a stone with Aeiric’s name, flanked by Othánas runes and the village’s forgotten crest. They wrapped him in his cloak, laid his blade beside him, and set the marker with solemn hands.

“He should’ve had someone to mourn him,” Devan muttered, staring down. “Goddess knows... they won't.”

“He does,” Randel said quietly. “He has us.”

No one spoke for a long time. Finally, Tremane said, “We should tell Jareth. Maybe he could send a patrol. Clear the thing out. Make the village safe to live in again, and we can…”

Randel shook his head. “For all we know, it's dead already. And those villagers... they'll need to figure things out for themselves if they're going to survive. Even if it's not... we’re not here to conquer. Not even for the right reasons.” He looked out toward the fading village lights. “There’s a home for us somewhere. But it won’t be one built on bones. Not like that place.”

They gathered their things. Foogle stirred weakly and blinked up at the starlight.

“Let’s keep moving,” Randel said. “We’ve got a long road left.”

And together, they walked back into the wild.

-*-

That night, they sat quietly around their campfire beneath a canopy of stars. Foogle slept soundly at Leef’s side, the little Ughlánas murmuring in his dreams, wrapped in a blanket far too big for him. The others sat in a thoughtful hush, the fire crackling softly between them.

Devan stirred the embers with a stick. “When we find it… the place we’ve been searching for… what do you think it’ll be like?”

“Quiet,” Randel said, after a moment. “But not like that village. A place where people choose peace. Not trade their lives for it.”

“I hope it has plenty of trees,” Tremane added with a grin. “Maybe even ones that grow pies.” That got a chuckle.

Randel smiled faintly, eyes reflecting the firelight. “It’ll be free. That’s what matters most. A kingdom Jareth can build—not on fear, or lies, but on hope. On something new.”

The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks into the sky.

“We’re close,” Randel said quietly. “I can feel it. We’re going to find it. Soon.”

No one doubted him.

And for that night, at least, the stars seemed to shine a little brighter.

-*-

The Fiend in the Village

Chapter Text

“Wait, Elves too?” Leianna’s mouth dropped open.

Randel chuckled. “Aye. We wandered right into their forest without even realizing it.” He leaned back, eyes half-lidded as he remembered. “But we’d been taught enough to know how to behave when walking under the eyes of the Tree Folk. That made all the difference.”

-*-

Before the forest had grown thick around them, before the trunks pressed close like silent watchers, Randel paused to check the map.

He knelt in the grass, spreading the worn parchment across a sun-warmed rock. The edges were frayed now, the ink smudged in places, but the paths they’d carved—by foot, by boat, by desperate escape—were marked in careful strokes. He took out his charcoal stub and added a new mark.

Another hundred miles.

In the last five years, they had crossed well over a thousand. From the windswept cliffs of Pritaní’s eastern shore to these strange, hush-draped woods… it was a journey he could trace with his eyes closed. Because somehow, he felt it. Not just the distance, but the direction.

There was no compass, no star-map to follow. Yet it was as though something guided them. A gentle tug at the edge of his thoughts. Not a voice—but a knowing.

He shook his head, smiling to himself. “Too little sleep,” he muttered, rolling the map back up. “Or too much wind in the ears.” He stood and looked around.

The forest had changed before they realized it.

One moment, they were traveling through low hills and scattered woodland. The next, they had passed beneath a high arch of ash trees, their trunks pale and smooth as bone, and everything grew quiet.

Too quiet.

No birdsong. No buzzing insects. Even the breeze seemed to tread lightly here.

Randel slowed his pace. “Do you feel that?”

Devan gave a terse nod. “Like walking into a temple or something.”

The trees grew taller with every step, their branches braided high above like the ribs of some vast and living hall. Light filtered through in soft gold and green, casting dappled shadows on the moss-covered ground.

“This isn’t just any forest,” Tremane said. “I think we’ve crossed into Elven lands.”

The Ughlánas froze mid-step. Even Leef looked uneasy.

“Should we turn back?” Foogle whispered.

“We’re too far in,” Randel murmured. “No obvious paths. No breaks in the canopy. We’d lose time retracing—and there’s no guarantee we wouldn’t get lost anyway.”

Kren looked up, eyes narrowing. “Then we move carefully. We follow what we remember of the old ways.”

They all nodded. Randel exhaled and adjusted the straps on his pack. “From here on out, we act like guests. Respect everything. Even the moss.”

-*-

They made camp that evening with the same quiet care one might use in a shrine.

Randel chose a small hollow between the roots of a massive oak, its trunk wider than a wagon. They dug a shallow fire pit and lined it with stones, then brushed damp moss along the edges to keep stray sparks from catching.

Kren and Devan stripped branches from fallen limbs only—no living wood. Tremane gathered water with silent footsteps, as if worried the trees might listen.

When Leef brought back a rabbit—old, with a cloudy eye and thinning fur—they paused. Even the Ughlánas knew what was required. Randel knelt beside the small creature, pressed two fingers to its forehead, and murmured soft thanks in the old tongue—the one Vesryn once used when speaking of the hunt. A promise that nothing would go to waste.

They cooked the meat simply, without spices or salt, and buried the bones afterward in a careful ring around the fire. Foogle scattered pine needles over the soil, muttering about not offending anyone who might be watching.

The forest didn’t speak. But it felt like it was listening.

That night, the fire burned low. No one raised their voice. Even laughter came in quiet bursts, like ripples over still water. It wasn’t fear. It was respect. And it hung around them like a second skin.

-*-

The fire had almost burned out. Only embers remained now, glowing faintly beneath the cover of the stones. A breeze stirred the treetops high above, whispering through leaves with a sound like ancient breath.

Randel sat watch while the others dozed, his back against a tree and his sword within reach—though something in his bones told him steel wouldn’t help here.

Then, the forest shifted. No sound. No crack of a twig. Just… a presence. A pressure, subtle and strange, like the air holding its breath. Randel stood slowly.

From the shadows between two trees—twin trunks twined together like old lovers—a figure emerged. Not stepped, not strode… emerged, as if the forest had merely chosen to let him be seen. He was tall for an Elf, and impossibly still. His long white hair caught the moonlight like woven frost, though his skin was ageless. Eyes the color of deep, living green watched Randel with piercing calm. His robes were simple, moss-colored and bark-patterned, blending so perfectly with the woods that it was a wonder Randel had seen him at all.

Not a weapon in sight. But he radiated power like the deep roots of the forest—quiet, vast, and unyielding.

The others were stirring now, one by one. Devan reached for his blade out of instinct, but Randel shook his head and stepped forward, slowly lowering himself into a respectful bow.

“We did not mean to trespass,” he said quietly. “We didn’t realize where we were until it was too late.”

The Elf tilted his head, as if studying a curiosity, but said nothing.

“We are Othánas,” Randel continued, lifting his head. “We flee the Fae. We seek only safe passage.”

The silence stretched. Then the Elf spoke, his voice low and melodic, like wind moving through hollow trees. “You have treated this place with respect. The fire. The hunt. The bones. We watched.”

Randel said nothing—just nodded once.

“There was a time,” the Elf continued, “when your kind walked the world in chains. Hunted. Hated. And yet… you buried the bones.” His gaze moved over the group, resting a moment on each one. “There are those among my people who remember the Othánas. Not as beasts. But as warriors with honor.”

Randel exhaled, slow and steady. “Then you understand why we run. Why we must find a place to call our own.”

The Elf gave the faintest incline of his head. “You may pass,” he said. “So long as no more blood falls on this soil. You have taken what was needed, as is permitted. But no further hunting until the morrow. And no steel drawn without cause.”

“We agree,” Randel said instantly.

The Elf’s lips curved ever so slightly—not quite a smile. More like satisfaction. Without another word, he turned and vanished once more into the trees—gone so cleanly it was as if he had never been there at all.

The fire crackled softly. No one spoke for a long time.

-*-

Morning came slow and silver, seeping through the high canopy in ribbons of light. The forest was still—less tense now, almost welcoming. Birds sang again, soft trills and chirps that hadn’t been heard the day before. Somewhere in the distance, water trickled over stone.

Randel was the first to rise. He moved quietly through the dew-laced ferns to check the perimeter and paused at the edge of their camp.

There, woven carefully between two saplings, was a small token.

It was made of braided vines and forest thistle, bound in a perfect loop, with three leaves folded into a triangular knot at the center. He recognized the symbol from old stories—an Elven marker that meant friend… and watcher.

He reached out and gently touched it, then turned back toward the camp, a quiet smile on his lips. The others were waking now, stretching, shaking off the stiffness of the forest floor.

“We’ve been marked,” he said softly. “They gave us their blessing.”

Tremane blinked. “So… we’re not dead?”

“No,” Devan said, rubbing his jaw. “We’re respected.”

Even the Ughlánas grinned.

As they packed up camp, they moved with fresh ease. The weight of war, pursuit, and fear hadn’t lifted—but something else had joined them. For the first time in years, they felt like the world might not be entirely against them.

Just cautious.

And still listening.

-*-

The Forest Sentinel

Chapter Text

“That’s when you met the Steelshank Dwarves?” Zander’s eyes were wide.

Randel chuckled, taking a sip of hot tea before continuing. “Aye, we did. Not by choice, mind you—we sort of... wandered right into their front porch without realizing it.”

Leianna leaned forward, her voice hushed. “Did they try to fight you?”

“Oh, they arrested us first. Polite-like, for Dwarves. Crossbows and steel helmets, you know.” He grinned. “But once they figured out we weren’t a threat—and once they found out who we were—well… let’s just say that was one of the more pleasant surprises on our journey.”

He leaned back, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. “Truth is, I think they knew before we did… that our road was finally leading somewhere.”

-*-

They crested a ridge under a sky painted gold with late afternoon sun, the wind carrying with it the scent of pine and stone. From the top, they could see a valley unfurling before them—rugged, untouched, with jagged cliffs and deep forest shadows.

Randel pulled out the battered map and stared at it, then glanced behind them. “We’ve come a long way,” he murmured. “At least twelve hundred miles from Eire. Maybe more.”

Devan dropped his pack with a grunt. “No wonder my boots feel like melted cheese.”

Tremane stretched, joints popping audibly. “Five years, and not a single pie tree. What’s the point?”

The others chuckled, but Randel’s gaze remained distant. “We’ve seen a lot,” he said quietly. “Living mountains. Singing forests. That lake that tried to eat us.”

“And the haunted tower,” Devan added.

“Don’t forget the giant spider,” muttered Foogle.

“Oh, I didn’t,” said Leef darkly.

“Neither did I,” said Tremane with an airy laugh.

Randel’s smile flickered. “We’ve crossed deserts, rivers, borders no one’s drawn in thousands of years. And yet... I don’t know. I think we’re close. Closer than we’ve ever been. I can feel it.”

He turned to look ahead—toward the southeast, where the ridgelines gave way to misty lowlands. Tremane stepped up beside him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Well, I was hoping the journey would end soon, but I didn’t mean—”

There was a soft metallic click behind him.

A dozen armored figures rose from what had appeared to be rock formations and scattered tree stumps. Helmets like iron anvils. Beards braided into coils. Crossbows trained with unnerving steadiness.

Tremane didn’t move. “…this.”

A stout figure stepped forward, voice like gravel and ale. “Ye have trespassed on our land. Lay down yer weapons. Now.”

The Othánas glanced at each other, slowly complying. The Ughlánas tensed—but didn’t make any sudden moves. Kren spoke low to Randel. “They don’t mean us harm. Not yet, anyway.”

-*-

The Dwarves escorted them in silence, down a narrow stone trail that wound between rock faces and into the side of the ridge itself. What had seemed like a weathered cliff opened at their touch, revealing a steep stair carved from obsidian-dark stone.

They descended single file. The deeper they went, the cooler the air became, tinged with the scent of forges. Smoke and earth, old metal and older secrets. Torches in iron sconces lit the walls, and faint hammering echoed from somewhere far below.

Randel should have felt uneasy. They were surrounded by armed strangers, underground, cut off from the surface. It would have been easy to panic, to wonder if this was where their journey ended—not in glory, but in stone-walled silence.

And yet… he didn’t.

Instead, a strange calm settled over him, like the hush before dawn. He glanced at Tremane and Devan, who wore similarly cautious expressions, and at Kren, whose sharp eyes darted everywhere but betrayed no fear.

We’re going to be fine, Randel thought. He didn’t know how he knew. But he did. It was the same quiet pull he’d felt on the map. The same sense that they were being guided—not just somewhere, but home.

The tunnel opened suddenly into a vast underground hall. Pillars the width of trees stretched to a vaulted ceiling inlaid with copper and sapphire. Dwarves moved through the space with practiced precision—hauling ore, hammering blades, reading scrolls. It was not the grim fortress Randel expected, but a city of industry, order, and pride.

Their escort led them through the hall toward a raised platform, where a broad-shouldered dwarf with silver-streaked braids stood waiting. His armor bore the sigil of a hammer wrapped in vines. He nodded once. “I be Tharnin Ironroot, Warden of the Deep Gate.” His eyes, gray as stone, locked with Randel’s. “We know who ye are, Othánas of Ardalon. And we know what yous did.”

The air tightened.

He can only mean the Revolt, Randel thought. We did kill a lot of Fae…

Randel stepped forward, shoulders square. “Then you know,” he said quietly, “that no one should be a slave. And anyone who thought they could own another—deserved what they got.”

There was a long pause. Then Tharnin smiled.

“Aye,” he said. “We do.”

The silence that followed was thick—but not with menace. With recognition. Tharnin stepped down from the platform, boots ringing against the stone. “We knew the Fae were bastards,” he said plainly, folding his arms. “We do trade with dem now and again. Never liked it. Gold, mithril, and lies, that's all dey offer. But when word reached us of what happened in Ardalon… what yous did…” He gave a slow nod. “Some of us drank to yous courage. Others hoped yous survived. Few believed yous could.”

Randel blinked. “You’re… not angry? About what we did?”

Tharnin gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Boy, yous freed yer people from chains. Only fools would mourn the ones who put ‘em there.”

Another dwarf, younger and leaner, stepped forward with what looked like a Dwarven salute. “We’ve heard whispers these last few years. From the stones, even the trees if yous listen right. Word is, yous not just running—yous looking.”

Randel hesitated, then nodded. “A new homeland. A place far from the Fae, where our people can live in peace.”

Tharnin’s smile faded into something more serious. He glanced at the other Dwarves and exchanged a few words in a low dialect, full of gravel and rhythm. Finally, he looked back at Randel.

“Then listen close. South and east of here, the land stretches wild. No kingdoms, no strongholds—just hills, ruins, deep woods, and old rivers. Dangerous, sure. But no monsters. And no masters.”

Devan leaned in. “No masters is a good start.”

Tharnin gestured to the other Dwarves, “We’ll send yous with provisions. Dried meats, rootbread, clean water, and a flint-stone that doesn’t dull. Take the low pass out of the valley and follow the morning sun for three days. Yous will find yer way.”

Randel gave a low bow. “You’ve shown us more kindness than we expected.”

“Aye,” Tharnin replied, clapping him on the shoulder with a weighty hand. “Because yer kind earned it.”

-*-

They left the Dwarven halls at first light.

The sky above the valley was a pale violet, just beginning to brighten, and the crisp air carried the scent of stone and pine. The Dwarves saw them off with solemn nods and a pack full of supplies—gifts, not trade. A rare thing.

They walked in silence for the better part of a mile, boots crunching frost-hardened grass, before Randel finally spoke. “I keep thinking about what Tharnin said. That southeast of here… there’s nothing. Just old land. Untamed.”

“Sounds like a good place to start a kingdom,” Tremane said cheerfully, shifting his pack.

Randel nodded, but his brow furrowed. “It’s more than that,” he said quietly. “Every step we take… it feels like we’re being pointed a certain way. Like we’re not just wandering. Like something’s pushing us.”

Devan let out a slow breath. “I’ve felt it too.”

Kren grunted in agreement. “Same.”

Leef shrugged. “Maybe it’s Danu,” he said, as if suggesting it might rain later. “Maybe She’s just nudging us where we need to go.”

Randel didn’t answer right away. He looked out across the rolling hills, where the sun had begun to rise. “I don’t like the thought of someone directing my fate. Not even a goddess.”

Kren chuckled. “Danu doesn’t direct. She nudges. She gave the Othánas free will for a reason. But even free folk need a lantern in the dark now and then.”

Randel was quiet for a long moment. Then Devan spoke. “Maybe…” he said softly. “Maybe She has a plan for us. For the Goblins.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Kren. “She’s got a soft spot for the underdogs.”

They kept walking. The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of cedar and something faintly floral, something ancient.

Randel didn’t know what lay ahead—but the road no longer felt endless.

It felt inevitable.

-*-

Captured!

Chapter Text

“Wait, wait—” Leianna held up both hands, her eyes wide. “YOU found the Labyrinth?”

Randel smiled, slow and warm, leaning back against the headboard behind him. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting long shadows as the night surrounded them. “Not me… Devan. And yes, he found the Labyrinth,” he said. “But not as you know it today. It was smaller then. Just stone walls. Iron gate. No guards. No name. Just… there. Waiting.”

Leianna leaned forward; her voice hushed. “Was it magic?”

Randel tilted his head. “It wasn’t glowing or floating, if that’s what you mean. But it felt… alive. Like it had been waiting for us. Like it knew we were coming.” He laughed softly. “And the strangest thing? I wasn’t afraid. None of us were. For the first time in five years… we felt safe.”

-*-

The morning sun crept over the hills, slow and pale, its light softening the jagged shadows of the ridgeline. A thin mist still clung to the grass, and the air carried the dry scent of dwindling provisions.

It had been three months since they left the Dwarven lands. Their supplies were nearly gone. The rootbread had turned hard, the dried meat was long finished, and even Foogle had stopped complaining—which was, frankly, unnerving.

Randel knelt by the fire pit, poking at the embers with a twig. “This would be a fine time for a pie tree,” he muttered.

“I’d settle for a mushroom that doesn’t fight back,” said Tremane, rubbing his stomach.

Kren looked up. “Where’s Devan?”

“Out flying patrol,” Randel replied. “Scouting southeast. Should’ve been back by now.”

Before the worry could take root, a shadow passed overhead. Moments later, Devan landed at the edge of their camp, melding into his Othánas form, his cloak fluttering around him as he caught his breath.

Randel stood. “What did you see?”

Devan opened his mouth… then paused, searching for words. “I… I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Try.”

Devan glanced eastward, toward the morning haze. His brow furrowed, like the words themselves were resisting him.

“It’s… a Labyrinth.”

-*-

They crested a low hill, and there it was.

At first, Randel thought it was a natural ridge—just another jagged rise of stone against the landscape. But as they drew closer, the angles sharpened. Lines became too straight. Shapes too deliberate.

Stone walls, at least twenty feet high, stretched in precise patterns across the valley floor. The structure sprawled—massive and silent—carved of ancient gray mortar and moss-lined seams. Not overgrown, not ruined. Simply waiting.

And at its heart, an iron gate. No rust. No lock. Just… there.

Tremane whistled low. “Well,” he said, “of all the things I expected to find out in the wilderness… this wasn’t one of them.”

“Think it’s a trap?” Devan asked.

Randel stared at the gate, his expression unreadable. “I don’t think so.” He stepped forward and placed a hand on the iron gate. It swung open without resistance.

They entered slowly, warily. Inside, the Labyrinth was strangely quiet. The air was cool and dry, the stone beneath their feet smooth and solid. The walls were high, but not oppressive—more like guardians than cages. No beasts. No tricks. No whispers in the dark. Just a maze of stone paths, looping gently, as if guiding rather than trapping.

“Smells like… peaches,” murmured Devan.

The deeper they walked into the Labyrinth, the stranger it became—not for what they found, but for what they didn’t.

No birds flitted across the open sky above the walls. No insects buzzed in the air. No lizards scurried across stone. The entire place was silent.

But not dead.

Randel could feel it beneath his boots—something old, deep, and aware. Not watching, exactly. More like… listening.

The corridors twisted and turned, but not in a confusing way. The paths curved naturally, almost invitingly, like rivers of stone that gently carried them forward. No traps. No tricks. Just silence, and the soft echo of their footfalls.

“It should feel eerie,” Devan muttered, touching a wall as they passed. “But it doesn’t.”

“It’s peaceful,” Tremane said. “Too peaceful. Like it’s daring us to feel safe.”

Kren tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “There’s magic in the stones. Not just old enchantments. Sacred magic. Stronger than anything we’ve felt so far.” He glanced up at Randel solemnly. "I don't know what it is exactly, but it's not evil... not even close."

They reached the central circle of the maze—a wide courtyard, open to the sky and ringed with arches. Ivy clung to the edges, but even the plants here were quiet. They weren’t dying. Just still.

Randel stood in the center of the space and turned slowly. “No birds. No beasts. Not even a spider.”

“But no malice, either,” Leef added, his voice quiet. “I think this place is… waiting.”

“For what?” Foogle asked.

Leef’s gaze drifted upward, to the sky framed by stone. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t think it’s waiting against us. More like… it’s waiting for us.”

-*-

They spent the rest of the day mapping the paths, marking turns on the parchment and searching for any clues as to who or what had built the thing. Everything about the Labyrinth was deliberate, as though it had been built for a purpose—one long since forgotten. Or not yet fulfilled.

When dusk began to fall, they made their way back outside the gate. The sun dipped low behind the hills, casting golden light on the moss-lined walls. Randel turned for one last look before settling near the campfire.

“It feels like home,” he whispered. And no one disagreed. “I don’t know what this is,” Randel said, “but… I feel welcome here.”

“So do I,” said Tremane.

Even Kren nodded, rubbing his arms as if he could still feel warmth lingering in his skin. “There’s something protective about it. Ancient. Kind.”

They made camp just outside the walls that night, under stars brighter than they’d seen in weeks. And for the first time in what felt like forever—they slept soundly. No dreams. No fear. Just rest.

-*-

The sun rose warm and golden, bathing the valley in soft light. Dew sparkled on the grass, and a gentle breeze stirred the trees beyond the maze. The campfire had long since burned down to embers, and for a rare, glorious moment… no one stirred.

Then Tremane stretched with a groan, blinking up at the sky. “I haven’t slept like that in years.”

“Same,” Devan muttered, still half-wrapped in his cloak. “Didn’t wake once.”

Leef emerged from a nest of blankets, rubbing his eyes. “I dreamed I was lying in a sunbeam. That’s it. Just... warmth.”

Randel stood already, watching the Labyrinth in the morning light. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Kren rose beside him. “It is strange,” the Ughlánas murmured. “For a place with so much silence, it doesn’t feel empty. It feels… like it’s watching over us.”

Randel finally spoke. “I don’t want to put too much stock in a feeling. But I feel it too.” He turned to the others, voice steady. “We can’t decide anything yet. Not just on a hunch. But we can find out more.”

They agreed—quietly, unanimously.

The decision was made to scout the surrounding valley. Over the next few days, they split into pairs and small groups, taking the high ridges, riverbanks, and wooded groves that cradled the land around the Labyrinth.

And what they found took their breath away.

Rolling green hills. Towering trees older than memory. A river wide and clean, curving like silver ribbon through the land. Soil rich and dark—perfect for farming. Wild game in abundance. Raw stone and timber in the hills and forests. Caves that could be turned into storehouses or strongholds. Even the air smelled right.

Five days in, Kren tapped a stone outcropping with his claw. “Hot springs beneath,” he said. “And not too deep. Could be good for warmth. Heating.”

They took two weeks to scout it all—carefully, methodically. They found no other people, no signs of old kingdoms or buried dangers. Except for one thing: a small pixy village hidden in the woods.

The pixies, though startled at first, quickly warmed to the travelers. They spoke of the valley as a place that had long been left alone, watched over by a power they didn’t name. “The Labyrinth was here before we were,” one said. “It’s sacred. We think it’s waiting for something.”

When the Othanas returned to their camp, the stars were just beginning to appear. Randel stood at the fire, looking west. Tremane stepped beside him. “So,” he said gently, “is this it?”

Devan joined them, his expression hopeful. “Could it be?”

Randel looked at them both—his comrades in arms—and then at the Labyrinth, glowing faintly silver in the starlight.

“I think this is it,” he said, voice low. “I think this is home.”

-*-

Dawn broke, and with it came a sense of contagious optimism. Even Devan, normally quiet and taciturn, was almost giddy at the thought of their King coming to see what they'd found.

“We’ll need an anchor,” Randel murmured. “Something Jareth can use as a link.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “A stone from the Labyrinth, maybe. Something to bind the location.”

Tremane blinked. “You want to chisel a piece off the magical, possibly sentient, ancient structure that just welcomed us like honored guests?”

Randel hesitated, his mouth halfway to a retort—when Devan let out a startled gasp. They all turned.

Near their tent, where there had been nothing the night before, now sat a stack of small, cut stone blocks—perfectly squared, still faintly warm from the sun. Each one bore a faint shimmer in the grain. Labyrinth stone.

“By Danu…” Randel whispered.

They stood in silence for a moment, the reality settling around them like mist. Then Tremane snorted. “Well,” he said, folding his arms, “I guess we know the Labyrinth’s opinion on the matter.”

Randel turned toward Leef, who was already grinning. “Go. Summon Jareth.”

Leef saluted with a two-fingered jab, picked up one of the blocks and vanished in a shimmer of air.

As the others settled around the fire, murmuring with a mixture of awe and exhilaration, Randel lingered at the edge of camp. His gaze swept the valley—the still Labyrinth, the river winding like silver thread, the distant trees swaying gently in the breeze.

He’s going to love this place, Randel thought. Jareth will see what we saw. What we felt.

He exhaled slowly, the tension of five long years easing from his shoulders. They had found it. And more than that—they had done it. Not just him, but all of them. Every trial, every close call, every impossible choice… they had met it head-on. And they had endured.

A quiet pride stirred in his chest—not boastful, but steady and warm.

He hadn’t let his king down.

He hadn’t let his people down.

And soon… soon, this place would no longer be empty.

It would be home.

-*-
Amorrian Manor, Present Day…

The fire had burned low, now more glowing ember than flame. Crickets chirped softly in the distance, and the great moon hung heavy outside the window, casting the room in a silver glow.

Randel leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed behind his head. His voice had trailed off a few minutes ago, the last tale finished. Leianna was curled up against his side, fast asleep, her hair tangled and her thumb still tucked near her chin. He smiled and gently adjusted the blanket over her shoulders. Zander sat cross-legged, staring into the fire with furrowed brows.

“You left out the stone eaters,” the boy said suddenly, voice quiet. “And the mirror wraiths. And the realm of bloodthirsty plants.”

Randel snorted softly. “Did I?”

Zander gave him a sidelong look. “You said you'd tell everything.”

“I did,” Randel said with mock indignation. “Everything that wouldn’t give your sister nightmares for a week.”

Zander grinned but didn’t reply. He was silent for a long moment, long enough that Randel thought he might’ve dozed off too.

Then the boy spoke again, voice softer. “I know they weren’t all fun stories. You… you made it sound exciting, but I can tell. It was dangerous. Really dangerous.”

Randel looked at him, the smile fading into something deeper. He nodded slowly. “You’re right. It was.”

Zander looked up. “Was it worth it?”

Randel’s answer came without hesitation. “Yes. Every moment. Every scar. Those Elves and Dwarves we met? They’re allies now. Friends. And we never would’ve had that if we hadn’t gone looking.”

Zander was quiet again, chewing on that. Then, almost shyly, “I want to be like you.”

Randel arched a brow. “Sleep-deprived and stubborn?”

“I want to explore,” Zander said, sitting up straighter. “I want to find places nobody’s seen. Meet people. Make friends with them. Maybe help someone who needs it.”

For a long moment, Randel didn’t say anything. Then he reached out, ruffled the boy’s hair, and pulled him into a side hug. “That,” he said quietly, “is exactly why we made that journey.” He looked down at his sleeping daughter, and then at his son. “So kids like you and Leianna could grow up free. Safe. Brave enough to chase dreams… and strong enough to catch them.”

The fire crackled one last time as Zander leaned into his father’s side, and sleep came for them both, warm and peaceful beneath the sky of the kingdom their people had earned.

-*-

Bedtime Stories