Akilliz stirred on the straw mattress at The Tipsy Turtle, the coarse fibers prickling through his tunic as a chill seeped into his bones. Dawn crept through the cracked shutters, painting the room in slanted gold, but the light felt wrong, too harsh against the unnatural stillness that gripped the air. He blinked, groggy from a fitful sleep, and reached instinctively for his pack, his fingers brushing the cold floorboards where it should have rested. His heart lurched, a cold dread pooling in his gut, and he bolted upright, eyes darting around the cramped space. Nothing. His elven boots, his pack, Elowen’s journal, the vine-etched bottles, his coin, the smoked sausage, all gone. Panic clawed at his throat, a raw, animal fear that sent him scrambling to his knees, hands sweeping the floor in desperation.

  He crawled to the bed’s edge, peering into the shadows beneath, and a faint glow caught his eye. The Lightspire Bloom, its bottle rolled into a dusty corner, pulsed softly, a fragile beacon in the gloom. Beside it lay a single vine-etched vial, untouched, its delicate glass catching the dawn’s light like a tear frozen in time. Akilliz snatched them up, clutching them to his chest as his breath came in ragged gasps, but the weight of his loss pressed down like a stone, threatening to crush him. His pack, his tools, his mother’s journal, they were his lifeline, his proof that he was more than a lost boy on a fool’s errand. Without them, he was nothing, stripped bare in a world that didn’t care.

  “Thieves,” he whispered, his voice trembling, barely audible over the pounding of his heart. He stumbled to his feet, the mismatched sock Serna had knit flapping on his bare foot, a green and gray lump that offered no warmth against the cold seeping through the floor. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as he spun, searching for any sign, any clue. A splinter caught his finger, a sharp sting that brought tears to his eyes, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. He sank to the floor again, knees hitting the wood with a dull thud, and buried his face in his hands, trying to steady his breathing. The inn was silent save for the creak of settling beams, the distant clatter of Halvox in the common room below, and Akilliz felt more alone than he ever had, even on Frosthelm’s icy slopes.

  He forced himself to stand, legs shaky, and shuffled downstairs, each step a battle against the despair threatening to swallow him whole. The common room was empty save for Halvox, scrubbing mugs behind the bar, his gray hair a frazzled halo in the morning light. The scent of stale ale and last night’s broth lingered, a faint comfort that did nothing to ease the knot in Akilliz’s stomach. “Halvox,” he called, his voice cracking with raw fear, the word scraping his throat like gravel. “My things, my pack, my boots, my ma’s journal, they’re gone! Did you see anyone?”

  Halvox’s hands paused mid-scrub, his face falling as he took in Akilliz’s disheveled state, the boy’s eyes red-rimmed and desperate. “I’m sorry, lad,” he said, shaking his head slowly, his tone gruff but tinged with sympathy. “I didn’t see no one. You helped Serna, and I’m grateful, but I’ve got no spare coin to help you out. Room’s rented for tonight, you’ve gotta be out by supper.” He looked away, unable to hold Akilliz’s gaze, and turned back to his mugs, the clink of glass against wood a hollow sound in the quiet room.

  The words landed like a blow, and Akilliz stood frozen, the weight of them sinking into his bones. He trudged back upstairs, the stairs creaking under his weight, each step heavier than the last, as if the inn itself were pushing him out. Back in his room, he sank onto the mattress, the Lightspire Bloom’s glow a cruel mockery in his hands, its soft white light casting faint shadows on the walls. He clutched Torin’s hammer charm, its edges biting into his palm, and the dam broke. Tears spilled, hot and relentless, his sobs echoing in the empty space as he rocked back and forth, the vial digging into his chest. “Ma,” he choked, the word a jagged plea, raw and broken. “It’s all I had of you, your words, your lessons.”

  The journal was more than a book, it was her voice, her handwriting curling like a hug across every page, her recipes a lifeline to the potion master he longed to become. Without it, he was nothing, just a boy, not her son, not her legacy. A memory surfaced, sharp and aching, of Elowen in their Lumara garden, her dark hair streaked with gray, her smile crinkling her eyes as she knelt beside him. “Rub thyme on your wrists when you’re scared, Aki,” she’d said, her voice soft as the brook burbling past their cottage. “It’ll steady you, bring you back to the earth.” He mimed the motion, fingers trembling on his bare wrist, but without her herbs, without her, it was hollow. The absence burned, a searing pain that tore through him, and he sobbed harder, curling into himself, his tears soaking the rough mattress.

  “Pa, I need you,” he whispered, the charm warm against his skin, its faint blue rune flickering as if in answer. “I can’t do this alone.” The journal had been his tether, every note a piece of her, guiding him through each potion, each failure. The harvesting knife, the vials, the coin, they were his tools, his survival, his means to reach Luminael. And the boots, those elven boots Ysmera had traded him, were his pride, proof he could stand tall in a world that kept knocking him down. Who would do this? Why? The answer struck like a spark, the dice cheater from last night, the bearded brute he’d humiliated. It had to be him, nursing a grudge, taking everything Akilliz had to rebuild his own pride.

  He wiped his face with a trembling hand, his jaw tightening as a flicker of resolve cut through the grief. He’d get it back, he had to. The Lightspire Bloom and vial were all he had left, and he tucked them into his tunic, their weight a small anchor against the storm in his chest. He stood, the floorboards cold beneath his socked foot, and took a shaky breath, the air tasting of dust and despair. He couldn’t stay here, not like this, but he needed a plan. The thick oaf wouldn’t get away with this, not if he could help it. He marched downstairs, Halvox glancing up from the bar with a weary frown, his hands still buried in a pile of mugs. “I’ll wash dishes for supper tonight,” Akilliz said, his voice steadier than he felt, though his eyes still burned with unshed tears. “Need to stay until then, watch the crowd.” Halvox nodded, handing him a rag and a stack of grimy plates, and Akilliz set to work, scrubbing with a fierce focus, his gaze already scanning the empty room, waiting for the thief who’d stolen his world to show his face.

  Akilliz scrubbed the grimy plates with a fierce focus, the soapy water sloshing over his hands as he stood behind the bar at The Tipsy Turtle. The inn’s common room buzzed with the evening crowd, farmers and travelers trickling in, their laughter and clinking mugs a stark contrast to the storm brewing in his chest. His eyes darted to the door with every creak, searching for the thief. The Bloom and his lone vine-etched vial weighed heavy in his tunic, a fragile reminder of all he’d lost: his pack, his coin, his tools, and worst of all, his ma’s journal, the last piece of his mother he could hold. His socked foot tapped nervously on the floor, the mismatched knit Serna had given him offering little comfort against the cold seeping through the boards. He’d get it back, he had to, even if it meant facing a man twice his size.

  The door swung open, and there he was, striding in with a swagger that made Akilliz’s blood boil. The thief’s broad frame filled the doorway, his patched cloak thrown back to reveal Akilliz’s elven boots, their green-stitched leather stretched over his thick meaty feet. Worse, he carried his familiar old pack slung over one shoulder, the journal peeking out, its leather cover scuffed but unmistakable. He settled at a corner table with two rough-looking companions, their laughter grating as they unpacked a deck of cards, setting out his vine-etched bottles as gambling stakes. The sight twisted a knife in Akilliz’s gut, his hands trembling so hard he nearly dropped a plate. “That’s mine,” he whispered, jaw tight, and set the rag down, resolve hardening like ice.

  He marched over, the crowd’s noise fading to a dull hum as he stopped at Garvox’s table, his shadow small but unyielding. “Those are my things,” he said, voice low but steady, pointing at the boots, the pack, the bottles. “My ma’s journal, my vials, my boots, you must have stolen them last night.” The table fell silent, Garvox’s companions glancing between them, and the big man leaned back, a smirk curling his lips as he crossed his arms, the journal shifting in the pack with a soft thud.

  “Prove it, runt,” he growled, his voice a rumble that sent a shiver down Akilliz’s spine. “This is my stuff, not yours. You calling me a thief?” He rose, towering over Akilliz, his bulk casting a shadow that swallowed the boy whole, and the crowd quieted, heads turning to watch. “I am Garvox, fifth of my name and mercenary for the order of crimson. You really want to square up, boy?” Akilliz’s heart pounded, his fists clenching at his sides, but he knew he couldn’t win a fight, not against a grown man with fists like hams.

  Halvox pushed through the crowd, his apron stained with ale, his face creased with irritation. “No ruckus in my inn,” he barked, pointing at both of them. “You cause trouble, you’re both out, I don’t care who started it.” Akilliz swallowed hard, his mind racing, and then an idea sparked, born of desperation and a flicker of cunning. “A wager,” he said, loud enough for the room to hear, his voice cutting through the tension. “We play for my stuff, a game of your choosing. I win, you give it all back.”

  Garvox laughed, a harsh, grating sound, and sat back down, his eyes glinting with malice. “And what do I get if I win, rat? You don’t even have shoes.” The crowd murmured, some chuckling, others leaning in, the air thick with anticipation. Akilliz’s hand slipped into his tunic, pulling out the bottle containing the Lightspire Bloom, its glow casting a soft white light across the table, drawing gasps from the onlookers. “This,” he said, half-lying, his voice steady despite the lie. “A potion that brings good luck forever, brewed from a flower blessed by the Nine themselves. Worth more than anything you’ve got.”

  The bar fell silent, the murmurs growing into a hum of awe, and Garvox’s smirk faltered, his greed outweighing his doubt. “Fine,” he growled, slamming a worn deck of cards onto the table. “We play Runes and Relics, first to three wins takes the prize. You lose, that glowy thing’s mine.” Akilliz nodded, his stomach twisting, but he sat across from Garvox, the crowd forming a tight circle around them. He’d played Runes and Relics once with Torin—a game of magic where cards summoned creatures or cast tricks, each round a duel to whittle down the other’s life with the right mix of power and cunning. Garvox’s meaty hands shuffled the deck with a sneer, and Akilliz knew the man had tricks dirtier than the tavern floor.

  The first round started fast. Each of them had three life points, a shared deck between them, and three cards to draw. Akilliz pulled a Frost Energy, a Starlight Energy, and a Frost Sprite—a tiny creature with a strength of 2, needing two Frost Energy to summon. Garvox played an Ember Energy, a flicker of red sparking as he slapped it down, building his power. Akilliz played his Frost Energy, the card humming with a cool blue glow, but held off summoning his sprite, his hands shaky with nerves. Garvox’s next card glowed faintly at the edge—a mark, Akilliz realized, subtle enough to miss if you weren’t looking. It was an Ember Fox, a fiery creature with a strength of 3, summoned with Garvox’s two Ember Energy. The fox lunged, its flames crackling, and Akilliz had no creature to block with. The attack hit hard, burning away two of his life points in a single strike. Garvox laughed, the crowd jeering, and Akilliz’s next card—a Starlight Energy—wasn’t enough to turn the tide. The Ember Fox attacked again, and Akilliz’s life dropped to zero. Garvox won the round, his sneer wide as a wolf’s. “One down, rat,” he taunted. Score: Garvox 1, Akilliz 0.

  The second round didn’t go much better, though Akilliz’s eyes were sharper now. Life reset to three, new cards drawn. Garvox played another marked card, the glow betraying an attack, and summoned another Ember Fox. Akilliz had drawn a Frost Energy, a Frost Sprite, and a Starlight Energy again, and this time he summoned his sprite, its icy form shimmering as it took two Frost Energy to bring it to life. The sprite blocked the Ember Fox’s attack, but the fox’s strength of 3 overpowered the sprite’s 2, shattering it and dealing the difference—1 damage—to Akilliz’s life, leaving him at 2. Garvox played another marked card, a second Ember Fox, and with no sprite left to defend, the fox’s flames roared through, dropping Akilliz to zero. The crowd roared with laughter, Garvox slamming the table in triumph. “Two to nothing, boy—give up that potion now!” Score: Garvox 2, Akilliz 0.

  Akilliz’s heart pounded—he was one loss away from losing the Lightspire Bloom, but he’d seen the pattern: Garvox marked his attack cards, the ones that summoned creatures, with that faint glow. The third round began, life reset to three, and Akilliz drew a new hand: a Starlight Energy, a Frost Sprite, and a trick card called Mirror Glow—a spell that could reflect an attack back at its source, costing one Starlight Energy to set. Garvox played an Ember Energy, smirking as he built his power. Akilliz played his Starlight Energy and set the Mirror Glow face-down, the card shimmering faintly as he hid his plan. Garvox’s next card was marked, the glow giving it away, and he summoned an Ember Fox with a strength of 3. The fox lunged, but Akilliz flipped his Mirror Glow, the card flaring with starlight as it reflected the attack. The fox’s own flames turned on Garvox, dealing 3 damage to his life and dropping him to zero in a single blow. The crowd gasped, then erupted in cheers, the tide turning as Akilliz won his first round. Garvox’s face twisted in rage, his fist clenching. Score: Garvox 2, Akilliz 1.

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  The fourth round felt different, Akilliz had hope now, his fingers steady as he drew: two Frost Energy cards and a Frost Sprite. Garvox played an Ember Energy, his eyes narrowing. Akilliz played a Frost Energy, building his power. Garvox’s next card was marked—an Ember Fox again, its strength 3 as it lunged forward. Akilliz played his second Frost Energy and summoned his Frost Sprite, its strength 2, just in time to block. The sprite and fox clashed, the fox overpowering the sprite and shattering it, the difference of 1 damage hitting Akilliz’s life, leaving him at 2. But Garvox had no creatures left to attack with this turn, and Akilliz drew a new card, a Starlight Energy. He played it, then drew again, pulling another Frost Sprite. With his remaining Frost Energy, he summoned the second sprite, its icy form glinting as it attacked. Garvox had no creature to block, and the sprite’s 2 strength hit his life, dropping him to 1. On Garvox’s next turn, he played an unmarked card, an Ember Energy, stalling for time. Akilliz’s sprite attacked again, unblocked, dealing 2 more damage and dropping Garvox to zero. The crowd roared, chanting Akilliz’s name as he tied the match, his chest swelling with pride. Score: Garvox 2, Akilliz 2.

  The final round, tied at 2-2, had the tavern buzzing with excitement, the air thick with the scent of ale and anticipation. Akilliz drew: a Frost Energy, a Starlight Energy, and another Mirror Glow! “This is just what I need”, he thought to himself. Garvox played an Ember Energy, his hands trembling with fury. Akilliz played his Frost Energy, his mind racing. Garvox’s next card was marked, an Ember Fox, strength 3, lunging with a snarl. Akilliz played his Starlight Energy and set the Mirror Glow face-down, the card’s faint shimmer hidden from Garvox’s glare. The fox attacked, and Akilliz flipped his trick, the starlight flaring as the fox’s flames reflected back, burning Garvox for 3 damage and dropping his life to zero in one swift blow. The crowd exploded, mugs clattering as they cheered Akilliz’s name, the boy from Lumara who’d turned the match around with nothing but wits and a glowing trick. Garvox slammed the table, his face red with rage, but the match was over, Akilliz had won, a reverse sweep that left the tavern buzzing with his name. Final Score: Akilliz 3, Garvox 2.

  “Well,” Garvox spat, tossing the journal onto the table with a thud, “here’s your book, runt.” Akilliz snatched it up, clutching it to his chest, relief flooding him, but his eyes flicked to the pack, the vials, the boots. “What about the rest?” he demanded, voice rising. “My pack, my vials, my coin, my food, those are my boots!” Garvox leaned back, sneering. “I ain’t seen your pack, and these are my boots. You expect me to give you my boots?”

  Akilliz’s voice broke into a scream, “You stole them, you liar!” The crowd shifted, some muttering in sympathy, others in amusement, and Halvox stormed over, his face red with frustration. “Garvox,” he snapped, “give the boy his boots, and he’ll be on his way. I oughta kick you out, but you’re a regular, and your crew hasn’t caused me no ruckus in some time. You’re chasing off business, though. I don’t know if you stole it or not, but if they’re his boots, you best give them back. He’s a kid, after all.”

  The thief grumbled, yanking off the boots and tossing them at Akilliz’s feet, the leather stretched and stinking of sweat. Akilliz, sniffling, gathered them and the journal, his hands shaking as he slipped the boots on, the fit loose and uncomfortable. He’d eaten his supper, a meager bowl of broth, and asked Halvox for directions to the Mistwood, but the innkeeper shrugged, muttering vague notions of south. With nothing but his stretched out boots, the Lightspire Bloom, one vial, and the journal, Akilliz trudged out into the night, the inn’s warmth fading behind him, the road ahead a dark, uncertain path.

  He trudged away from The Tipsy Turtle, the inn’s warm glow fading into the night as the forest swallowed him whole. The elven boots, stretched and stinking from Garvox’s feet, chafed against his heels, each step a reminder of his hollow victory. He clutched his mothers journal to his chest, its leather cover scuffed but precious, the Bloom and lone vine-etched vial tucked into his tunic, their weight a small comfort against the emptiness gnawing at his stomach. The broth from supper had been meager, barely enough to quiet his hunger, and now, with no pack, no coin, no food, he felt the full weight of his vulnerability. The road south was a vague suggestion, the inn keepers directions little more than a shrug, and Akilliz stumbled through the dark, the oaks and birches closing in, their branches whispering secrets he couldn’t understand.

  Night deepened, the air growing cooler, and his legs ached, the miles piling up like stones on his shoulders. Hunger clawed at his insides, a sharp, relentless ache that made his head swim, and he leaned against a tree, its bark rough under his palm, to catch his breath. The forest thickened, the trees growing taller, their trunks wider, until they loomed like silent giants, their canopies blotting out the stars. He was sure he entered the Mistwood now, though the darkness hid its wonders, and exhaustion tugged at him, his eyelids heavy. “Just a bit of rest,” he murmured, his voice swallowed by the night, and he found a cozy nook between two massive roots, their curves forming a natural hollow. He gathered twigs, and a few spare branches, muttering a weak “Up!” to spark a small fire, the flames flickering weakly but enough to warm his hands. He curled up, the journal under his head, the fire’s glow a faint shield against the dark, and slept, dreams haunted by Garvox’s sneer and the journal’s pages slipping through his fingers.

  Dawn broke with a hush, and Akilliz woke to a sight that stole his breath, his hunger momentarily forgotten. The Mistwood stretched before him, its trees towering like skyscrapers, their trunks wide as two wagons, their bark shimmering with a faint silver sheen that caught the morning light. He stood, mouth agape, craning his neck to see their tops, but they vanished into a glowing blue mist that rolled in, thick and luminous, like a river of sapphire light. The mist hummed, a soft, resonant sound that vibrated in his chest, and it seemed to move with purpose, swirling around him, guiding him deeper into the forest. Drops of blue condensation formed on the leaves, shimmering like liquid stars, and when they fell, they left trails of light on the ground, the forest floor clean and smooth, untouched by decay.

  Akilliz reached out, catching a drop on a broad leaf, its surface slick and cool. He swore the droplet whispered as it touched his skin, strange whispers he couldn’t quite make out, yet the melody was both beautiful and haunting. He brought the leaf to his lips, drinking the drop, and a rush of energy surged through him, his hunger vanishing, his exhaustion melting away. His mind sharpened, every sense heightened, and he felt as if the forest itself had breathed life into him. “By the Nine,” he breathed, eyes wide, marveling at the magic around him. The birds sang, their notes clear and crystalline, though the mist hid them from view, and the air smelled of dew and ancient wood, a scent that wrapped around him like a promise.

  He stepped forward, the mist parting slightly to reveal a tree unlike the others, its bark rippling like water, branches stretched out like arms that hummed with a soft green light as he approached. The glow faded when he stepped back, and he realized the forest must be alive! “You’re more than trees,” he whispered, a mix of awe and fear tingling down his spine. In the distance, lights moved, small and swift, darting through the mist, their colors shifting from gold to violet. He felt like he had stumbled upon a dream.

  One light drew closer, hovering near his hand, and he froze, barely breathing. A tiny light, no bigger than his thumb, shimmered into view for but a fleeting moment before vanishing.

  He wandered deeper, the mist guiding him along a path that seemed to shift beneath his feet, the forest floor smooth as polished stone. The trees whispered, their leaves rustling in some language he couldn’t grasp, and he felt small, insignificant, yet part of something vast and ancient. The blue mist clung to his cloak, leaving shimmering trails on the fabric, and he smiled despite himself, the magic of the Mistwood wrapping around him like a balm. For a moment, he forgot his hunger, his stolen pack, the stretched boots chafing his feet, and let himself be a boy in a world of wonder, the journal safe against his heart.

  But then a noise shattered the stillness, a sharp crack like breaking glass, echoing through the mist. Akilliz froze, his hand on the journal. The air grew colder, the mist swirling faster, and he sensed something approaching, something angry. The forest’s hum turned discordant, a warning he couldn’t ignore, and he turned, heart pounding, toward the sound, the Mistwood’s magic suddenly feeling less like a dream and more like a trap.

  Akilliz stood frozen in the Mistwood, the sharp crack echoing through the glowing blue mist, his hand tightening on Elowen’s journal as the air grew colder. The forest’s hum turned discordant, a low thrum that vibrated in his bones, and the swirling mist parted like a curtain, revealing a figure striding toward him with an elegance that stole his breath. A male elf, tall and imposing, stepped into the clearing, his presence a storm of grace and fury, and Akilliz awe warred with the fear knotting his stomach. The elf’s form was lithe yet commanding, clad in robes of gold and white that shimmered with starlight, the threads woven from the sky itself, the elf was glowing faintly with each step. His hair flowed like liquid silver, catching the mist’s blue light, and his eyes, prismatic and shifting from emerald to amethyst, burned with a cold, ancient fire that made Akilliz feel small, insignificant, a speck of dirt in the elf’s radiant gaze. Why did he feel such hatred from this magnificent being?

  The elf’s gaze locked onto the small fire at Akilliz’s feet, its flames flickering weakly, and his expression twisted into a sneer of disgust, his lips curling as if the sight offended his very being. “Mud-born filth,” he spat, his voice a melody that hurt to hear, beautiful but sharp, like glass breaking in slow motion. “How dare you defile the Mistwood with flame? You have committed a crime against the Heart of Lyrathal, a blasphemy against the eternal song!” The words were a mix of the common tongue and elven, the foreign phrases laced with venom, “Veth’nar kwe’shal, durath!” Akilliz flinched, the slurs cutting deeper than he understood, their meaning clear in the elf’s disdain. He raised a hand, his fingers long and delicate, and clenched it into a fist, a crushing motion that sent a ripple through the air.

  The fire at Akilliz’s feet shuddered, the flames collapsing inward as if squeezed by an invisible force, shrinking into a ball of light that pulsed once, twice, before exploding into dust with a thunderclap that shook the ground. A chorus of elven voices chanted a single word, “Veth’nar,” their echo reverberating through the trees, the mist swirling faster, as if the forest itself roared in anger. Akilliz stumbled back, his ears ringing, the heat of the fire replaced by a biting chill that seeped into his bones. He clutched the journal tighter, the Lightspire Bloom’s glow dimming in his tunic, and stared at the elf, his awe giving way to terror as the reality of his situation sank in.

  “Thy breath sullies the Mistwood’s song, mud-born wretch,” the elf continued, his voice rising, each word a dagger wrapped in silk. “Thou art unworthy to gaze upon the children of Aurelia, to tread these sacred paths! Thy presence is a stain, a blight upon the eternal!” He stepped closer, his prismatic eyes narrowing, the colors shifting faster, a storm of light that made Akilliz’s head swim. He wanted to speak, to explain, but his throat tightened, the elf’s presence overwhelming, his arrogance a weight that pressed Akilliz into the ground. The elf tilted his head, his silver hair cascading like a waterfall, and sniffed, his nose wrinkling as if Akilliz were a rotting thing. “Kwe vadis, durath? Speak, filth, before I cleanse thee from this realm!”

  Akilliz swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he forced the words out, “I didn’t know, I swear! I was cold, I needed warmth, I meant no harm!” His plea sounded weak, a child’s whimper against the elf’s grandeur, and the elf laughed, a high, trilling sound that echoed through the mist, sharp and cruel. “Ignorance is no shield, veth’nar,” he sneered, his tone dripping with scorn. “Thou wilt stand before the Council of Luminael, thy crimes judged by those whose light thou canst not fathom.” He raised his hand again, and Akilliz braced himself, expecting pain, but instead, light erupted from the elf’s palm, golden and searing, weaving into shackles that wrapped around Akilliz’s wrists, their glow burning cold against his skin.

  Akilliz gasped, tugging at the shackles, but they held fast, their light pulsing in time with the elf’s heartbeat, a magic he couldn’t hope to break. The elf turned, his robes shimmering as he moved, and let out a piercing whistle, a note that rang through the forest like a bell. The mist parted further, and two ethereal horses emerged, their forms made of pure light, their manes flowing like liquid fire, their hooves silent on the forest floor. The elf mounted one with a grace that made Akilliz’s clumsy movements feel like a mockery, and gestured for him to follow, the shackles tugging him forward with a will of their own. “Move, durath,” he snapped, his voice a command that brooked no defiance. “Thy mud born fate awaits in the heart of Luminael.”

  Akilliz stumbled after him, the second horse trailing behind, its starlit eyes watching him with an intelligence that unnerved him. The mist closed in again, the forest’s hum now a mournful dirge, and he felt the weight of the elf’s scorn like a physical thing, pressing down on his shoulders. He clutched the journal tighter, its pages a lifeline to Elowen, to the boy he’d been in Lumara, but that boy felt far away now, lost in a world of magic and malice he couldn’t understand. The elf’s back was a pillar of light ahead, his silver hair glinting through the mist, and Akilliz followed, his heart pounding with fear, the shackles of light a cold promise of the trials to come.