Lorinth, Taria
July 28, 1190 PT

Jon

After sunset in late July, Jon wrestled with convictions he had resisted his whole life. He sat alone at the green kitchen table, resting his hands on a wooden box—David’s last gift. The Ruvian seven-tongued flame adorned the lid.

Alistar had said he would send a message after the Life Harvest caravan left town. Now, several weeks later, Jon’s impatience grew like gnawing hunger.

Since David’s departure, malice crept into Jon’s heart. What would this new smuggling job mean for his future, for Palimar’s future? What damage could he do to Captain Percy Duval and the Drawlen radicals of Taria and Corigon with a smuggling network built to move cities?

Finally, Jon flung open the box. Perhaps his father had left a solisite bracelet to match the jeweled necklace Alistar used as payment. Jon’s face fell. Inside lay a leather-bound book, three agate pendants fastened with silver wire to leather cords, and a dagger in a bronze sheath.

Jon examined the stone pendants. He imagined using the set to afford a death mark on Lord Bruce Hayden, the man who had turned his family’s lives upside down five years ago. The items weren’t worth a death mark—or even a ten mark. Still, they seemed unique. Ribbons of red, yellow, and gold weaved through the oval pendant, the innermost design resembling the flame on the lid. The second gem featured brown veins twisting like roots digging into the earth. The third resembled a sprouting seed in shades of green.

Jon pushed the stones aside and lifted the iron dagger. It had a narrow pommel and a double-edged blade. The sheath was stamped with intricate filigree and symbols. The metalwork and worn condition suggested an ancient origin. Perhaps it was a Ruvian heirloom, but the runes along the hilt and sheath weren’t Ruvish.

Jon set down the dagger and retrieved the book, weighing it in his hands. Lighter than expected. He ran a finger across its black leather spine, strangely warm to his touch. He then leafed through the hundreds of thin pages. Each section concluded with a different signature. In red ink, the date 7 June 903 PT scrawled across the opening page, making this diary about three centuries old.

The entry, written in Old Ruvish, lamented the Ruvian’s flight from their dying homeland in the south, when they met a legion of Drawlen purifiers at their northern border. Jon skimmed the rendition, having already heard the story countless times, until he reached the last line.

Thus, the Cursed Immortal secured Palimar for himself and began his reign as the Second Tyrant. Our only hope now lies in secrecy and faith that Sovereign will one day raise us from the ashes of this injustice.

— Jacob Mathis III, last living heir of Ruvia

Jon flipped through pages of packed text; sketches of cities and creatures both common and unreal; maps of Palimar and the wider world; and even orders of battle. Finally, he came to the last entry but refused to read beyond his father’s signature—Lucas Riley. He shut the book and leapt from the bench, heart pounding.

“Thrilling read?” came a stranger’s voice.

Spinning around, Jon faced a thin man standing in the kitchen doorway. Jon stumbled over the bench and backed against the wall with fists raised. “Who are you?”

The stranger bowed, his gray tunic scrunching at his rolled sleeves, revealing a gruesome scar on his left forearm. “I’m an old friend of David’s.”

Jon glanced at the dagger on the table. “How did you get in here?”

“This isn’t exactly a fortress. Is it, Master Riley? Or is it Therman?” When the man laughed, his eyes twinkled. But the creases around them held the burden of an old soul. His posture and his set jaw seemed oddly familiar.

“Who are you?”

“You don’t remember me? We met when you were very young. I showed your mother the way out of Sidras.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. He was only six when he and his mother fled in the night from the Ruvian hideout. He remembered an old woman—his tutor—smuggling supplies for them, and a cloaked man leading them into the wilderness. As the memory flooded his senses, Jon gasped when he recalled a name. “Richard.”

“Hello, lad.”

Jon’s hand moved instinctively to his waist, but his pistol lay on the side table in his bedroom. “You can’t be Richard. You would be an old man by now.”

“But I am. I was your guardian when you were a child. I’ve been watching over your ancestors since before the land of Ruvia died, before the Fires, before Faust the Tyrant fell.”

Richard no longer seemed ordinary, but something ancient and dangerous.

“A Blessed Immortal.” Jon’s eyes widened, his hands shaking at his sides.

“It’s a bad joke, you know, calling us Blessed. It’s more a curse.”

“Did Alistar send you?”

Richard seated himself at the table, resting his hands on the chipped surface. “Right down to business. Very well, Jonathan. I’ve come to escort you to Sidras.”

Folding his arms, Jon huffed. “What in the fires makes you think I would ever go back there?”

“You fled from Sidras at its lowest point. It’s quite different now. And did you not already agree to Alistar’s proposal?”

“Why can’t he come to me?”

“This venture requires the blessing of the entire Sidrian council. We can’t risk bringing them here.” Richard examined the dagger and pendants.

“Do they mean something?” Jon asked.

“I’ve never seen them. Lucas liked to collect things.” Richard grasped the dagger. “This is a Vultan knife.”

“Vultan?”

“An ancient thurse empire that’s long dead. They brought our human ancestors to Palimar as slaves thousands of years ago. The rift between men and trolls goes much deeper than Ruvia and Kartha.”

“And the stones?” Jon asked.

Richard set aside the knife and held the red pendant. “Ordinary, perhaps. And yet, they’re remarkably reminiscent of three of the Monuments of Sovereign.” He returned the pendant and tapped each stone in turn. “The fire of purity. The roots of strength. The seed of life.”

“Sentimental trinkets, then.”

“Symbols of the divine,” Richard countered. “And important enough for Lucas to ensure they passed to you. He carried this journal almost to his death. It’s been passed down to every generation of the Mathis bloodline since the end of the Drawlen-Terrion wars.”

Jon shoved the book into Richard’s hands. “It’s all yours. I have no use for dead men’s musings.”

Richard held the book in front of him. Black tendrils of shadow wrapped around it and disappeared with the book.

“You’re a ralenta,” Jon said. “An immortal ralenta.”

Richard smiled. “Yes, some people have all the fun. Come, Master Riley. It is a fine night for a walk in the Deep Wood. Don’t you think?”

—

Apart from his early childhood, Jon had avoided the forest. The Drawls forbade entrance into the Deep Wood bordering the Drawlen territories. He remembered liking the forest as a child and missing it when he left with his mother. Now, sweat trickled down Jon’s forehead as he trespassed. The occasional chill washing over him told him shades encircled them. He shivered. Richard was cloaking them.

With each step, the forest thickened, the moonlight diminished, and the hoots of owls intensified. As Jon walked, the silhouettes of branches and underbrush taunted him. The smell of pines mixing with the fresh breeze offered minor comfort as he tripped on roots and rocks. Buzzing crickets and whistling wind drowned out his curses.

Jon huffed, struggling through the underbrush a few strides behind Richard. “Can’t you just use a shade to trace us through this mess?”

Richard stopped and smiled. “Patience. Take a breath. Time in the woods will serve you well.”

They trudged through a marsh, wound down fern-filled ravines, and hiked under sumac canopies. Emerging from a grove, Jon stepped into a breathtaking scene. Fireflies filled the clearing with their golden light. High branches provided shelter, and gnarled tree roots bound together, forming natural benches around a campfire.

The last time Jon saw a campfire, his mother had been alive. The aroma of woodsmoke thickened, and the sparks danced among the fireflies. As Jon and Richard approached, the three men sitting by the fire narrowed their eyes.

The smallest man, who wore a hooded coat, stood and drew a bow, aiming at Jon. The metal arrowhead glinted in the flames’ light. The man to his left sat with his arms crossed. His red hair was cropped short on the sides, accentuating his pointed ears, and a fringe fell across his forehead. He scowled.

Jon’s heart thrummed as he regarded the third man: an enormous, dark-skinned troll. His leather armor stretched over taut muscles, gleaming knives and hatchets strapped to his back, belt, and legs.

“Now here’s something you don’t see often,” Richard said.

The red-haired man stood, still shorter than the seated troll. “Good old Richard.”

“Halas.” Richard nodded. Then he addressed the boy on the right. “What brings you all the way out here, Arimal?”

The boy set aside his bow and dropped his hood. He looked about seventeen, a younger replica of Alistar Soral. “Keeping the peace.” He pointed his gloved thumbs to the men beside him.

The troll growled, displaying sharp teeth.  “I’ve been perfectly agreeable, lad. Can’t say as much for this whelp.” The troll pointed to Halas.

“You’re in my wood, ogre,” Halas said.

Across the clearing, growls reverberated from behind the roots of a large oak. Three gray hounds slunk out, fangs bared, lips quivering, and hackles raised. They stalked toward the fire, lifting paws high over the roots.

Halas gritted his teeth.

“Lezhat,” the troll commanded, snapping his head so sharply his thick dreadlocks swung over his shoulder.

The dogs retreated.

Richard and Arimal chuckled, but Halas crossed his arms and furrowed his brows.

“Jonathan Riley,” Richard said with a twirl of his hand, ushering Jon forward. “Meet Halas Gorvenah, Lord of the Deep Wood. He usually has an unruly band of sprites running about, but I assume the Master of Hounds has frightened them off with his bad jokes.”

The troll laughed and rose, easily standing seven feet tall. His leather boots crunched on dry leaves as he stepped around the fire. When he reached Jon, he grasped his wrist with the force of a vise. “Well met, Master Riley. Torok Missien, Master of Hounds.”

Jon shifted on his feet. “I—um—nice to meet you, Master Missien.”

“Just Torok.” He slapped Jon on the back.

Jon hid his grimace with a toothy smile.

“And the lad is—” Richard looked around, but Arimal had disappeared. Halas immediately lunged into the darkness.

A yelp sounded as Halas jumped back into the clearing. Trailing him, Arimal and his bow skidded across the ground. The boy sported a bloody lip and dirty face. Halas bounded over him, plunging into the shadows once more. Grunts echoed, along with boots scraping on rock.

Torok whistled for his hounds, who circled the group, growling and pawing at the dirt.

Halas emerged with a hooded figure in a chokehold. The captive thrust a leg out and hooked a boot behind Halas’s knee before twisting him around.

As the captive spun Halas onto his back, her hood dropped, and Ella’s brown curls tumbled over her face. From his place on the ground, Halas kicked his foot toward her. But Ella sprang out of his reach.

“Enough, Ella!” Jon shouted. All eyes turned to him.

“You know this sneaking little whelp?” Halas spat as he rose to his feet.

“That’s his daughter, you fool,” Torok said. He and Richard burst into laughter.

Ella picked up the bow and returned it to Arimal.

He took it and nodded. “So, Ella Riley?” He thrust out a hand. “Arimal Soral.”

Ignoring Arimal’s offered hand, she tilted her head at Jon. “Um . . . Riley?”

“Later,” Jon said.

Torok called off his hounds and bowed to Ella. “You know me as The Hound Man, lass. But call me Torok. An honor to see you again, and well met.”

Ella returned the smile and flashed a clenched grin at Jon. “He was, um, in Estbye—one of the rescuers.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Jon said. “What in the fires are you doing here, Ella?”

“Mom thought—she thought you might do something rash, so she sent me to check on you.”

“Something rash?”

“Well, I’m sure she meant drinking with Carl or burning down the barn. Not—whatever you’re doing here in the woods.” She studied each man in the clearing.

Halas chuckled. “Your wife sent a child to look after you?”

Richard strode up to her. “You followed us?”

Ella rocked on her heels and bit her bottom lip. “Yes.”

“How?”

“She can see shades,” Jon said. “Even though she’s not a ralenta.”

“And disarm Ruvian sentinels, apparently,” Halas said.

“Sorry about that.” Ella waved to Arimal.

He blushed and rubbed some dirt from his cheek. “Yeah, I could have done without your boot in my face. Clever, though, getting downwind of the hounds.”

“That was just luck, to be honest,” she said.

“Ella,” Jon cut in. “You should not have followed me.”

Pulling thistles from her hair, she glowered at him. “Well, I’ll just ignore you the next time I see you wander into forbidden woods with some mysterious ralenta!”

“She’s a fiery one,” Torok mumbled, plopping back on the log.

“Her mother’s daughter.” Jon scratched his beard. “I’m serious. You could have—no, you did get caught. You’re lucky they aren’t—”

“Collectors? Hired thugs?” She shook debris from her boot. “What should I have done instead?”

Jon took a deep breath. “Well, it’s done.” He faced Richard. “She’s here, so whatever arrangements you’ve made with Alistar, my daughter comes with me.”

Ella brushed dirt from her coat.

Richard nodded. “Understood. Halas will take you to Sidras. Torok and I have a different journey ahead of us. It’s a long way to the Devourer’s Waste.”

Halas sighed. “I think it would be better for Master Soral to take them.”

“Oh? Sadiona toss you out again?” Richard smirked.

“Ha! She threatened to burn his tail too,” Arimal said.

Ella cocked her head and peeked behind Halas. “You have a tail?”

“You’re a very rude little girl, aren’t you?” Halas said. “Kicking and tripping strangers and asking ridiculous questions.”

Ella’s eyes lit up. “You’re a dryad?”

“I’m a skin-changer.”

“Like the Drawlen Beast Barons?”

“Exactly like them,” Halas said. “So be careful, little girl. I could transform into a wild beast right here and claw that smirk off your face.”

Jon twitched, but Arimal put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “He’s probably kidding.”

Halas stepped forward and bent down on all fours, morphing into a large red fox. He turned his canine head and regarded the group with shining eyes. “Good day to you, good masters.” He raised his black nose when his gaze fell on Ella. “Girl.”

Smiling, Ella curtsied with the fringes of her coat. “Farewell, Lord of the Deep Wood. Try not to get pushed around by any other sneaking little whelps.”

Ella

For over two hours, Ella and her father followed Arimal. A whisper of fog settled in the predawn light. They traveled upstream beside a rushing river in a ravine. Ella concentrated on matching the soundlessness of the Sidrian sentinel, suppressing the urge to ask questions.

When they came to the edge of a shining pool at the base of a waterfall, Arimal balanced along a ledge and disappeared behind the falls. Skepticism shadowed Jon’s eyes as he followed, but Ella reveled in the adventure, skipping after Arimal.

While water splashed around them, Arimal heaved a flat stone and pulled a hidden lever. Next to him, a slab rolled back to reveal a dark, damp world beyond. Ella stepped over the threshold into a cave. Jon walked behind with a hand on her shoulder, keeping his balance. Inside the cave, Arimal pulled a similar lever, closing them into the passage.

A swishing accompanied the roar of the falls, and torchlight flooded the cavern. Ella flinched, still uncomfortable in the presence of fire. With the space illuminated, the camouflaged door proved to be a thin sheet of rock fastened to the cliff by wooden beams.

Arimal held the torch aloft and entered a low tunnel. As they navigated the passageway, intermittent dripping replaced the echoing of the falls.

The tunnel opened into a narrow gulch. Soon, a wooden gangway spanned the gap where the rocky ground had fallen away. Many times, they ducked under and stepped over bulges in the rock. A clear stream trickled far below the gaps in the planks. Once the morning sun brightened, Arimal doused the torch in a crevice of rainwater. Ahead, the ravine turned sharply.

“Seems your mother’s been teaching you more than just medicine,” Jon whispered to Ella. “How long has she been training you?”

Ella kept her attention on the path, but his judging tone nagged her. “Don’t be angry with Mom. It was my idea. It’s just that Remm was gone. You were gone. And when those men came—”

“You were only a child.”

Ella glared at her father as they continued walking.

His expression softened, his gaze downcast. “You’re still a child. You could not have hoped to save yourself.”

Ella quelled the tightening in her chest. “So, I should just live in fear?”

Jon waved his hands. “No! No. I’m not angry. Not at Ruth, and not at you. I just—” He took a deep breath. “I don’t want you to live in fear. And just as much, I don’t want you to fall into a life of violence.”

“I’m not violent!”

“Oh, not at all.” Arimal stroked his bruised lip as he spoke.

Ella threw up her arms. “I was only defending myself!”

Arimal chuckled. “They all say that. Anyway, we’ve arrived.”

Ella and Jon followed Arimal around the corner. The walkway ended at a balcony overlooking the most spectacular sight Ella had ever seen.

Arimal backed against the railing, spreading his arms toward the valley behind him. “Welcome to Sidras.”