The Weaving Begins

  The spider does not spin its home for vanities’ sake. Every thread has a purpose. So too have the gods set their silken lines, connecting us in a pattern that we cannot begin to understand, but catch furtive glimpses of when we least expect it.

  — from the journal of revered Aabe O’anmiere, Elder Druid of the Order of Faune

  Whispers in the Green

  From whispered doubts, the loom of fate was set.

  — Shailone, Prophet of Revelation Height

  The Crystal-Mist Forest was a breathtaking spectacle.

  An ancient and untamed peninsula, the Crystal-Mist jutted from the western edge of the Alissian continent, embraced on three sides by the glimmering Emerald Sea. At its eastern boundary, where it remained tethered to the mainland, a vast and treacherous mountain range sealed it off from the bustling civilizations of humankind: the southernmost reaches of the ranging Iron Stone Mountains, known to the elves as the Crystal-Mist Mountains.

  Within this secluded realm, the Avonmora, an ancient race of elven naturalists, made their homes amidst towering crystal-mist oaks, dense thornferns, and the vividly diverse cobaltean toadstools.

  The Avonmora lived by one guiding principle: harmony with nature. Proud and devout, they worshipped the Mother of the Forest, Faune. To honor her, they cultivated unmatched agricultural techniques tailored to the Crystal-Mist’s unique and delicate ecosystem.

  It was not their way to reshape the land. Instead, the Avonmora adapted themselves to their surroundings, growing with the forest in a symbiotic relationship of reverence and mutual respect.

  But something had changed.

  The forest darkened with each passing day. An unnatural imbalance stirred in root and wind alike. Though the trees still whispered secrets, the Avonmora could no longer reliably understand them.

  The people were alarmed.

  From their capital city of Vistadora, the Avonmora governed their affairs.

  Elvish tradition mandated that a council of elders—never fewer than three, never more than six—occupy the seat of power. The Elder race held that wisdom was born of experience, and thus only those who had lived no fewer than one thousand years could be considered for such high station. As their numbers dwindled, so too had the size of the council, yet its influence remained absolute.

  Known formally as the Circle of Elders, the council was not a judiciary feared for its laws, but a revered assembly whose counsel commanded deep respect. In all matters of governance, spiritual life, and environmental balance, their voices were sought and seldom questioned.

  It was within the great theater of Vistadora that the Circle now gathered to discuss a matter of growing dread: the Crystal-Mist’s recent and disturbing transformations.

  One of the city’s oldest and most spectacular wonders, the Theatron had been constructed from the harvested timbers of cobaltean toadstools, dense, resilient fungi native to the Crystal-Mist. Carved into the side of a steep, excavated hill at the city’s edge, the Theatron ascended in elegant tiers of dark blue benches, each row hewn and polished to accommodate hundreds of seated elves in rigid but stately comfort.

  At the heart of the amphitheater lay a vast platform paved with cobaltean brick, serving as both stage and podium. Here, actors, philosophers, and politicians alike addressed the people in moments of art, debate, and declaration.

  Ingeniously designed, the Theatron required no magical aid to carry sound. Its curved form amplified voices naturally, allowing even the softest speech to reach every ear.

  Encircling the open-air stage, an ancient copse of crystal-mist oaks stretched skyward, their sprawling branches interwoven in a breathtaking canopy of translucent leaves. Light filtered through in radiant hues, casting kaleidoscopic patterns over the assembly below, a living veil of beauty and protection.

  Vistadora was no stranger to public forums. On the contrary, once each season, the city’s agriculturists, horticulturists, merchants, officials, hunters, artisans, and tradesfolk gathered in the Theatron to voice their concerns and advise on upcoming policies and practices.

  Here, each guild or profession presented its seasonal needs: adjusting hunting limits, revising fishing decrees, and recalibrating harvest quotas based on the latest population assessments and environmental reports. Trade policies were negotiated, fair market practices enforced, and disputes mediated under the open canopy of crystal-mist boughs.

  It was also in the Theatron that these same citizens organized the spring and fall festivals, events that required months of careful planning and coordinated effort.

  In all matters of state, city, and season, it was the Theatron that served as both heart and hearth of Vistadora’s civic life.

  On this day, a pall hung over Vistadora like a stubborn cloud blotting out the sun.

  The elves, typically warm, polite, and quick to smile, passed one another in silence or with strained nods. Fear permeated the air like a poisonous plume, invisible yet inescapable.

  In the Theatron, townsfolk and tradespeople gathered uneasily alongside city officials representing each of the major elven settlements across the greater Crystal-Mist. They had all come to witness the council’s response to the forest’s strange and worrying transformations.

  Many elves chose to sit apart, withdrawing from the familiar camaraderie of their usual groups. Others, though seated in company, spoke little. Greetings were halfhearted, and conversations drifted into silence.

  All eyes were fixed on the central platform, the orchestra, where the Circle of Elders would soon take their seats.

  At the center of the Theatron, among the first ring of cobaltean benches, an unhappy looking elf sat brooding among the clusters of waiting men and women.

  Aehyl of Vistadora, apprentice druid and student to the Circle of Elders, watched the crowd with a furrowed brow. She did not envy the burden her mentors would soon bear.

  Her features were graceful, with high cheekbones, a soft-curving nose, and thick, dark hair parted by long, tapering ears. Emerald eyes, keen and angular, reflected the unease in the gathering. She was slight of frame, athletic from years of woodland training, and she carried herself with quiet alertness.

  Others had called her beautiful, but Aehyl rarely gave it much thought. Beauty did little to prepare one for a forest gone silent, or for the quiet unraveling of all that once felt certain.

  In months or years past, many would have approached Aehyl without hesitation. She was known throughout Vistadora for her sincerity, calm presence, and approachable demeanor.

  But now, that warmth had cooled.

  Lately, even the admiration once freely offered to druids, even apprentices like Aehyl, had curdled into quiet suspicion.

  Like many of the races of Taolk, most Avonmora lacked the ability to wield magic. What set them apart, however, was their uncanny sensitivity to it. And no elf dwelling in the Crystal-Mist Peninsula could ignore the dark, unnatural presence that now clung to the air and seeped into the soil.

  It was this very sensitivity that fed their unease.

  Aehyl felt it clearly, whenever her eyes met another’s, they would quickly turn away. As if her training in the arcane made her somehow responsible. As if every blighted tree and withered bough were her doing, or the doing of her elders.

  A hush fell over the Theatron, silencing the soft murmurs of the assembled crowd. Aehyl’s chest tightened as she watched the Circle of Elders descend the grand stairway of the theater’s dais.

  Four ancient figures moved with deliberate grace, each taking their place upon the central stage in an order dictated by rank and reverence. The first three elders walked with surprising ease, the fluidity of their motion belying the impression given by their weathered skin and long, silver-white hair.

  The fourth elder, however, drew every gaze.

  He leaned heavily on a silver-capped cane of carved cobaltean wood, his steps slow but resolute. Kreadus was ancient even among ancients, the only known Avonmora in the Crystal-Mist, and perhaps in all Alissia, to have lived for more than two millennia.

  Aehyl’s heart quickened at the sight of the elder.

  It was forgivable to feel awed, Kreadus seldom appeared in public, though his influence on the Circle’s deliberations was constant. Even for Aehyl, a druid apprentice closely tied to the Council, it was rare to witness the elusive and formidable figure in person.

  As he reached the center of the stage, a young elf stepped forward to offer his arm. Kreadus waved him off with an irritable flick of his hand.

  Aehyl couldn’t help but smile at the boy’s innocent, if misplaced, gesture. Elves held deep reverence for the aged, especially among the Avonmora, whose customs celebrated longevity. Yet their culture also revered youth, an ideal often romanticized, perhaps because elvenkind endured for so long and so gracefully.

  Kreadus, for all his years, was no exception to that pride. He might have walked the world for over two millennia, but he would not admit that time had begun to take its toll.

  If he needed help, he would ask. And sensing the elder’s will, the young elf offered a sheepish bow before retreating to his seat.

  Despite the toll of age, Kreadus radiated an awe-inspiring authority.

  His long, white hair had been carefully groomed, with slender braids woven throughout like strands of living memory. His face was gaunt, drawn as if by sleepless nights and some recent, unspoken loss. His skin bore the deep, creased texture of old oak, thick and weathered like bark left to the elements.

  Once tall and lean, Kreadus now seemed bent by time, his frame diminished and frail. Yet no one present could mistake his power.

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  A palpable aura surrounded him, an arcane pressure that settled over the Theatron like a heavy mist. To every Avonmora present, it was unmistakable: the ether moved with him.

  The presence clung to him like a living fog, dense and potent, a quiet but overwhelming testimony to his mastery of the unseen.

  Weighing the mood of the crowd with his pale, milky eyes, Kreadus stood in thoughtful silence.

  Though blind in the physical sense, the elder possessed a form of sight beyond the understanding of common folk, or even his fellow druids. His vision was bound not to light, but to nature itself, the result of a rare union between two distinct arcane heritages.

  Kreadus was the last of the Avonmora to merge the sacred magic of the druids with the forbidden arcana, an ancient craft his forebears had long since cast into a hellish abyss. It was this union, more than age or wisdom, that made him singular among his people.

  He was the final remnant of a forgotten lineage: powerful, dangerous, and quietly shamed.

  The elder gruffly cleared his throat and gathered his voice. Speaking in a clear tone, he addressed his audience.

  “Kinsmen of Vistadora, Raven’s Perch, Irongrove, and beyond, I greet you in solemn fellowship,” Kreadus began, his voice low but resonant. “I only wish we had gathered under more fortunate circumstances.”

  “The Council of Elders is well aware of the troubles that bring us here today. As you all know, the Crystal-Mist now suffers not only from orchard and crop failures, but from a sharp decline in nearly every species of game.”

  He paused briefly, his expression darkening.

  “Worse still, creatures we once lived beside in peace, predators long part of the natural balance, have turned wild and rabid. We do not just fear them now. We are forced to destroy them.”

  Kreadus’s voice grew quieter, heavier.

  “But this is not the worst of it.”

  A hush fell across the Theatron.

  “We have confirmed reports of widespread corruption, blight spreading through the oldest groves of the crystal-mist oaks. Something unnatural poisons the roots of our world.”

  He fell silent, letting the weight of his words settle over the gathered assembly like a slow-descending fog.

  Kreadus’s pale eyes lingered on the stern-faced city agent from Irongrove.

  “Thornferns, once no larger than a round shield, now grow to monstrous sizes,” he said, his voice roughening. “They seize our people with violent intent, as if we were no more than insects to be consumed.”

  A tremor passed through him. For a brief moment, outrage and betrayal cracked the calm of his ancient composure.

  “The blight has proven a formidable foe. The Order of Faune has found no cure. But through the sacrifice and toil of our most seasoned druids, we have confirmed one thing: this corruption truly is not natural.”

  He paused, his voice steadying.

  “I tell you now, war is upon us. But we do not yet know our enemy.”

  Murmurs stirred through the Theatron as Kreadus pressed on.

  “Even as we speak, the Order is working to trace this blight’s origin. We ask for your patience. Every resource, every measure available to this council, is being deployed to uncover the rhyme and reason behind this threat.”

  With that, Kreadus turned and, moving with deliberate slowness, returned to his seat beside his peers. If he sensed the anger, or fear, rising among the crowd, he gave no sign.

  From the benches, an ungainly elf rose, raising his arms to quiet the rumbling voices. Without waiting for permission, he strode confidently toward the stage.

  He moved with a puffed chest and the swagger of unearned pride, the golden-stitched deputy badge of Raven’s Perch gleaming on his vest. His eyes were pale and watery blue, his nose and neck long and birdlike, giving him the awkward look of a crane. His teeth, large and overly white, flashed in the sun as he grinned at the assembly.

  He was narrow-shouldered, bony, and young by elven standards, no more than a few hundred years old.

  The citizens of Raven’s Perch made their livelihoods among the sprawling orchards that surrounded their settlement—plump oranges, tart grapefruits, and the sharp bite of sour lemons were among their finest fruits. But those orchards were failing now, or so the rumors claimed. Aehyl could see it plainly in the hard set of the elf’s face: he would not be easily pacified.

  “Honorable Kreadus,” the young elf began, his voice smooth and confident. “I am Cercic of Raven’s Perch. You know me. You knew my father, Hercic, before his passing only a few seasons past.”

  He gestured lightly as he spoke, the way one might when reciting a well-rehearsed tale.

  “We are simple folk, unfamiliar with the ways of the Order. We live by the bounty of the Crystal-Mist, as such folk must. And while I do not question the integrity of this council, I cannot help but ask—how did an arcane blight settle upon our soil without the knowledge of the Order of Faune?”

  He paused, clearly savoring the attention his voice drew from the crowd. Aehyl narrowed her eyes. His oration was polished, but something in his tone rubbed against her like thorns beneath silk.

  “It strikes me as convenient,” Cercic continued, “that we are to assume some nameless enemy lurks in the shadows of our forest, when the Swiftfalcons have apprehended not a single trespasser. Are we to question the competence of our own rangers now?”

  A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd: low, irritated, and uneasy. Several other folk from Raven’s Perch openly nodded, murmuring quiet agreement with the youth’s challenge. The question, though disrespectful in Aehyl’s eyes, had struck a nerve.

  Glowering at the council, Cercic continued brazenly. “Do the Crystal-Mist Mountains not still guard our western borders with efficiency? If your answer is yes, wise council, then I urge you to reconsider.”

  He turned with a dramatic flourish, addressing the soft but growing murmurs among the assembled elves. “There is not a single beachhead within the Crystal-Mist capable of granting an invading army sufficient footing for a waterborne assault. And what logic would drive a neighbor to poison our lands?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he charged ahead, clearly following a rehearsed and carefully crafted grievance. “As far as I know, as far as anyone knows, the Avonmora have offended no one. We have no enemies beyond our borders. I remind you: war, especially the kind waged in shadows with plague and poison, is rarely begun without cause.”

  Cercic paused, arching his brows ever so slightly as he reached the intended climax of his monologue. “Is it not more likely, then, that one of your own druids, whether through malice or mistake, unleashed this sin upon our land?”

  He had barely finished when an uproar exploded across the theater. Council members shouted in disbelief, and the crowd erupted with fury. The orderly assembly collapsed into utter chaos.

  Raising his cane, Kreadus released a sharp flash of green light that instantly silenced the outburst.

  An uneasy hush descended upon the theater. Those of wisdom among the gathered understood that the young speaker had overstepped. As one, the crowd held its breath, waiting for the elders' response.

  With order restored, Kreadus’ white gaze washed briefly over the other three elders before fixing a stern gaze on the smug figure before him. “You question the oaths of servitude taken by those of us in the Order, Cercic?” the elder asked, his voice tight with restrained fury.

  Cercic raised his eyebrows in mock alarm and took a step closer to the stage’s edge, projecting his voice so that all within the Theatron would hear him clearly. “Please accept my apologies, dear Kreadus. It was not my intent to accuse the Order of wrongdoing. I raise these matters only to ensure that the voices of all elves within the Crystal-Mist are heard.”

  He sagged his thin shoulders and hung his head in feigned remorse. “You see, we don’t all understand the workings of the Order. And to be frank, secrecy seems embedded in your nature. Perhaps if your society were more open and approachable, there would be less room for suspicion.”

  Once again, murmurs of unease rippled through the crowd and the youth spread his arms wide, welcoming sympathy from his base. “Dear council, I only question your conclusions because I see no compelling evidence of a mysterious enemy.”

  As he finished, the crowd responded with growing choruses of agreement.

  From the center of the stage, another slender, silver-haired elder rose abruptly. Grimus, second only to Kreadus in influence within the Crystal-Mist and a prominent figure within the Order of Faune, wore a dour expression that darkened the already tense atmosphere.

  If the young deputy had expected the council to quietly endure his accusations, he was sorely mistaken.

  Raising a bony hand, Grimus fixed Cercic with a piercing stare. His face, rigid as carved stone, and his posture, tall and imposing, radiated a severe authority. In his anger, it looked as though he might strike the youth down.

  “Cercic of Raven’s Perch,” he said, his voice like a blade sheathed in frost, “you teeter on the edge of a very dangerous slope.”

  He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing.

  “You were right to say that this council knows you. And that we knew your father before you.” A shadow passed across the elder’s face. “Truly,” he added, his tone steeped in reproach, “the apple does not fall far from the tree.”

  Ignoring Cercic’s furious scowl and the hushed gasps that rippled through the gathering, Grimus pressed on, undaunted.

  “You question the sincerity with which the Order of Faune serves its people?” he said, his voice sharp with derision. “Here you stand, pointing accusatory fingers at those who have sacrificed more than you can imagine.”

  His granite expression softened, though not with mercy. When he moved, a more feral quality overtook him as he stepped closer to the youth, like a panther circling its prey.

  “And what of you, Cercic?” he hissed. “What oaths have you sworn to your people, besides strutting about with that gaudy little badge you wear like a crown?”

  The elder’s tone darkened, his voice low and biting. “Let me remind you: every member of the Order is bound beyond death to serve and protect the Avonmora. This is no ceremonial vow.”

  Grimus’s fury coiled in every word. His thin lips drew taut over clenched teeth. “You know what fate awaits an Oathsworn who strays from their charge. The doom of the banshee is no myth.”

  After a tense pause, Grimus turned away from Cercic and swept his steely gaze across the assembled crowd. His eyes dared any to speak. Even Cercic, whose eyes blazed wildly, chest still puffed with indignation, held his tongue. To mock the cursed undead was to tempt disaster, and no elf, not even a fool, would do so lightly.

  Grimus pointed directly at Aehyl, who visibly flinched, cringing from the sudden attention. His gnarled finger held steady, fixed upon her like a verdict carved in stone.

  “It disturbs me to hear such discontent,” he declared. “Make no mistake, war is upon the Avonmora. But since you wish to know what we, the supposedly secretive Order of Faune, have been doing, then hear it from one not so far removed from your own ranks.”

  The weight of Grimus’s words lingered in the still air. All eyes turned to Aehyl.

  His voice rang out, clear as a cadence. “Tell them, Aehyl, how many druids have we buried this week in pursuit of the blight?”

  Drawing courage from Grimus’s steady gaze, Aehyl rose from her bench. As she turned to face the crowd, heat flushed to the tips of her slender ears and her throat tightened, dry as autumn leaves. Her courage wavered beneath the pressure of so many watchful eyes. She glanced once more toward her mentor.

  His subtle, affirming nod was all she needed.

  “This week,” she began, voice trembling, “the forest blight made the jump, from plants and beasts of the Crystal-Mist to the Avonmora.”

  A wave of gasps echoed across the theater, but Grimus raised his hands swiftly, stilling the outcry before it could swell.

  “However,” Aehyl continued, her voice growing stronger, each word was edged with indignation, “the blight doesn’t infect the mundane. It is targeting only the ether-sensitive, for now. Ten druids have fallen to the affliction this week. Twenty-three more vanished the week before. May Faune guide their spirits to the Skywood above. They gave their lives to protect this forest, and they did not fall in vain.”

  She finished with a low, defiant growl, her glare locked squarely on Cercic.

  A stunned silence followed, and Grimus allowed the awkward stillness to shame the crowded theater into quiet reflection. When he finally moved, the elder motioned briskly for Cercic to leave the podium.

  The youth wore a spiteful expression but obeyed without protest.

  Grimus seized the moment to say what the council had summoned the gathering to hear.

  “What Aehyl tells you is true. The reason we have brought you here tonight is to warn you all. Though you are not in immediate danger, now that the Chimera Disease has crossed into the arcane Avonmora population, the risk grows greater by the day that it will find a means to infect the mundane.”

  Even the most skeptical of the crowd appeared shaken by the gravity of his words. Grimus himself appeared visibly altered, as though the confidence had drained from him with the admission.

  “The Council and the Order urge you to take every possible precaution in your daily lives. We still do not fully understand how Chimera spreads, but we believe it to be bloodborne. That knowledge only confirms what we have feared: someone or something is deliberately spreading this blight within our realm.”

  He paused, exhaling heavily beneath the weight of duty. It was not the elven way to decree what he now proclaimed.

  “Therefore, it is the solemn duty of the Circle of Elders to place the city of Vistadora, and all other cities of the Crystal-Mist, under Council oversight.”

  An explosive outburst welled up, but Grimus raised his hands, releasing a flash of brilliant green light that silenced the crowd. His face hardened with resolve.

  “Walls will be erected around each forest city in lieu of this mandate. Emergency task forces of city militias are being assembled to safeguard our people. I do not relish this decree any more than you do, but you will respect it.”

  His voice carried an unmistakable edge of menace.

  “We cannot allow this blight to spread into the mundane population. No one who has contracted it has survived.”

  Rising once more, Kreadus nodded for Grimus to sit. As the grim-faced elf lowered himself back into his seat, the eldest of the Avonmora stepped forward, shuffling to the edge of the podium.

  His milky gaze swept sadly across the assembly of elves.

  “The Circle of Elders has spoken. Return now to your cities. Spread word of our decrees. Administrative agents from the Swiftfalcons will be dispatched to each settlement to assist with implementation and enforcement.”

  He paused, his voice softening.

  “I ask you to show patience with the Order of Faune. We remain steadfast in our efforts to end this blight and bring those responsible to justice.”

  With a final thump of his cane, Kreadus adjourned the gathering. Neither he nor the rest of the Circle waited for the crowd to disperse. Instead, they withdrew swiftly from the podium to be ushered into waiting stagecoaches.

  The white horses trotted away. Without further adieu the elder’s crowns of silver hair were swallowed by the rising dusk.

  Meanwhile, Aehyl rose from her seat and made her way through the crowd of elves. Some argued bitterly about the logistics of the coming restrictions; others stood in stunned silence, as though uncertainty had clouded even their next breath.

  As she wove through the throng, Aehyl couldn’t help but notice how her fellow Avonmora shied away from her, taking care not to brush against her robes. It was as if they already believed her infected by the Chimera Blight and feared contamination from the slightest touch.

  Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to ignore their behavior. She was nearly through the arched exit of the theater when the sharp prickle of unseen eyes stopped her in her tracks.

  She turned abruptly, her deep green gaze sweeping the amphitheater.

  There, across the room, half-shadowed in the darkened tiers, stood Cercic, the deputy sheriff of Raven’s Perch. His thin frame was stiff with rage, and his eyes burned with undisguised hatred.

  Aehyl recoiled inwardly, startled by the intensity of his stare. What had she done to earn such venom? Did he truly blame her for his public humiliation? For Grimus’s rebuke?

  The idea was absurd, yet the resentment in his expression made her doubt.

  Anger flared within her. Straightening her shoulders, she met his glare with one of icy disdain. Then, without a word, she turned and walked briskly through the archway into the night.

  She did not look back, but Aehyl knew with unsettling certainty that she had not seen the last of Cercic.