Under the Antlered God

  Dear Mother and Father,

  I pray to Faune this note finds you both well. I approach my sixth month of apprenticeship next week. I could not be more excited. Thus far, my time in the Tower Tree has been a valuable experience. They haven’t allowed me to work magic yet, but I have improved my proficiency in cooking, cleaning, and cataloging. That will all change soon, Faune willing. Wish me luck as I take my basic knowledge exams next week. Pray that I do not panic.

  P.S. If I pass, I may be allowed to see you in Irongrove for a few days. Wouldn’t that be nice.

  — letter of correspondence sent by Elor At’aie to his parents

  The Temple of Faune stood at the very heart of Vistadora, built around the base of the Tower Tree, the second-oldest crystal-mist oak in the entire forest. It was a shining beacon of Avonmora pride, a living monument to their devotion to the goddess of nature.

  Constructed from enchanted cobaltean bricks, the temple’s delicate, spiraling towers rose in a graceful triad, each one curving like a massive serpent coiling around the ancient trunk. These were the only architectural marvels in Vistadora that rivaled the grandeur of its famed amphitheater.

  At ground level, the tree’s roots and the temple’s foundations were enshrouded in thick patches of ivy, interwoven with wild morning glory and vibrant bougainvillea. These verdant climbers crept skyward, cloaking the brickwork in an ever-changing tapestry of pastel blooms and brilliant foliage.

  Among these vines, great coils of Titansnoose, some nearly a yard in diameter, thrust upward, spiraling along the towers to their sharply barbed crowns. Despite their size, the Titansnoose was carefully cultivated and trimmed, allowing light to filter through the temple’s many diamond-shaped windows. The massive spade-shaped leaves were even fashioned into shutters, shading the interiors from the midday sun.

  To maximize space within the towers, the stairways wound along the exterior of the structures rather than inside them. This created an impossibly complex network of snaking paths that twisted, split, and spiraled ever upward around the colossal towers. Though the elves harbored no fear of heights, to outsiders the design seemed both perilous and deranged, only deepening the already curious reputation of elven architecture in the wider world.

  Vistadora was a city that existed in seamless harmony with the forest surrounding it. This treetop metropolis radiated outward from the central Tower Tree, its design both elegant and intricate in its natural simplicity. Often described in prose as breathtaking, the elven capital never failed to arrest the gaze of onlookers.

  Gigantic crystal-mist oaks and ancient redwoods—trees older than even the oldest elves—intertwined their branches into vast, living networks. These natural bridges spanned from tree to tree in intricate spiderwebs, so densely layered it was nearly impossible to tell where one ended and another began.

  Homes were not built, but grown, formed by carefully weaving and shaping the branches into living walls, adorned with lush patches of multi-hued flora. Titansnoose thrived in abundance, stretching in great arcs from tree to tree, its massive leaves unfurling in thick, vibrant clusters atop the sheltering canopies.

  Below the treetop city, a number of ground-level shelters, built from cobaltean brick, packed with sediment, and adorned with vibrant trailing plants, stood ready to receive the occasional visitor. More often than not, these travelers found the grounded dwellings cozier than the lofty abodes above. Though simpler in design, these shelters radiated quiet beauty, maintained with meticulous care. Each was surrounded by tidy gardens and stocked fish ponds, tended with the same devotion that marked every corner of Vistadora.

  With the town gathering now behind them, it was business as usual for the Order of Faune.

  Aehyl stood alone in a small examination room deep within the temple, awaiting the arrival of her mentor, Grimus, an elder she regarded almost as a father. She expected a follow-up assignment related to her recent dissertation on the Great Oak, which stood alone in the oldest, darkest reaches of the Crystal-Mist.

  No one knew why the Great Oak—the first of its kind—and its apparent heir, the Tower Tree around which the temple spiraled, had taken root so far apart. As part of her research, Aehyl had identified three other ancient crystal-mist oaks scattered across the peninsula. Each one towered above the surrounding forest, and what intrigued her most was their arrangement: too precisely spaced to be the result of natural sprouting.

  Crystal-mist oaks did not reproduce like other flora. Second-generation trees like the Tower Tree dropped “sprigs” only once every several thousand years. These tiny, semi-sentient lifeforms stored enough energy in their oakcorn crowns to travel miles from their parent’s location, though they typically settled once they sensed a vast enough area to support their future root and branch networks.

  Once a sprig found suitable ground, it would plant itself and shed its capacity for movement, becoming a permanent part of the landscape. The forests surrounding Vistadora had long since filled with crystal-mist sprigs descended from the Tower Tree, most of which had rooted themselves nearby thousands of years ago.

  As far as anyone knew, the Great Oak no longer dropped sprigs. Research suggested that, long ago, something, or someone, had tended the ancient behemoth, perhaps even discovering a way to fashion sprigs directly from the Mother Tree itself.

  It was during long hours spent buried in the vast, stone-shelved cellar libraries beneath the temple that Aehyl came to a startling realization: the oldest crystal-mist oaks might not have sprouted naturally at all. They may have been planted, deliberately, by this unknown tender, who had since vanished without a trace.

  The theory was not entirely her own. Aehyl had picked up the thread from the writings of several long-dead but highly respected ecowardens. Over time, her research led her to conclude that the five most ancient oaks within the Crystal-Mist were positioned with clear purpose. Their precise distances from one another made natural occurrence unlikely, suggesting intention, not chance.

  When Aehyl first brought her discovery to Grimus, she had expected the elder to balk. Instead, he surprised her. Without hesitation, Master Grimus withdrew her from standard duties, merging her training with her research and creating a unique program tailored specifically to her path.

  “You are not like the others,” she remembered him saying. “So why should I train you like one?”

  He had eyed her closely, his scowl both sharp and protective. “Does your magic work like other druids’?” he asked, one brow arched.

  “My magic is not like any elf’s,” she had admitted, ashamed.

  “Then why would I continue to train you as if you were?”

  From that day on, Aehyl’s path diverged completely. Her studies took her far from the usual activities of initiate druids, and into danger on more than one occasion. She knew that many within the Circle disapproved of Grimus’s decisions, though few dared say it aloud.

  But apparently, Grimus had managed to persuade even Archdruid Kreadus that her work held merit. And once the oldest master of the Order had vouched for her, who among them would dare challenge her course?

  The young druid sat with somber stillness, wrestling with the events of the past several weeks. She knew her next task would take her back into the oldest reaches of the Crystal-Mist, to the Mother Tree itself.

  Though the opportunity to finally field-test her theory thrilled her, a gnawing unease had taken root. Doubt clawed at her, persistent and unshakable. For twenty years, she had labored as an apprentice. In the past decade alone, she had studied more arcana than any other pupil in the tower, perhaps more than some full-fledged members of the Order. These days, she was nearly treated as one herself.

  Her judgment was sound and grew sharper with every passing year. And after much effort, she had even learned to harmonize her magic with nature, something no other elf had ever struggled with in the first place.

  A week ago, she had accidentally uprooted a forty-year-old willow while casting a simple root nourishment spell. It should have been effortless. But lately, her focus had frayed. Her connection to the natural flow of energy felt dulled—muffled, like sound through fog.

  She hadn’t told her teachers, but she knew something was wrong. Something inside her had slipped out of alignment.

  There was a burning in her chest, a hidden well of rage, just out of reach. The energy churned and snarled, untamed and volatile. She dared not draw from it, though at times, she found herself brushing against it. Tempted. Almost comforted by its heat.

  Why was it so difficult for her to open herself to nature?

  She bit back bitter tears. She was an elf. Elves were supposed to feel an innate, unbreakable bond with the wild.

  And yet, no other student could summon an earthbound sentinel, heal wounds as swiftly, or transfigure with her precision.

  She sighed again and forced her thoughts to still.

  To distract herself, Aehyl glanced around the modest chamber. Three delicate chairs, their backs and seats carved to resemble oak leaves, circled a small, acorn-shaped table. A green-and-brown woolen rug beneath her feet depicted the forest in intricate, woven detail.

  On the eastern wall, a brass brazier inlaid with curling vines cradled a softly glowing orb of white light. It hummed faintly, like wind through pine.

  The room’s only door—arched and domed—was etched with scenes of great feasts and ancient hunts. Her eyes caught on one carving in particular: a lone elf bracing a pike, facing down the imminent charge of a wild boar.

  At that moment, the carved door swung open without a sound. Grimus stepped through.

  He entered with a scowl, clearly in no mood for pleasantries. His usual composure, still frayed from the pompous and accusatory speech delivered earlier by that Raven’s Perch boy, Cercic, rippled like stones cast into still water.

  His scowl wasn’t just for Cercic, it was for the questions he dared not voice. The ones that curled like smoke through his thoughts, thickening the air between responsibility and regret.

  But when he spotted Aehyl, his features softened. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. For all her peculiarities, he truly enjoyed their sessions.

  She was nearing her fiftieth year, soon to be recognized as an adult. The thought pleased him, yet concern tugged at the edges of his mind. Would she be ready for what was coming? For what they might ask of her?

  He pushed the worry aside and greeted her warmly, as if it had never crossed his mind.

  “Aehyl,” he said, “good, you’re here. We have much to discuss.”

  Knowing his routine well, Aehyl settled back in her chair, anticipating the inevitable appearance of his pipe.

  True to form, the elder seated himself with a tired groan and began absently patting his robes in search of his tabac pouch. Once found, he packed the intricately carved pipe and lit it with a flick of practiced magic. Fragrant plumes of smoke soon curled around him, wrapping the room in their familiar, calming scent.

  From his shoulder pack, he withdrew a weathered scroll case.

  It was old, very old. The leather had faded to a ghostly crimson, its original color long forgotten by time. Aehyl's eyes widened. She had spent countless hours thumbing through the first and second levels of the archives, and she knew at once that this scroll hadn’t come from either. Artifacts like this were kept in the third-level vaults, rarely accessible, and never to apprentices without supervision.

  “So,” Grimus began abruptly, as was his custom, “you’ve been researching the connection between the Great Oak and its four progeny. Drawing from the work of Ecowardens Holloram and Ebnic, you calculated the precise distances between the trees and uncovered the significance of their placement…”

  He paused, hastily unrolling a much newer parchment. Aehyl recognized it with a faint flush of embarrassment, it was hers.

  “In this, you propose that the five trees form a powerful symbol. You predict it to be a pentagram of immense proportions, likely a containment glyph of some kind. But you admit you have no idea who, or what, might have required such a massive ward.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Grimus stopped there, eyes lifting from the parchment to meet hers. His deep brown gaze held Aehyl’s green one with rare solemnity.

  “I must admit,” he said, voice gentling, “the Council is impressed with your work. It’s been generations since anyone has seriously investigated the mysteries of the Great Oak.”

  Holding up the crimson-colored scroll case, Grimus seemed to wrestle with the urge to say more. But instead, he quietly removed the lid and drew forth a yellowed parchment, aged and delicate. Without another word, he unfurled the scroll, found the section he sought, and began to read aloud:

  “Indeed, it is undeniable that the great crystal-mist oaks form a pentagram of unimaginable circumference. Since, by all estimations, the disappearance of the ancient race known as the Griotha coincides with the probable origin date of the four progeny of the oldest tree, it appears likely that the two events are inextricably linked by history.

  Exactly what transpired, we may never know. However, one thing is certain: it is with great reluctance that I warn this Council of the dangers we may be living atop—and have been unconscionably ignorant of—since the founding of our illustrious city, Vistadora.”

  Grimus paused, casting Aehyl a meaningful look. She was too stunned to speak. He continued before she could recover:

  “Honored Council, there are only two logical conclusions to be drawn from this study.

  One: the great oaks are relics of a forgotten age, their purpose spent and functionless, monuments to a mystery we will never solve.

  Or two, and I find this more likely given the immense power still radiating from within them, something vast and terrible is being contained by the oaks to this very day.

  It is the duty of this Council, in light of the knowledge presented, to protect the Great Oak and its progeny by every means available. May Faune guide our efforts.

  Grimus let the parchment sag in his hands, exhaling a long breath. “The warning went unheeded,” he said quietly. “The scroll was archived, sealed beneath centuries of dust, and forgotten, until you found its echo.”

  Grimus fell silent.

  This was not his first encounter with the scroll. He had read the same aged parchment just days after his appointment to the Council of Elders, several centuries ago. The elder still remembered the sick, twisting sensation in his gut, one he had never quite shaken. Judging by the horror on Aehyl’s face, he knew she now felt the same.

  Carefully, Grimus rerolled the ancient parchment and returned it to its crimson case. The gesture gave both elves a moment to collect their thoughts.

  At last, as though he could delay no longer, Grimus spoke in a low voice.

  “Your theories are remarkably accurate, Aehyl. The council was… alarmed at first. They feared you had somehow acquired this scroll and might recklessly reveal the mysteries surrounding the great oaks.”

  He paused, then added with a sigh and the ghost of a proud smile, “I was alarmed, too. But after the first few weeks, it became clear you were acting on your own. No scroll. No guidance. Just you.” He shook his head, almost in disbelief. “So Kreadus and I let you continue. We were curious, curious to see if your inquiries would lead you to the same conclusions as the author.”

  He lifted the scroll case slightly, as though raising a candle in a deep cavern.

  “Krodus of Vistadora,” he said. “Kreadus’s great-grandfather.”

  “But Grimus,” Aehyl said timidly, “I was wrong. This whole time, I thought the pentagram might be a massive sphere of protection. I thought it was proof—conclusive proof—that the goddess Faune was watching over us. It never occurred to me that the ward might have been fashioned to keep something imprisoned.”

  “You are young, Aehyl,” Grimus said with a faint smile. “Youth and optimism are meant to go hand in hand. Truly, it’s rather refreshing. We do not blame you for your naivety.”

  He paused, the smile turning wry.

  “Krodus, on the other hand, was an ancient and notoriously cantankerous councilmember. One who, I daresay, disagreed with nearly everything about the society of his time.”

  Grimus leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing with thought.

  “If you recall, it was Krodus’s son, Aabe, who eventually banished Mendathau, the forbidden tome, into the recesses of space and time. Krodus had delayed him for years, preventing that exile from happening too soon. It wasn’t until after his death that Aabe acted on his impulse and finally sealed the tome away.”

  A toothy, sour grin twisted Grimus’s lips.

  “Krodus believed the ancient and dangerous arcane knowledge within Mendathau was vital to our survival. Unfortunately, he also believed that somewhere within those scrolls lay the power to destroy whatever it is that’s imprisoned beneath the five oaks.”

  Grimus fell silent, the weight of the implication thick in the air.

  “Why do we speak of Mendathau as if it’s alive?” Aehyl asked, curiosity sharpening her voice. It was the first time she could recall Grimus speaking so freely of the ancient tome. A tingling excitement crept up her spine.

  Surprise flickered across the elder’s weathered face—but it quickly gave way to understanding.

  “As if it is alive, Aehyl, not was,” Grimus corrected gently. “I doubt very much that Mendathau has met its end.”

  He harrumphed, shaking his head. “I forget how little we teach of the tome these days. Time has taught us that some pages of our history, especially the shameful ones, are better left unread.”

  Grimus clicked his tongue and scowled, clearly wrestling with something. After a long pause, he arrived at some silent, thorny resolution.

  “Although much of what I’m about to say may echo what you already know,” Grimus began, his voice low, “what you don’t know must never be repeated, child.”

  He gave Aehyl a long, weighty look. His countenance darkened, and when the young elf nodded solemnly, he mirrored the gesture with grave finality.

  “There are still a few, scattered across the forest, who remember fragments of Mendathau’s discovery: the chaos, the aftermath. But those few are wise enough to let the truth die quietly with them, drifting into the skywood above.”

  He shifted in his seat, visibly unsettled, his gaze distant.

  “Mendathau is a tome like no other,” he continued at last. “It is alive, Aehyl. Aware. It knows who seeks its knowledge and chooses who may read its pages. It does not permit just anyone to learn from it.”

  Grimus paused, his tone sharpening.

  “The tome was not made by elvish hands. And its knowledge—vast, wild, and dark—was never meant for elvish minds. The race that crafted it is long since dead, and perhaps for good reason. If you ask me, that fact alone speaks volumes about the dangers within.”

  He gave her another long look, this one filled with quiet warning.

  “If you recall, ages ago our race arrived on Alissia and began to conquer its lands,” Grimus said. “We came from the continent of Edan, where many of our kin still dwell.

  “Over there, they worship Aric, the Maker. But they would not tolerate our devotion to the goddess Faune. For this, we were exiled, cast out from our homeland and set adrift across the sea in search of sanctuary.”

  The elder paused, loading his pipe with practiced ease. He took a long puff, then poured himself a glass of water from a crystalline decanter etched with lilies.

  “The consequences of that holy war, and of our banishment, were disastrous. We became a proud, reckless people. Ambitious. Hungry. We sought power in places where power was never meant to be touched.

  “On Alissia, we consorted openly with wyrms and serpents. We studied their magics. In some cases, we were even enslaved by them.

  “Lost, weary, and divided, our people scattered across the new continent. We grew estranged from one another. And from nature itself.”

  His voice deepened.

  “It was around that time that Mendathau came into our possession. No histories tell us how. But we know it happened shortly after the great battle where the serpent king Akatar fell to the dragon Kryost.”

  Grimus leaned forward slightly.

  “Over time, our people uncovered the tome’s deepest secrets. We waged wars that scarred the land, and one another. So consumed by domination and forbidden power were we, that we failed to notice how few of us remained.”

  His voice grew hoarse, strained by the weight of memory.

  “Then came the era known as The Calming,” Grimus said, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling, as if seeking something long lost.

  “Suddenly, mundane elvish children were born in greater numbers than the arcane. But those still gifted in magic seized control, ruling with iron fists and jealously guarding the secrets of Mendathau.”

  Aehyl listened, spellbound. Though she had heard this part before, it never failed to chill her blood.

  “These warlords, elves like Ba’ael the Everbright and Rata the Cinderbow, became tyrants the serpent lords of old would have envied. They enslaved both their own kin and humanity, waging ruthless wars against each other. Their hunger for power consumed elf and man alike, feeding fires that could never be sated.”

  Grimus’s tone softened with somber weight.

  “But among the oppressed, weariness took root. Our ancestors, tired of blood and death, turned once more to Faune. The Mother of the Forest called them home, and a quiet devotion rekindled in their hearts.

  “In growing numbers, these rebel Avonmora slipped from the warlords’ grasp, fleeing beyond the Crystal-Mist Mountains. There, in the embrace of the forest, they found sanctuary. This migration is known as The Gathering,” he finished, gesturing lightly with his hand.

  “Soon after the great exodus of our people from the mainland, mankind broke free from the last of the warlords' chains. With their dominion shattered, the surviving warlords, those few who escaped the fury of their former slaves, fled across the mountains. They returned to the very people they had once betrayed.

  To be allowed back into society, they were forced to submit themselves to the Avonmora. As part of the bargain, the teachings of Mendathau were declared forbidden, and the Order of Faune was established to guide our people in matters of spirit and faith. Alongside it, the Council of Elders was formed, so that both the mundane and the arcane might share power equally.”

  Grimus paused to wet his throat. Now fully engaged in the telling, the last of his earlier hesitations had fallen away. He seemed, at last, at ease.

  “The ancient families who once followed Mendathau’s traditions continued, in secret, to pass what knowledge they could to their children. One family in particular—the ancestral line of Kreadus—still possessed the tome itself. And so, while most eventually forgot the forbidden teachings, Kreadus’ bloodline did not.

  Just as it seemed peace had finally taken root, arcanists descended from three generations before Kreadus began teaching the secrets of Mendathau once more. Quietly at first, but their numbers grew, drawing from the arcane-born who felt stifled by the Order of Faune. Before long, they openly challenged the Order’s authority.

  After Krodus’ death, his son Aabe, the rightful heir to Mendathau, banished the tome and shut down the rising school.”

  Grimus paused, as was his way. His silences offered both teacher and student time to reflect.

  “But why take such a risk?” Aehyl asked, frustration edging into her voice. “From what I know of Aabe, he was cautious. Thoughtful. It was his steady hand that prevented another civil war. If he knew Mendathau might still be needed, why banish it?”

  A burning sensation rose in her chest, sharp and hot. She had felt it before, and it set her on edge.

  “You are right, Aehyl,” Grimus sighed. “And that is one of the enduring mysteries of his decision. Some believe he loathed the ancient, dangerous teachings so deeply that he couldn’t bear the thought of them surviving into another age, no matter the cost.”

  “Others disagree,” he added, tapping ash from his pipe. “They insist he left behind a secret trail, a way to recover the tome if the time ever came.”

  “And you, Master Grimus?” Aehyl asked softly. “What do you believe?”

  The elder shrugged. “I see Aabe as a student of history. And history must always be seen in its context. We elves have not always been at peace. Aabe acted in response to the pressures of his time: social, political, spiritual.”

  He paused, nodding as though confirming his own thoughts.

  “His actions show his fear… and, in that context, his wisdom. He recognized that the greatest threat to our people wasn’t just Mendathau, it was the growing divide between the two great arcane factions and the third, rising group: the mundane Avonmora. He feared another war, one that might consume us all.”

  Grimus leaned forward slightly, voice low with gravity. “Banishment of Mendathau was the clearest symbol he could give. A show of loyalty to a unified, equitable society. It leveled the playing field between the mundane and the arcane by casting out the most dangerous aspects of our magical legacy. And it reinforced the rising authority of the priesthood, which, let us not forget, had the trust of most of our people.”

  He fell silent again, his eyes drifting to the relief carved above the doorway. Scenes of nature, of hunting, fishing, and celebration spoke of his people’s enduring spirit. And yet... shouldn’t there also be images of weeping, of sacrifice, of loss?

  “Teacher,” Aehyl began pensively, “Aabe died the same night he returned from his quest to banish the forbidden tome.” She hesitated. “If the book was alive... do you think Mendathau had anything to do with his death?”

  The room hung thick with the scent of sweetened tobacco. Outside the door, the muffled patter of hurried footsteps echoed past their small study. Ignoring the haze, Aehyl fixed her piercing green eyes on her mentor, refusing to look away.

  Grimus’ mood shifted, suddenly morose. Without a word, he rose and made his way to the door. Aehyl watched as his hands began to trace an arcane pattern, his fingers swift and sure.

  The smoke around him stirred, coiling into thin, silvery wisps. The strands twisted and wove through the air like insubstantial threads of silk. Slowly, they gathered and knotted, forming a vast, vaporous web that spanned the doorway. At its center sat an ethereal arachnid, unmoving.

  The spell sealed the room in silence.

  Aehyl recognized it at once: the wordweb. But this was unlike any version she had ever cast. Its weave was denser, the sigils more intricate. She had spent weeks trying to master even the simplest form during her first year of magical training.

  She swallowed. Grimus had never sealed a room before. Not like this.

  Whatever he was about to say, someone, somewhere, should never hear it.

  “Officially,” said Grimus, equally lost in thought, “you’re not supposed to know this.” The elder furrowed his brow, his thick white eyebrows bunching into heavy clumps above his deep brown eyes.

  He sat down beside Aehyl again and leaned in close. “But since the council is asking you to investigate matters so closely bound to the fate of the ancient book itself, I’ll break with protocol.”

  Grimus looked as agitated as Aehyl had ever seen him.

  “There is a testimony of Aabe’s final thoughts,” he whispered. The wordweb spell would prevent all but the most adept spell-casters from eavesdropping, but the elder still seemed unwilling to risk speaking too loudly.

  “I don’t know where the document is kept, or if it even still exists. I only know that a journal was found with his remains. From what little I’ve heard, during his journey, Aabe became increasingly convinced that the book was trying to destroy him before he could complete its expulsion.”

  Grimus fell silent, holding his breath as a particularly loud set of footsteps passed just outside. Only after the sound faded entirely did he speak again.

  “In any case, you are not being sent after the tome. But in your investigation of the Great Oaks, you may encounter traces of its magic.”

  His eyes narrowed, his tone darkened. “And make no mistake, whatever you find, it will likely have been cast by those far more skilled in destructive magic than we ever were. All I’m saying is, be careful.”

  “But Krodus’ theory has never been confirmed,” Aehyl said quietly. “He could have been mistaken, couldn’t he?”

  “Indeed, he might have been,” Grimus replied, his voice low and measured. “Yet the Council finds your independent rediscovery of his conclusions most compelling. Now that you are apprised of the full historical context, they have resolved that your inquiry into the Great Oaks must continue without delay.”

  He hesitated, his expression tightening with clear unease.

  “You are to be inducted into the Order with full status, effective immediately.”

  Aehyl blinked. Grimus grimaced.

  “This is highly irregular,” he admitted. “Traditionally, such elevation is marked by a formal rite of passage, observed by the full Council and blessed by the high clergy of Faune. But the times, it seems, do not allow for ceremony.”

  His tone became heavier, his gaze intent.

  “The Council requires your insight now, while every available druid scours the forest, seeking the origin of the Chimera Blight. Your research may well prove crucial, perhaps even decisive.”

  Shock stole across Aehyl’s face. Grimus' words barely registered.

  She was a member of the Order of Faune.

  For twenty years she had scrubbed floors, swept corridors, dusted ancient tomes, cooked for elders, studied relentlessly, and endured trial after trial. And now, it was over. Just like that.

  She didn’t dare ask Grimus to repeat himself, afraid that somehow she had misheard, that he hadn’t said it at all.

  Blinking hard, Aehyl forced herself to focus, willing her thoughts back to the present moment. Her lips curved into a smile: unbidden, disbelieving, and, despite her best efforts, a little foolish.

  “I must warn you, Aehyl,” the elder said gently.

  He had noticed her delight and, despite the gravity of his words, smiled in kind. “Many among the council are not convinced that the sudden spread of the Chimera Blight and the mysteries surrounding the oaks are unrelated. The events of this past year have gone far in rekindling some of Krodus’s old fears.”

  Grimus’s smile faded, replaced by a solemn note of caution. “Whatever it is you’re about to face out there, go with care. We still don’t fully understand what we’re dealing with. And the council has made no real progress on Krodus’s theories, not since he first scrawled them on this parchment.”

  He raised the aged scroll meaningfully, then handed it to her with finality.

  “I suggest you read it thoroughly, when time allows.”

  With that, Grimus stood. A wave of his hand scattered the ethereal wordweb in a soft, smoky puff.

  “I do congratulate you, Aehyl,” he said, leaning forward to embrace her with genuine affection. “You will do great things. I am sure of it.”