Revelations in the Forest

  It is a bitter thing, to find treachery among those you never named enemy. Yet we are ever quick to draw lines—castes, cliques, classes—without knowing or understanding those across them. Perhaps this is the destiny of all peoples: to create false divisions, and in so doing, invite misunderstanding… and betrayal.

  — Kreadus O’anmiere, excerpt from a lecture on elven societal divisions within the Order of Faune

  The Forest Reveals

  Beneath leaf and loam, betrayal took root.

  — Shailone, Prophet of Revelation Height

  The assassin watched a lithe female figure glide across the forest floor. From his perch high in the branches of a Crystal-Mist oak, he observed the wanderer with little risk of being seen.

  The tree to which he clung rose nearly two hundred feet, its colossal trunk measuring twenty feet across. Its limbs sprawled outward in a breathtaking lattice of twisted branches, from which thousands of green, lobed leaves hung in silent suspension. The vast canopy offered a network of woody avenues the spy could leap across or vanish into at will.

  He pressed his body close to the trunk. His skin, responsive to light and texture, adjusted to the mottled bark of the ancient oak as he watched his prey with cold, calculating eyes.

  The elf moved beyond his immediate line of sight.

  The dense canopy above restricted visibility, but the assassin was not troubled. He preferred the thick, tangled cover of the Crystal-Mist, where his talents thrived. Few could match his ability to disappear among the towering oaks and redwoods. And if forced to the forest floor, the underbrush: scrub oak, dogwood, holly, and thornfern, provided ample concealment. Fallen logs, curled leaves, tangled branches, and the slow, fragrant decay of the forest masked all but the most careless of movements.

  The chameleon-like humanoid saw that the elf’s present direction led her away from Vistadora. Soon, she would stray beyond the security of its vigilant rangers’ patrols. If she did not alter her heading, her path would take her even deeper into the thickest and oldest sections of the Crystal-Mist.

  The moment he realized she was leaving the city’s shadow, something stirred in his chest—hunger, not just for flesh but for magic. Her scent lingered in the air, thick and sweet, laced with ether. His unnaturally wide mouth curled into an evil grin, and his jaw flexed hungrily. She was young and tender. There was little that tasted better than these Avonmora, and none had smelled quite so ripe as she.

  With a barely audible hiss, the creature traveled from tree to tree. His pigment shifted constantly to match the thousand colors of the great forest. He leapt great distances when needed, sometimes swinging like an ape from branch to branch. The breeze masked what little noise he made, and even the animals of the Crystal-Mist failed to sense his passing. He stayed just far enough behind the she-elf to remain unseen, yet close enough to savor the promise of the hunt.

  The following day, the creature continued trailing his prey. She pressed deeper into the ancient forest, farther and farther from the settled regions of the Crystal-Mist. He kept to the trees as much as possible, though even his prodigious leaping could not always bridge the gaps between the titanic oaks and towering redwoods. At times, he was forced to descend and flit through the underbrush, a shadow among shadows.

  The elf was strong and swift, moving through her homeland with confident ease. She kept a steady and purposeful pace that might have exhausted a lesser traveler, and the creature followed with a relentless patience.

  After the better part of a week, when she stopped for the night, he grew bolder, daring to draw nearer to her camp.

  Finally, she chose the hollow of a massive redwood, long since fallen and moss-laden with age. It offered natural shelter and concealment. With a simple gesture, the elf conjured a small, controlled flame, coaxing the feeble tongue to life more by thought than by spark.

  She untied a modest bedroll from her pack and searched for a relatively comfortable place within the hollow trunk. Her meal was plain: a collection of foraged nuts, fruit, and root vegetables, accompanied by a fragrant herbal tea. Afterward, she sat cross-legged, whittling bark from a slim stick, her knife tracing lazy, habitual patterns. Her eyes fluttered now and then, dozing in brief, uneasy stretches, never quite surrendering to full sleep.

  As she drifted into uneasy slumber, the beast watched from the shadows, saliva trailing from his maw. She was alone. Unprotected. Whatever purpose had drawn her deeper into the forest meant nothing, he rationalized—not compared to the gnawing hunger that had gone unanswered within him for days.

  And something gnawed at his mind, an unease, old and primal. A week’s march from this place loomed the greatest of the Crystal-Mist oaks, the Mother Tree. Even the thought of it made his scales tighten. Its presence radiated across the forest, a sacred pulse that repelled creatures like him.

  She made for the ancient tree… she could not be allowed to arrive.

  He could not approach the monolith without agony. Its unfading power would tear him apart. Already, nausea twisted in his gut, a visceral warning. Should he venture nearer, the result would be destruction. He remembered it clearly: the searing pull of light, the taste of his own decay—the slow unraveling of self.

  He blinked the memory away. His gaze refocused, narrowing with hunger.

  He couldn’t fight the Mother Tree.

  But he could silence that hunger.

  And that, at least, would bring relief.

  The murderous creature watched patiently. He waited in silence until the elf had slipped into the heavy stillness of deep slumber.

  Satisfied, he crept down from his perch, a whisper in the redwood hollow.

  Not a sound escaped as his long, thin fingers flexed. With a soft, wet click, wicked, retractable talons slid into place.

  His pigment ceased its camouflage, and the coarse scales of his skin flushed a foul, blood-red hue.

  He moved with care across the dry, forest floor. It would not do to alert his prey, not now, not when death was so close. Step by step, he closed the distance, positioning himself for a swift, clean kill.

  Raising one clawed hand, his blood-red eyes fixed on the soft thrum of her carotid artery.

  So fixated was he upon that beautiful pulse that he missed the ever-so-slight twitch of an eyelid.

  A sadistic grin twisted across his reptilian features, pulling back cracked, leathery lips to reveal rows of barbed, needle-like teeth.

  A sharp twang cracked through the air, followed by another, impossibly fast.

  The assassin froze. His eyes bulged in astonishment.

  A wet gurgle escaped his lips. One clawed hand reached feebly toward the half-shaft of an arrow embedded deep in his throat. A second projectile punched clean through his back, jutting several inches from his chest.

  He collapsed without a sound. For a moment, nothing, the clearing eerily still.

  Then came the hurried rustle of footsteps in the brush, someone moving swiftly through the dense undergrowth beyond the hollow.

  From her place on the ground, Aehyl’s eyes snapped open, she bolted upright.

  Her sharp eyes scanned the dark edge of her camp for other threats. Seeing none, she turned to assess the corpse slumped beside her fire.

  Bloodied arrowheads gleamed where they pierced the creature’s chest and neck.

  “And now we know what evil lurks in our forest,” she whispered, her voice low and tight with revulsion.

  A moment later, a tall elf emerged from the shadowed underbrush.

  Over his shoulder, Portean carried his Trueflight longbow and a quiver stocked with arrows fletched in red, white, and black. In his hands, he cradled Veilpiercer—the rune-etched wand—and the small, wooden hound he had picked up days earlier from Bellador’s shop.

  His face was taut with worry, his expression grim beneath a layer of dirt and muck. His clothes bore the marks of travel and struggle.

  At his waist, twin slender blades hung sheathed and ready, never far from reach.

  Portean wasted no time searching the assassin’s corpse.

  As he rifled through the small waist-pouch strapped to the creature’s crude hide belt, he cast anxious glances over his shoulder. The creature had surprised him, appearing over Aehyl when he had thought it still perched in the massive tree.

  Only once satisfied with his “interrogation” did he offer Aehyl a curious, almost exasperated look.

  “What if I’d missed?” he muttered, brows narrowed. His voice was a mix of worry and dry humor. While tying the dead creature’s pouch to his own belt, he shook his head. “You know bloody well I miss sometimes. Even me.”

  “You didn’t miss,” Aehyl replied coolly.

  She stood with arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “Besides, you saw how it materialized. If I’d moved, if either of us had reacted too soon, it might have bolted. We’d have lost our only chance. It could’ve disappeared back to whatever hole it came from... and told them we’re onto them.”

  Portean let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Well, at least we know the artifact works.”

  He inspected Veilpiercer, turning it over in his hands, eyes drifting across the crisp, etched sigils.

  His gaze then returned to the creature. “I’ve never seen anything like it… What in the blazes is this thing?”

  “I don’t know,” Aehyl admitted. “At first I thought it might be a larling, but it doesn’t have horns. And I’ve never heard of one that could blend into its surroundings like that. Or had scales.”

  “It’s no larling,” Portean said flatly. “They don’t look like lizards, and it’d take a lot more than two arrows to put one down. Besides,” he added, frowning, “they’re solitary creatures.”

  He glanced at the wooden hound in his hand. “This one’s different. More social.”

  “The hound went wild the first day I got out here, tried to pull me in three directions at once. Since then, they’ve been harder to track.”

  “You think they’ve already spread the word?” Aehyl asked, voice rising with concern. “That we can detect them?”

  “Maybe,” Portean said grimly. “But we can’t afford to dwell on that now.”

  He cursed under his breath.

  “I could’ve sworn I saw it in the trees yesterday, more than once. But every time I lined up a shot, it just melted away. Lucky for me, its attention was on you... or I’d probably be the one lying dead.”

  Chewing her lip anxiously, Aehyl stared down at the corpse.

  Its head resembled that of an iguana, then tapering into a sinewy neck and wiry torso. The limbs, long and unnervingly thin, were packed with coiled muscle. Its feet ended in three elongated toes, each tipped with small, fatty suction pads. A larger suction organ covered its heel, just above which a curved dewclaw jutted forward, perfect for ripping flesh or hooking branches for balance.

  The beast’s hands were similarly strange: long and narrow, with suction pads on the palms and two-inch talons extended from hidden sheaths in each finger.

  It wore only a small loincloth and belt, both fashioned to blend seamlessly with its environment. A thick, musky odor clung to its body. Its red, lifeless eyes stared skyward, the vertical slits of its pupils sending a chill down her spine.

  “Thank Faune it’s dead,” Aehyl muttered, horror-struck by the thing’s grotesque form. “I wonder how many more of them are still out there…”

  “Faune, save us,” Portean muttered darkly.

  “Suspicious as this thing is, finding just one isn’t enough to convince me, or the Council, that we’ve uncovered the source of the blight.”

  He paused, holding up a small, sealed vial filled with a thick, honey-colored substance. “However... it did have a few concerning items on its person.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Aehyl blinked, glancing back at the corpse. “We’re calling it a person now?” Her revulsion was unmistakable.

  Portean smirked faintly. “Pretty generous of me, I know. But take a look.” He gave the vial a swirl. “I’d be willing to bet this isn’t single malt whiskey.”

  Aehyl snorted. “Anything else in that little bag of tricks?”

  “Just a handful of seeds, a bone ring, and some truly foul-smelling ointment.” He shook his head, eyes narrowing. “I’m starting to think this is going to be a lot more complicated than we thought.”

  Days earlier, while planning this caper, Aehyl and Portean had weighed their chances of success. Both had concluded that without a bold, reckless approach, their efforts would almost certainly come to nothing.

  It was Aehyl who had proposed baiting whatever lingered in the darkness out into the open.

  Of the many individuals who had gone missing from the Order, the majority had been female. That alone gave her argument weight.

  Portean hated the idea from the start. He’d declared that he would never resort to such a crude strategy. But in the end, Aehyl’s stubborn resolve—and a little bullying—had won him over.

  “You think I can’t defend myself, Captain?” she’d asked, sulking as she conjured a fist-sized ball of flame.

  The color had drained from his face. He had quickly reconsidered.

  Now, here they stood. Their quarry dead at their feet.

  They had hoped to capture and interrogate the beast, not kill it. But when it had appeared without warning, its taloned hand poised to strike, Portean had reacted on instinct. He hadn’t drawn a blunted arrow.

  And now, the real question remained: what next?

  Aehyl seemed to reach the same conclusion at the same time. Their eyes met with a shared, uncertain resolve.

  “You should bring this back to the council, Portean,” Aehyl said quietly.

  “And leave you alone in the forest with these bloody things crawling about?” the captain scoffed. “You’re mad.”

  Aehyl shook her head, stubborn as ever. “The Circle of Elders must see this. But I have to reach the Great Oak. I know your father asked you to escort me, but Grimus will want to know what we’ve found. Now that I’ve seen it for myself…I know I would.”

  “There’s something deeply…” she hesitated, “unnatural about this thing.”

  “Then we’ll bury it,” Portean replied evenly, “and I’ll send scouts back for the remains in a day or two. But I’m not leaving you out here alone, Aehyl.”

  Sighing, she let the matter drop. “Fine. Help me bury it. I’ll do my best to preserve the remains. The council won’t be pleased if we lose the first real evidence to support their suspicions.”

  A thought struck her, and a grin tugged at her lips. “That bastard Cercic isn’t going to like this.”

  Snorting, Portean dragged the body to a depression in the hollow, revulsion tightening his jaw as he unceremoniously rolled the musky, scaled corpse into it.

  “You know the story behind Cercic’s crusade against the Order, don’t you?” the ranger asked, flashing his most mischievous smile.

  “I asked Father about it once,” he went on, “a few years back, shortly after Cercic’s father died. Cercic showed up at the temple with some official-looking parchment and that same oily attitude, demanding to see Kreadus.”

  “I don’t know what was on the scroll, but he acted like his admission into the Order was a done deal.”

  Aehyl bristled at the thought of Cercic in the Order. Forcing herself to calm, she extended her will. After a moment, the creature’s corpse faded from sight as if sinking into quicksand.

  The rancid smell vanished with it.

  With a sweep of her hand, a thick blanket of leafy debris shifted and fell into place, further concealing the grave.

  “There,” she said, brushing her hands. The forest felt a little lighter with the thing out of sight.

  “I remember that,” she added after a pause, chewing her lip thoughtfully. “Not long after Cercic left, I asked your father why he’d come.”

  Aehyl let out a sharp laugh at the memory.

  “He was not pleased. Told me it was none of my business, that I wasn’t even a full member of the Order yet.”

  She shook her head, smiling at the recollection. “Honestly, I probably deserved that. It wasn’t any of my business.”

  Portean grinned and retrieved his pack from the woods beyond, signaling the end of their rest.

  “Well, I’m not as concerned as my father about the Raven’s Perch deputy sheriff or his malicious accusations,” he said, slinging the pack over his shoulder. “Grimus chose to accept his appointment to the council of elders, he has to appear objectively fair-minded. I don’t.” He gave her a sly wink.

  “Cercic and his father come from an old bloodline, Aehyl,” the ranger added as he knelt to place the wooden hound on the ground in front of them. His voice dropped to a whisper, cautious not to draw another of the lurking beasts.

  Touching the rune-etched wand to the hound’s snout, Portean murmured a word of power. The little construct sprang to life, its supple frame bounding into the trees with remarkable agility.

  The wind picked up, carrying the loamy tang of rain, thick and imminent.

  “As you know,” Portean continued quietly, “Cercic’s father, Hercic, was no member of the Order. But it might surprise you to hear, Hercic was arcane-sensitive.”

  Aehyl’s brow furrowed.

  She knew of elven communities who, though arcane-born, chose not to associate with the Order of Faune, or even accept the minimal training offered by the Craftsmen’s Guild.

  She wondered what such a life would be like. Did they fear their power? Or simply reject the structures built to contain it?

  A quiet whisper stirred at the edge of her thoughts, a flicker of unwelcome understanding. She crushed it quickly.

  Worse still, such a choice could lead to ruin. How did one control a force that came as naturally as breath, yet burned so wildly when left untamed?

  In her second year of apprenticeship, Aehyl had accompanied Grimus into the forest to investigate the disappearance of a young elf who had chosen to live alone, far from any village.

  What they discovered was deeply unsettling.

  The boy had been arcane-born, but had refused formal training. Apparently, he’d taught himself a great many tricks and, convinced of his success, declined even a year of basic instruction.

  His tiny homestead bore the signs of clever enchantment: a broom that swept the floor on its own, a pail that emptied itself over a flowerbed before hurrying back to refill, each task performed with childlike enthusiasm, but eerie precision.

  Then they stepped onto the back porch and saw the truth.

  A wide swath of forest had been reduced to ruin. Trees lay shattered and blood-splattered across the clearing, some sheared off as if by lightning, others simply torn apart. Amid the wreckage, the boy’s body was strewn in pieces, hacked, flung, or blasted apart by whatever he had lost control of.

  One enchanted axe, still tirelessly chopping at a massive stump, sensed their approach, and without warning, lunged toward them.

  Grimus dispatched it with practiced ease, but Aehyl would never forget the horror of that day. The young elf had only wanted solitude.

  He hadn’t understood the danger his untrained mind posed, not just to himself, but to anyone nearby.

  “He chose not to associate with the Order, then?” she asked the ranger quietly.

  “Yes, by choice,” Portean replied. His voice was low, thoughtful. “Hercic had more arcane talent than most. Father once told me he could’ve rivaled any of the council members.”

  He paused, watching the forest warily. “Apparently, he didn’t believe the old teachings should be allowed to fade. He made a habit of trying to lure initiates away from the Order—before they could fully commit.”

  “And the council allowed him to do this?” Aehyl asked, horrorstruck.

  “Not for long. After several neophytes withdrew from the Order and vanished without explanation, an investigation was launched. It wasn’t long before their whereabouts came to light. They’d taken up residence in Raven’s Perch—living in close association with Hercic and his ilk.”

  Portean scowled, recalling Grimus’ account. “Technically, Hercic hadn’t broken any laws. But my father wasn’t about to stand by while that snake lured more innocent youths away. So the council kept him under close watch for years.”

  “Did it help?” she asked, brow furrowed.

  “Yes. Things quieted down for a time. Neither the Order nor the Swiftfalcons ever caught Hercic or his followers doing anything explicitly illegal—but we suspect they were dabbling in forbidden magic, passed down from his forefathers.”

  He paused, then added grimly, “It would explain why the old bastard dropped dead without warning a few years ago.”

  “Do you know how he died?” Aehyl asked, curiosity flickering in her tone.

  “All we know is that there wasn’t enough of him left to bother burying,” Portean replied with a shrug.

  “Terrible, yes, but honestly, it was a relief. He hated the Swiftfalcons and the Order with a passion and stirred up trouble whenever he could.”

  The ranger fell abruptly silent as the hound ahead of them froze, sniffing the air with cautious deliberation. Portean nocked an arrow to his Trueflight and narrowed his eyes, scanning the woods ahead.

  Aehyl slipped a razor-sharp hunting knife from her belt and began murmuring the opening syllables of a vineward spell.

  Suddenly, the wooden hound sprang into a dense grove of underbrush.

  Seconds later, a large brown hare bolted from the thicket, racing across the clearing with the enchanted hound close at its heels.

  Cursing under his breath, Portean lowered his bow and tapped the wand at his belt. The wooden beast halted mid-chase and trotted obediently back to its master.

  Aehyl let out a shaky laugh and sheathed her knife. “Seems Bellador couldn’t take the instinct out of the species.”

  Her cheeks flushed with color, and butterflies stirred in her chest. Glancing at Portean from the corner of her eye, she hoped he hadn’t noticed.

  She was still rattled. The assassin had shaken her more than she wanted to admit.

  Were the Avonmora still truly safe in their sacred forest?

  She couldn’t help but wonder, had something in their bond with the land… changed?

  Pushing the unsettling thought aside, Aehyl tried to revive their conversation.

  “So… does the council suspect Cercic might be arcane, like his father?” she asked.

  She doubted it. She’d just had an uncomfortably close encounter with the jaded youth and had sensed no trace of magical talent emanating from him.

  Portean snorted, shaking his head with a bitter smile.

  “As much as I hate to admit it, Cercic and I have a few things in common. We both come from old bloodlines—and we’re each the first of our lines to lack any meaningful arcane gift.”

  Aehyl cleared her throat, her expression dimming.

  “I didn’t mean to bring up something painful…” she offered gently, giving him a sheepish look.

  But Portean only laughed and gave her a quick, reassuring wink.

  “You’ve no reason to apologize, Aehyl. I came to terms with it long ago.”

  Then his tone grew serious. “My father loved me all the same. He used to say how proud my mother would’ve been. He doesn’t share Hercic’s warped beliefs.”

  “So, Hercic was unkind to Cercic,” Aehyl murmured, thoughtful. “Actually… that explains a lot.”

  “Indeed,” Portean agreed quietly.

  “The council wanted to remove Cercic from that house long ago,” he added. “But they had no grounds—and doing so might have driven Hercic to open rebellion. My father still regrets backing down. In some strange way, I think he feels responsible for the way the boy turned out.”

  Aehyl shook her head firmly. “He had choices, Portean. I don’t envy them, but they were his. We all choose who we become. We decide what we reject and what we allow to shape us. Cercic is no different, and he may still reject his father’s path. He’s young.”

  She blushed as she caught Portean watching her, smiling.

  “Of course you’re right,” he said, his voice full of quiet admiration.

  “You already sound like a priest of Faune. I’ve no doubt the Circle sees the same wisdom in you that I do.”

  They fell into a companionable silence, the path narrowing as they moved deeper into the most ancient part of the Crystal-Mist.

  As the days wound on, the woods grew thicker and darker. The ancient oaks and redwoods loomed larger with each passing mile.

  Untouched by elven shears, Titansnoose vines slithered freely across the forest floor in massive green braids, wrapping around the trunks of Crystal-Mist oaks and rugged giant redwoods alike.

  At times, the vines’ sheer weight had toppled even the greatest trees, and Aehyl and Portean were often forced to climb over, duck beneath, or detour around the splintered remains of fallen giants.

  Smaller copses of dogwood and other shade-thriving flora sprouted in quiet corners, while wild berry bushes offered welcome snacks to the hungry travelers.

  Thornferns grew in dense colonies, their heavily perfumed blossoms open wide—baiting birds and insects into their fatal grasp.

  The air shimmered with fireflies, their tiny bodies blinking silent messages into the dusk. The steady drone of sylvan bees hummed through the underbrush, methodically working their way from flower to flower.

  The deeper they traveled, the darker the forest floor became. Yet for all the deepening shadows, Aehyl felt her heart grow lighter.

  Here, in the hush of the Crystal-Mist’s most ancient grove, the menace that plagued the outer woods of Vistadora seemed silenced, unwilling, perhaps, to tread where the forest’s true heart still beat strong.

  Portean felt the shift too. His grip on the thin swords at his hips relaxed, and his Trueflight now hung more loosely from his shoulder. More than once, the captain found himself gazing upward in quiet awe at the towering canopy above.

  He had made pilgrimages to the Great Oak before, back when he was younger and less burdened by Swiftfalcon duties. But now, the difference between the corrupted wilds near Vistadora and this untouched, ancient sanctuary struck him more profoundly than ever.

  The Crystal-Mist was changing. The thought settled uneasily in the back of his mind and refused to leave.

  Late on the fifth day of travel, the two finally reached the outskirts of the ruined city.

  The elves could never be certain who had inhabited the forest before them, but it was widely believed that the builders of these ancient ruins were also the ones responsible for cultivating the Great Oak.

  Little other evidence of their existence remained. Though teams of archaeologists had combed through the crumbling city for generations, they returned with little more knowledge than they’d begun with.

  Despite the mystery, Aehyl’s interest in the ruins was purely practical: they marked the beginning of the final stretch. She had no desire to poke around in broken stone or chase ghosts.

  The Great Oak was only a half day’s march from here—and with it, she hoped, lay the answers she’d come seeking.

  Digging through her pack, the druid seated herself on a soft patch of moss growing over the low remains of a crumbling stone wall. Retrieving her pouch of herbs, she kindled a small fire to make tea.

  The first leg of their relentless march was nearly behind them. Her feet and calves ached from the long hours of climbing and pushing through the overgrown wild. Out here, no paths marked their way—only instinct and persistence guided their steps.

  Yet the ground behind them, wild and untended though it was, would pale in comparison to what lay ahead.

  Soon, they would be forced to navigate winding paths through broken ruins and sheer, yawning canyons, scars in the earth that split the ancient city like cracked bone. The trail ahead would only grow more treacherous.

  While Aehyl prepared the tea, Portean roasted a hare he had shot just hours earlier. They rounded out the meal with a few hearty biscuits from the Swiftfalcons’ larders, calories they would need to maintain their pace in the wilderness.

  They ate quickly and in relative silence. When the meal was finished, they took turns standing guard while the other dozed, content for the moment beneath the thick hush of the forest canopy.

  That night, the wind howled through the forest, and a fierce storm blew in, hovering low above the thick canopy, heavy with dark, roiling clouds.

  By morning, not an inch of either elf remained dry. The storm had seeped through even the thickest branches, soaking them to the bone. Miserable and chilled, they pressed on, scrambling over the steadily mounting ruins. By midday, their pace had slowed to a crawl as the storm intensified.

  Lightning tore jagged paths across the sky, illuminating the treacherous terrain in harsh, fleeting glimpses. Thunder crashed overhead, so loud, Aehyl swore she had never before felt it rattle the very earth beneath her feet.

  The wind lashed against them, wild and merciless. Though nimble by nature, even the elves began to fear that a single misstep or strong gust might hurl them into the gaping chasms that flanked their path.

  Shelter became a necessity. Even Portean no longer trusted his footing in the screaming gale.

  After a grueling search, they finally crammed themselves into a shallow nook beneath a jagged outcrop at the base of a vast cliff wall. The path ahead was impassable—the overhang too slick and treacherous to scale in the storm. So they waited, hunched against the rock, glum and soaked, praying the winds would break.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a bloody fire,” Portean muttered through clenched teeth, his sharp eyes scanning the upper canopy.

  Now and again, a flash of lightning illuminated the ruin-strewn world around them, revealing nothing but endless sheets of rain. The storm was relentless, and growing more dangerous by the hour.

  The wind howled with greater fury, and shattered branches lay strewn across the ruined ground. Water poured in torrents from the cliff above, making the footing outside their shelter slick and treacherous. Portean watched the heavy runoff with mounting concern, silently willing the rock above them to hold.

  “You’re a ranger, Wild One!” Aehyl shouted, using Portean’s warrior name. She had to raise her voice above the roar of the storm. “I thought Swiftfalcons liked the elements!”

  Terror laced her voice despite the joke. Her smile was forced, brittle, just enough to keep the panic at bay. In truth, she was certain the entire cliff face would collapse at any moment, burying them under a mountain of rock and earth.

  Grimacing, the ranger only shrugged, his displeasure evident. He was just about to reply when a sharp crack split the sky, deafening them both.

  Lightning flashed, brilliant and blinding. A moment later, Aehyl felt Portean’s weight slam into her, pinning her against the shallow wall of their meager shelter.

  The earth rumbled, ominous and terrible, like something ancient stirring from an eon of sleep.

  Then came the cacophony: crashing, thundering, grinding rock. The world roared around them.

  A scream tore from Portean’s throat. Aehyl felt him jerk, and then, suddenly, he collapsed at her feet.

  In the stunned haze that followed, time seemed to hold its breath. The storm slowed, as if waiting. The air crackled, charged with menacing energy.

  Could you smell lightning?

  Aehyl was certain she could. That sharp, metallic tang hung thick in the air as ancient energy rose from her chest, potent and unmistakable. It wrapped itself around her, familiar and terrifying all at once.

  Her hair lifted, slowly drifting upward, charged with static.

  Time stilled.

  She wasn’t sure whether the faint crackle of tiny electrical bursts sparking around her were real… or only in her mind.

  Suddenly, there was movement amidst the chaos outside her cramped shelter.

  An apparition cut effortlessly through the gale. The pelting, arrowhead-sized raindrops didn’t touch it. Tumbling boulders bounced harmlessly away, and falling branches crashed to either side as though repelled.

  Blinking in disbelief, Aehyl realized the being now stood within arm’s reach. Its face shone like a beacon, brilliant, impossible to gaze upon. It loomed vast and terrible, yet its form defied definition.

  An unnaturally long, bone-white hand reached forward and pressed gently against her chest.

  Its touch was silken barbs.

  She felt molten magma and glacial frost surge through her veins, agonizing and ecstatic, unbearable and divine.

  Every atom swelled.

  For an instant, she touched the beginning and the end of time.

  Ageless memories poured into her mind. She screamed in desolate agony, then sobbed with immeasurable joy. Emotion overwhelmed her, too vast to contain.

  As her vision dimmed and consciousness slipped away, a voice, both a whisper and a thunderclap, echoed through her soul, bearing the weight of eternity:

  “Chosen one, receive thy father’s gift….”

  Light exploded outward, scouring the dark and blasting away much of the rockfall.

  When the dust finally settled, there was no trace of the storm. Or its impossible caller.