When all was said and done, Kett stood in silence, the wind brushing dust across his boots. He no longer felt like a soldier nor even a man with duty. He felt like a leaf caught in the eye of a storm, and not the sort that passed with a summer’s anger, but one that shifted the bones of kingdoms and buried truths beneath broken earth.
Edran regarded him, arms crossed behind his back, golden pauldrons gleaming like polished arrogance. His eyes lingered on Kett for a breath too long, then narrowed slightly.
“I’ll leave one of my men behind with you,” he said at last. “One of my best, he’ll send me reports. Weekly.”
Kett stepped forward, trying to keep his voice even. “That won’t be necessary, my Lord, I can…”
“Nonsense,” Edran cut him off, too quickly, too smoothly. “You need all the help you can get. It’s a shame I can’t leave the whole company here, but we’ve orders to head northeast. The river bends into the mountains there, we’re to make certain there aren’t... further anomalies.”
Kett's brow furrowed. “Are you expecting something?”
Edran’s smile barely touched his lips. “No…But one mustn’t grow careless these days. It’s our charge to be watchful.”
Then, without ceremony, he turned and shouted, “Nyro! Step forward!”
A man broke from the line and approached with quiet steps, his armor polished but plain. He removed his helm in one fluid motion. He was not tall, but thick across the shoulders, and there was a silence about him that clung like damp air. His head was shaved bald, and his eyes, gods, his eyes, were the pale gray-blue of old water, still and lifeless, as if they had seen too much and cared too little.
“Yes, Commander,” he said, his voice low and steady.
“You’ll remain here for one year…write me regular reports and ensure the safety of the citizens. Keep things... orderly.”
“I will, sir.”
“You will answer to Captain Jorlan Kett,” Edran added, then paused. “But not as a regular soldier…you serve the Crown. If necessary, you may exercise that authority as you see fit.”
Kett bristled. “That’s not… ”
Edran silenced him with a raised hand. “This is for the protection of the town and its people, of course. We all want the same thing Jorlan”
The words were polished smooth, without edge, but they rang hollow. Kett could hear the sound of chains behind them, soft but present, like the ticking of a locked gate…he said nothing more.
But deep within, he no longer believed they wanted the same thing, not Edran and not the Crown certainly not the man with the puddle-eyes.
His mission was clear now, just as Torvil had said, stay put, observe and report.
Kett told himself it was simple, even tried to believe it, but something inside doubted it…deeply.
He stood a moment longer after Edran’s orders were given, eyes scanning the treeline as if the forest might answer. The tension hadn’t left his shoulders, his thoughts drifted toward Brann and Torvil, carried on the wind like whispers too quiet to catch.
Where were they now? Still on the road to Avenwall, most likely, it had only been a few days since they left, and the road was long, two weeks if the weather held. Sending a raven now would be foolish, no way it can find them on the road…all he could do was wait.
And waiting was not something Kett was made for, he was a soldier, a man of steel and orders, not silence and watching. But this was his duty now, whether he liked it or not.
He sighed and extended his hand toward Nyro. “We’ll work together to keep this town safe,” he said, the words carrying more weight than he meant them to.
Nyro grasped his hand firmly and nodded once. No words, no smile, just the grip of a man who understood his mission all too well.
Edran gave a single approving nod, as if that gesture alone sealed their fates. “Very well then,” he said. “Since matters here are concluded, we’ll begin our march to the mountains. May the gods shine their light upon Westmere.”
And just like that, they turned their backs and rode away, hooves thudding over the green grass, banners snapping faintly in their wake. Kett stood there long after they vanished behind the hill, watching the last shimmer of polished steel fade.
The light went with them, and he was left in the shadow of trees.
Alone…
Days passed without incident, each one folding into the next like leaves drifting on a slow stream. Then, one morning, Brann opened his eyes to the soft breath of green around him. A forest, smaller than Duskmire but no less alive, surrounded them in gentle hush, light filtered through the canopy like the gaze of a half-woken god, and to the east, where the land dipped away into haze, the towers of a city rose proud and gleaming…Avanwall, no doubt, a name he remembered, though only just, a city from maps and tales, not from his life.
He stared at it for a long moment, unmoved by the call of the spires. He felt no urge to enter its gates, no longing to walk its streets, it felt distant, even as it loomed just a day’s ride away.
Torvil’s voice broke the quiet. “We’re here…this forest will be our home now, and our training ground.”
They pressed onward beneath the trees, leading their horses through a thick tangle of underbrush and knotted roots. Torvil moved with purpose, brushing aside branches like an old friend returning to a long-forgotten path. The trees gave way at last to a small glade, green and still. A cabin stood there, leaning slightly as if tired, its wood dark with age but solid. Beside it loomed a great boulder, nearly three times the size of the cabin, unmoved by time or weather.
A stream ran to the right of the stone, singing softly to itself, and as Brann studied it, something caught his eye. The water bent around the boulder as if deflected by an unseen will, it did not carve its way through, nor follow the shortest path, but curved deliberately as if the stone had been set there by a hand older than the forest itself.
That, of course, was impossible…no man could have moved a thing like that.
Torvil said nothing of it. He tied the horses near the stream so they could drink and walked to the cabin. Placing a hand on the weathered door, he murmured something beneath his breath, a chant, a prayer, or a ward, Brann could not tell, the words were swallowed by the forest before they reached any ear.
When he finished, a gust of wind swept through the clearing. The leaves rustled, whispering secrets in a tongue no man could name, the trees bent ever so slightly, and then all stilled again.
Torvil turned back to them. “Now we are hidden…this glade will not show itself to any passerby. Even if they tread beside it, they will see only trees and shadow, the forest shields this place…we will not be disturbed.”
He pointed toward the door. “Go on inside, unpack what you must…I’ll raise the raven cage, I’m worried about what happened in Westmere”
The raven cages, rune-marked and old, were recognized by Kett’s birds, trained to fly to them as if returning home, Torvil strung it high in a thick-limbed tree, just beyond the edge of the glade, where its iron bars caught the last light of the day.
By the time it was done, the sun had sunk low. Evening spilled across the sky in streaks of gold and violet, and the forest cooled around them.
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Torvil set about making a fire, gathering dry wood from behind the cabin, and soon the smell of something rich and spiced filled the air.
He stirred the pot in silence, then glanced up with a faint smile. “We’ll begin after supper,” he said. “No one can learn on an empty belly.”
Brann nodded but said nothing. He saw it in Torvil’s eyes, that smile was worn like a cloak to keep the cold out beneath it, worry still clung like a second skin
The fire crackled low, spitting now and then as resin caught and hissed. The scent of pine and earth mixed with the last steam rising from their tin bowls. Shadows stretched long behind them, flickering with each shift of the flame.
Torvil sat across from them, legs folded, hands resting over his knees. His eyes moved from one face to another, Brann’s distant stare, Lysa’s quiet defiance, and Riven, who couldn’t seem to sit still for more than a heartbeat.
He opened his mouth once, closed it again. Then finally spoke.
“Do you have questions?” he asked softly. “Ask them now, and I’ll answer what I can. Once your curiosity is settled, we’ll begin laying the foundation. I’ll tell you what it means to live with the forest”
Brann said nothing. His gaze was locked on the fire, where embers danced like fading memories. Lysa held her bowl in both hands, watching the flames as if answers might rise with the smoke.
Both of them had talked to Torvil on different occasions and they have gotten bits and pieces about the druid life and their beliefs, enough to piece things together, Riven was the only one who didn’t know that much, Torvil had shield him as best he could until now, but the scoundrel had seen him a couple of times in the past, chanting or carving runes, how much he understood was unknown.
Riven looked up sharply, his eyes were bright with something fierce and foolish, the way only the very young could be, hope born too quickly.
“I want to create something…can we create creatures?” he asked, voice eager. “I’ve got something in mind, a friend, a guardian.”
He smiled then, wide and proud, like he’d already imagined its shape and name, already seen it beside them in battle.
Torvil blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and caution. Then, at last, he laughed. A full laugh, deep in the chest, not mocking but weathered, like a man who had seen too much and still remembered how to smile.
“Yes, yes,” he said, nodding. “It’s possible…in time. But that comes much later.”
Riven’s face fell slightly, confused.
“You have to learn to feel the energy first,” Torvil explained. “Then how to draw it, how to bind it to chants that don’t slip through your hands like sand. Then, you need materials, not just stone and twig and wishful thinking, true materials, bone, crystal…life. The stronger the components are, the stronger the vessel.”
He leaned forward now, serious again. “Every part matters. What you create isn’t just shaped by what you use, but by what you are when you call it into being. A creature of fear will act in fear. A creature of rage... well, you can imagine.”
Riven’s smile slowly faded, replaced with something more thoughtful. His fingers gripped the bowl tighter.
“Not fair…” he muttered, half to himself.
There was a pause, then laughter. Not cruel, not mocking, just honest, warm laughter, rolling out from Torvil and echoed by Brann, even Lysa with a snort she tried to smother. Riven’s head snapped up, eyes narrowed.
He stuck out his tongue in protest, which only made them laugh more.
“Alright, alright,” Torvil chuckled, raising his hands like a man surrendering a duel. “I’m just teasing you, lad, but you did give me a good idea of where to start the training”
The laughter faded into the hush of the glade again, night folding around them like a great green cloak. The fire snapped softly and Torvil’s tone shifted, low and thoughtful.
“You must learn patience,” he said. “This craft is not haste and hope. It’s structure, precision, soul and intent. The runes, yes, they can be combined in many different ways, twisted to form chants, blessings, bindings... or curses, but that’s only the beginning.”
He bent down and used a stick to draw three rough shapes in the dirt.
“There are three levels. First comes the frame, the runes themselves, these lay the foundation. They’re the skeleton of any working, simple or complex, you can use the same pattern for different tasks, but it means nothing without the second layer.”
He tapped the middle circle.
“Material, the filling or the vessel, you can carve the same runes into wood or into sand, and though the chant is the same, the result is not. The material breathes with the spell, its nature colors the outcome.”
He pointed to the last circle, and this time he did not smile.
“And then there’s intent or purpose, the final piece…the soul’s touch. That’s what gives the creation purpose. It isn’t just words and weight, it’s meaning that you can weave into it…greed, hatred, pain or courage, love and valor.”
He glanced at each of them, lingering a little longer on Lysa, then Brann. “In the end, every spell, every creature, every artifact serves a purpose. You decide what that purpose is, but purpose is no easy thing. The more energy you pour into a creation, the stronger the tie between it and your will be. The greater the scale, the heavier the cost, and the harder it becomes to finish the process, to bind it.”
He leaned back, rubbing his palms together as if brushing off ash. “Ah, I hope I’m making sense. It’s been a long time since I spoke of these things out loud. Teaching it is different from doing it.”
The fire cracked again. A branch popped and fell.
Brann asked “so the armies in my dreams the ones I battle, all those creatures…”
Torvil cut him off “they were simple constructs…strong materials but not very smart, the intent put into them was minimal, probably only hatred towards humans, the druid wanted an large army not a powerful construct… as for what we saw in the forest, those iron giants…those were something else, they had humans, real humans weaved into the construct…in theory they would be able of anything a human could do or feel but those humans were tormented, their intent, if I were to guess, would be only for it to end…life, pain, the forest that transformed them…so they would chose the path that benefited them most…that’s what made them so complex, they could come up with different plans on how to accomplish what they so desperately needed.”
Brann nodded in understanding “that’s why we need to get to the bottom of it fast.”
Lysa’s eyes flickered with the light of understanding, a thought taking shape “I have an idea,” she said happily.
“You speak of intent,” she said. “What if mine is to uncover truth? To bring secrets into the light! I want to explore this world, see what makes it tick, and leave something behind for those who come after, but I also want to help you dad, and I know I have no place on this journey with you and Brann, still I want to help. Could I perhaps make a map? Enchant a piece of paper so that what you and I discover is etched into it? Could it become a way of sharing information?”
She looked up then, and there was no defiance in her gaze, only longing, the kind that reaches beyond one lifetime.
Torvil took his time before answering…he stirred the fire absently with a stick, eyes on the coals.
“That would be… difficult,” he said at last. “Very difficult, the more you uncover, the more the map must grow. It would need space for knowledge yet unearned, borders yet undrawn. Your soul would be feeding that growth constantly.”
He looked at her now, the fire dancing in his eyes. “But there are more ways we can look at this problem...instead of turning the paper into a vessel, you turn it into a window or a lens, so to speak, one that looks upon our discoveries. It wouldn’t store the knowledge, merely show it, it would consume less energy that way, but the problem remains with saving the information for further analysis. A living archive, somewhere separate, must be created with its own power source, perhaps even a forest heart…a feat like that would be legendary.” His eyes were full of possibilities.
However Lysa’s brow furrowed, deep in thought, this project of hers would require a lot of moving parts that she had no idea how to create.
“The danger,” Torvil continued, “is that if you bind it to your soul, every new discovery will drain you, a little at first, then more, also if anything happens to you the lens would be destroyed even if the archive will remain, and there would be no way to connect to it. If you still wish to pursue this, we will need to think thru every aspect of it”
He saw her nodding slowly, lips pressed tight, her mind already drawing lines through the idea, testing it from every side.
He let her think and turned to Brann. The firelight caught on the scarred skin of his right hand, the one he kept half-wrapped even now.
“And you?” Torvil asked. “What path calls to you?”
Brann was silent for a time, his eyes half-lidded, not lost in thought but listening to something within.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “But this power… this cold in my veins, it never rests. Maybe I can learn to use it, shape it. If it won’t leave me be, then I should at least make it serve.”
Torvil’s face darkened slightly, he nodded, slow and grim.
“That power is what kept you alive, it shocked your body into motion when no other path remained. Without it, you wouldn’t have been able to bear the druid’s mark, but hear me now, it is not your power, it was created by sacrifice and I do not know the ritual myself”
The wind hissed briefly through the trees, and even the fire seemed to lower its voice.
“A power born through sacrifice,” Torvil repeated voice low. “Human sacrifice…that is not just cold, it is memory, suffering, drawn in and frozen. We must tread carefully, Brann, that path leads to corruption, and maybe even worse”
Brann didn’t flinch, but Torvil saw his hand tighten over his knee.
“If you want to channel it,” the druid went on, “it must be through your right arm, the binding is already there. You can craft a glove, a blade, a ring, even a shackle if you dare, but it must bind only to that limb, do not let it spread further.”
He leaned closer, firelight catching in his lined face.
“And for our training, you will try to use it as less as possible at first. You will draw from yourself in the beginning, from your soul. It is very important Brann, that we fortify your soul before we start channeling the cold, your soul must be your protective fortress.”
There was no anger in the words, only warning. The kind given before the ice breaks beneath your feet.
Brann gave a warrior’s nod, quiet resolve.
Torvil sat back with a breath, letting the silence stretch.
Three souls were before him…One reaching toward knowledge, one toward creation, and one toward the abyss.
He had taught before that he had seen many paths. But these… these were the ones that would shape the days to come.
