The footprints on the barren landscape were dry and visible to even the most untrained eye. There was no mistake.

Ogres.

The human cadavers scattered from Forsburth to the borders of Aderbaal were the evidence of their gruesome killing spree. But that was not what made Gwydion open his eyes wide. The kingdom in Isaldor was too quiet.

There were no warriors who wandered the forest to fight the ogres off of their land. How could Isaldor not know what was going on in the rest of Aderbaal? It was strange – too strange to his liking.

Not even one soul crossed his path since he left the sirens’ lair back in Mazheven. There was no way the kingdom in Isaldor lost to such blood-thirsty beasts without putting up a fight or sending words of assistance to their allies – if not the deities -then the halflings and elves.

Strange, he thought, utterly strange. The king of Isaldor, Emin the Third, was not someone who would remain idle and let his people be hunted like prey.

As the minutes ticked, the druid became convinced that something terrible had befallen Isaldor. There could be no other explanation for this eerie silence.

The absence of warriors was just the tip of the iceberg. For all he knew, there was more to the silence than what caught the eye. It was the calm before the storm, indeed.

Or perhaps the storm had ended already and left behind a country in ruins in its wake. Who knew but the heavens?

The Broga Mountain was taller than most other mountains in Aderbaal. But it was not the tallest in Fayr or the biggest for that matter.

The chains of mountains in Gam’atron were much taller and the ones in Sál much more sinister and teeming with untold caverns where the ogres as well as the trolls lurked in the shadows to hunt the unsuspecting.

Although Broga was nothing in comparison to its giant and morbid sisters and brothers, it was the most known one among them in all of Fayr.

Known for being the hideout of the dethroned king of Fayr years before he slaughtered the deities in Boldizsár, it was a place marked with the unforgiven and macabre past and protected by the spirits who roamed on the outskirts.

After the dethroned king massacred the deities and brought great calamity upon Sawoldor, he went to Broga where he stayed hidden with innocent on his hands.

That is, up until he was lured out by no other than the one he trusted the most.

Gwydion was there, too, that day the dethroned king shut his eyes to the world and perished for good. It was at this very spot, to be precise, between two crooked trees on the mountain path, that the first and last king of Fayr was murdered.

He turned his face away and couldn’t bring himself to reminisce any longer. His heart twisted and turned with agony and guilt.

Staring down at his trembling hands that recalled every detail of that gruesome night, he couldn’t shake off the thought that every fibre of his being was a witness to his unpaid sins.

The sword that he thrust into his dear friend weighed him down, causing him to slouch forwards and shudder as if he was holding it then and there.

Blood dripped from the imaginary blade and coloured the blades of grass between his feet crimson. Yet the grimy liquid was not that of his friend but his very own.

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He shook his head until the sword disappeared from his mind’s eye, gone for now. But he knew that it would haunt him in his nightmares over and over again for all eternity.

He let his misty eyes wander from the crooked trees to the mountain peak, looking beyond the jagged mountain where he knew he would find the kingdom of Isaldor in the distance.

The capital of Aderbaal was the only kingdom in Fayr that bordered Sál. The only way to reach it was through this mountain path adjacent to a ripping river.

The river itself was the only thing that kept the ogres from crossing over to Aderbaal and hunting humans. At least, that was how it was for thousands of years.

The notorious river flowed through Broga Mountain and carried on to Isaldor before it streamed into the Sea in Gam’atron.

There was no way to cross it due to the strong currents, and so the only way to Isaldor from Sál was through this mountain pass.

If he was right in his suspicions, he should be able to find a sign of the ogres throughout the mountain pass. But he didn’t find any.

Even as he reached the top and looked ahead, all he could see was the towering towers in the distance.

The whole capital slept as if all light had been sucked out by an invisible force and shrouded everything in pitch-black darkness.

As he was about to return to the bottom of the mountain, he held his breath and shifted his gaze to the distance once more.

The dark towers lit up.

He thought it was the reflection of the rays of the morning sun at first, but then it lit up again. In a steady rhythm.

It took a while for him to understand that someone was sending a message over the river, as if they anticipated his belated arrival. It was a secret message only known to a few.

He, along with a handful of deities, were the only ones who could decipher it. The message was clear and concise. It was a silent cry that said ‘attacked.’

He baulked as he was about to rush down the mountain pass and cross over to the other side of Broga.

Not because he was afraid, but because the orders from the deities were loud and clear. He wasn’t allowed to enter Isaldor without permission under any circumstances.

And if there was one thing he knew as a servant indebted to the deities, it was to follow orders and do as he was told no matter what he thought of the matter.

Disobeying orders would not only cause him to lose favour with the Council but also put his immortal life in danger.

The towers lit up again as if they knew his hesitation, urging him to hurry. He swore under his breath. His legs became restless and he fidgeted out of control, unsure of what to do.

Someone had survived the hunt and awaited his help – and for all he knew, this person could very well be the only person who could tell him what had happened, and moreover, how it could happen.

As he was having these ruminations, undecided, something to his right caught his attention and paralysed him. Something that shouldn’t have been there.

A green necklace.

It reflected the rays of the morning sun, enticing him to come closer. His legs became numb with fear and he forgot why he came all the way up here.

The only thought that ran through his mind was how. How did this thing end up here?

He picked it up.

The shape reminded him of a glistening star, but two of its legs were longer than the rest, and there was a stone in the middle in the colour of jade.

His heart skipped a beat as he tossed and turned it in his hands. The necklace was as clean as the day it was buried deep into the soil near the Forgotten Forest a thousand years ago.

No man had lived long enough to find it, yet here it was, untouched like the day it disappeared from the face of the earth.

Gwydion stared up at the top of the mountain with a bated breath. It was not supposed to be here. He was the only person who knew where to find it, so how…?

Suddenly, the necklace came alive and illuminated the shadows with its greenish light.

Throwing the necklace as far away from him as possible, Gwydion sprinted to the bottom of the mountain without even looking at where it settled, too immersed in his own dismal mind to bother.

The mysterious necklace rolled down the mountain path until it landed right in front of the crooked trees, where the dethroned king of Fayr shut his eyes to the world.

Soon enough, it turned into a black rose dripping in crimson blood.

As Gwydion ran away from his past, the hovering ravens watched him disappear.

They followed him with their dark eyes and cawed so loud that there was no way Gwydion could’ve missed it.

But he was so beside himself that nothing cut through the silence apart from his throbbing heart.

The ravens flew across the babbling river and one of them picked up the black petal with its beak.

The petal turned into the shape of a necklace yet again and glowed in all shades of green like a thousand fireflies were trapped inside of it.

It then devoured the necklace and the two wicked birds flew towards Isaldor, following the rippling river to the unknown.

Their quest ended and it was now time to report back to their master in Gam’atron.