Gwydion grunted for himself as he heard the approaching footsteps behind him. That’s when he recalled why he avoided humans and why he should avoid humans, to begin with.

Magic deviated from the norms of Mazheven, and those who engrossed themselves with magic regretted it greatly.

Many wise men and women Gwydion knew wished they had never learnt the Teachings of the Past and Present due to the stigmatisation they were subjected to by their own kind.

That was why he hoped the boy would ignore what he had just seen and save his skin before it was too late to turn back time. But alas! He knew this wasn’t the case.

If only his delicate, weak legs could walk faster, then maybe the poor thing would give up and live his life like a mere human, who knew nothing of the world outside Mazheven!

It was too late to rue the day, however.

Gwydion peeked over his shoulder only for a split second and locked eyes with the boy, who asked him the very question that he feared all along.

He came to an abrupt standstill.

The poor fella bumped into him and then backed away to catch his breath.

As soon as Gwydion turned around to face the boy and to persuade him to think otherwise, the boy repeated his question.

“Please, teach me, kind sir! I- I want to know how you did it!”

Gwydion knew the moment the boy opened his mouth that it was too late. The grey-eyed boy was determined to learn the things he shouldn’t.

Even if he used magic to disappear out of sight at that moment, he knew the boy would use any means possible to get to Sawoldor on his own.

And surely he would end up being digested by the trees just like all other human beings before him without the help of a wise man or woman – or a druid like himself.

And if Gwydion were lucky, he would collect his bones and bury his remains before the trolls got to him first.

But if death was all that waited for the boy in the end, then he should’ve just died from the fall a few moments ago. Perhaps this was his fate, he thought to himself, to become a druid just like the handful of humans before him became in the forlorn past.

Although it was such a rare occurrence at this age and time. After all, only the rich in Isaldor could afford to send their children to the land of the deities – the great Salwodor.

It was, however, unusual for the poor outside of the capital of Aderbaal to enter Sawoldor through the recommendation of a druid.

But Gwydion was not just any druid. He was the most skilled druid in all of Fayr. With one mention of his name, even the locked gates of Boldizsár would open for the most dreadful of creatures that roamed this vast land.

He spent his entire life serving the Council of Deities, which ruled over the seven kingdoms in Fayr and had gained their trust over time.

He even conspired with them to become what he was today, although it cost him something precious – something that would forever haunt him.

Perhaps this was the real reason he didn’t want the poor spirit to follow in his steps and become a wise man.

“You saw nothing, child! You hallucinated only! That’s what you did indeed!”

“I saw the roots of that tree come alive, sir! I won’t pretend otherwise and so you shouldn’t either!”

Gwydion pressed his lips together. The last thing he wanted to happen happened. The boy pestered him like a moth unwilling to leave his side.

He should’ve turned a blind eye and left the boy hanging in the wind until he slipped and fell to his death so that the wolves and ravens would eat his flesh and chew on his bones! Nothing more and nothing less!

But it was too late to cry over spilt milk. The determination in those grey eyes was not to be mistaken or ignored.

Gwydion lowered his gaze as a strange memory flooded his mind. He had seen such grey eyes before yet could not remember where he had seen them.

Even the sparkle, the determination in those eyes, reminded him of something familiar yet foreign at the same time. It was as if he met those eyes before – before he became the wisest man Fayr had ever seen or heard of.

He shook the dire thoughts off. Having lived so many years – thousands of years – it was only natural that he had seen someone with such eyes before.

What bugged him, however, was this strange feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever he locked eyes with the kid.

He lifted his gaze again. Those same glowing eyes stared back at him and made the hairs on the back of his head rise with a shiver.

A sudden thirst made his mouth dry. For the first time in many years, he felt like visiting Forsburth, the Inn of the Dead, to get a drink and forget those haunting eyes that brimmed with sadness and despair.

“Don’t you know it’s forbidden to train druids? You must learn the secrets teachings in Sawoldor first and pass the requirements to become an apprentice.”

“Then take me to Sawoldor, sir! Please!”

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Gwydion sighed. He scratched his neck as his eyes wandered to a narrow trail leading out of the forest and to Broga Mountain.

Every second he spent here meant that the ogres killed dozens of humans. There was no way he could take the boy with him and track down the ogres and find out what was going on.

It was too dangerous to bring a child with him to such a place. For all he knew, the kingdom in Isaldor could be in combat with the beasts of Sál right now.

He was left in the dark, and the only thing he could do was to speculate. But one thing was sure: the forest teemed with the odour of death, and the rigid corpses scattered throughout the forest were witnesses to the massacre.

The stench of blood reached all the way to Sawoldor. There was no way Isaldor was still unaware of what was happening in the rest of Aderbaal.

And if there truly was a combat going on, as he so suspected, then it was neither safe nor smart to bring a kid with him. But he couldn’t let the boy stay here either.

Sál bordered Mazheven and the ogres most likely used the Forgotten Forest to get to the Broga Mountain and then, from there, to Isaldor.

Should he leave the boy here, there was no guarantee he’d be alive when Gwydion returned to get him a week or perhaps two weeks later.

There were just two options left. Either he had to fool the boy and let fate decide his destiny or take him somewhere safe along the way.

“A druid is not something you become overnight, child. It needs sacrifices, it needs sleepless nights. Can you bear to become dreaded by the humans, your own race, and be hated by all other races?

“Only the deities in Sawoldor know your worth and don’t fear your knowledge. So tell me, lad, do you have what it takes to earn their trust?

“Even if it means to let go of your past and entrust yourself in their care? And to serve them for the rest of your life without batting an eye, even if they ask for the head of your own mother?”

The boy lowered his gaze for a moment. His brows arched so low that his grey eyes almost disappeared behind them.

Gwydion held his breath. He couldn’t read the boy’s hardened expression. Did he scare the poor thing?

“I won’t need to, sir. Unless the deities want me to bring her back to life first.”

Gwydion shot his eyes open in surprise. An orphan, huh? He smirked. Never in his life had he heard such an answer from such a young boy before.

But the smile soon faded as something flashed through his mind, something that made him realise why he felt such unease around the kid.

He finally remembered where he had seen such grey eyes before, and he unwittingly shuddered.

The harrowing memory of a woman hanging from a tree lingered in his head like a parasite, sucking his soul bit for bit, before disappearing just as suddenly as it appeared.

He turned his flushed face away from the boy, who asked if he was okay. But he didn’t reply. He looked up at the purple sky devoid of clouds instead and noted that it had become night.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to regain control of his senses. It was only a coincidence, he reasoned, those grey eyes… There was no way it could be the same ones as he remembered.

Lost in his own thoughts, Gwydion didn’t even hear the boy ask a question for the umpteenth time until a pair of small hands waved at him with all their might, trying to get his dispersed attention and snap him back to reality.

“What are you called, sir?”

“Does it matter what I am called?”

“Of- of course not, sir! I just… I just wanted to know, that’s all.”

Gwydion wrinkled his nose, cocking his head. Something about the boy’s tone was laced with a mixture of angst and curiosity, yet he did not know what caused such distinct emotions.

“Gwydion,” he said. “It was given to me when I began my studies as a druid in Isaldor.”

“Then what’s your real name?”

“Aren’t you a curious one?” He couldn’t help but chuckle at how fast the boy replied to him. “Tell me your own name first, now that you have something to call me.”

The boy averted his eyes.

“I… I don’t have one, sir. A name, that is.”

“No wonder your curiosity,” he said, pausing for a few seconds before taking a second look at his dejected face. “So, did you really kill your mother and let her curse you, as the humans in these settlements say?”

The boy blinked repeatedly. The shock in his wide eyes was evident – visibly at a loss for words to say.

Gwydion cracked a smile upon noticing how taken aback and flustered the boy became, and was about to tell him he was only joking when the boy defended himself.

“I didn’t! Even if they say so, I- I still didn’t! I didn’t kill my mother!”

Hesitating, Gwydion patted the boy’s head to comfort him. He knew what went through the poor thing’s mind, though he couldn’t read it. Those sad eyes told him everything there was to know.

The humans of Aderbaal were wicked things, and all other kingdoms already knew this. Their beliefs and superstitious nature were more morbid than the mere existence of the ogres in Sál.

You see, it was rumoured among the humans that whenever a young mother died at childbirth, she cursed her own child and that naming such a child would bring a great calamity upon mankind.

Yet Gwydion knew this was nothing but a groundless rumour yet to be proved. But that did not hinder the rumours from getting out of hand and destroying the lives of thousands of children, who ended up committing suicide before the age of thirteen.

It was indeed a miracle this kid lived to be this old.

“Would you like one? A name, I mean.”

Flustered, the boy stammered, “I- I don’t deserve a name, kind sir!”

“Don’t you want it?” he said, adding before the boy could interject. “I bet you do. Just look at how flustered you are!”

The boy kept looking at his feet.

“I- I don’t need a name, sir.”

“How do you know you don’t need a name when you’ve never had one?” Gwydion took his sweet time continuing. “You’re not cursed, young man, if that’s what bothers you. I’ve seen many cursed souls throughout my wretched existence, and you’re not one of them.”

“I…”

“Do you think I’m lying to you?”

“No, it’s just… I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say no more,” Gwydion said as a gust of wind blew through the quiet forest and shook the shadowy depths to life. “I’ll give you a name.”

As he looked up at the starry night to search for a name, the howling wind whistled something in his keen ears, something that caught him off guard.

Like a puppet without its own will, he repeated those words he heard aloud and regretted soon afterwards.

It was a name he had sworn to never say again – a name which only a few knew. Yet how did the sly wind know it?

“Ha… in?”

The boy blinked and repeated the name with a smile. He beamed so wide that there was no way the druid could take back his words.

He scanned the desolate forest in a frantic state, observing the chilly wind, which disappeared out of sight just as suddenly as it came as if its only quest was to fool him into repeating the name of the unspeakable.

The same name that made him the greatest sinner and the most powerful druid in all of Fayr – the name of a once-beloved friend.

Was this too a mere coincidence?

He couldn’t say even if he wanted to.

“What does it mean, sir?”

He snapped back to reality.

“I wouldn’t know, child. I just made it up…”

He took the lead and picked up the pace, afraid that the boy would keep asking him about the name.

Peeking over his shoulder in a last attempt to take back the name, chills shot down his spine.

The boy smiled all the way up to his ears. He couldn’t possibly tell the boy he made a mistake, could he?

That brilliant smile never faded away from the boy’s pale face, it only became wider and wider as they walked through the narrow trail.

He never thought another human being, after a thousand years, would be called Hain. Indeed, he never imagined it even in his wildest dreams.

Yet, there was something else the druid did not know at that moment: that no human after the boy’s passing would be called Hain ever again.

Not because of the wisdom he was to acquire in the future, but because he was to bring the fall of Sawoldor at the age of eighteen.

The same age the dethroned king of Fayr lost his life at the hands of no other than his own bosom friend – a friend called Gwydion.