Present Day…
I let out a snort of disgust at myself. How easily I had underestimated her, blinded by my own arrogance. Her magic, though untamed and wild, was only a fraction of her true strength. And there I was, a fool, too consumed by my own self-loathing to see it. I had mocked her—no, I had mocked myself. After centuries of being twisted and hollowed out under Killian’s thumb, I had become a snob, obsessed with power, measuring worth by strength alone. I had failed to realize that what I needed from her went far deeper than her magic.
Killian’s abuse had shaped me into something less than human. Centuries of exploitation had stripped me of any sense of self, convincing me that my wants, my desires—my very existence—were meaningless. I had been reduced to a hollow shell, a puppet, at the mercy of a sadistic master who used me for his own cruel whims. My identity, my autonomy, had been nothing more than a distant dream, replaced by servitude and despair.
And then there was Lyra. The opposite of everything Killian stood for. She didn’t coddle me, didn’t pity me, but instead did something far more profound—she believed in me. She saw the shattered pieces of my soul and still, she respected my autonomy. She gave me choices. Not the illusion of them, as Killian had, but real, terrifying choices. The freedom to make my own path, no matter how flawed. And that freedom was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.
It wasn’t that I had always made the right choices, far from it. But Lyra never tried to control me. She let me stumble, let me fail, knowing that real freedom meant facing the consequences of my own decisions. And yet, despite my failures, despite my mistakes, her patience with me was boundless. She listened when I was ready to talk, accepted me for who I was, never judging, never trying to mold me into something I wasn’t. For the first time in what felt like eternity, someone saw me—truly saw me—not as a broken thing to be fixed, but as something worthy of care, imperfections and all.
It was that belief that set her apart. Where Killian had sought to control, to strip me of my very essence, Lyra gave me the freedom to be, to choose, even if it meant choosing my own destruction. And in that freedom, I found something I hadn’t felt in eons. A flicker of hope. A chance to be more than what I had been made into.
I grimaced as I stared at the tankard I had been absently twirling in my hands. Contemplating another sip of the abhorrent ale, I quickly decided against it, another mouthful was unthinkable. With a shudder, I set the vile concoction back on the table. If I was going to patiently wait for her to awaken, I needed a drink that wasn’t akin to kerosene.
Rising from my chair, I quietly opened the balcony doors. Lyra was still perfectly asleep in the massive four-poster bed. It was crafted from dark, sturdy wood, and draped with heavy, luxurious fabrics which were now a jumbled mess strewn mostly onto the floor, a testament to a night spent exploring each other and the passion that ignited us. Lyra had now turned onto her stomach, her uncovered back creating a gentle landscape of fair skin that caught the soft evening light. The lone sheet that remained was casually wrapped around her waist, with one leg peeking out invitingly. The sight of her, so peaceful and unguarded, nearly made me forget the atrocious drink I had just abandoned. Her beauty in the tender twilight was a far more potent and soothing balm than any ale could ever hope to be.
Leave her, I commanded myself with a grin, my thoughts briefly turning away from the splendor surrounding me. As I considered addressing my drink problem, I realized I needed a shirt to head down to the tavern. I scanned the room; Lyra had indeed chosen an exquisite place for us to stay—an ancient tabernacle beautifully transformed into a tavern. The room we rested in was a splendid chamber, dominated by its imposing stone architecture. High stone arches swept elegantly above, lending both grandeur and a palpable sense of history to our chamber. The walls themselves are adorned with rich tapestries depicting scenes of adventure and the vibrant surrounding landscapes, infusing the stern gray stones with life and color. The room was furnished with ornate wooden chests and intricately carved chairs. Large, leaded glass windows allowed natural light to flood in and offered a breathtaking view of the sprawling city below.
Complementing the natural light from the ornate windows, at the center of the room, was a large brazier hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Its flames cast a warm, flickering light across the stone walls, creating a dramatic backdrop for my unfortunate shirt. There it was, comically entangled in the chains above the brazier, looking like it had spent the night in a desperate battle for survival. With a final dramatic flourish, it surrendered to its fate and plummeted into the flames, turning my lovely silk shirt into expensive kindling.
"Gods damn it," I muttered, "I really liked that shirt." Near the entryway stood a large wooden cabinet, a beacon of hope for replacement attire. I quietly crossed the room and smoothly opened the cabinet doors. Inside, a collection of shirts awaited, each seemingly in competition to outdo the others in ugliness. With a mix of relief and dismay, I selected the least offensive option—a dubious honor for that shirt. I quickly donned it, eager to escape the fashion disaster I was now wearing. The sooner I could get downstairs, the quicker I could reunite with Lyra and rid myself of this cotton monstrosity.
Closing the wardrobe door swiftly but without a sound, I crept toward the exit of our room, making sure each step was as silent as the last. I was careful, too many times had a creaking floorboard, or a poorly placed foot betrayed me. As I reached the door, I eased it open, slipping into the hallway with the same quiet precision. Only once I was safely out did I allow myself the smallest sigh of relief.
I began my descent, navigating the winding flights of stairs that connected our room to the tavern below. The air grew warmer, the sound of distant music and chatter growing louder with each step. When I finally reached the bottom, I entered the transformed space of what had once been a sacred hall.
The tavern, now a bustling common room, had been born from the bones of an old sanctuary. Its high, vaulted ceilings soared above, supported by a line of towering columns, each one adorned with intricate carvings of gods and mythical beasts. These figures loomed over the revelry like silent sentinels, their ancient eyes watching the commotion unfold below. The lively hum of the room filled the space with life, the strum of lutes, the trill of pipes, the laughter of patrons mixing with the rhythmic clink of mugs.
To my left, what had once been the choir loft had been transformed into a secluded corner for more private gatherings. Plush seating lined the space, the heavy tapestries hanging from the walls softening the echoes of the festivities. The dim lighting made it a perfect hideaway for whispered conversations and quiet dealings.
Ahead of me, where the altar once stood in reverence, now lay the heart of the tavern—the bar. Crafted from the repurposed pews and pulpit, its polished wood gleamed under the dim lanterns, the surface worn smooth by the countless drinks served upon it. It stood as a symbol of the tavern’s rebirth—a place once devoted to the divine, now a sanctuary of a different kind, where spirits flowed freely, and laughter echoed through the night.
Approaching the barkeep, I placed my order: three carafes of Emberkiss Reserve. The thought of savoring a crisp, refined Ashmire Highlands vintage, so far superior to the stale ale back in our room, had my mouth watering. I imagined the vineyards, nestled among ancient volcanoes, where the rich, volcanic soil infused the wine with those deep, smoky undertones I craved. There was something hauntingly enticing about the highlands, both lush and treacherous, shrouded in low-hanging mists that would part just enough to reveal patches of crimson moss—the key to that rare ember flavor I’d come to love.
Along with the wine, I ordered Lyra a plate brimming with an array of cured meats, cheeses, and fruits. Alexander, our camp chef, was skilled with complex dishes, yet Lyra had an enduring fondness for the simplicity and variety of finger foods. The Bell and Bramble Tavern’s platter was just her style, overflowing with treats she cherished: pickled sunvine, bursting with a bright, tangy sweetness; plump moon drop grapes that melted on the tongue with luscious, deep sweetness; thinly sliced dried pork sausage, rich and savory; a wedge of creamy Ashmire Firewheel cheese, mildly smoky and just soft enough to spread; toasted almonds that crackled between bites; and soft, buttery buns. The entire spread was decadently topped with a thick, coarse thornbriar mustard and a generous drizzle of honey, weaving together a perfect harmony of flavors.
As I rattled off Lyra’s order, my gaze wandered to the chalkboard menu behind the bar, where the special caught my eye: The Wayfarer’s Bite. The description made my stomach rumble with anticipation—a hand-held flatbread pocket stuffed with roasted wild roots, tender carrots, and thin slices of spiced boar, seasoned with rosemary and cracked pepper. Each pocket was lined with a layer of herb cheese and topped with a spoonful of sundried berry relish. It came with a small bundle of ember cress salad, its fiery, peppery greens dressed lightly in elderflower vinegar. My hunger gnawed harder, and I quickly added one to my order.
The barkeep raised an eyebrow, likely wondering how I planned to navigate three bottles of wine and such a feast back upstairs.
"I’ll manage just fine, thank you," I responded confidently before he could voice his concern, ready to enjoy the wine and get back to my Lyra. As I waited for my order, my gaze drifted across the bar’s crowded, dimly lit interior. The patrons were a worn and weary bunch, faces lined with tales of hardship, eyes shadowed with stories too heavy to speak aloud. The air was thick with the somber blend of celebration and grief, a bittersweet tribute to those who had endured the recent battle—and those who hadn’t. Survivors gathered around tables, cups lifted in tribute, voices low as they shared memories of comrades who had fallen. Their laughter was soft, almost reverent, a fragile attempt to keep the spirits of the departed alive, to ease the emptiness left in their absence.
A small pang of longing stirred as I watched them. I couldn’t help but think of my own companions—those with whom I had fought side by side, the ones who had seen me through the darkest days and the fiercest battles. The memories flooded back, raw and vivid: blades flashing in the mist, the smell of iron and smoke, the desperate shouts echoing over clashing steel. We had all paid a price, and one had paid with their life. A moment of silence stretched as I wondered, fleetingly, where each of them would end up, scattered across the realms. Perhaps some found peace. Perhaps others wandered still, chasing the faintest hope of solace.
My thoughts were abruptly shattered by the barkeep’s return. "Ahem," he cleared his throat pointedly, pulling me back to reality. I looked up, startled, and realized I had to juggle more than I’d bargained for. A bottle of wine under each arm, a third clutched precariously in my left hand, and somehow, with my right, I gathered our assortment of food. It was a comical struggle, an awkward dance of trying to keep everything from toppling out of my grip.
As I made my way back to our room, each step felt like a trial in balance. I muttered a curse under my breath for not asking for help. How was I supposed to open the door without waking Lyra? She deserved her rest after everything we’d been through, and I wasn’t about to disturb her slumber with my clumsy fumbling.
Thankfully, as I approached the door, I spotted a small table nearby. Relief washed over me. Perfect for a temporary deposit. Gently, I placed everything down, freeing my hands and giving myself a moment to catch my breath. With a quiet sigh, I opened the door, hoping to slip back inside without a sound.
With the door finally open and out of the way, I gathered the precarious assortment of wine bottles and food once more, balancing the load as best I could. I stepped inside, the quiet of the room greeting me as I carefully maneuvered toward the balcony. Each step felt like a small victory, the weight of everything pressing down on me, but the promise of relief just ahead.
The moment I reached the balcony, I set everything down with a deep sigh of relief, the tension in my shoulders easing as the burden left my hands. The soft clink of the bottles and plates settling on the table was the sweetest sound I'd heard all evening. Finally, I could breathe again, thankful that I had managed to get everything inside without a disaster.
With a cheeky grin, I then proceeded to pour the offending ale from the tankard over the balcony—good riddance to that offensive ale. I doubt anyone would mourn its loss. Before I could enjoy my wine, I quietly moved to the balcony doors and closed them behind me. Returning to the table I gleefully pulled the cork from the first bottle of Emberkiss Reserve. This fine wine needed a moment to breathe, and so did I, after suffering through that blasphemous ale.
As I waited for the wine to breathe, its rich, complex notes slowly unfolding in the cool night air, I sank deeper into my chair, allowing the comforting anticipation to settle over me. Smiling, I unwrapped my meal with deliberate care, letting the warmth seep through my hands—a small, simple comfort that had been missing for too long.
The golden flatbread, soft yet sturdy, cradled a hearty filling that released the perfect blend of aromas with each breath: the gentle sweetness of roasted wild roots and carrots mingled with the savory, spiced richness of boar, a hint of rosemary and cracked pepper weaving through it all. I took the first bite, and the world seemed to still. The flavors washed over me like a balm, grounding me, melting away the tension knotted in my shoulders and quieting the weariness I carried. Each mouthful unfolded with a balance of earthy richness, the herb cheese melting into each bite, while the sundried berry relish brought a touch of bright sweetness—a small, unexpected joy in an otherwise comforting meal.
Beside me, the ember cress salad waited in its neat bundle, fiery-hued greens catching the last light of dusk. I picked at it slowly, the peppery bite of the leaves softened by the floral tang of elderflower vinegar. Every flavor took me back to simpler times, days untouched by the weight of battle and the ever-present hum of worry.
For a precious moment, I let myself slip away into the meal, into the quiet embrace of warmth and flavor. The distant murmur of laughter and voices from below drifted up like a gentle lullaby, weaving into the soothing scents of rosemary and the faint sweetness of berries. In this small pocket of peace, all burdens and worries faded into the background, leaving me alone with the simple, quiet pleasure of a meal, my heart steady, knowing Lyra rested safely nearby.
My thoughts drifted back to those early days, just after I first met Lyra, when our days were filled with the thrill of adventure and the warmth of shared meals. Each bite then had tasted like victory, every bowl of stew a comfort amidst the uncertainty. Lyra was as surprising as any magic I’d seen, each spell cast was a flare of energy, raw and beautiful, slicing through our battles with a fierce elegance. Her power was untamed, unpredictable, yet captivating.
But it was her kindness, just as wild and boundless as her magic, that truly shaped our journey. Allies gathered around her like moths to a flame, souls drawn to her compassion, each one a strange fit at first, yet perfectly suited to our group in ways I couldn’t see back then. What I once saw as needless burdens, stragglers who, I thought, might slow us down—had become essential parts of our story. Every skill, every odd quirk, became another instrument in the symphony of our journey, harmonizing in victories large and small.
As I reflected now, sipping wine and letting its warmth settle, I understood the gift of Lyra’s influence more deeply. Just as wine needed time to reveal its layers, so did her chaotic brilliance. Her magic, her gathering of unexpected allies, her heart, they’d all matured into something far greater than I could have foreseen, revealing their true power when we needed it most.
Weeks earlier…
As I stirred awake in my tent that morning, the memory of last night's revelations lay heavy on my mind, lingering like smoke from a dying fire. My thoughts sharpened, zeroing in on what I’d learned about Lyra. I had always dismissed the tale of Orysus’s mischief as mere myth, a playful story to entertain, never imagining that the child in that legend could be real. Yet, here was Lyra, her magic wild and capricious, more than just a talented sorcerer, she was the embodiment of that ancient story.
Lyra seemed blissfully unaware of the true origins of her power, as if the depth of her lineage was lost on her. She embraced her magic freely, reveling in its chaos, unknowingly defying her mother’s pursuit of perfection. In her freedom, she had chosen wonder over control, delighting in her gifts with a fearlessness that almost dared the consequences to come.
And then there was me. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that Orysus had cast me into her tale, whether as a burden or a gift, I couldn’t yet tell. The Trickster’s plans were as elusive as his whims, rarely revealed to any but himself, if even he understood them. I frowned, picturing him as an overgrown child, delighting in his meddling, completely unconcerned with the ripples his actions left behind. The thought left a chill in my bones, reminding me that I might be as much a pawn as she was, yet bound by fate to play my part.
The Friar's warning drifted back to me, words from that dim-lit tavern etched in my memory: “Beware evoking the temptations of the Trickster, Orysus. His ears are sharp to the sound of prideful boasts. Invite not his mischief lightly. Often harmless, yes—but always unpredictable. You may find yourself gifted with more than you bargained for, touched by his whimsical hand in ways you may not even understand.” That last line echoed like a tolling bell. "Touched by his whimsical hand in ways you may not even understand."
Lyra didn’t know—she couldn’t possibly understand. Orysus’s magic wasn’t in the spells or enchantments; it was in the hidden hand behind it all, the delicate thread of trickery woven into her very being. And that was the cruel brilliance of it: she was blissfully unaware of the trickster god’s influence. The lore I’d studied hinted at little more than fragments, with no ancient text or whispered tale shedding light on what might happen if one like her uncovered the truth.
My frustration grew, I needed someone who truly understood this type of magic, an expert who could decipher the delicate workings of the Trickster's hand. Without such guidance, I was fumbling in the dark, trying to grasp the unseen forces pulling us all into this tangled web.
My eyes widened with a spark of realization… Alexander might have the answers I needed.
The thought filled me with equal parts hope and irritation. Alexander—a man who could stroll through bustling markets with an air of superiority, hand-picking ingredients with meticulous care, fully aware we were running on borrowed time. The same man who, despite his ability to craft an exquisite meal that could soothe even the most battle-worn soul, somehow managed to spoil the moment by drowning us in his endless, self-assured lectures around the campfire. His voice dripped with that infuriating tone of superiority, each word a reminder of just how much more he knew than the rest of us.
He was the last person I wanted to seek out this morning, yet I couldn’t deny his value. Alexander’s culinary skills weren’t just a comfort; they were a rare glimpse into the softer side of a man usually wrapped in layers of verbosity and arrogance. And perhaps, just perhaps, his knowledge could offer insights into the mysteries of Lyra’s magic, the very mysteries that now threatened to unravel everything I’d been working toward.
I couldn’t let my reluctance, or my pride, stand in the way of that.
With a resigned sigh, I steeled myself mentally, preparing for the inevitable ordeal. I would have to endure Alexander’s self-indulgent wizardry, his tiresome explanations that would no doubt come with layers of condescension. But information was vital, and if he held the answers, I would tolerate it. Still, it irked me more than I cared to admit.
With a newfound determination, I rose from my bedroll, pushing aside the tent flaps with cautious resolve. With a deep breath, I stepped out of my tent, letting the cool dawn air wash over me. The forest unfolded before me, serene and radiant in the gentle hues of morning light, filling me with a surprising sense of peace. The towering trees stood like silent guardians, their branches wrapped in a soft, golden glow that cast delicate, dappled shadows across the forest floor. Moss blanketed the ground in vibrant green, dotted with tiny wildflowers that seemed to sparkle in the early light.
The sunlight filtered through the canopy, creating shafts that illuminated patches of dew-laden grass and glistening spider webs woven between branches. Each ray felt like a small miracle, lending a quiet beauty to every detail around me. The stillness was profound, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves as a light breeze stirred through the trees. Yesterday’s irritation began to ebb away, replaced by an unexpected tranquility that seemed to sink deep into my bones.
A gentle mist lingered at the forest floor, wrapping itself around tree trunks and catching the light in a way that made the whole scene seem almost ethereal. Each moment felt alive, pulsing with an understated magic that the darkness of night had hidden. I took in the scene, feeling a rare calm settle over me, as if the forest itself was offering a balm to the chaos and frustrations of the day before.
Stretching slightly, I cast a glance around the camp, hoping to catch sight of Alexander. But predictably, he was nowhere in sight. Typical. A flicker of impatience stirred within me, my eyes darting from tent to tree, searching for any sign of him. Just as I was about to let out a muttered curse, I nearly jumped as Lyra appeared beside me, her signature smirk hinting at some private amusement.
"Looking for someone?" Lyra’s Cheshire cat grin and the faint flush on her cheeks hinted at the lingering warmth from our conversation the night before.
I couldn’t resist matching her tone. "Ah, if it isn’t my chaotic sorceress," I replied with a mischievous smile. "Actually, yes, I am looking for something… or perhaps someone," I added, letting my gaze linger on her just a moment too long.
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"Oh?" she replied, her eyes gleaming, trying to keep her excitement under control.
"Yes," I continued, leaning in slightly, "have you seen where our loquacious wizard has wandered off to?"
Her expression faltered for a split second, and she cleared her throat. "Um, I think he headed toward the river to clean breakfast off his robes," she muttered, gesturing toward the kettle over the fire. "If you’re hungry, there’s still some left."
I couldn’t help myself. "Don’t worry, darling, there’s plenty of me for everyone who wants a taste," I teased, gauging her reaction. To my delight, her smile returned in full force, a glint of mischief sparking in her eyes.
"We’ll see about that," she purred, sauntering off with a playful sway, leaving me with a grin I couldn’t quite shake.
The banter with Lyra had lifted my spirits more than I’d expected, her quick wit and charm meeting my own in a way that felt like a dance. But I forced myself to focus—I still had to track down Alexander. Following the path to the river, I found him there, Alexander was crouched by the riverbank, his face a study in exasperation and grim determination. His dark brows were furrowed deeply, creating sharp lines across his otherwise dignified features, and his intense gaze was fixed on the stubborn stain that refused to yield to his efforts. His mouth, usually curled in a smug or thoughtful smirk, was now pressed into a tight, frustrated line as he worked the cloth between his fingers, scrubbing furiously.
A faint, irritated crease appeared above his nose as he muttered under his breath, his usual air of superiority cracking under the assault of this mundane challenge. Strands of his dark hair had fallen from beneath his broad, weathered hat, brushing against his forehead, which was damp from both concentration and the mist rising off the river. His usually proud, penetrating eyes, eyes that could freeze a person in their tracks with a single glance, now looked surprisingly vulnerable, almost desperate, as if he were locked in a battle of wills with the very fabric of his robe. The faint glow of magic in his staff cast a soft, warm light over his face, illuminating his furrowed expression and giving him an almost comical look of righteous indignation against the stubborn spot.
“By Valneas hands, why!” he muttered to himself. Despite his delicate efforts, the stain only burrowed deeper into the fabric.
I fought to hold back the laughter bubbling up inside me, but a faint chuckle slipped out despite my efforts. Alexander, caught off guard by the sound, spun around, fixing me with a glare that was both indignant and flustered. "Ah, Kieran, didn't see you there, my friend. I was, well, attempting to rid myself of this rather unsightly stain, and well...” he paused, clearly noticing the mirth in my expression, “you can see that, can't you... Is there something you need?"
His words, wrapped in his usual overblown eloquence, only fueled my amusement further. For a brief moment, I considered sparing him the embarrassment and walking away. But watching the great Alexander, so composed, so precise, struggle with a simple stain was far too rare a pleasure to pass up.
I pressed on, forcing a grin. "I suppose there's no use in beating about the bush; time doesn’t seem to be on our side these days." Before Alexander could dive into another one of his monologues, I quickly interrupted, "Lyra—"
Her name slipped out, and I found myself faltering, the words catching in my throat. "Lyra," I repeated, softer this time, as if her name itself demanded a gentler touch. A brief flicker of confusion crossed my face. Why was this so hard to say? Why had her name felt so strange on my lips, as if I were giving away something I hadn’t meant to share?
I cleared my throat, shaking off the unexpected weight of the moment. "I… I wanted to ask you about her… unusual magic," I finally managed, hoping my voice sounded steadier than I felt.
At this, Alexander's demeanor shifted from frustration to excitement, his eyes sparkling with the prospect of delving into arcane lore. "Ah, yes, yes! I had wondered when someone from our little group of misadventures was going to notice more than just her 'unusual' magic. Don’t think for an instant I thought that was all you noticed, aside from her beauty, Kieran. Her green eye is rather captivating, is it not?" he mused, now fully primed for a lengthy discourse.
Alexander leaned back, a wistful smile softening his usually stoic expression as he began his story. But instead of getting straight to the point, he launched into a detailed description of his nights in the Keep at Valdrathen, going back far further than I’d anticipated—or needed.
“My study was a sanctuary for any seeker of knowledge,” he said with a sigh, clearly lost in the memory. “Towering shelves crammed with ancient tomes, illuminated manuscripts with worn spines from years of use. Warm lamplight casting an amber glow on thick rugs and intricately carved tables.” He paused, his eyes distant. “And the windows—high and arched, looking out onto the stars, their light blending with the flickering fire in the massive hearth.”
I stifled a sigh, waiting for him to get to the relevant part. But Alexander was in full storytelling mode, savoring each detail as though he’d forgotten I was listening for something specific. It seemed we were going to meander through the entire decor and ambiance of his study before reaching the actual point.
A loving grin teased at his face as it softens further “Levia, my darling raven familiar, was always nearby, perched on one of the armrests of my richly upholstered chairs or on a nearby stack of books. With her midnight-blue feathers etched with intricate runes that glowed faintly, she was no ordinary creature. Her eyes, intelligent and gleaming, followed the lines of the books as though reading along, while she occasionally let out a quiet, approving croak as I unearthed some particularly fascinating piece of lore” a glint of sadness touches his eyes as he thought of Levia.
"Levia has a taste for mysteries, much like me," he mused, a glint of amusement now filling his eyes. "We would settle in for hours, just the two of us, the firelight dancing over the pages as we delved into the secrets of the arcane over a flask of Valdrathen Whiskey. The whiskey’s warmth was a fine companion, lingering on the lips, while our minds drank in knowledge as deeply as our throats savored that golden spirit. Each sip seemed to sharpen our thoughts, peeling back layers of understanding that, in daylight, might elude us."
It was clear Levia, as he described her, was more than just a silent observer; she was his confidante in the midnight hours, offering a silent, steady presence as he worked through ancient texts and explored forgotten magic. "Sometimes, she’d tilt her head," Alexander chuckled softly, "as if critiquing my translations or nudging me toward the right line of thought. A stubborn critic, that one."
Alexander’s voice softened as he continued. "It was in those nights that I felt… closer to the mysteries of magic than ever. The weight of centuries of wisdom surrounded us, the silence filled only by the crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of Levia’s feathers. Those were the moments when knowledge truly felt alive, as if it were revealing itself to us in whispers meant only for those who dared seek them."
"Alexander!" I interrupted, desperate to steer him back to the matter at hand.
"Ah, yes, sorry, Kieran, what is it you wish to know? I assume you have heard the parable. I could refresh your memory if it needs repeating..."
"No, no," I cut him off again, "I was curious," I paused, "if you knew what happened, if we maybe told her where her gifts came from?" Alexander's face turned incredulous.
“Have you not heard the parable in its entirety? Oh, for the love of all that Valneas blesses, does no one ever hunger for the entire story?” Alexander sighed in exasperation, then launched into his recitation with a solemn intensity.
“In the twilight of this tale, let it be known that the mischievous Trickster, Orysus, whose delight in the capricious and unpredictable knows no bounds, set forth a peculiar decree. Those who, by folly or fortune, become the unwitting bearers of gifts bestowed by his whimsical hand, must remain forever ignorant of their origin. For should the truth of these gifts ever pass from the lips of one to the ears of another, the teller shall find themselves ensnared in the very fabric of Orysus's jest. They too shall receive the gifts, but unlike the original bearer, who delights in serendipitous surprise, the teller shall shoulder the full weight of the prank’s burdens. Thus, the cycle of trickery perpetuates, entwining both gifted and gifter in a dance of fate and folly, a vivid reminder that some truths, especially those touched by the hands of a Trickster, are best left unspoken.”
He emphasized the final word, holding my gaze.
I couldn’t help but tease him a little. “So, you’re saying we should keep it to ourselves?”
Alexander’s expression didn’t soften. “If you’re eager to join her in chaos, Kieran, feel free to enlighten her—after we’ve dealt with our venom issue, of course.”
“Fair point,” I replied, a smirk tugging at my lips. But beneath the humor, I felt a familiar reluctance rising within me. There was more to say, more I could tell him, especially about that day we’d freed ourselves from the Serpenthir’s grasp. But the memory felt like a splinter lodged too deeply, and I wasn’t ready to expose it. Even if I trusted Alexander’s intentions, some things were harder to speak aloud.
I swallowed deciding I had no choice but to continue “There is… one more thing…” I trailed off, faltering again, uncertainty still tugged at my thoughts. Did I really want to pull him any further into this web of secrets and fate.
“Oh?” Alexander’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of curiosity lighting his eyes. I hesitated, wrestling with whether or not to reveal the truth about our escape from the Serpenthir. His brow furrowed as he waited, silently urging me to go on.
“It’s… about how we escaped,” I finally managed, my voice wavering slightly as I searched for the right words.
Alexander leaned forward, his focus unwavering. “Please, do continue, Kieran,” he prodded, his full attention fixed on me. “I often wondered how we were stirred from that dark sea of nightmares.”
I swallowed, feeling the weight of my words before they left my lips. I had already said too much, but there was no turning back now. “I was trapped in… a nightmare, as you put it. And then, suddenly, I was pulled into a forest. There was an elf there, waiting for me, surprised, yet somehow expectant, like he knew I’d stumble into his realm.”
Alexander’s eyes widened, and he edged closer, his voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper. “This elf, describe him. What did he look like?”
“Ginger hair, rough leather armor, golden eyes, and… an emerald pendant, oddly placed on his chest,” I recited, the details vivid in my mind.
Without warning, Alexander lunged closer, his hands darting over me in a frantic search. He tugged at my collar, ruffled my hair, spun me around, and patted down my clothes with the fervor of a man possessed.
“What in the hells are you doing, man?” I yanked myself back, glaring at him in disbelief.
“Looking for the green mark! What does it look like I’m doing?” he shot back, irritation flashing in his eyes. “It’s bad enough we have one touched by Orysus in our little group; we do not need another! God’s damn it, Kieran, you should have told me about his visit sooner. I might have cursed myself with chaos just telling you the end of that parable!”
Alexander sank onto a nearby boulder, a mix of relief and frustration coloring his face as he took a steadying breath.
I rolled my eyes, crossing my arms. “The next time a god graces me with his presence, I’ll be sure you’re the first to know,” I muttered, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “It’s not exactly an everyday occurrence, being chosen, pulled into a god’s schemes.”
At that, Alexander burst into laughter, his voice ringing out into the quiet forest. “Oh, Kieran,” he chuckled, shaking his head, “you don’t truly believe you were chosen by the Trickster, do you?” He smirked, his tone almost pitying. “A means to an end, my dear lad. Count yourself fortunate that Orysus’s eye was still fixed on Lyra.”
As his laughter faded, Alexander’s expression turned thoughtful, and he stroked his chin, staring into the river as if lost in the rippling current. “I wonder… what exactly Orysus is playing at.” His gaze sharpened with sudden excitement. “Perhaps a bit of research is in order! We could consult my books. A touch of study never hurt anyone!”
I watched as Alexander’s eyes lit up, excitement overtaking his earlier panic. I couldn’t help but sigh. “I hate to be the bearer of common sense, but we’re a long way from Valdrathen,” I said, shaking my head.
“Hmm? Oh, not that library,” he replied, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m talking about the one I carry with me.”
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Carry with you?”
“Oh yes,” he grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I have a bag of wonders back at camp. One can never be without knowledge at their fingertips, after all! Over my travels, I’ve visited many a library with an impressive collection of books, some of which may have found their way into my bag… purely by accident, of course.”
“You stole books from libraries?” I couldn’t hold back a shocked smile.
“Borrowed, Kieran,” he corrected with a dramatic nod. “I fully intend to return them… someday.” A small shiver ran down his spine as he added, “Though I’ll warn you, be wary of the librarian in Everdare’s Candlewick district. Her tongue is as sharp as her measuring stick.”
He shook his head, clearly recalling some narrow escape. As he looked down, he rediscovered the stubborn stain on his robes. Forgetting about the books and research he resumed fiddling with the stain once more. Realizing it was a battle he wouldn’t win, he gave up with a resigned sigh and stood to head back to camp. “We’d best rejoin the others before they leave us behind.”
“I’ll catch up in a moment,” I said with a nod, then hesitated before adding a quiet, “Thank you.”
Alexander gave me a brief nod, turning toward camp with a satisfied smirk. As he walked away, I couldn’t help but marvel at the layers of his tale. Even his quirks had quirks, it seemed, and there was something oddly endearing about his devotion to knowledge—no matter how unconventional his methods of acquiring it.
I shook off my lingering thoughts of Alexander and turned my focus back to Lyra. She was more crucial to my plans than I had initially realized—a key to freeing myself from Killian, purging the Nightcoil venom from my veins, and ensuring I did not become a vessel for chaotic, untamed magic. To achieve all this, I needed her to remain in the dark. Blissful ignorance would keep her unaware of the role she played in my schemes, and I knew it was essential for my plans to unfold smoothly. The weight of the manipulation and deception I’d need to employ pressed down on me, but my freedom was at stake. I’d let nothing stand in my way.
Resolute in my decision, I rejoined the group, who were finishing breakfast and studying a map sprawled across the ground. Lyra had acquired it from the druid grove—a token of gratitude from Sirthios, appreciative of our efforts to find Corran. The Satyr seemed to believe we stood a better chance of locating the missing Druid than the previous band of fools who had failed miserably.
I watched Lyra as she traced routes on the map, her face alight with excitement over our plan. That excitement only strengthened my resolve to guide her carefully, keeping her unaware of the role she played in my larger scheme. But as she explained her next course of action—westward toward a wizard tower by the river, near a ruined temple—I felt my patience fraying. Sirthios had warned us of the dangers surrounding the temple, the adventurers who never returned, and now their Elder Druid seemed likely to join the missing. It was clear we needed a strategy, but this… this was maddeningly slow.
As we huddled around the map, Emre chimed in, suggesting we take the nearby hills to gain a better vantage point, claiming it would give us a strategic edge. I couldn’t help but groan inwardly. They were so determined to turn this into a leisurely trek through the forest rather than heading directly to the temple and getting this over with.
“It will take hours to trudge through the forest scouting for vantage points,” I muttered, barely restraining my frustration. “We should just head to the temple doors.” But my complaints fell on deaf ears; not one of them even acknowledged my protests. They seemed utterly fixated on dragging this out with careful planning, as if strolling through the forest would somehow lessen the dangers we were bound to face.
“What a lovely day, let’s just waltz into the forest, take our time, smell the flowers. Surely the toxic venom in my veins will understand and wait patiently while we fuck around in the wilderness,” I muttered under my breath. “What could possibly go wrong?”
Lyra, however, was unshakable. Her gaze stayed fixed on the map, her determination etched into every line of her face. “We need to know what’s lurking in this area before we march into our deaths. Besides, we might get lucky and find the Elder Druid without even needing to go inside the temple.”
Gods help me, this dedication to reconnaissance was going to get me killed. Every instinct I had as a hunter and ranger whispered that they were right—that caution was the wiser course. But it didn’t make the slow, careful approach any less exasperating.
Present day…
My delightful wine, having matured exquisitely under the caress of the night air, was now in full bloom. I eagerly anticipated savoring a glass of this sinfully delicious elixir, its lush flavors enriched and deepened by the serene twilight. I was in fact so eager to indulge in this sinfully delicious libation, the fact that I was drinking from a tankard did not dampen my spirits.
I grasped the tankard, a remarkably ornate silver mug that seemed too sophisticated for a mere tavern. This vessel, crafted with the artistry befitting a noble’s feast, was shaped like a crusader’s helm. Brass accents highlighted its form, wrapping around narrow eye slits and embellished with crosses, adding a touch of solemnity. The handle, resembling a piece of armor, was intricately woven from what appeared to be chainmail, curving into the shape of an ear. This tankard was not just a drinking vessel—it was a piece of art, elevating my wine tasting experience.
The complex flavors of the wine pirouetted across my palate, its smooth, silky warmth gliding effortlessly down my throat. This elegant wine demanded to be savored properly, not rushed through like the harsh ale I had endured for the past hour. Despite the temptation to gulp down the entire tankard in one go, I reminded myself of the wine’s sophistication and poured another glass, determined to appreciate each sip. Resolving to slow down, I likened my efforts to the times I had tried to temper Lyra's fervor, as she, much like the wine before me, seemed intent on consuming my attention entirely and swiftly.
With a mischievous smile dancing across my lips, I found myself again slipping back into fond memories of our first evening sequestered away from the world around us after the Mother of Endless Constriction had fallen. My playfully annoyed girl, eager to dive back into our kiss that I had teasingly interrupted.
“Kieran...” she had frowned. I moved the hand that was cupping the side of her face quickly to her chin and tilted her face up to peer into my eyes.
“Yes, Darling?” I said firmly holding her in this moment. Lyra groaned with excitement like a deep sated desire was screaming to life in her body. She tried her hardest to pout, but I firmly cradled her face, gazing into her eyes with playful adoration.
"Mm, you're teasing me!" Lyra playfully grumbled, her pretend irritation failing to hide her amusement. Her feigned displeasure only made me want to keep my gaze on her even longer. It was, however, becoming more difficult to hold her in this moment, as I was quickly longing to have her lips pressed against mine again.
Slyly I answered her “Is there something you wish to chat about?” Lyra flashed me an impish grin, like a cat poised to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.
“Well, now that you've brought it up, I was actually hoping to delve into the utterly absurd idea of employing Wispwhorl’s to spark economic improvements, shall we adjourn to the balcony to discuss?” Lyra began to pull away from me, determined to head for the balcony. With no intention of letting her reach the balcony, I caught her wrists and pulled her back into me.
Lovingly, I wrapped her arms behind my head and gracefully traced my hands back to her shoulders bringing them down to rest at the center of her back. As I drew her in, I pressed my forehead gently against hers, enveloping her in a tender embrace, seeking closeness in every possible way.
“Gods, you’re beautiful,” I sighed breathing her in. Lyra smiled coyly knowing she had won. She moved her hands upwards from my neck and weaved her fingers through my hair. With a gentle tug Lyra lifted my head from hers and pulled me to her lips renewing the passion between us. An eternity would never suffice to savor the exquisite beauty of being lost in her kisses. I moved one hand from her back and began to absently run my fingers through the lacing at the bottom of her coreset again. This time I gently pulled one strand from its hook before I stopped to slowly run my hand under the satin of the coreset caressing her silky skin beneath. Lyra broke our kiss and pulled away quickly, I grinned and stepped toward her.
She held up a cautionary finger, "Time for me to take control... darling." Before I could utter a word, Lyra muttered a swift spell, "animates vestimenta sua!" I tensed, a flash of panic igniting within me, but it quickly fizzled out—no eerie green glow from her.
Exhaling the breath I hadn't realized I was holding, I quipped, "Wait, did you just try to animate my clothes?" I chuckled. Before Lyra could respond, my shirt began to wriggle. My arms jolted upwards involuntarily, and I struggled to lower them, but the shirt was having none of it. It yanked itself up, blinding me with its hem. Meanwhile, my shoes, now possessed with a life of their own, decided it was their turn for mischief, tying their laces together in a clumsy knot.
This unexpected uprising spurred my pants into action, and as they attempted their escape, I found myself staggering backward, tripping over my conjoined shoes, and landing with a thud on the bed behind me.
"Gods damn it," I laughed amidst the attack. The newly liberated rebels that were once my clothes seized control. My shirt, determined to ensure I remained blind and helpless, kept my arms and eyes covered while my shoes deftly untangled themselves and scampered off under the bed. My pants, slightly more sluggish than its compatriots, wrestled their way down my legs. After a brief tussle, they achieved their freedom and darted towards the bathroom, clearly not as brave as they pretended, fleeing as if chased by ghosts.
Once my shirt confirmed the successful retreat of its comrades, it slid off my arms and vanished into the room's shadows. Lyra, barely containing her laughter at my predicament, managed to get out, "Don't worry, it'll wear off... eventually." Lyra's laughter filled the air as I rose from the bed and swept her into my arms lifting her up. She wrapped her legs around my waist still giggling at me.
“Lesson learned, little love” I smiled at her. This time when I brought my lips to hers, I knew I wouldn’t let go. I carried her to our shared bed and placed her gently down on her back, never breaking our kiss.
As I stared down at the tankard in my hand, the fading memory of that night filled me with a gnawing regret. How utterly blind and arrogant I had been. In those first days—and if I was honest, even the weeks that followed—I’d allowed myself to believe I was invincible, that I could control everything and everyone around me, including her. Lyra’s unpredictable, magnetic nature had captivated me entirely, and yet, in my arrogance, I’d seen her as just another tool to be manipulated. The fear of losing her now twisted like a blade in my chest, a constant reminder of just how close I’d come to destroying everything.
I took a long, bitter swallow from the tankard, drinking more deeply than I intended, as if I could drown the fear gnawing at my heart. Leaning back, I closed my eyes tightly, trying to shake the memory of my own hubris, then exhaled slowly and opened them again. I pulled the chair across from me closer, propping my feet up as I let the reality of my actions settle over me like a lead weight. How close I’d come to charging into that temple, weapons drawn, straight into certain death—all because I was too blinded by my own arrogance to see the soundness of Emre’s plan, or the caution Lyra had urged. Even she, with her impulsive nature, had seen the wisdom in slowing down.
The corruption of power had fueled my arrogance. After centuries of deprivation—both of sustenance and the thrill of blood—I’d indulged in both with reckless abandon. And if Lyra hadn’t been there in that crucial moment to pull me back, I would have committed a grave mistake. The thought made me shudder. I’d would have risked everything and dragged us all to ruin. Worst of all, I still had the nerve to believe I was justified and right.
The bitter truth settled in my chest like a stone: I hadn’t been prepared for the obstacles we faced, and without my companions, I likely wouldn’t be here to reflect on my foolishness. The weight of my mistakes settled heavily on me. My arrogance could have been fatal, and if I wasn't careful, it could still cost me the one person I cherished more than myself. I’d been so blind, so certain of my control, that I failed to see how fragile it all was. The choices I’d made in my overconfidence had nearly shattered everything—and the realization tore at me.
One wrong step, one more lapse in judgment, and I could lose her forever. The price of my folly loomed over me, a constant reminder that my recklessness had brought us to the edge. If I didn’t change, if I let my pride dictate my actions again, I risked destroying not only myself but the one person who meant more to me than any power I could wield.
I pushed those thoughts aside, a small grin tugging at my lips as I took another sip of wine, recalling that unexpected encounter in the forest. I’d been so set on finishing this adventure quickly, but now I was grateful we hadn’t, or we would have missed stumbling across Rhys.
We’d found her mid-argument with a group of men, her voice echoing through the trees, loud and fiery. Rhys was locked in a heated exchange, arms crossed against her chest, her expression fierce, and her molten skin practically glowing with irritation. She was every bit the Emberdark Dwarf—a brawler from the Ashmire Highlands with a personality as intense as the flames beneath her skin. Her words, a mix of sharp insults and boisterous laughter, had the men shifting with irritation, clearly outmatched by her charisma and spirit.
Seeing her in action, I knew immediately that she was something. Rhys didn’t hold back; she was bold, funny, and fearlessly blunt, her charm cutting through any pretense. As we watched her, it was clear she was someone who’d throw herself into any situation, no matter the odds. And from that moment, I knew she’d add a spark to our group that none of us had expected.