An hour had passed and the group found themselves warmed by the crackling fire. Alara had provided a hearty meal, which had left the group both disturbed and grateful.

“Where did you…find…” Loren trailed off, Alara dismissing her question with a sweep of her hand. “Don’t concern yourselves with the ways of a witch.”

“I thought you were a sorceress,” said Tristan.

“Sorceress, Witch, Seer, they’re all the same anyhow.” Alara smiled, but her eyes told a different story. Tristan shuddered, but the look had gone out from Alara’s eyes just as soon.

The group ate hungrily and received packs that were stashed with food rations and medicine.

“It’s a gift! I love giving and receiving gifts,” exclaimed Alara in a child-like fashion. “I saw your group approaching the city days ago - it was in the flames.”

“You knew we were coming?” asked Tristan. He suddenly felt like they ought to pack up and leave now. They should leave the packs behind, leave Alara behind, leave the city behind. He suddenly felt panic rise up in his chest, as if he might never leave the city. Was this all a trap? Had Basidin laid this trap for them? He wondered if Alara was trapped here too. Elaria was one big trap, like a spider finding a fly nestled in its web and unable to work its way out.

After the group finished eating, they follow Alara to a partly demolished building across the street. Tristan looked up at the stars as they went, wondering how it was still night. It had surely been more than a day that they had spent here in Elaria? Or had it? He couldn’t remember.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Alara said, gesturing to the modest quarters. “I’ve done what I can to make this haven amidst the ruins.” As they settled in, Alara led them deeper into the crumbling city. Finally, she stopped before a set of grand, ornate doors. It was splintered and damaged where handles used to be. Now the door swung loosely on its hinges.

Tristan turned to Loren, murmuring in a low whisper. “We’ve got to leave this place. This feels wrong.”

“Why?” whispered Loren. “I think this lady is so sweet!”

“She’s no lady, Loren. She’s a witch!”

“Keep your voice down, she’ll hear you,” replied Loren. She pushed past Tristan, a wide smile on her face. Alara led them inside.

“This was once the throne room of Elaria’s lord,” explained Alara, pushing the doors open to reveal a high-ceiling room. It was quite a cavernous chamber. The lighting was poor but Alara quickly lit the braziers with a sweep of her hand. “But now,” she continued, “this is my home. Quite lovely, isn’t it?”

The group stepped inside. Kenton was quick to close the doors, searching for a piece of loose wood to bar the door. Tristan knew he felt it too. There was still someone else out there…watching them.

The group marveled at the faded grandeur that still clung to the deserted hall. Tattered tapestries hung along the walls and a massive stone throne sat at the far end of the room. It was partially obscured by debris but the arm rests were littered with precious jewels and gems. The top of the chair had divots where jewels used to be set, but they appeared to have been stolen.

“This is where I have lived since the battle. I spent lots of time in here, mostly at the right hand of the city lord. Oh--how I forget his name! He died an awful death when this place fell. But even that detail escapes me…” Alara trailed off, her fingers running slowly over the handrest of the throne chair. She admired the jewels lustfully.

Tristan couldn’t help but feel a mixture of sympathy mixed with lust for the witch. Her memory has been faded…but how long has it been since The Rot settled here? Three weeks? How long have we been here? Before Tristan could continue his train of thought, Nothelm’s face flashed through his mind and then disappeared. He was left confused and unsettled. Something was off.

“You must have been through so much,” said Loren gently. She came up behind the witch and drew her into a tender embrace. “The Rot…it’s taken so much.” Alara turned, pulling Loren in close and kissing her on the forehead. Asherin and Tristan exchanged uneasy glances.

“The Rot has been a relentless foe, but I have not lost hope.” Alara eased herself out of Loren’s embrace, striding slowly down the steps of the high dais which the throne chair sat upon. “You see, I have been having these visions…visions of you, Tristan, and your companions.” Alara walked by Tristan, her lips coming close to his neck. “I have seen the role that you are to play in the fate of this land--the fate of Windem.” Goosebumps ran across the back of Tristan’s neck.

Alara gestured to each of them in turn. “Loren, Asherin, Kenton…Tristan.” Tristan’s name came off of Alara’s tongue in a lustful snare. “Your destinies are intertwined. Each of you have a great task before you.” The group exchanged curious glances. Asherin looked to Tristan, whose eyes were now far-off and glazed. Horny fool, thought Asherin. If that’s all it takes then we’re damned.

“What do you mean? Our destinies--what are they? What tasks must we undertake?” Tristan stammered his words out, suddenly feeling small and weak. His mind was like a rusted gear, turning and cranking noisily, but hardly moving. Alara moved closer, her gaze piercing.

“The Rot has ravaged this land, and King Tarren’s grip on power grows ever stronger.” Alara paused, striding over to Kenton. She lifted his shirt and ran a long and cold, bony finger over the scar on his rib. Kenton shuddered and moaned all at once. Her touch was delightful and shocking - her finger was cold as an icicle and yet healing and comforting all at once. “But there is a darker power spurring the King on--it is a power that is greater than the Denderrikans are prepared for.”

“Basidin,” said Tristan, suddenly regaining his sense of self. “It’s the Shadow, isn’t it?”

“The Shadow,” began Alara, “is just an illusion. There is no Shadow.”

“You’re wrong,” stammered Asherin, who was growing tired of seeing her companions fall victim to this charming witch. “The longer you speak, the more I begin to think you are in league with the Shadow.”

Alara laughed, then spoke with a booming voice that sent cold wind blasting through the throne room. “What is darkness but a shadow? What is evil, but a passing storm cloud that obscures the sun for a time, and then passes? The Shadow that you speak of is not the enemy, but it is the nature in which your enemy has taken hold.”

Kenton’s mouth was agape, his eyes dull. He was never one for deep sayings and quotes of philosophy. He yearned for an axe in his hand. Only then would his mind clear and eyes sharpen.

Alara continued, hoping to put Asherin’s resistance aside. “But you, you four, have been chosen to stand against the darkness. You are the key to unraveling the plans of Basidin and his Rot, and to restoring hope to the broken land of Windem.” Alara pointed at Tristan, “And you, Tristan, will make all the difference.”

“And what of me?” asked Kenton, still drunk with lust after Alara’s bony finger had caresse his scar.

“Your role is yet unclear to me, Kenton Wolfsblood,” replied Alara. “You have been kissed by wolves that cling to the Rot like moths to a light. Your path is mysterious and unclear to my ways of sorcery.”

Asherin’s nose scrunched and a snarl came over her like a storm cloud. That’s a load of weasel shi--

“The path ahead will be perilous,” began Alara, “but I have seen the strength of this group. It is surpassed by none, and only just barely matched by the enemy with which you seek. Basidin and his Servants, they are expecting you.”

“But how?” asked Tristan.

“She told them,’ said Asherin, clutching her dagger in her right hand. She was eyeing Alara crossly.

“I did no such thing,” replied Alara. She strolled back to her throne seat and sat down, crossing her legs and leaning her head back.

The group stared at Alara, stunned by the weight of her words. How far into their lives did these visions of hers extend?

Tristan spoke up, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You…you know about Basidin’s Servants? About our task to confront them?” He searched her face, seeking answers. Alara nodded solemnly, allowing her gaze to sweep him away with charm. Tristan battled another surge of lust. It coursed through him, driving down his gut and into his manhood. She furrowed his brow, desperately batting away his thoughts of lust. She’s seducing me, and she has succeeded, he admitted to himself. He looked on the witch again - noted her hair had turned a wavy blonde-brown color. Her eyes were dark and piercing (no longer blue). Her dress was sky-blue and white and a beautiful tiara sat upon her head. The rest of the group didn’t seem to notice.

Asherin’s breath had become heavy with disdain for this foul witch. She looked upon the witch with derision - her gray, stringy hair and her foul odor, which drifted from her place upon the throne and into her nostrils. Asherin peered at Tristan, saw his look of mesmerized intrigue, and then cursed quietly to herself. She’s more powerful then she lets on, thought Asherin.

“My visions have shown me much,” said Alara. “Including the one you have lost - Nothelm. He is alive, though he has found another companion of yours. One who is a Captain of the Guard. Do you remember either of them? I fear the Rot has clouded your memories.”

Tristan nearly broke. Amidst his conflicting feelings of lust and peril, he now felt guilt - like he had let someone down. Nothelm. His face popped into his head.

“Nothelm!” shouted Tristan. The rest of his group started. Loren covered her mouth in surprise.

“We forgot him! It was in the Whispering Wood,” said Tristan. “We were so focused on Kenton that we forgot all about him.”

Kenton was scratching his head. His memory evaded him. His scars leaked heavy liquid ooze. Loren shook her head, brow furrowed. “Nothelm…I feel like I should know that name, but it’s as if there’s a wall in my mind, blocking the memories.”

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Tristan turned to his companions, feeling a sudden burst of clarity. The mind fog of the Rot seemed to lift momentarily. “We have to get out of this city.” Tristan grabbed the pack of food and medicine that Alara had gifted to them. “Come on. Let’s go.” Asherin was the first to grab her own pack and follow Tristan toward the door.

Loren lifted her hands in protest, then followed them. Kenton trailed behind, one hand clutching his scar, black ooze dripping out from his fingers.

“Wait!” shouted Alara, pausing the group at the door. Tristan turned slowly, glaring at the witch. They must leave before she had her way with them--with her enchanting words. “Before you leave, I have one request.” Alara’s gaze settled on Tristan, her eyes like a torch igniting a dark hall. “I’m sure you are aware I cannot accompany you on your journey. My place is here, in these ruins…amidst the Rot and the corpses of Elaria.” She paused, sorrow evident in her voice. “But I ask that you stay with me, just for tonight.”

Tristan looked at Asherin, at Loren, and at Kenton. Their knowing glances all said the same thing. It’s time to go. “Look,” began Tristan before Alara cut him off.

“I have been so terribly lonely in this great city all by myself. Even if it is just one of you, that would be enough to warm my heart and send my spirits soaring for days and weeks.” Alara’s hot yellow eyes fell on Tristan. Her stare was suffocating. Unavoidable. Tristan felt a flutter of unease wash through him. Alara’s eyes bore into, searching the depths of his soul.

“Tristan,” she whispered now. Her whisper easily carried across the empty throne room. “I know of your lineage, the Blackthorn legacy that flows through your veins. You are a descendent of legends…your father--a hero of the realm,” she paused, her words coming out seductively. They drew Tristan in, but he knew they shouldn’t. His father…how did she know of my father? How does she know I’m a…a Blackthorn?

“Lay with me this night, Tristan. Lay with me, and I will deliver every pleasure imaginable into the palm of your hand. And,” Alara added with a wag of the finger, “you can even stay an extra night if you find my touch so irresistible.”

Tristan was sweating mightily. Every piece of him was suddenly attracted to this woman, this witch. Her stare was mesmerizing, her skin so youthful and creamy. Her voice--it reminded him of an early spring day where the birds are chirping and the sun is smiling down upon the land. Tristan took a step toward her. Loren reached for his hand. He yanked it away.

“Tristan! Don’t you dare take another step,” said Asherin. He paused, his head turning slowly. He mouthed the words before the sounds came out. “I’m going.”

Tristan walked forwardly slowly. His mind whirled. His eyelids felt heavy and his face was warm. The closer he came to the witch, the safer he felt. Turning back now would feel like stepping into a raging blizzard without so much as a light tunic. Tristan frowned, or at least he tried to. His face was frozen, his legs moving without his permission. Something felt…off. Still, he couldn’t ignore the lure. “I will stay the night, as you’ve requested.”

Alara’s expression brightened. She gestured toward a secluded alcove within the throne room. “Excellent. Then let us retire, and I will share my talents with you, Tristan Blackthorn.” As Tristan followed the witch, he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had settled over him. He entered Alara’s secluded alcove and the door shut behind them.

----

The sun rose. Asherin leaped to her feet, dragging Loren and Kenton up by the arms. “Come on, we’re going with or without Tristan.”

“But this is his mission, is it not?” asked Loren.

“This is Denderrika’s mission, Loren. In fact, I don’t see why Tristan agreed to any of this in the first place. I don’t see why Tristan and Dalko have such a strong understanding with one another. I don’t understand any of it! Now come on, let’s go! I’m sick of this place. I can’t even remember that damn witch’s name. The Rot is surely settling in, and soon enough none of us will remember our own names. Same will be true for anyone who doesn’t want to starve to death if we don’t make our way to the Plains of Ashara before those wicked servants do.”

Kenton stood still, dumbfounded, looking from Loren to Asherin, and back to Loren. He turned his head towards Alara’s secluded alcove. “They’re still in there. We can go check on them,” suggested Kenton, an innocence in his tone.

“Are you an idiot, Kenton?” said Asherin. “Tristan spent an entire night in there with her, and you want to go check on them? She’s probably set him against us by now. If we rescue him now, and somehow manage to avoid her dreadful charm, he’ll kill us in his sleep next chance he gets.”

“Or,” replied Loren, “they just laid together and that’s it. Just because he slept with her doesn’t mean it was anything more than what it sounded like.”

“She’s right,” said Kenton. “We can’t leave him. Dalko was certain that Tristan was the most important piece to our mission. And he’s got that spear…I forget its name now…”

“Myroniad, yes, we all know his magical spear that will eventually be a sword if he ever finds the rest of it,” said Asherin.

“He doesn’t have Myroniad anymore though. The Takers took it,” said Loren.

“Ahh, the Takers. I had forgotten what they called themselves. I can’t remember their leader’s name, but I will kill him if I see him again,” said Kenton. The memory of Darwin had drawn Kenton’s face into a snarl.

The door to the throne room burst open. It was Vitarko.

“Vitarko!” shrieked Loren in wild amusement.

“Where have you--”

“--where is he? The boy, Tristan…where is he?” Vitarko walked at a speed quicker than most could run.

“He’s in that room with--”

“--the witch? Alara?” asked Vitarko. A wild look was in his eyes.

“Yes,” all three said in unison.

“This is why you stay clear of the city,” muttered Vitarko under his breath. His cloak was torn across the back and blood crusted at the shoulders. The bottom of his boot had torn and was dragging under his feet as he walked. The sound filled the tall room.

Vitarko walked to the alcove, yanking the door off its hinges. Alara shrieked. Tristan gawked, a glazed look in his eyes. Vitarko withdrew his dagger, preparing to insert it into Alara’s throat. Tristan shouted, clutching at Vitarko’s wrist to stop him.

“Let go if you know what’s best for you. You’ve been a fool to lay with this witch. There’s no telling what kind of information she got out of you.”

“I didn’t tell her anything, I swear. We just slept--”

“--doesn’t matter!” growled Vitarko. “None of that matters--it’s too late. Basidin knows exactly where we are.”

“I have no relationship to Basidin, and no business with anyone from the Capitol. This was my city and when it fell, I stayed. That is all,” said Alara. Her hands were up, palms facing Vitarko. She warbled, her lip quivering. Now that it was morning, Tristan saw Alara in a better light. Either the morning had provided mental clarity, or her beauty had worn off significantly over the course of the night.

Vitarko hoisted Tristan out of the bed, tossing him to the ground. His bod sprawled and Vitarko gave him a kick in the back as soon as he began to rise up. “Your lucky we don’t have time to hash this out properly. We’re leaving. Now.”

“No,” said Alara. “If he wants to stay, he stays.”

“I’m sorry Alara. I can’t stay. He’s right,” said Tristan, backing away toward the door. Vitarko’s eyes were locked on Alara now, his dagger still bared and held with the tip pointed toward the floor. He was preparing to attack.

“Leave this room, and close the door,” said Vitarko.

“But--”

“--now.”

Tristan slid out the door, nearly tripping over nothing but gathering himself just in time. The door slammed behind him. A flash of light illuminated the room, which was followed by three sounds. One sounded like a shriek made by Alara, the other sounded like a grunt by Vitarko, and the last one left an imprint on the four companions that would never be forgotten. Nor would it ever be spoken of again. It was the sound of a blade searing free from its scabbard, followed by two heads thudding the floor and rolling to stop against the door. Tristan and the group ran to the exit, slamming the oak doors behind them.

“Someone else was in there,” said Asherin as they ran. She looked at Tristan. “Who was in there? What did you do with her all night?”

“I don’t remember! She had me under some sort of spell. The last thing I remember was standing before her throne and feeling like I was being pulled in against my wishes.” Tristan ran out of breath. They were sprinting down the main street of Elaria, dodging fallen structures and messy corpses which littered the streets with their old, dried crimson blood.

“There!” shouted Loren, pointing at a group of eight horses with two riders atop the first two.

“Horses!” shouted Tristan.

“And Nothelm…and the Captain, I forget his name,” said Asherin.

“Eamon!” exclaimed Tristan.

The group arrived at the horses, hurriedly cutting their reins loose from a lonely shaft of timber that was still staked securely into the ground. The rest of the structure had burned down, judging by the charred remains.

“How did you guys find us?” asked Loren.

“Vitarko,” managed Eamon, whose face was bloodied greatly. “He found me along the road. I managed to find the Takers and…” struggling, Eamon withdrew a long spear with a sword blade fastened to the end of it. “Here, I managed to get this back. I know it’s important,” he wheezed, falling back onto his horse and hugging the mane.

“My spear,” began Tristan. He ran his hand along its smooth shaft, admiring the sword’s blade which was fastened securely at the end by leather. “Myroniad.”

“And what about you?” asked Loren, looking pointedly at Nothelm. He, too, bore the marks of hardship, though his marks appeared more like whiplashes and scratches. They covered him head to toe.

“You guys left me to die in the Whispering Wood. I was chased by those wolves. The black ones,” he gestured to Kenton, his scars glowing white light. “They never got me like they did Kenton there. But those woods got me real good. Lots of twigs, thorns, sharp brush and weed. Vitarko found me lying in some thick brush after nearly two days. I was too weak and thirsty to move.”

“Alright--we’ll have time to talk later, but we’d better get out of the city. This place has some dark magic within it,” said Tristan, positioning his horse at the lead. “Wait, Eamon, where’s the rest of your guard?”

Eamon gave a curt nod of the head, pursuing his lips. “They, uh…they didn’t make it. The Takers…Darwin…there were too many of them, but we had a plan. Didn’t quite work out, but I was fortunate to get away. Turns out, they had dropped your spear outside of their camp by accident. I happened upon it as I was sneaking away. Long story--I’ll tell you later.”

“What about Vitarko, is he coming?” asked Nothelm.

“No,” replied Tristan. “I don’t suspect we’ll be seeing him again. Same as Eamon said--long story. I’ll tell you later.” Nothelm’s face fell. He cursed. It didn’t hurt to have an Ascendian around. In fact, it was their only safeguard against whatever foul magic was lurking out there.

The group rode off, the horses’ hooves clicking against the cobblestone in a rhythmic click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. They finally emerged from the rear gate which had been busted down by force and splintered into hundred pieces. Elaria was behind them.

“Where to now?” asked Nothelm, delighted to be back with the group.

“To Granite Ford,” said Tristan. “Once we get through Granite Ford, we’ll be past the worst of our obstacles, I hope.”

“Granite Ford requires a toll for travelers to get by. Be prepared to pay handsomely for a quick crossing,” murmured Eamon. He was still hunched over in his saddle, relying on his grasp on the horses’ mane to keep him upright.

Tristan smiled as the wind whipped at his hair. The horses were well fed and full of youthful energy. He wondered where Vitarko had found them. He considered asking Nothelm or Eamon if they knew, and then decided against it. The quiet was nice for a change. Besides, they would camp for the night soon and they could swap tales then. His hand reached back, grasping where his spear, Myroniad, rested in its old place. He smiled. Everything was going to be alright. They’d made it past the witch of Elaria.

----

Shiv grabbed Vitarko’s head by the hair. Blood drained from the bottom of the head where it had been severed with one fell swoop of his sword. He tossed the head to the floor carelessly. It rolled and bobbled, coming to stop beside the witch’s head. It wasn’t the head he had hoped for. He still hunted for the one whom King Tarren had asked for. Tristan Blackthorn.

Shiv cursed, kicking down the door to Alara’s alcove. He sheathed his sword and went for his obsidian dagger, then realized it was already in his left hand. He growled, then yelled. He yelled not because he’d been outwitted, and not because they had gotten away. No - he knew exactly where they had gone and where they were intending to go. He yelled because this was going to take longer than he’d expected, and that meant another night in the cold and another night away from his warm and secluded spot in his favorite tavern with a tankard of ale in his hand. He found his black and white spotted horse and gave her a firm patt, rubbing her mane and giving her a light kiss.

Shiv held his horse’s mane in his two hands, pushing her forehead against hers. He whispered, “When I find this bastard and bring him before the King, I’m going to demand a bonus. A nice, big..bonus.”