Myraden had expected their stay in Seisse to be longer, and that they’d venture deeper. Perhaps that she’d visit shrines or temples, seeking enlightenment from the ancients. Seisse was the closest nation—culturally—to the old South, and surely, there had to be some ancient wisdom to derive.

But the Hand didn’t think so. He’d just brought her here as a test.

Next morning, she retrieved Kythen from the stable, and they set off, continuing their trek northward. If there was one saving grace about only visiting a bordertown, it was that she wouldn’t waste more time than necessary in Seisse. They could still take a direct route to Ískan.

So they turned north and continued their trek, walking along the snaking river that marked the border between Plainspar and Seisse. To the west was a mountain range. At first, Myraden thought the clumps of pale pink trees on their slopes were fruit trees blossoming, but it was almost fall. That’d be impossible.

Then, more and more trees descended down the slopes, gathering at the shores of the river and clumping up along the high plateaus to the east. They weren’t deciduous blossoms, but rather, pine trees with pale pink and white needles—the same shade as a cherry blossom, but eternally in bloom.

When they passed through a cluster of trees, she tried to kick aside a fallen branch, and immediately regretted it.

The branch was metal. Coated in a film of black dust, sure, just like aspens, but its core was metal. Myraden yelped from the clang more than from the discomfort—her enhanced body absorbed most of that.

“Metal trees…” she muttered. “Wonderful.”

“They are Rumyne trees,” said the Hand. “These are young and small, but where the Eane’s fields are the thickest and where Ichor runs closest to the surface, they grow nearly the height of titanwoods.”

She ran her hand along one of the nearby branches. The needles were silky and soft, like a cherry blossom, but the branch below didn’t budge. It still had a bark-like texture, though—in fact, a texture much like the hilt of the Hand’s sword.

“Your blade,” she said. “Is it…”

“Yes. The swords of Seissen lords have always been forged from Rumyne trees.”

They emerged from the clump of trees, and the Hand immediately drifted away from the river, leading her up to a ridge where no other trees grew. He said nothing more.

It was going to be a long walk.

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Pirin returned to the Sirdian barges in a hurry. He landed Gray on the very front barge. Unlike other gnatsnappers, she didn’t need a runout anymore to slow down. With a flutter of her wings, she came to a halt.

As a side effect, they scattered heaps of cargo. Pirin could help clean that up later, but he needed to speak with the generals immediately.

High Field Marshal Theämir. The longer Pirin thought on the name, the more weight he placed on it. If they wanted the Aerdian army on their side, they needed the marshal on their side. He could help them. He could muster a force of Aerdian soldiers, loyal enough to Pirin, to help ease the gap between his numbers and the Dominion.

He jumped off Gray’s saddle and ran to the stern of the barge, where, under a tarp, the Sirdian marshals and weaveling commanders stood. They discussed minutiae of their attack on Vel Aerdeil, or the cities they’d have to pass along the way, or simply where they’d divide the armies after a successful push.

But they hadn’t taken the Dominion force into account.

Pirin sprinted across the deck, then jumped up the stairs to the slightly raised afterdeck at the stern and ducked under the tarp. “Chancellor Ivescent? Or Marshal Velbor?”

Both elves stood at the end of the table, and they both looked up at Pirin. “Is…something wrong?” Ivescent asked.

“You heard the news of the Dominion army?” Pirin asked. “From the scouts?”

“Word reached us, yes,” said Marshal Velbor. He still wore his armour, but now also a cloak. “We were expecting you sooner.”

“I went to investigate, and it’s true.” Pirin shook his head. “By my estimate, they’ll have their entire army ashore by the end of the night. The numbers the Aerdian rider gave seemed accurate, but beyond that, they…they have the Unbound Lords.”

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“Do we know where they’re going?” Ivescent demanded.

“I don’t,” Pirin said. No one else at the table provided any other sentiments. “But,” said Pirin, “there are two main options. They hit us in Vel Aerdeil, or they attack the Dremfell Wall. Either way is bad.”

“No matter what happens,” Nomad said softly from a corner, “our victory depends on one thing: your advancement to Wildflame. Now more than ever. If you can’t turn the Aerdians to our side, we won’t have the numbers, but beyond that, you will need to battle an Unbound Lord.”

Pirin nodded. His body wanted an outward display of anxiety, like gulping or letting his hands tremble.

But he’d done that plenty on the flight back to the fleet.

All that was left was resolve.

“I think I can help with that. I need a steppehawk.”

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Pirin sat at the stern of the barge, his legs dangling over the edge. The water was still a few feet below, and by now, the sun had set far below the horizon. Only the flickering torchling and lanterns lit the water.

A faint screech scratched his ears, and a hum resonated in his core. He winced, then said, “No, that’s not it.”

“I’ll add length to the resonating tail,” Chancellor Ivescent said. He stood a few paces behind Pirin, with a thick leather glove on his hand. A steppehawk perched on his wrist. It barely moved, except to turn its head side-to-side and observe its surroundings with curiosity.

The chancellor held a calligraphy brush. A glob of pale, glowing blue ink clung to its tip—a weak elixir for painting runes. He ran it down the hawk’s splayed tail feathers, adding length to the resonance rune. It’d match a wizard’s core frequency, and the hawk could track a wizard with it. It could deliver a message.

“Almost,” Pirin said. “It’s getting closer.”

“I’m sorry we don’t have Myraden’s core frequency recorded,” Ivescent told him.

Pirin cast his mind into the past, trying to recall the exact frequency of throbbing Myraden’s core. When she’d laid her head on his lap, or leaned on his shoulder, he’d felt it, even if he hadn’t consciously registered it.

But with the help of the Memory Chain, feeding it a touch of Essence, he pushed himself back in time to one of the many nights they’d spend together in the Featherflight’s crew quarters, until he had the exact frequency ringing out in his head.

“Ah!” he exclaimed as Ivescent slowly dragged the brush down the bird’s tail. “There it is!”

Ivescent pulled the brush away, then blew on the bird’s feathers to dry the paint. “It is ready, then. Do you have the letter?”

Pirin held up a scroll of parchment covered in his messy handwriting and poor spelling. Mr. Regos had never taught him to read, only to copy the letters he saw on the page. There’d been little time to teach Pirin, among all the other tasks.

It was only in the past few years, when Pirin had left his exile, that he truly had tried learning to read and write.

Pirin slipped the letter into a leather pouch, then tied it to the steppehawk’s leg. He patted the bird’s head, then said, “It’s good to go.”

“It will reach her in a week and a half, if the winds favour our friend here.” Ivescent raised his arm and clicked his tongue, and the steppehawk leapt off his arm, then flapped up into the sky. The beast reduced to a speck of blue, then finally faded away into the clouds.

“Chancellor,” Pirin said softly. “When you told me about the shipment of books arriving in the Tallas-Brannul Library…getting close to a year ago, now…were you trying to get rid of me?”

Chancellor Ivescent scoffed, then snorted indignantly. He opened his mouth, as if about to offer a rebuke, then shut it again. “I am sorry, Pirin, but yes. Yes, I was.”

Pirin raised his eyebrows. No sign of hostility, no tone of fear, like he’d been caught in a lie.

“You…would admit that?” Pirin cycled Essence, and it made his spirit flare, applying a pressure on Ivescent. “Even now?”

“I admit it freely, though I had no ill intentions. And I will also admit…I didn’t expect you to grow as powerful as you are now.”

Pirin called his Essence back to his core, relinquishing his hold on the chancellor. Now that he was back, there was little any of the other members of the court could do, even if they wished to hold onto the areas of control they’d sliced out for themselves in his absence. “You say you had no ill intentions. How?”

“Pirin, I have been chancellor of Sirdia for two decades. I am the second chancellor this nation has ever had, and we were the heads of state in absence of the king.”

“Forgive my asking, but how old are you?”

“Sixty-three season cycles. Old enough to remember a time before the Sundering, what our nation was before. I would’ve done anything to see Khirdia, land of the Summer Elves, restored. You were the key to that, and…my greatest soldier, my greatest friend wished for me to look after and advise you.”

“Your greatest friend? Kal? Kalénier?”

“Yes, your old sword instructor. Upon his death, he commanded me: ‘Do not lead him astray.’ ”

“And you haven’t?”

“Pirin, the only hope for Sirdia, the only hope to see my dream fulfilled, to live to a future where I can once again stand under a Khirdian banner, is with your strength. Yes, I purposely sent you away, purposely gained power. And selfishly, I suppose, for I seek nothing more than to see the days of my childhood restored. I want again to feel like I’m a sixteen season-cyle elfling. Without your strength, we will never accomplish that.”

Pirin exhaled. “I’m glad I can still keep my faith in you.” He reached out and clasped the chancellor’s wrist, but he couldn’t grip it as tight as he might have liked. He couldn’t bring himself to.

If it came down to the bitter end, would the chancellor give up his life for the cause? Or would he abandon Pirin to ruin and find himself another solution?