Woodlain Path is thickened woodlands with a trail moving between Yolten Village and the cities dear to us and Keepers Bay—where ships dock, coming and going between Wyl and the rest of the countries, islands, and everything between.

Centurion trees are the barrier between Keepers Bay and the peaceful homes on the other side of Woodlain Path. Any who try to enter must pass through Woodlain Path, for there is no other way around—unless a Dragon Rider. We cannot do anything about it but watch the dragon and master fly across our land, praying they do not burn it to the ground.

And if any try to go by Ocean Tili, believing they can sneak by on ship, the sea serpent, Juulis, will break the wood, splintering decks, breaking the quarterdeck, bending the hull, submerging any vessel that tires to flow freely between our protected barrier.

Stepping out of the portal, I pocket the Runic Stone and move across the tightened rope from one tree to another. My feet are light, held with grace and never heavy. The rope doesn’t bend when I move from tree to tree.

They weave around Woodlain Path for faster travel. And as I walk across the rope, I look down only to notice a horse and wagon. My ears twitch, listening to the sounds from below. The horse’s raspy breaths come into focus, snorting every few seconds when the wagon stops when someone moves in their path.

An arrow appears from beside me, drawing close to my ear. “Shall I loosen an arrow near the horse’s feet to rile it up?”

My frown twitches into a smile. Turning, I face the wood elf, Dagen, and his unturned, bright beam of a grin.

“Who are they?” I wonder.

“Human from Umitain. They brought twenty bags of dry rice in exchange for Wyl apple seeds.”

With a sigh, I step down from the rope, falling ten feet before I land on another and walk toward the Heart—the centre of the forest, where Woodlain Path elves reside.

Dagen lands ahead of me; hands shrugged into pockets on his leather riding pants. He has fair hair, cut short at his shoulders, with two braids parting the sides, curling behind his pointed ears. His auburn eyes crinkle when he turns to face me, alight with excitement.

“Did you succeed?” He scratches down his narrow, pointed nose.

I smile mysteriously. “I would not show my face in Wyl if I did not, Dagen.”

Leaves flitter down when we reach the tree. From above, Galan and Luvon land on the rope above ours, gripping branches and twisting around them and toward the Post Tower outside Woodlain Path. Rotation must happen more frequently, for the sun above shines too brightly for a transition.

“Because of the stir happening in Nerkactor, Norlon wants us to be extra cautious and alert. Hence, the early rotation you are witnessing, Inari.”

I muse for a moment. “And how is Norlon?”

“Paranoid… nothing new. But now that we have an egg, it may ease his haywire thoughts.”

My hands tighten on the straps. “I keep it, correct? He will not try to take what I risked my life for?”

Dagen laughs as he reaches for a higher branch, holstering himself swiftly. “No. Even if he tried and went to the maidens to bless it, the egg would rot.”

I bite my bottom lip, gnawing on the skin. “The egg has a crack.”

He hesitates when he reaches the rope, auburn eyes snapping at me. “What?”

Leaning against the trunk, I swing the pack around, unzip the top and take out the egg to show Dagen. From the branch above, he leans down, eyes narrowing when I show him the slight crack. It has not become worse, and the blood seeping out is now dry, like hardened sap on a maple tree.

“Did you…”

I shake my head. “No. When Rialdranth woke, I believe she must have accidentally stepped on the egg in her panicked state. I’d like to get it on fire as swiftly as possible if the dragon within the egg struggles to stay warm because of the crack.” I look up at the slithers of sunlight streaming down from the gaps in the trees. “There is a cold bite to the wind I am not used to. It shudders my bones.”

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“Wyl is the closest to Nerkactor, and the Kirninon do enjoy the winter bite more than any other.”

My frown deepens. “They are dead. Shadows of the Old World.”

We move through the trees again, heading deeper into Woodlain Path. The slithers of sunlight thin, and darker shadows drip across the mossy ground, where creatures creep, hiding in the darkness.

I reach for another branch when Dagen says, “When was the last time we climbed to the top and overlooked the stars?”

“Three hundred and twelve years?”

He breathes a bitter laugh. “Perhaps we should watch the stars again to celebrate you gaining a dragon egg.”

I smile tightly. “Very well. I will meet you at the Willow Tree to see if we can spot Juulis at Ocean Tili.”

Dagen reaches down to help me up, even knowing I do not need it. Perhaps it’s because he wants his next words to hold a thickness I am not used to and come from an old friend. “You do not want to meet underneath the Dusk Tree?”

“No,” I say crisply. “I’m not looking for a bond yet.”

He holsters me up, and when I land on the branch and move across the rope, Dagen believes it is the best time to persist in a conversation that’s disappointing me. “You did not bed another on your journey?”

“No… but even if I did, that is none of your business.”

He sighs. “It seems I am aggravating you. Perhaps I shall move ahead and tell Norlon of your arrival.”

I drop down to the rope underneath. “Yes. Leave me be. I sacrificed three already earlier today; I will not hesitate to do the same with you if you keep speaking of topics that have no interest to me.”

Dagen bothers me more than others in Woodlain Path. His intentions are clear. It’s… disappointing. Instead of being a friend, after three hundred and sixty years of friendship, he expects more now. He drops more hints than a drunken dwarf flirting with a barmaid. If he keeps going, I may end the friendship… or suck it up until the letter comes and tells me it is time to venture up The Voiceless Mountains, where the silent maidens live to bless the dragon eggs.

Yeah… I will bite my lip until I can free myself from his needy confines. Anything more and my stay here will become uncomfortable for both of us.

The ropes fade, and branches thicken, twisting with one another and forming bridges with sprouting viditan flowers. Blue and purple flowers that glow when sunlight doesn’t touch them. They light the way like lanterns, growing across the railings and twisting across the trunks of thickened trees.

A boy too young to trail across the rope runs down the bridge and inside the tiny hut moulded into the trees. Many more homes then appear the deeper I go, hanging from trees, bound and tightened, letting the branches hold it steady and sturdy.

Viditan flowers sing the closer I move to the Heart. The petals move, closing and opening, stretching the song farther with a sweetness only honey can provide. And with every breath the viditan flower makes, neon pollen dances in the air, spinning through the Heart and toward the only Hyperion tree… where Norlon resides.

A woman strains a smile at me when I hop down from the bridge above, landing on the railing near her home. She’s hanging damp clothes across the wire attached to the home and the tree, keeping everything knitted together. Her husband is on the roof, resting giant taro leaves across it to keep the rain from leaking into their home.

“Welcome home, Inari!” she calls.

I dip my head, the awkwardness getting to me when my face flushes.

All the bridges in Woodlain Path have a turn-off leading to the Heart. The Hyperion tree in the Heart differs from the other trees in this family. It breathes, pulsating like a heart in a beating, calm chest. It’s the only tree with nothing attached to it—no homes, rope or tether to the other trees.

Norlon lives within the tree.

An arched doorway leads into a room with blue ghost fireflies glowing with eerie blue light. It crawls across the walls, magnetic and awe-strikingly beautiful. But that’s where the beauty stops. The Heart isn’t a place I enjoy going, for within it, there are noises that crawl up my spine and make the hairs on my arms prickle.

The Heart groans, creaking like a haunted house on loose floorboards. A churning sound, as if the Heart is speaking, grates at my ears and tingles my scalp—not in a good way. It’s as if the Heart wants me to be on edge. It wants me to have this uncomfortable, heightened feeling and sharpened awareness as if an attack will come at any moment and to expect it.

And the further I go, the fewer blue ghost fireflies there are. However, an orange glow throbs in the arched opening on the other end of the tree to replace them. Stepping out of the blue light and into the orange light, it drenches across the earthly brown hooded cape, moss green tunic, tight mulch brown leggings and knee-high riding boots. It kisses the top of my head, causing the dark red strands of hair to burn as bright as fire in the dead of night.

On the other side of the hollowed-out room, Norlon rests on a throne made from the Heart of the tree. Bent roots, bark and moss entwine the chair, tall at the back, curving with adorned, glowing golden sap, lush leaves, and flowers that breathe.

He leans against it, flowy light brown hair falling over his shoulder, and the headpiece, a crown of flowers, rests on the top of his head. Norlon drips with everything extravagant: jewels, robes made of the thickest fur, and a tunic that runs like silk but is tough as chainmail.

Unsettling blue eyes drag to me, and once he sees me, he rises from the throne, and eager hands reach for me—the pack strapped on my back. Weary of his intentions, for they change day by day, I take a cautious step back, grip the straps and hold firm of the pack.

Norlon’s hands twitch, and he stops in his tracks, the light beam of a grin faltering at the hostility I hold for my father.