Somrstad 14th 884 F.L.

(40 Years Ago)

The underground lair was dimly lit, the flickering torchlight casting eerie shadows on the damp stone walls. The air was thick with the stench of mold and decay. In the center of the lair stood three cages, each containing a captive: cunning Carver, his sharp eyes scanning for any means of escape; bold Violeta, her fingers tapping a silent rhythm against the bars, an act of defiance; and noble Hubert, slumped and bruised, yet still breathing.

A towering figure with a menacing grin and a cruel glint in his eyes loomed over them.

His name was Malachai.

He was a notorious villain in these parts for leading a splinter cell from the primary Orion army and equally known for his ruthless ambition and unmatched power.

Malachai reveled in the misery of his captives, his laughter booming.

“…And where did your challenge land you, eh?” Malachai sneered (he was in the middle of a long and exhaustive monologue.) “In a cage. Pathetic. You’re nothing more than insects waiting to be crushed under my boot.”

Around him, at least thirty of his lackeys stood guard, their weapons ready, eyes fixed on their captives.

"Nothing to say?" Malachai wondered smugly. "Heh. Can't say I'm surprised. At least you're not yowling ad nauseum here at the end. Yes, yes, I suppose I laud you: it is better to accept one's fate with a stiff upper lip…but it's incredibly boring for me."

He turned to one of his bootlickers.

"You," he said. "What are you called?"

"Me?" a woman's voice replied from beneath the same iron-gray mask Malachai had everyone wear. She pointed to her own chest.

"Yes, you," Malachai said. "Your name! Out with it."

"Kestra, Lord," she said.

"Kristin, I want you to acquire my bolt-rod," Malachai said, smirking at the three captured enemies. "I think they'll find it quite…shocking."

He chuckled.

The Kristin-formerly-known-as-Kestra raised a hand. When Malachai finally noticed, he cut himself off from his laughter.

"What is it, Kresseda? You're wasting time!"

Kresseda-formerly-known-as-Kristin-who-was-previously-Kestra spoke up quietly.

"Uhm, Lord…" she began. "You…uhm, lost your bolt-rod when you bravely threw it at that bear that turned out to be a bush."

Malachai simply blinked.

"Yes, well, it was dark—and to be fair, it was a very big bush!"

There were snickers from his assembled cronies, and Malachai wheeled around.

"Who's laughing?!"

That created a wall of silence.

"As I thought," Malachai continued. "Well, then…Kromula. Please retrieve my fire-rod so that I can—"

Suddenly, a swirling portal of dark energy opened in the corner of the lair. One of Malachai’s lackeys tumbled through, covered in blood, his face twisted in terror. He scrambled to his feet, his voice shaking.

“M'lord! We’re bein' attacked!”

Malachai’s grin faltered, replaced by a scowl.

“Attacked?" he turned to look through the scrying glass on the far wall. It was dark.

"That...makes no sense, you fool," Malachai continued. "Attacked? By whom?”

The lackey, gasping for breath, stammered, “The entire outer legion…all dead…wiped out in moments…”

Malachai’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Impossible!"

"B-beggin' y'pardon, m'lord...an,' not t'contradict you, m'lord, but I seent it wif me own eyes!"

Malachai's face drew itself into a simmering frown.

"How?! Fiends?! A dragon?!"

The lackey shook his head, tears streaming down his face.

“No, m'lord…weren't a dragon, nor fiends. Just one…one…"

"One what, you blithering fool?"

"One. Man,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Wif a g'gantic sword an' some sort o' orb floatin' 'bove his head.”

Malachai’s anger flared.

“One man? Impossible! We would have heard of someone with such power. Tell me the truth!"

Malachai squinted at the man.

"...You look like a liar.”

The lackey waved his injured arms frantically, clearly on the verge of a breakdown.

“I swear it, m'lord. Just one man.”

A dry, bitter laugh echoed through the chamber. Malachai turned to see Carver, a sardonic smile on his lips.

“What’s so funny, insect?” Malachai snarled.

Carver shook his head and glanced at Violeta, who stood with a newfound confidence. Hubert, battered and bruised, managed to slump forward and smile, though it was a cruel, knowing grin.

“He is back," the nobleman said through the cage's bars.

"What?" Malachai demanded haughtily. "Who's back? Make sense, bug!"

"We were not sure…" Hubert said, almost to himself. "He was so far away…”

Malachai’s face twisted in confusion.

“Who? Who in the hells are you talking about!?”

Violeta chuckled, the sound filled with dark amusement.

“Haven’t you heard of the Waking War?”

Malachai sputtered a laugh.

“The Waking War is a myth! Stories to scare children!”

He continued laughing and, noticing he was alone in it, turned to his now-thirty-one cronies and barked out, "Laugh!"

They all began to laugh, titter, chortle, guffaw, and chuckle at various volumes—even the newly-arrived-and-injured messenger gave his best approximation of a ha-ha (though it sounded more like a raspy 'ha…heh…urgh…he…he…).

Just then, the entire cavern began to shake violently. Dust and small rocks rained down from the ceiling. Malachai’s confident facade cracked, revealing a hint of fear.

“Oh, he ain’t a myth,” Carver said, his voice steady despite the tremors. “He’s as real as the blood on my shirt.”

As the quaking intensified and the lackeys started to panic, a deep, resonant roar echoed from the entrance. Malachai’s face drained of color as realization dawned.

Hubert grimaced with a smile, his mouth missing teeth.

“The Waking War has opened his eyes. And you made the mistake of taking his friends.”

---

Somrstad 14th 924 F.L.

(Present Day)

The journey across the water was mostly smooth.

The boat glided effortlessly over the gentle waves as it moved beyond the two massive cliffs that guarded Angler's Point. The sun's warm rays danced upon the water, creating a glittering path ahead of it.

Garrick leaned back against the boat's edge, his hands gripping the wooden railing as he gazed out at the horizon.

As he watched the glittering path of sunlight on the water, his mind wandered back to that fateful day more than twenty years ago.

The last time I made this trip...

He remembered the burning determination, like an angry fire in his soul, as he rowed furiously towards Dreamwood Tide, heart heavy with the weight of the task ahead.

Back then, he had been fueled by a thirst for vengeance, a desire to confront the darkness that lurked on the shore. Now, the memories flooded back to him, vivid and raw despite the passing of time. Garrick clenched his jaw, pushing aside the recollections as they reached closer to their destination.

This time is different.

There were, however, a few hiccups. The little craft was piloted by Colingsworth, a jovial man with a hearty laugh and a constant twinkle in his eye, who regaled them with tales of the sea, his stories punctuated by the rhythmic splashing of the oars.

"…Turns out," said Colingsworth, finishing his latest anecdote while barely containing his mirth, "it weren't a mermaid at all, but a manatee in a wig! Guess ol' Captain Barney had been trying to start an underwater beauty pageant. Said it would 'boost morale' and 'improve interspecies relations.' Personally, I think he'd just been at sea too long, and the loneliness had finally addled his brains worse than a jellyfish sting to the noggin."

Colingsworth's laugh boomed out, nearly capsizing the boat and causing Dashiell to grab onto the sides with desperation.

"Of course," the sailor added, wiping a tear from his eye, "that's nothing compared to the time I encountered a ghost ship whose sole crew member was some kind of monkey. 'Course, at first, we all thought he were just a suspiciously hairy dwarf…"

As Colingsworth launched into yet another improbable tale, Garrick watched the island grow larger in their view.

Guess it's about that time… he mused to himself. Hope Jettebi sees the signal. Otherwise, we'll be waiting around for a while.

It didn't take them much longer after that to arrive at their destination.

As they disembarked onto the island, Garrick, Tad, and Dashiell waved goodbye to Colingsworth. The ferryman tipped his hat with a grin before rowing away, leaving them to explore the new terrain.

The island, Garrick noted, had seen some changes since he last landed on its shores. What had previously been a barren scratch of rock had seen a bit of landscaping: odd trees and wondrous wildflowers now grew in abundance, and the air was thick with the scent of salt and earth. However, one thing hadn't changed. The towering lighthouse in the distance still dominated the landscape, its whitewashed walls gleaming in the sunlight.

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Dashiell, who had never been offshore before, stood in awe of the majesty surrounding him. The vast expanse of the sea stretched out in all directions, a shimmering blue canvas that seemed to go on forever. The gentle sound of waves lapping against the shore was a soothing melody joined by the distant cry of seabirds.

Except, they weren't seabirds. Not quite.

"Look at all those," Tad said, shading his eyes and squinting at the sky. "I don't think I've seen so many gulls in one place."

Garrick glanced up and cleared his throat.

"Those aren't gulls," he said. "They're crows."

"Crows?" Dashiell echoed, frowning. "Why are there so many here? And why this far at sea?"

Garrick shrugged.

"They've always been here. Something like guardians of the island. It's not far for them, though. It's home."

The crows cawed loudly, their dark shapes flitting between the trees and across the open sky. They seemed almost to dance on the wind.

Ember, nestled comfortably in Garrick's pack, stirred slightly but did not wake. The rhythm of Garrick's walk and the gentle breeze seemed to lull her into a deeper sleep.

However, the crows were the least of the views here. What was the most awe-inspiring sight was the perfect encapsulation of blue in every direction.

"It is truly incredible," Dashiell breathed, his eyes wide with wonder. "I have never seen anything like it."

Garrick nodded, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"The sea has a way of making you feel both insignificant and connected to something greater. It's a humbling experience to be out in its midst."

"I'll say," said Dashiell, and Garrick had to hold back the chuckle as he stood slack-jawed in one spot.

Likely the first time he's not been moving or fidgeting since he slugged down that Rejuvenation potion.

Tad, however, was on an entirely separate track. He darted around the rocky terrain, taking in every detail with feverish curiosity.

"Ooh, wow!" he exclaimed. "This is way better than the island I was on when I first got here!"

"You were on an island before?" Dashiell asked curiously.

"Oh, yeah! It was a doozy, though!" Tad explained. "First, these weird zombie-scorpion thingies showed up. I was all like, 'Aw, come on! I just got here!' Then whoosh! I'm in this dungeon. …I think? Anyway, there were arrows flying everywhere. It was like...like a pointy rain! I had to juke and dodge and not get hit—all because I grabbed some shiny golden sword out of an altar!"

He took a breath before launching back into his tale.

"And before you ask why I grabbed the sword, just know how seriously I take 'finders keepers' and all that jazz." Tad shook his head with a chuckle. "Anyhoo, then this big skeleton guy with blood pourin' outta his mouth shows up, all 'Raar, I'm gonna get you!' But I was like, 'Kick rocks, bonehead!' and showed him what for! After I destroyed him, though, I fell into a cave and twisted my ankle—Oh, and then there were these rats on fire! Can you believe it? I was hobbling away like, 'Somebody help me!' Extra not fun."

Garrick and Dashiell simply blinked at him.

"That was your first day here?" Dashiell clarified, his voice weak with disbelief.

"What? No. That was my first hour," Tad corrected. "What a welcome to…what's this world called again?"

"Dova," Garrick and Dashiell said in unison.

"Right, Dorva," Tad repeated, mangling the pronunciation with the confidence of someone who's never let being wrong stop them before. "But, it's not all bad. I got this sweet headband!"

He gestured to the red bandana holding back his hair. The one beneath the circlet he'd received from the Plane of Treasures.

"Alright, well…" Garrick began, gesturing toward the lighthouse. "Time's a-wasting."

As they ventured deeper into the island, their feet followed an ancient path, worn into the rocks by countless travelers making their way toward the lighthouse. The rough terrain forced them to pick their steps carefully, the jagged edges threatening to trip them at every turn.

The path led them through a small grove of twisted trees, their gnarled branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. The crows perched atop the branches, piercing eyes following the newcomers with interest and caution. The underbrush rustled with unseen creatures, their presence felt rather than seen. Occasionally, a ray of sunlight would break through the tangled canopy above, casting shadows on the forest floor below.

"Creepy…" Tad muttered, staring up at the birds.

"No need to be rude, Mr. Tadanius," Garrick said—after all, they weren't ravens. "They're just wondering what we're up to. No harm intended."

He considered that the unsettling part wasn't the crows. It was the fact that the trees weren't there the last time he visited. He glanced at the roots, which were a long-tangled mess thicker than his forearm.

Yet, they look as though they've been here for centuries. What's going on here?

The lighthouse served as a lodestar, guiding them through the landscape until they made it out of the thicket. It was a simple yet imposing structure, its height providing a clear view of the surrounding sea. The whitewashed walls were pristine, reflecting the sunlight and glowing warmly.

As they trudged along, Dashiell suddenly stopped, nearly causing Tad to bump into him.

"Woah! You alright, Dash?" Tad wondered, before his eyes followed Dashiell's gaze to a rather impressive hole in the ground.

It wasn't just any hole, mind you. This was the sort of hole that made other holes feel inadequate. The kind of hole that, if it were in a city, would have traffic diverted around it for years while politicians argued about whose fault it was and whether filling it with water would be a cost-effective solution. In fact, one wouldn't be far off in referring to this fissure as a crater.

"Sir," Dashiell called out, his voice dripping with the kind of curiosity that usually precedes statements like 'I wonder what happens if I poke it with a stick'. "What is this? It's causing the hairs on my neck to stand up."

Garrick ambled over, peering down into the chasm with a casual nonchalance. But as he looked, a faint energy pulse tickled his senses, like a mischievous ghost trying to get his attention.

Still ripe, he thought.

"It's an old scar," he said aloud. "From a battle long ago."

Tad, meanwhile, was sniffing the air like a wine connoisseur at a cheese festival.

"Smells like you, Garrick," he announced, his nose twitching. "Did you fall in?"

Garrick chuckled.

Seems they're developing mantle senses in curious ways.

"Not quite," the old man began. "The astara you sense is a remnant of my presence. This place holds memories. Echoes of what happened here."

Dashiell nodded repeatedly, though his eyes remained fixed on the fissure as if expecting it to suddenly grow tentacles and demand tribute. He bit his lip and drummed his fingers at his sides, the Rejuvenation potion still clearly coursing through him.

"It's powerful," he observed, demonstrating a talent for stating the blindingly obvious.

"It was a powerful time," Garrick replied. "But we should keep moving."

Better to discuss that particular instance once we're well away from here.

Though, was he imagining it, or did his own scar throb for a moment?

Probably not, he thought. That would make three times, and then we'd really be in trouble. It's still a coincidence at this point.

The path ascended gently as they left the crater behind, leading them towards the lighthouse's base. The crows had thinned out, but a few persistent ones still circled above, cawing.

When they reached the lighthouse, Garrick reached out to push open the door, which responded by not budging in the slightest. This was, of course, exactly what doors do when they're feeling particularly uncooperative. Or locked.

"That's odd," he murmured, frowning. "It was never locked before."

Before he could ponder further, there was a sudden clatter from above. A window creaked open, and a small head peeked out. It was a little girl with bright red hair, which was not, in fact, on fire, despite appearances to the contrary.

"What do you want?" she shouted down, her voice carrying authority and, more importantly, suspicion.

Garrick squinted up at her, surprised.

"Hullo, madam! Are you the lightkeeper here?"

The girl paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to decide whether Garrick was a particularly dim-witted adult or merely a very tall child.

"I am..." she said, the misgiving deepening in her voice.

Garrick found this peculiar. There had never been a dedicated lightkeeper before. Least of all, a child. He suspected something fishy was going on—though thankfully not literally, as that would have made the entire situation smell rather unpleasant.

"Well, we need to get inside," Tad called back. "Can you let us in?"

"We're closed," the girl declared, crossing her arms defiantly. "You'll have to come back some other time."

Tad called up, "Aw, come on! It's important, little girl! It's not like we're selling encyclopedias or something!"

The girl's face scrunched up in confusion, resembling a particularly pensive pug.

"What'sa... Ensy…en…" she paused. "What's that?"

"Big volumes full of stuff nobody actually reads!" Tad called up. "But that doesn't matter because we don't have any!"

The girl snorted, her expression turning into a smirk.

"Good, because I don't need any boring books. You got anything interesting?"

Tad opened his mouth to retort, but Garrick raised a hand, silencing him.

"We aren't here to cause trouble," he said in the tone of someone who's about to say something very reasonable and is preemptively disappointed by how unreasonably it will be received. "We just need to use the lighthouse very briefly, and then we'll be out of your hair."

The girl remained unconvinced.

"Why should I let you in? You might be bad people."

Garrick sighed, looking at Tad and Dashiell. This was going to be more complicated than he had anticipated. The island had changed, the lighthouse had a keeper, and now they had to convince a plucky, rambunctious child to let them in. But there was still something missing.

She reminds me of someone… Garrick thought to himself, his brain rummaging through its filing cabinets of annoying children.

It wasn't Twyla, his wonderful granddaughter.

She would never.

Nor was it his son, Skylark, whose rebellious phase had consisted of wearing his socks inside out for a week. No, this…

Ah, right.

It reminded him of one of Skylark's friends before Garrick had moved the family to Respite (from their temporary stay in Vanderton, a hamlet built near Highcrown). The relatively distant proximity to the child was not an insignificant part of the decision-making process.

Stip.

Even the thought of the boy now sent an involuntary pang of...whatever the name of the emotion causing one to want to grumble happened to be. Grumpiness? Exasperation? The overwhelming desire to hide in a cupboard until all children everywhere reached adulthood?

Stip was, for lack of a better word, precocious. Moreover, he was strong-headed at the best of times and obstinate at the worst. He'd often show up at the most inconvenient moments, offering unsolicited advice that was invariably unhelpful. Like when Garrick attempted to repair the communal hall roof, Stip insisted that using wet leaves instead of tiles was the way to go because "leaves are waterproof, right?" Garrick had briefly considered using Stip as roofing material instead.

There was also the infamous incident with the chickens. Garrick had been painstakingly trying to corral the flock back into their coop after they'd decided to explore the wide world outside. Stip had turned up (covered in dirt for some reason) with a brilliant idea to use a loud whistle to "scare them into submission." The result had been an explosion of feathers and frantic clucking that took hours to resolve and left Garrick questioning the evolutionary process that had led to both chickens and small boys.

Stip also had a penchant for playing pranks. One memorable time, Garrick had discovered his boots mysteriously filled with jam. Stip had insisted it was an accident, claiming he had simply "tripped while carrying it," but the mischievous glint in his eye had suggested otherwise. Garrick had simply walked the boy back to his mother with a very stern word that floated through one ear and out the other.

Even when he wasn't being actively troublesome, Stip had a knack for asking questions that Garrick didn't have the patience to answer. He'd once spent an entire afternoon asking why the sky was blue and refusing to accept "because it is" as a valid response. Garrick had eventually told him it was because the gods had run out of green paint, which had led to a whole new series of questions about divine color choices.

Now, standing before the lighthouse with this terrorist glaring down at him, Garrick couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu. He sighed, realizing that convincing this girl to let them in was going to be just as exasperating as dealing with Stip had been.

Whatever became of the boy? Garrick wondered, though he had to chuckle at the thought of Stip wandering into the woods only to be eaten by a particularly vengeful carnivorous plant.

One thing was for sure, though. There had been only one surefire way to deal with a kid like Stip, and Garrick hoped the results would be similar with this fiery-haired girl.

"Do you…do you know why someone might want to use the lighthouse, madam?" Garrick wondered.

"Not a madam," she protested. "And…maybe I do, maybe I don't! What's it to ya?!"

"Hello, young lady!" Dashiell interjected boisterously, calling up in the sort of voice usually reserved for talking to small dogs and distant relatives. "My name is Dashiell Montrose! What's your name?"

"Puffin!" she shouted down.

"Well, Puffin," Dashiell continued, "we need to get inside. It's a matter of great importance."

Puffin made a show of screwing up her face in concentration.

"Nah," she finally said, shaking her head. "Like I said—we're closed. For the, uh, season or something. You'll have to find some other lighthouse to bother."

Garrick sighed and stepped closer to the door, extending a single finger towards it. He had every intention of simply pushing it open, operating on the time-honored principle that locks were more of a polite suggestion than an actual barrier.

The door, however, had other ideas. It creaked ominously under the pressure.

"I wouldn't do that!" Puffin called down, her voice suddenly urgent.

Garrick paused, glancing up at her.

"Oh?"

"Ms. Puffin," Dashiell began. "Unfortunately, we need, for reasons that escape me, to access the interior of this lighthouse. Is there any way you would allow us to enter?"

"We're on a time crunch," Tad said.

Garrick tapped the door again. It had a considerable amount of give. Then again, with his level of 'oomph,' most things tended to give under his ministrations.

"I said, 'I wouldn't do that,'" Puffin said again, now dangling out of the window.

"Yes, so you said," Garrick chuckled. "And I don't want to scare you, but it is imperative you allow us to enter, young lady."

Dashiell, however, seemed to be persuaded by the girl's vague threat.

"What, erm, what will happen?" he asked.

"If you try that," she said smugly, "then you're going to make Pickles mad."

Dashiell frowned, looking up at her.

"Who's Pickles?"

Puffin grinned wickedly.

"Pickles is my friend. And he's not very fond of strangers."

Tad's eyes widened.

"Pickles? I had a hamster with that name!"

Puffin' frowned.

"What's a hamster?"

"It's sort of like a cross between a bunny, and a tiny, furry pig," Tad explained. "But cuter. Is that what your Pickles is?"

"You wish," Puffin said rudely. "Go ahead, try to open the door. See what happens."

"Puffin," Garrick began, taking a few steps back to direct his full gaze at the little girl.

Here goes nothing...

"I'm going to give you to the count of three—"

"Oh, to the hells with it!" Dashiell (still hopped-up on Rejuvenation potion) declared. "We've got places to be!"

It was an uncharacteristic action, and before anyone could do anything otherwise, or lament the choice of giving a young noble a concoction that would cause an inordinate amount of confidence, Dashiell had crossed the threshold and kicked in the door to the lighthouse.

"PICKLES!" Puffin suddenly shouted, the shrill cry echoing off the lighthouse walls. "INTRUDERS!"

A sudden, tremendous splash erupted from behind them and Garrick felt the ground beneath his feet shudder. He wheeled around.

From the roiling waters emerged tentacles. Not just any tentacles, mind you, but the sort of tentacles that would give any other tentacles within viewing distance a complex. They stretched at least forty feet into the air, writhing like party streamers from the nautical depths of hell.

As if this wasn't enough of a spectacle, a body suddenly breached the surface. It was scaley and gigantic and looked as if it had been designed by a committee of nightmare enthusiasts. At its center gaped a maw so vast it could have swallowed the lighthouse whole and still had room for dessert.

The creature released a tremendous roar. Windows rattled, the crows took emergency leave, and it was likely heard all the way back in Angler's Point.

Oh great, Garrick thought with calm, situation-accepting resignation. Pickles is a kraken.