After only a few minutes in the Nest Cove, Daphne decided that human structures could suck it.

According to the lore that she wrote, the griffin tribes had once been spread all over the mountain ranges. Since the rise of the Wordmaster, their territory had been shrinking little by little. The home of Hyddrun’s youth had barely encompassed two mountains, with the valley in between. Now the few remaining griffins did not dare leave the single peak where the Hall of Parables stood. This had always been the heart of griffen-dom, the seat of their ancestral homes and the origin of the tunnels to the Under Library. It was a fitting place for the last surviving stronghold of those who followed the ancient ways.

Daphne knew all this going in. Other than the shockingly small number of surviving Lorists, not to mention their decidedly pessimistic outlook, it was all part of her original world building. She had journeyed through the tunnels, fully expecting to be blown away by delighted awe when she reached the end.

Even so, she wasn’t prepared.

It wasn’t that the griffins’ current living situation was particularly grand or elegant. If anything, the obviously small remnants of previous grandeur were a little sad. But it all felt… deep. True. Rooted in story and positively thrumming with lore.

Ancient.

That was the best Daphne could explain it, even to herself. She thought Runar understood. She definitely got a sense of ‘Yeah…’ flowing along their emotional link as they soared together from the Hall of Parables, passing a library and some orchards and even a walled garden in a state of disrepair. Like all of Euloban, the griffins’ entire existence was so much MORE than she had ever envisioned, even when compared to her most wild author-flights of imaginative fancy. More beautiful. More rich. More real.

This is what I was trying to capture in those books, Daphne thought sadly. Never even came close. No wonder they never went anywhere.

The Prism buzzed sympathetically in her pocket.

For the umpteenth time, Daphne wondered why the magic fountain pen had come to her when it did. By the time the Prism showed up, she was already past the grieving process for the failed Rise of the Wordmaster series. Put another way, she was doing a good job of pretending to herself that she was over it. She suspected Mark hadn’t been fooled. Regardless, it was too late for the Prism to work its wonders for Euloban. All that power had channeled into Lizards in Space instead.

This was the better world, Daphne observed to the pen. Why couldn’t you have shown up, like, one year earlier? You’re wasted on Lizards in Space.

As usual, the Prism gave no reply. It just buzzed in her pocket. Still, the waves it was giving off now were slightly warmer than the frigid icebox vibes of the past several hours. That was a plus.

“Behold,” Runar said as they began circling over a narrow valley cut into the mountainside. “This is the —”

“Nest Cove!” Daphne squealed.

She gazed around in awe as Runar dove nearly straight down into the valley. It was really a collection of several smaller valleys, all branching off the main valley like streams from a river. Each smaller offshoot valley functioned as a dwelling for a single family unit of griffins.

“Privacy and community,” she murmured. “It’s beautiful.”

Runar sent a wave of agreement along their emotional link, but it was mixed with sadness. Daphne didn’t have to ask to understand why. All the family nests around the mouth of the valley were empty.

On and on they flew, passing cove after cove that had been long deserted. As in the Hall of Parables, Daphne felt the emptiness like a weight, pressing on her from all sides. It was also getting darker in the narrow valley, and the starlight beginning to filter down from above felt cold. She wished Runar would fly faster.

It was only when they were close to the head of the valley that Daphne began glimpsing signs of life. Peering into one cove, she saw a jumble of straw and leaves that was part of someone’s bedding. A gray, wizened griffin poked his head out of another cove as they passed. Finally, Runar veered left into a small cove right up against the mountain wall and landed on a wide ledge that jutted across the entrance almost like a foyer.

“This is our home,” he announced simply, indicating the collection of ledges jutting out on either side. Two near the front had cloth and straw arranged as bedding. On another ledge, Daphne saw a few wooden chests like they had encountered in the dalamelles. “It is not much, but thou art welcome.”

“It’s nice,” Daphne said honestly as she dismounted. “Cozy.” She looked up at the strip of sky. The stars were out in force now, filling the cove with silvery light. “What do you do if it rains?”

Runar looked at her blankly. “Rains?”

“You know, when water falls down from the sky?”

The confusion on Runar’s face deepened. “Dost thou mean in time of war? Is this some new plague of the Wordmaster?”

A memory clicked into gear in Daphne’s mind, and she flushed. “Oh, right. It doesn’t rain in Euloban. Never mind.” Runar still looked confused, so she tried to explain. “Where I come from, sometimes water falls down from the sky. It’s a good thing, mostly. The plants need the water to grow.”

“They are not nourished by the Eloquent Water flowing across and under the land?” Runar asked.

“We don’t have Eloquent Water,” Daphne answered. Runar was obviously so shocked by this that Daphne felt a little defensive. “We have water. And it’s good stuff. Keeps everything alive. But the stuff flowing on and through the ground isn’t quite as potent as the water here, so sometimes it has to fall from the sky to supplement. It’s pretty cool, actually. It’s called rain.”

Runar did not look convinced. “It sounds… terrifying.”

“It can be,” Daphne admitted. “When there’s a lot of it. But we need it to live, where I come from. Just not too much.”

“That is the way of all good things,” Runar observed in his most lofty Lorist tone. “Any gift, when wielded improperly or without measure, may function as a weapon.”

Daphne gazed up at the stars clustered thickly above the narrow cove. “I guess so.”

“Wordsmith!”

Bjarni came bounding from the back of the cove in a flurry of flame-colored feathers, leaping from ledge to ledge until he landed inches away from Daphne’s nose.

“How was the Lore Council? Is not Vyth ill-tempered? He is always telling me to ‘run along and play,’ as if I were still a fledgling. I am a warrior! Did thou tell them about the Cleansing Flame? Art thou making a plan to stop the Wordmaster? When do we leave?”

“Peace, Bjarni.” Runar cuffed his younger brother with one wing. Daphne pretended not to notice that he had to soar about a foot off the ground in order to reach Bjarni’s head. “These are matters of great importance. The Lore Council must take time to consider. And even when they have formed a plan, thou shall have no part in it.”

Bjarni laughed happily, apparently unperturbed by both the cuff and the words. “Any plan against the Wordmaster will require a Reader, and I am the only one. But I must practice. I am no help to anyone at Level 1. Which means…” He turned to Daphne. “Wordsmith,” he coaxed, “wilt thou make me some word-chains?”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Daphne opened her mouth to say no. It had been a long day, after all. Since she’d woken up in the Dalamelle of Clarity, she had done a lot of walking, battled her worst nightmare come to life, and sat through a long meeting with three cranky old griffins telling her all the reasons why they couldn’t help save her boyfriend. Surely the next thing on the agenda should be a good night’s sleep.

But then she looked at Bjarni. The young gentle giant of a creature was gazing at Daphne pleadingly, somehow channeling all his fiery eagerness into the most intense puppy dog eyes she had ever seen.

Her heart melted.

“Sure,” she said.

“Nay,” Runar protested. “Thou dost not have to, Daphne.”

“It’s all right. It’s good practice for me, too. And it’ll be nice to try it when we’re not, y’know, fighting for our lives.” Daphne looked around the small cove. “Do you have a word garden anywhere?”

“Not in our cove,” Runar said. “Eydis has one, but ’tis just for emergencies. We have a community garden elsewhere on the mountain, which produces sufficient to the tribe’s needs. The ground in this valley is not the best for cultivation.”

“Of letter-fruit,” Bjarni broke in, tapping his talons on the rocky ledge. “But it still contains material for word-chains. Our histories say so.”

“Our histories?” Runar clacked his beak in surprise. “So thou dost pay attention to thy lessons?”

Bjarni waved a dismissive wing. “To the parts which are important, of course. Come! It will be best by the fountain!”

The younger griffin bounded off towards the rear of the cove. Runar shook his head, but settled himself down so Daphne could climb on his back. Following Bjarni’s path, they leapt from ledge to ledge deeper into the narrow side-valley.

If Daphne remembered her world building correctly, each family dwelling dead-ended in a wide shelf which wrapped all the way around the head of the cove. At the very back, a small spring of Eloquent Water flowed from an opening in the rock, providing water for that family and trickling down to join a larger stream at the base of the main valley.

At least, that’s how the world was supposed to function. When they reached the back wall of Runar and Bjarni’s cove, Daphne was confronted with yet another manifestation of the Wordmaster’s blight on the land.

“Where’s the water?” she asked.

There was definitely a place in the rock wall for the spring to emerge from. It was a spigot, carved elaborately to look like a Phrase jutting out from the wall. She could imagine a stream of pure Eloquent Water pouring from its wide open mouth, splashing into a shallow pool on the wide shelf and then spilling over towards the floor of the cove.

At the moment, though, everything was dry. The pool and the spigot were like the many family dwellings at the mouth of the valley: empty.

“There has been no water here in my lifetime,” Runar explained. “Nor anywhere on the mountain. Our scouts gather water for the tribe from the dalamelles.”

“But —” Daphne looked around helplessly at the barren rocky walls. “I thought Bjarni called it ‘the fountain.’”

“That what Father always called it,” Bjarni said. “He believed it was important to honor the memory of a thing’s purpose, even when the purpose was lost.”

Daphne smiled. “Yes, I can imagine Hyddrun saying something like that.”

“And the purpose may not be fully lost.” Runar bowed his head reverently to the Phrase-shaped fountainhead. “The virtue of Eloquent Water lingers long, even in stone. Bjarni is right. If the mountain still contains the material possible for word-chains, it would be here.”

Daphne slid off Runar’s back. Kneeling by the spigot, she placed her hand in the empty pool underneath… and hesitated.

Bjarni’s enthusiasm was so contagious, Daphne had a brief memory lapse. Now it all came back to her. The last time she had tried to produce a word-chain, she had come up short. And that had been in a dalamelle, with a whole deep pool of Eloquent Water AND the adrenaline of battle to fuel the attempt. If she tried it here, with only the faint remembrance of Eloquent Water lingering in dry stone, what chance did she have? Sure, she was Level 7 now, but she also wasn’t in a fight. There wasn’t a pressing need.

Chances were high that a Daphne-solo effort here would fail. And she couldn’t risk that. She wouldn’t be able to bear the sight of Bjarni’s face if the human hero’s word-chains fizzled out like wet fireworks.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to rely on her own effort. She had a foolproof backup plan buzzing warmly in her pocket.

Daphne pulled out the Prism, uncapped it, and pressed its point to the rocky ground.

“Even this will not unmake me!”

For three agonizing heartbeats, nothing happened. Then she felt a tug, as though the fountain pen was a fishing hook and the word-chain a strong carp. She pulled the pen up and back, drawing the string of letters out of the rock.

Bjarni’s beak was hanging open. His eyes were perfectly round. For once in his incredibly noisy life, he was absolutely quiet.

Runar also seemed shocked.

“Daphne,” he said, his golden eyes wide, “what is that?”

“A word-chain, of course.” Tearing the letter-string from the Prism, she tossed it to Bjarni, who caught it reflexively in his beak. “You’ve seen it before, Runar.”

“Not the word-chain.” Runar pointed with one wing at the fountain pen in her hand. “What is that?”

“Um… it’s a pen.”

Daphne was too caught up in Bjarni’s excitement to heed his brother’s sudden unease. She pressed the Prism to the ground again, recited the next line of the Word of Truth, and pulled a second word-chain from the rock.

By this time, Bjarni was recovering. He caught the string of letters in one talon.

“Thou hast done it! Wordsmith!” His whole face was alive with joy. “Truly, thou art a gift from the Legends!”

“Just doing my job.” Daphne summoned the third and fourth word-chains in rapid succession. Tossing them to Bjarni, she returned his smile. “Now you can start doing yours. Think a complete Word of Truth will be enough for you to practice with?”

Bjarni wrapped his wings around himself, as if gathering the four word-chains into a warm embrace. “The Phrases bless thee, Wordsmith!”

Without another word, he bounded back towards his nest at the mouth of the cove.

Runar was still staring at the Prism, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“I have never seen a pen like this before,” he said. “Where didst thou acquire it?”

“I brought it with me from home.” Daphne recapped the pen and put it back in her pocket, keeping her fingers wrapped around it. “I’ve been using it this whole time.”

“Indeed?” Runar raised an eyebrow. “Thou hast not shown it to me.”

“I haven’t?”

“Nay. Thou hast not even mentioned it.”

“Well, there’s been a lot going on.” For some reason, Daphne returned to the defensive feeling she felt when talking about rain. She gripped the Prism even more tightly, taking comfort from its buzzing warmth. “Euloban’s in a rough state. Normal Wordsmithery just won’t cut it. The Prism has been a huge help.”

“The Prism?”

“The pen. That is its name. It’s a special tool for writers — for Wordsmiths.” She smiled at Runar, trying to send some of the warm comfort from the Prism across their emotional link. “Everyone needs a tool, right?”

“Of course,” the griffin said cautiously. “I am glad it has been a help to thee.”

“To all of us,” she corrected. “I wouldn’t have been able to produce any of the word-chains we used in all those battles, if not for the Prism.”

“Thou summoned the Lore-light without it.”

“That was an emergency. Special case. And I thought word-chains aren’t really available in the tunnels anyway?”

Runar shook his head. “They are not. Only in the dalamelles.”

“There you are, then. Maybe it’s a specialized word-chain tool.” Keeping her right hand in her pocket, Daphne reached out her left hand and ruffled her friend’s head feathers. “Sorry I didn’t bring it up before. I guess, with all the other stuff happening, I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”

She felt a twinge of anxiety at this, but shook it off. It was true, after all. Sure, the Prism was a big deal back in the ‘real’ world. But even there, it was also private. The pen had been sent to her, and concerned only her. She hadn’t even told Mark about it.

Here in Euloban, there were plenty of other things to think about. It wasn’t just her writing career at stake, but people’s lives. The fate of the whole world. The only big deal was saving Euloban. Surely anything else, like one’s choice of means in achieving that end, wasn’t worth quibbling over.

If Runar sensed any of Daphne’s brief inner monologue along their emotional link, he didn’t show it. He simply bowed his head in acknowledgement of her apology.

“Fret not, my friend. We can speak further in the morning if thou art willing. ’Tis now time for food and sleep.” Runar gestured with his wing to one end of the wide shelf, which was covered with an abundance of various bedding materials. There was a wooden chest against the mountain wall. “Bjarni hath prepared a berth for thee. There are letter-fruits in the chest, and a pendant of Eloquent Water. If thou need anything during the night, we are nearby. Call, and we shall hear thee.”

“Thanks, Runar.” On impulse, Daphne threw her arms around the griffin’s neck and buried her face in his shoulder. “Seriously. For everything. I… I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

She stopped herself from adding, “Especially since Mark…” but she sensed that Runar understood anyway. He wrapped his wings around her, enfolding her in a cocoon of sweet, wild gold.

“Thank thee, Daphne,” he said. “Bjarni was right. Thou art truly a gift from the Legends.” Stepping back, he gave another small bow. “May thy dreams be full of wisdom.”

“You too.” She returned the bow, then watched as he followed his younger brother’s path towards their nests.

Exactly seven minutes later, Daphne had a stomach full of preserved vowels and was snuggling into the soft, surprisingly luxurious nest Bjarni had made for her.

A nest. Made by a griffin. Under the stars, with zero chance of rain ever.

I don’t need my dreams to be full of wisdom, Daphne thought drowsily, catching one more glimpse of those stars through her closing eyelids. I’m in the freaking Nest Cove. Not even the stupid praying mantis dream could bother me here.

She thought she heard a faint voice saying “famous last words” somewhere in her subconscious, but it was too late. Sleep had already taken her, leaving her wide open for whatever dreams might come.