Considering Daphne’s dislike for big battle scenes, she was surprised at her own reluctance to admit this one was over.

“Are you sure?” Daphne asked Eydis for what seemed like the fifth time. “I don’t feel like I… did much. Directly, I mean. I never exchanged blows with the Wordmaster or anything.”

“Thou hast played thy part,” the dark brown griffin replied. Her amber eyes were smiling. “Thou supplied the weapons with which others were able to strike the necessary blows. Thy word-chains kept the villain’s noxious cloud at bay and even cleansed the Wordmages of his corrupting influence. And the Lore-light thou hast summoned is still at work.” Eydis spread her wings, indicating the flames still racing over the floor and ceiling. “Behold.”

Daphne gasped. The fire wasn’t just burning across the stones, but consuming them. The fortress was vanishing around her. As she watched, the ceiling melted away, revealing the clear blue sky of late morning. The smooth stone floor was replaced by bare rock. The walls evaporated in a stream of clean, sweet-smelling smoke. Within minutes, they were standing on an open mountaintop, gazing around at the wide vistas of northern Euloban.

And the fire’s purifying properties were not limited to stone. The flames pooled refreshingly around everyone in the hall, but whenever they encountered a Wordmage, the transformation was striking. The fire briefly blazed up, scouring the individual’s tunic of its muddy blended hue. When the tide of flame flowed on, the former servants of the Wordmaster looked like normal citizens of Euloban again, dressed in an assortment of brilliant colors.

“The Cleansing Flame is ridding the land of the Wordmaster’s work,” Eydis said. “The Wordmaster was consumed, as was his fortress and his mark of slavery. Only what is truly Euloban shall remain.”

“Indeed.” Hyddrun’s voice was soft. “Only what is truly Euloban remains.”

Daphne followed his gaze. The massive dais had also melted away. Where it had once stood, a figure was lying on the ground, dressed in a blue tunic that looked like it had been recently given a good washing.

“Amelia,” Daphne whispered.

In that moment, Amelia stirred. She sat up and shook her head groggily. She looked around, taking in the vanished fortress, the crowd of freed prisoners, and the former Wordmages.

When she spotted Hyddrun, standing with his family and Daphne and Mark, her eyes filled with tears.

“Bond-friend,” Hyddrun called gently. “The nightmare is over. All that can be undone shall be. Wilt thou labor with us in the healing?”

Amelia’s eyes drifted away, gazing around the open mountaintop. They settled on the limp form of Gjurdok.

“Not all can be undone,” Hyddrun said. “But all that can be, shall be. There is forgiveness for thee, and work to do. Wilt thou receive both?”

Amelia opened her mouth, but all that came out was a strangled choking sound. She scrambled to her feet and ran, sobbing, pushing through the crowd. No one hindered her. Hyddrun watched until the fleeing Wordsmith had vanished down one of the mountainside paths.

“She feels her responsibility keenly.” Hyddrun sighed. “She will punish herself far worse than any tribunal would think just or deserved.”

Daphne’s heart cracked. She stepped forward. “I’ll go after her. Maybe —”

“Nay, Wordsmith.” Hyddrun blocked her way with one golden wing. “We must give her time to grieve in solitude. Then I shall go.”

“And I,” Runar said.

“And I!” Bjarni swooped in, nearly knocking Hyddrun over with a fiery embrace. “And Mother, of course. We shall all go seek thy Amelia, and bring her home!”

Hyddrun looked across the room, catching the eye of a lovely griffin with crimson plumage who was deep in conversation with Mynna. She smiled, waving a brilliant scarlet wing.

“Thou speakest well, Bjarni.” Hyddrun gathered both his sons under his wings. “My family shall not be separated again for a long while. When I deem the time right, we shall all go.”

“Thou hast thy own journey to take, Daphne Wordsmith,” Eydis said. “And thy own labor to complete. It is time for thee to return to thy world.”

She pointed at the remains of the fire-tornado, now a single ring of flames hovering vertically in the air. It was dark inside, like the fire was outlining a hole in space and time.

“Now?” Daphne looked from the fire-ring to Eydis, and back again. “Just like that? Isn’t there more to do here?”

“Thou hast done all thy share.” Eydis’s customarily squinting eyes were shining with admiration. “Euloban brought thee to help, and thou hast helped.”

Guilt erupted in Daphne’s gut like a lava-geyser. “But I also hurt. The Wordmaster never would have been strong enough if I hadn’t fallen for his trap.”

“Trap?” Mark’s face was full of confused concern. “What do you mean?”

As briefly as possible, she told them about the Prism — how the Wordmaster had sent it, and how she had made him more powerful every time she used it.

“That’s how he managed to bewitch Amelia,” she finished. “And even here, I kept using it. I depended on it. That’s why Euloban was holding me back. It was trying to tell me that using the Prism was a bad idea, but I wouldn’t listen.”

“But thou didst listen.” Runar extricated himself from his father’s embrace and stood in front of Daphne, his golden eyes holding her gaze. “I felt it, back in the Chamber of Triunity, before the flame arrived to bring us to thee. I felt thy turmoil over the pen. I felt thy decision to break it. I felt the power that flowed from thee in that moment. ’Twas that power that truly opened the door for the cleansing tide.”

Mark pressed his shoulder against hers. “You’re still a hero, Daphne. And you’re a great writer. You don’t need any special tool to prove that.”

“Thy Mark is correct,” Mynna said. “Whatever ill thou hast wrought inadvertently, thou hast made full amends. Thou hast fulfilled Euloban’s faith in thee tenfold.” She pointed a snow-white wing at the ring of fire. “Now Euloban is opening the door to send thee back.”

Daphne felt a panic-wave rising in her chest. “But… does it have to be now? Like now now?”

“I believe Euloban is weary,” Runar said slowly. “It used nearly all its strength to bring thee here. Thy summoning of Lore-light hath done much to restore that strength, but it will be many years before the world can recover fully. It is now taking great effort to hold this door open for thee.”

Hyddrun beamed. “My son is wise. He is growing into a great Lorist.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“So if it’s now or never… what about never?” Daphne turned to Mark. “Do we really have to go back? Why don’t we stay?”

Runar broke in before Mark could reply. “Thou would be condemning thy world to a grim fate. The Wordmaster sent creatures through, yes? Thou hast seen visions of Rabid Daydreams rampaging in thy home?”

Daphne swallowed. “Yeah.”

“The Cleansing Flame must go there,” Runar said. “Thou must bear it through. I believe its purification of the Wordmaster’s power will manifest in a mighty work of time. Thou shalt find thyselves returning to the very hour of thy departure. The Wordmaster’s destruction will be undone, as though it had never been. Thy world’s story shall continue as it was meant to, with no trace of interference from his plague.”

Daphne stared at him. “Seriously?”

“Gjurdok taught me much during our brief communion.” Runar smiled. “This was his theory, and no one is mightier in the lore of Euloban than he.”

“Except Mynna, perhaps.” Eydis bowed to the snow-white griffin, who had joined them during Runar’s speech.

Mynna returned the bow, then leveled her weighty gaze at Daphne.

“Gjurdok was, indeed, great among Lorists,” she said. “And Runar hath already achieved great deeds. I do not claim to know all Euloban’s mysteries, but I can say that these words resonate with the Wisdom I have been given. Thou would do well to heed such counsel, Wordsmith.”

“I gotta say I agree with the Lorists here.” Mark took Daphne’s hand. “As much as I would love to stay here, and eat letters and ride around on griffins… if we have a chance to undo the damage back home, we have to take it.”

Daphne looked down at the bare rocky ground. “I know.”

“And besides,” Mark said, with a grin she could hear without having to look up at him, “our world needs your Wordsmithery too. Our world, without any more Daphne Green stories? That would be a grim fate.”

She smiled. She couldn’t help it. Whatever Mark’s status book might say, he was a Level 20 encourager, with special skills in ‘Cheering Up Mopey Writers Against Their Will.’

“For example,” Mark went on, “I think you’ve got more to say about Euloban. How about a sequel series: The Return of the Wordmaster? You’ve got plenty of material.”

“I guess…” Daphne sighed. “I wish the Prism hadn’t turned out to be so evil. I really like writing with a fountain pen.”

“Then I’ll buy you one.” Mark squeezed her hand. “Today. A nice, basic, definitely-not-evil fountain pen.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes. Going home. Now.” She took a deep breath. “Now will work.”

Thinking about levels made her curious. She pulled out her status book, and Mark did the same.

“Might as well take one last look at this,” she said. “When we go through, it’ll just be a stupid phone again.”

“Phone?” Bjarni echoed. “What is a ‘phone?’”

“Communications device,” Mark answered.

Daphne grimaced. “And an addictive, time-sucking, anxiety-inducing parasite. Not nearly so meaningful as a status book where you can literally chart your own growth.”

“The status book can also be addictive,” Eydis said. “Even parasitical, if it is given undue attention. But communication is the heart of Euloban. This ‘phone’ sounds like a worthy tool, if used rightly.”

“Do not scorn thy world, Wordsmith,” Mynna said. “Thou hast still a part to play in its story.”

Arguing with Mynna was not how Daphne wanted to spend her last few minutes in Euloban, especially since there was no way she’d win against the snow-white griffin.

Instead, she just nodded meekly, then opened her book.

“Nice!” Mark held up his own book next to hers. “Level 15 for you, Level 10 for me. I think we’ve done ourselves proud.”

Daphne smiled. “Not bad for a couple of noobs.”

“Not bad for anyone.” He kissed the top of her head. Snapping his book shut, he returned it to his pocket. “Guess it’s time for the goodbye rounds?”

Daphne slowly restored her status book to her pocket. She took a deep, shaky breath. “Guess so.”

While Mark started with Runar and Hyddrun, her first stop was Mynna. Daphne bowed awkwardly, as deep as she could without falling over. “Sorry, I wrecked the Hall of Parables.”

To her surprise, Mynna bowed even more deeply in return. “And I am sorry for my coldness upon our first meeting. Even those of us to whom Euloban has granted great Wisdom are sometimes slow to recognize the Story at work. Thank thee, Wordsmith, for thy labors on behalf of my home — not just thy efforts here, but in thy own world, through chronicling.”

“You’re welcome,” Daphne stammered. “And thank you for everything. Not just today, but… all the sacrifices you’ve made to keep Euloban alive.”

On a sudden impulse, she threw her arms around the snow-white neck.

“I hope you can take it easy now,” she whispered.

She felt the light touch of wings gathering briefly around her. “And thee as well, Wordsmith.”

Daphne stepped back, giving Mynna one more bow. Then she turned to Eydis.

“That prose-shaft of yours is really special,” she told the dark brown griffin. “Runar and Bjarni can tell you all about it. And the entrance words — those came in super handy.”

Eydis bowed, then surprised Daphne by drawing her into a firm embrace.

“Watch for the Lore-light,” Eydis said.

“I will.”

That was all Daphne could manage. With a steadying breath, she faced Bjarni.

“You’re amazing,” she said helplessly. “Just the best. You’re going to be the greatest Reader this world has ever seen.”

For once, Bjarni seemed unable to speak. He simply engulfed Daphne in a feathery, fire-colored hug. She could feel his tears soaking into her jacket.

She let herself stay in that warm embrace for ten beautiful seconds, then forced herself to step back, smiling at him through her own tears.

“Keep the flame alive for me, okay?”

“We all will.” Hyddrun bowed his head. “May the Legends illuminate thy path, Daphne Wordsmith.”

“And yours, Hyddrun Lorist.” Daphne returned the bow, then looked up at him pleadingly. “Do you really think there’s hope for Amelia?”

His regal face was haggard and careworn, but serene. “I do not think. I know. My bond-friend’s part in this tale is not done. We shall find her, and walk with her along the road to healing. Thou hast my word.”

Daphne nodded, trusting her eyes to convey all the gratitude she couldn’t verbally express.

Finally, painfully, she turned to Runar.

The golden griffin looked at her for a long moment. Then, without a word, he closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against hers.

Daphne had been a word nerd all her life. She was firmly convinced that the right words at the right time could accomplish just about anything. Maybe it was this understanding of word-power that had prompted Euloban to choose her as its chronicler in the first place.

But standing there with Runar, brow to brow, without speaking, Daphne had a revelation.

Words were not always necessary.

In fact, sometimes, they were downright superfluous.

It’s like Eydis told the Wordmaster, she thought vaguely. The true power of the word comes from silence.

Afterwards, she was never exactly sure how long she and Runar stood there, communing in that silence. She wasn’t aware of the passage of time. She was only conscious of the richness flowing back and forth along their Phrase-gift link, like a golden tide of purifying fellowship.

Or a Cleansing Flame.

Finally, they both stepped back. They nodded once at each other.

“Fare thee well, Daphne,” Runar said.

“Fare thee well, Runar.”

Mark took her hand. Together, they took one last look around at Euloban. The mountains, the Silent Plains in the distance, the dim shadow of the Wander Wood at the edge of the horizon — and, most importantly, the throng of humans and griffins gathered on the bare mountaintop, ready to take the restoring fire of healing across the whole world.

Daphne lifted her free hand. “For the Story!”

“For the Story!” came the returning shout of many voices.

Then she and Mark turned and stepped together through the ring of fire.

For a moment, all was darkness. Then Daphne closed her eyes against a rush of light and heat and sound. She felt a warm, golden wave pouring out of her, and then a lurch as the wave caught something and pulled it back — not into her, but past her and beyond her. She kept her eyes tight shut, Runar’s words echoing in her memory:

“The Wordmaster’s destruction will be undone, as though it had never been.”

The Cleansing Flame was scrubbing her world free of the Wordmaster’s creatures, and any havoc they had already wrought. All that ruin was all surging past her, back towards Euloban to be fully unmade. She didn’t particularly need to see it.

A surprisingly short time later, the air around her was suddenly still. The light pressing against her closed eyelids felt warm, but not purifying-hot. Daphne opened her eyes.

She was standing at the front door of her apartment, holding it open for Mark.

He smiled at her. “Hey babe. You hungry?”

Daphne smiled. No, not smiled — outright grinned.

“Starved,” she said.

“Then let’s go. The corner deli awaits.” He turned, holding out his hand. “I don’t think they have preserved vowels on the menu, and there’s a sad lack of griffins about the whole place in general, but the turkey pesto BLT is pretty good.”

She took his hand. “The turkey pesto BLT is incredible.”

Closing the door behind her, she set off with him down the hallway, ready to get lost in the next chapter of their own good story.

He was right, of course. Their story wouldn’t include letter-fruit, or Eloquent Water, or status books. They wouldn’t encounter Daydreams or gift-giving Phrases. There would be no griffins.

But there would be a Mark, with a Daphne, and an out-of-this-world turkey pesto BLT.

And that seemed like a great beginning.