The stink of Man was heavy in the air and the trees demanded blood.

Avalon rode forth with his centaurs, their hooves thundering through the once calm morning to signal their arrival. Encamped in an open field like the fools they were, men scrambled to ready themselves for battle. But centaurs were quicker than coursers, stronger than destriers, with two arms that could brandish weapons of their own, they were what every human cavalryman strove to be.

A storm of arrows flew from Avalon and his warparty and rained down on the camp. A crossbowman tried to loose a bolt at them, but several arrows pierced his heart in quick succession. When men with shields and spears gathered to form a line in front of their camp, but their comrades had already begun to flee the field. There weren’t enough brave humans to enclose the whole camp, and there were few of those to begin with.

Avalon’s warparty brandished their lances and split into two branches to reach around the spearmen, with Avalon leading a branch around the right flank and his Primo, the First of his blood riders, leading the other branch around the left flank. Fresh from their earlier festivities, their drunken procession crashed into the human camp with reckless abandon. Men were caught in their path and trampled beneath their rampaging hooves.

One centaur battered the head of a downed man with his hooves, crushing the man’s skull beneath his helmet the way a stag in heat might scratch the velvet off his antlers on a tree, satisfying a primal itch until his face was red with relief. Avalon bent low to impale a man through the back with antlers of his own, antlers that crowned him as Beast-King of the Evergreen. He tossed the man into a fire and roared as he kicked another man in the chest, caving in his breastplate.

Eyes of fear were on him now as men pointed at his direction and screamed as they ran, but Avalon was not the sort of hunter to let his prey run free. The humans would never give the same kindness to the rest of Avalon’s kin. Examples had to be made to teach Man their lesson, even if it meant teaching that lesson to every generation of their kind.

The wind tickled Avalon’s bare arms, made the hawk-feather talismans on his vest sway. He could taste the barest hint of magic in the air, putrid and sickly as it was human, and found a mage in green robes rally warriors to his side. Despite Man’s attempts at harnessing the magic of nature to commune with the spirits, their inherently mortal nature kept them closer to rot than to rejuvenation.

The mage channeled his magic and washed it over his comrades, not knowing it was more likely to induce pestilence in them than to heal their wounds. Avalon raised his lance into the air and rallied his own centaurs to his side as he charged the mage. When the warriors around the mage turned, they brandished long metal shafts at him, their insides hollowed out like dead trees hollowed out from the inside by termites.

When the tips of their weapons exploded with fire, Avalon suspected the trick the humans were playing, the tricky vermin they were. Small balls of soft metal plunged into his front, some hitting other centaurs nearby. The smell of pestilent magic wafted from his wounds as his brothers cried out in agony as sickness devoured them from the inside. However, while most centaurs were hardy creatures, Avalon was First Among Equals for a reason.

With a tough hide on his upper body, brown and thick like the bark on the sacred tree, the soft metal remained shallow and could be dug from his flesh easily enough. His other half, covered in hair and blood-red like the moon of war, was unmarred. Avalon charged through the line of human warriors, knocking them back and plunging his lance into the wizard. The wizard cried out and cursed Avalon for a demon. 

The wizened human exploded into a sickly green miasma that engulfed his surroundings like the scattering of Spring’s first pollen. The humans around him withered away in an instant, their weak flesh consumed by pestilence, but even Avalon found himself gasping for breath in the miasma. Needles of pain lanced through his lungs and he fled away, warning others to keep away.

Primo strolled to his side, eyes wide with fear. “My King, you must return to the sacred tree. That human magic is going to rot you from the inside out, it must be purged.”

Avalon huffed with anger at the thought of fleeing home, but felt his strength waning. “We must pursue the humans. Teach their current generation of weaklings to stay away from our forests.”

Primo laid a hand on his shoulder and pleaded, “If you saw your wounds through my eyes, you would also fear.”

“If I saw war wounds the way you do, I would always be in fear.” Avalon said with a chuckle, but knew Primo was right in his council. The other centaurs who had been hit by the soft-metal balls were dead before they were consumed by the miasma. Avalon raised his hands and saw his veins had turned black, his body unable to fight the human magic coursing through his veins. “Damn them all, those vermin. You are right, brother. I will return, but you must lead the warparty in my place.”

“The battle is won, there is no need for me to lead. The other’s will quench their bloodlust on the cowards and return home soon enough, but I will stay by your side.”

Avalon nodded his acknowledgement and raised his lance for the centaurs gathered around them, “Bleed these humans dry before you come back home and I will prepare a feast for you! The ambrosia will flow freely today!” The centaurs hollered as they thundered towards the fleeing humans and Avalon knew they would purge the field of the vermin. 

Avalon returned to his forest and as soon as he crossed into the boundary of the Evergreen, he felt his pain wash away. Young spirits crowded him, their wings fluttering as they loosed a volley of questions at him. They poked and prodded at the black veins along his arms, but also at his face. It made Avalon wonder how bad his injuries truly looked to others, it didn’t seem so worrisome when all he had to look at were his arms, but he hid his worry from his face.

Primo swatted the spirits away with a hand as he said, “Away! Away!” 

Avalon just chuckled with amusement. Primo was nearly as young as the spirits, so he didn’t know the mischief they could conjure when provoked.

“Worry not, young spirits, I will be well soon enough. The battle is won and the others will return soon. I must purge the human magic from my blood so I can prepare a feast for our triumphant heroes. Please let us pass.” He said, hoping the young spirits were willing to overlook Primo’s rudeness.

The spirits tittered and removed themselves from Avalon’s path. As they walked, a spirit donned Avalon with a crown of flowers while another pelted Primo with fresh shit. It slapped wetly against his jaw and the spirits laughed as Primo raged and swore. There was magic in that shit, Avalon knew from personal experience.

The young blood rider used a leaf to wipe the brown mess from the stubble on his face, but complained about a faint stink as they walked. He would be complaining about it all the way to the sacred tree, with all the magic that clung to his face. Avalon gave him the crown of flowers to help mask any unpleasant odors, each petal enhanced with magic to remain as fragrant as the traces of shit on Primo’s face. 

Primo would be washing his face at the river, maybe going so far as to demand help at the springs, but the stench would remain until a day or two days had passed. When the spirits no longer cared about their recent quarrel. As long as Primo was smart enough to not quarrel with those same spirits again, which he was. Probably.

Avalon smiled and almost chuckled, but coughed instead. The sound and feel of it unnatural coming from a centaur such as him. Primo gasped with shock, as if the very act was something that naturally elicited such fear. “I am fine, it’s not as though I’ve never known sickness. There was a time before I was made king, when I was just another centaur.”

“You’ve known sickness?” Primo asked with astonishment, too young to have seen Avalon in his own youth.

“Of course, this will pass.” Avalon had known sickness only once, because he had wandered too far into the marshlands. He was beset by foul, stinging insects, and they nearly killed him, but he felt it was best not to mention it.

“The shamans say sickness should be treated before it worsens. Perhaps we should hurry to the tree? Are you able?” Avalon bristled at the question and kicked his legs into the earth, striding forward and forcing Primo to keep pace.

When Avalon arrived at the Elm of Eternity, all the keepers of the forest, the dryads and the ents, came to greet their king. The dryads and their elven-like appearance were dressed in green finery, layered over their bodies like the leaves covering a branch. And if the dryads were like branches, the ents were their trunks. Tall and strong, they lumbered with every step, long accustomed to being rooted in place.

The ents kneeled in front of Avalon, but only for their own comfort, not the way humans might kneel to one of their overlords to make a show of their submission. The dryads remained floating off the ground or seated themselves on the shoulders of the ents, never deigning to touch the ground. Only one of their kind ever stepped foot on the earth and she emerged from the roots of the sacred tree.

Leifey, like creatures of the Evergreen, traveled the far reaches of the earth through the deep roots of the sacred tree. Despite all the knowledge she had gained, her eyes spoke of uncertainty when she gazed upon his face. “You have come here for healing.” She stated, understanding Avalon’s plight at once, which only made him worry. “Rest your body against the sacred tree.”

Avalon climbed the hill towards the sacred tree, trying not to shake with the effort. The human magic that afflicted him was sapping his strength more than he realized. When he laid himself against the sacred tree, he slumped against it and groaned. Murmurs arose from those gathered around and Primo turned sharply to glare at anyone who met his eyes, but Avalon felt all other eyes on him.

“This feels wrong.” Avalon murmured. “What’s happening to me?”

Leifey placed a hand over his heart and roots of wood emerged from her hands and pierced into his flesh. “There is an imbalance in your magic.”

Avalon grimaced as Leifey worked her magic, spreading her roots through his chest. “Human magic. It must be purged.” He said and coughed the fluid filling his lungs. It tasted of blood. 

“No, the yellow moon’s touch is in you.” Leifey pulled her hand from Avalon’s chest and held it against her own, clutching it with her other hand as if injured. “I will send you into the sacred tree. It will be the only way to purge the taint from your soul.”

“My soul?” Avalon said and tried to sit up, but the roots of the sacred tree were wrapping around his body. Preventing him from rising as it pulled him into the base of the sacred tree.

Primo trotted to his side, swaying back and forth, unable to keep still. “What are you doing?”

“The sacred tree is pulling him into its roots to purge the taint of the yellow moon.”

Avalon could see the fear in Primo’s eyes and knew he wanted to pull his king free. He would’ve held out a hand to stop him, but the young blood rider had enough sense to heed Leifey’s wisdom. A root covered Avalon’s face and pulled his head into the body of the sacred tree. 

Instead of suffocating as he thought he would, enveloped in darkness, air filled his lungs. It was as if he was the forest itself and a constant breeze blew through him. The dull ache in his chest dissipated as the soft metal balls embedded into his flesh pulled away from his body. But more than simple relief, the ache of centuries of life lifted from his strained shoulders and he drifted to sleep.

When next he awoke, body aching once again, Avalon found himself in a cave. No, with unnatural flat surfaces on all sides, this was no cave. He felt his face strain as he frowned at the dead wood adorning the walls. As if ornamented by humans to celebrate their destruction of nature. The same way Avalon ornamented his own home with the skulls of Man to celebrate his victories over the vermin.

As his eyes winced from the beams of sunlight hitting his face, Avalon removed the cloth covering his body, the fibers rough on his skin, and almost screamed in horror if not for the taste of blood on cracked lips. The thick layers of muscle he had grown over the course of centuries had become thin, enough that the outline of his ribs poked through his chest. He jumped from the rectangular frame his body rested on, but tripped on his two legs.

Two, not the normal four. The rear half of his body was gone and in place of his hooves were malformed hands with fingers shortened to the point of rendering them useless. It was as if he became a weakling human, but that couldn’t be. Yet, what else explained his current circumstance? 

Avalon stood, swaying with the effort, unsure of how humans remained upright with only two legs. When he spat long strands of hair from his mouth, he realized more of him had been replaced. Instead of his curly brown locks, there were only straight and black. Soft, delicate hands quickly went to his head.

“My antlers are gone.” He said, but only heard the soft, girlish voice that could only belong to a child. “Leifey, what have you done to me? You mad witch.”

A section of the wall opened up and a human woman stepped through the opening. She was covered in black fabric, accented by white. In her hands, she carried trinkets on a circle. All of which were metal. Avalon recalled his limited knowledge of Man’s world, struggling to name the items. One was a container meant for liquids. The other was… also a container meant for liquids, but smaller. The smaller item was a cup, or a mug perhaps, that much Avalon recalled.

When the woman looked up and saw Avalon, she shrieked and dropped her trinkets. Water spilled from them as they clattered onto the floor, gliding across the polished stone floor. The woman ran and Avalon tried to follow, but his legs ached with the effort. A chill went up his spine as he stepped across the cold stone beneath the soft pads of his new feet. Hooves wouldn’t have been so delicate.

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When the woman returned, a large man was following close behind her. Nearly twice in height and width as Avalon’s new body, with eyes like gray iron, the large man was a formidable specimen. Scars trailed along his face, symbols of battles long past. Avalon’s fists clenched, but there was no fighting in his current state. Weak as he was.

The man lifted Avalon by the waist and raised him into the air, like a child. “Aurora! Aurora! You’re awake! Thank the gods, you’re awake!” Despite how the man looked, he was brought close to tears.

It wasn’t until later that Avalon understood why, after he demanded answers for his circumstances while using “amnesia” as a ruse. His body hadn’t changed, it was entirely new and belonged to a human girl-child named Aurora. Instead of purging the taint of the yellow moon from his body, the sacred tree purged his soul instead. But Avalon wasn’t subsumed into the greater will and properly reborn into the cycle of life as he should’ve been. 

Whatever happened and however it happened, the yellow moon, that trickster god, was responsible. The thought was unnerving, to have the ill luck of receiving the yellow moon’s gaze. There was no way to know what trick was being played, but he felt the burning in his veins.

As weak and pathetic as humans were, this girl-child named Aurora was being poisoned. It was unmistakable. Centuries of warring with Man introduced Avalon to all manner of their devious tricks. The poison afflicting his body was slow acting, prolonging the pain, but the girl-child’s suffering wasn’t the final goal. 

Nobody knew of the poison, not the maids that tried to tend to his needs and not Harold, Aurora’s father. All referred to it as a sickness, but if Aurora’s poisoning continued, it would have killed her. Avalon reconsidered. The poisoning would have killed Aurora, and it did. It’s how Avalon took her place, but it meant he was now the target of the murder conspiracy.

Maids brought food into the room, placing it onto a table, and Avalon thanked them for the service before dismissing them curtly. Avalon had no intentions of being poisoned a second time, no matter whose body he found himself in. The first time may have killed him. Avalon laughed and a disturbing girlish cackle echoed through the room. 

If Avalon was in Aurora’s body, perhaps she was in his. He imagined the weakling reborn into the fine physique of the Beast-King of the Evergreen and wished her luck. If she couldn’t protect the Evergreen, someone more capable would kill her and take her place. Primo wouldn’t harm him, blood rider that he was, but he would undoubtedly kill anyone that might replace him.

Avalon bent low to sniff at the food on the table, freshly cooked and steaming, but it was all slop. Like something human farmers might feed to livestock. Was that what Aurora was? There were chopped tubers he recognized as potatoes, bits of onion, garlic, and other vegetables, all sitting in a thick stew. Not even the barest whiff of meat, it was paltry fare for a centaur, but he was human now and it was still better than nothing. 

He stuck a finger into the slop, despite the heat, and held it up for a few seconds. When it showed no signs of irritation, he tasted the bits of slop on his finger with the tip of his tongue. The flavor was dull, but sat easy on his tongue. If there was a taint in the food meant to harm him, it would have affected him by now.

There were metal tools beside the flat circle the food was laid on and Avalon figured it was like eating among the elves. While he was distantly related to their kind, they were too soft for his taste. Their air of presumed sophistication as ridiculous as their ceremonies. Avalon picked up a spoon and shoveled the food into his mouth. When Avalon finished, he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of what the maids called a nightgown.

A belch escaped his lips and felt the warmth in his belly as his strength returned. There was a glimmer of magic still in him, but he was unsure if it was his own or Aurora’s. It was weak and his body would need time to recover from the prolonged poisoning if he was to make use of it. While that happened, he could explore his surroundings. 

Avalon turned the doorknob to the room and pulled, but the act was more difficult than it should have been. Everything about his body was soft and weak, not a moment was given to training it for war. With offspring such as these, it was no wonder the humans could never beat centaurs in the field. Or those prancing elves and hobbling dwarves for that matter.

He wandered out into the halls to explore, fortunate that night had fallen. It meant every human would retire to their rooms for slumber. Outside the window, a single moon gazed down at him. The red and yellow moons had gone from the sky, replaced by a pale white orb, and Avalon hoped the yellow moon had no influence in the strange land he found himself in.

The construct around him, the building of stone as the elves might have called it, was silent and dead. Not a single spirit to be found, except for Avalon himself, even in the glowing orbs on the ceiling that illuminated the hall. Magical in nature, but absent of nature’s spirits. He trailed a hand along a wall, slender and thin, and entirely human. If the pieces that made him a centaur were stripped away and replaced by Man’s weak flesh, was he still a spirit of the Evergreen?

As he walked, Avalon felt a faint vibration in the air. There was a soft hum of power coming from somewhere in the building, calling out a familiar tune. It was coming from a room in a distant corridor, but Avalon was stopped by a grizzled man. Almost like Harold, with his height and musculature, but much older.

“What are you doing up? It’s late in the night. If you collapse in your nightgown in the hallway, your father will be livid. It’s not safe, but a lady must protect her decency. Or so I’ve heard.” The old man sighed. “And you’re barefoot too. Aren’t you cold?”

Avalon did feel cold walking on the cold stones without his hooves, but was more interested in the magic in the air. He pointed at the room and asked, “Where does that door lead?”

The man frowned and took a knee in front of Avalon. Not the way the ents kneeled, for their comfort, but the way men kneeled for their overlords. “Ah, my lady, you’ve forgotten so much. Do you remember me?”

Avalon shook his head, he didn’t quite care to know. 

“I’m Gunnar, your father’s Master of Arms. I used to carry you around the castle.” He looked at Avalon, expectantly, but shook his head when he said nothing. “Anyway, that’s the old treasury. No treasure anymore though, only junk from your great-grandfather’s time. Don’t go messing around in there. It’s dusty and it’ll get you sick all over again.”

Avalon allowed Gunnar to escort him back to his room, but insisted that he walked. The blunt refusal saddened Gunnar, but Avalon’s legs were working fine. They needed the exercise if they were to be made strong again, enough that he could run from this “castle” if he needed to. Which he did, once he returned to the privacy of his room.

There, he reached out for the embers of magic in his body. It smoldered as he poked and prodded at that storage of power, until he recognized it as his own. A far cry from what it once was, but the magic that fortified a centaur’s rise to great heights could do far more for a weak human.

During the day, Avalon ate the food prepared for him, eventually asking for more meat in his dishes. Then for additional servings when he required it. All of which fuelled the regrowth of his new body. It wasn’t strong, but it was weaker than it should’ve been from the poison that once flowed through its veins.

During the night was when Avalon relied on his magic, which allowed him to stay awake. The way he might during a maddened hunt under the red moon’s glare. He worked his muscles in silence, forcing each lump of flesh to break apart and reform. 

It was a tiresome monotony, but he didn’t wish to remain weak. His body may be human, but his soul was that of a centaur. Wild and strong. When the maids around the castle noticed the improvement in his health, they informed their lord.

Harold was overjoyed by this news and sent messengers to summon his physician, a human male named Sparrow, despite Avalon’s protests. It was lucky that Sparrow had spent the past month foraging for rare materials that he could use for his work, because it meant that Sparrow would take time in returning to the castle. Allowing more time to recover his strength in secret. 

Harold also intended for Avalon to stand by his side while he held court. It was his way of showing any visitors that his daughter had returned to her old self, happy and healthy. The maids dressed Avalon in a colorful assortment of clothes from head to toe, meant to decorate him the way a bird might decorate a nest to attract a mate, but the maids corrected him. The dresses were meant to look pleasant and attract smiles. Whatever that was worth.

When it was time to hold court, Avalon found that it meant sitting around and hearing humans prattle about the most mundane of problems. One man quarreled with a second for making wheels near his presence, because the first man was making wheels of his own. As if he alone was lord of the wheels. Avalon would have liked to see the men duel to the death, to earn the privilege of supremacy over the construction of wheels, but Harold disappointed him by ordering the second man to pay coins to the other.

The day was most interesting when a murderer was caught. Avalon expected the murderer to be trampled to death by horses, but Harold disappointed him yet again by releasing the man after bargaining with the man’s family. Freedom in exchange for a gift of shiny yellow metal. They were gold coins and the faces on either side reminded Avalon of the yellow moon. After one day of holding court, he requested that he be allowed to explore the castle.

Harold forbade Avalon from leaving the castle grounds, but could allow him to explore while under Gunnar’s supervision. The old man allowed Avalon to accompany him while inspecting a shipment of weapons coming in from the city. He passed the doors of the castle, feeling the sun directly on his face for the first time since he had awoken in Aurora’s body, but found himself trapped behind a second set of walls.

“Harold says I am not to leave the castle, but if you are willing to let me leave one set of doors, will you let me pass through another?” Avalon pointed at the large doorway, whose iron latticed door hung its roof.

“That’s a portcullis and it’s as far as I’ll let you go.” Gunnar turned back to point at the building they had left. “That’s just the keep, a small part of the castle. Your father said you couldn’t leave castle grounds and technically we’re still on it.”

“Very well.” Avalon conceded, he had gone far compared to where he started.

Gunnar greeted a man waiting near the portcullis and Avalon smelled the stench of the city wafting towards him, growing stronger as he neared the portcullis. The city was outlined by shimmering blue water, but the city itself was just another stinking collection of humans. Their waste collected and permeated through the air.

Gunnar removed the hide cover from the rolling construct of dead wood that his guest had brought. A wagon, as it was called. An interesting device that was more useful than Avalon might have considered, had he been a centaur. Gunnar pulled an unstrung bow of acceptable quality from the wagon and Avalon might have ventured closer, but he was unaccustomed to filth the way the other humans were. He backed away from the portcullis, unable to hide his disgust.

“Where are you going?” Gunnar asked.

“The stench of the city offends me. I will not stand here for a moment longer.”

Avalon left without waiting for a response, but heard Gunnar call after him. “Just don’t get yourself hurt falling down stairs or your father will have my head.”

While walking to the castle, Avalon caught sight of a young boy watching her. There was a bruise on his lip and he wore a wolf’s head like a helmet. The wolf’s head was missing its bottom jaw, but the rest of its pelt hung down and over his shoulders. He smiled and waved at Avalon, beckoning him to follow. Avalon saw the hilt of a dagger on the boy’s belt before he ran. Avalon turned to look at Gunnar, who was still busy inspecting the weapons on the wagon. 

With no eyes watching him, he followed the boy-child through a narrow path behind a stable. The horses told him, through feeling rather than words, that the boy-child could be trusted, while Avalon was the stranger to be wary of. It was a peculiar thought, that a mere human was trusted by nature’s beasts and the Beast-King was not, but Avalon kept it in mind as he entered the base of a tower. 

Inside, the boy was nowhere to be found. “Boy. Show yourself.” Avalon called out, his hands tightening into fists. He might not be able to fight men like Harold or Gunnar, but he ought to be capable of handling a small boy-child in his current state.

The boy-child leapt towards Avalon from above, but he barely escaped becoming entangled with the howling youth. Despite the height the boy-child jumped from, he landed on all fours and snarled at Avalon. He was small, but fierce for a human. Even if it was directed at him, Avalon could respect the boy-child’s bravery.

“Why have you attacked me?” Avalon asked.

“Imposter!” The boy-child declared and Avalon’s smile fell from his face. “You’re not my sister!”

Avalon could see the similarity now, the boy-child had Harold’s eyes. Same face-shape as well, truly the man’s offspring. Would he have to kill this boy-child to keep his secret? Harold might take exception to his daughter’s body being possessed by a centaur, but Avalon remembered the horses. He allowed his fists to relax.

“I am of your blood. If you cut me with that knife, I will bleed the same blood that flows through your veins.” It was half a lie, but still half a truth. Which Avalon hoped would be enough. 

The boy-child was wary, but was relaxing his guard. “I saw you wandering the halls without your shoes.” He stepped forward, looking Avalon up and down.

Avalon thought to himself, “Closer, closer.” He looked at the boy-child’s bare feet and said, “Like you? I thought it felt natural.” 

The boy-child took a couple more steps forward and Avalon swung out with a fist, hitting the boy-child across the cheek. He stumbled and slipped on the bits of straw that littered the ground, allowing Avalon to wrest control of the knife from him. He placed a knee on the boy-child’s chest and placed the tip of the dagger against his neck. Despite the knife pointed at his throat, the boy-child bared his teeth and met his gaze.

“What do you think I am, if not your sister?” Avalon said and tossed the knife away, before leaving the boy.

“My sister was weak, she was dying.”

“Would you prefer she stayed weak and dying? Do you hate me as I am?”

The boy-child pouted in confusion as he thought to himself.

He was like Primo in a way and Avalon tried not to laugh. “Don’t try to kill me again. I have no quarrel with you.” 

“I wasn’t trying to kill you. I was… I dunno. I just wanted to see if you were real.”

“What you see is what I am, but in truth I know very little of what is real since I woke up. From my sickness, I mean.”

“Everyone says you’ve forgotten who you are.” The boy-child was sitting up now, holding his knees to his chest and close to tears.

“Yes, it’s as if the world is entirely new to me.”

Avalon couldn’t help but feel sorry and turned back to seat himself beside the boy-child. Imposter or not, they didn’t have to fight. He had no quarrel with him and that was all the boy-child needed to know.

“You’re going to ruin your dress.” The boy-child said. “The floor is dirty.”

“Who cares.” Avalon responded simply. It was just cloth, a few stains shouldn’t render it unwearable.

Tears began streaming from the boy-child and Avalon put an arm around his shoulder for some small encouragement, but the boy-child leaned into him. Small arms wrapped around his body and the boy-child cried against his chest. “There, there.” Avalon muttered, unsure of what to say.

The two remained in the tower, until Gunnar found them. “There are other responsibilities I must attend to. If the both of you want to join, you’re welcome to, just be quick about it.” He said, before leaving them in peace.

“Would you like to join me, boy?” Avalon offered, the same way he offered to the young spirits of the Evergreen when he traversed the deep roots, but the boy-child shook his head.

“My name is Gareth. And I don’t want to go do stupid chores.” Gareth said and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“Well, I’d like to go. Will you be okay here?” 

Gareth nodded, but when Avalon stood to leave, he called out. “Sparrow isn’t trustworthy.”

“What makes you think he’s untrustworthy?”

Gareth shrugged. “It’s just a feeling.” A feeling wasn’t much to go on, but the boy-child’s instincts concerning Avalon had been correct. 

Avalon chose to trust in Gareth’s suspicion of the so-called Sparrow, before leaving for the keep. With Gunnar busy, Avalon had an opportunity to visit the old treasury. Whether anyone knew it or not, there was magic there, and Avalon intended to seize it for himself. While he, and it, remained free from suspicion.