The morning came with the caws of birds and cold dew dripping off the grass and underbrush that surrounded the cottage. The spears of sunlight struck through the thicket overhead to create a rain of clarity in the early morning dawn. Circe was the first to wake, slipping out of the loft and into the main room. She passed the space where the wounded were resting accompanied by a sleeping Arsa and Zaun. The white of Morgana’s hair rounded the top of the chair she meditated in.

Quietly, Circe stepped outside, her bare feet tangling in the damp grass. A brisk wind pushed beyond her face, entering her lungs and lingering there. She closed her eyes and felt it all. The grass. The dirt. The wind. All of it twisted together into a hand that held hers, holding her steady. A foreign hand - one that had only made itself known recently.

Only since it had saved her.

She shook herself free of the trance the earth had bound her in and began collecting stones from around Morgana’s yard. One by one, she carefully laid them down in a wide circle. The only stones she permitted herself to use were the smoothest, roundest ones in the clearing. Once she deemed the circle wide enough, she took another rock (this one more pointed than the others) and carved symbols into each and every one.

She wasn’t entirely sure what any of them meant, but the hand did. The one that came by her when the wind blew and the water ran over her. It held her arm and guided her across the surfaces of the stones. The runes may have been numbers, or perhaps letters. But they were specific and intentional, nonetheless.

Hirondale? she thought.

Hirondale.

When she looked up and away from her project, Morgana was standing in the doorway, watching.

The dark elf crossed her arms across her chest, “Your friends are looking for a witch. Do they know they’re traveling with one?”

“I’m not a witch,” Circe spat back.

“And I’m not a dark elf. I’m just a woman with skin kissed by shadows and ears that point to the moon. You can label it whatever you like, sister, but you are what you are.”

Circe glowered at her, the green in her eyes sparking like a distant thunder, “I don’t know what I am, and you sure as hell don’t, either.”

Morgana left the porch and walked gently around the stone circle. She arched her brow, occasionally kneeling to get a better look at the symbols written on their smooth surfaces. She was careful not to touch them. “Earth magic. Heading north, by the looks of it. Hirondale, maybe? Perhaps the Empires - no these runes wouldn’t get you beyond the sea. Not with the powers that lie beneath it, anyway.”

“Where we go next is none of your business. I figured you would want us out of your way, anyhow,” Circe answered without meeting Morgana’s eyes.

The witch stood and scoffed, a wicked smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She walked past Circe, allowing herself so close that their shoulders nudged. Once she reached the door frame, she turned back and sucked her teeth. With a sudden movement, Morgana lifted her leg and stomped her foot, an unnaturally loud wave of sound echoing throughout the clearing. The others in the house woke up at once.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she feigned to the three in the main room. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Everyone gathered their gear and strapped on their armor. Frank steered the cart into the stone circle, inspecting it carefully to ensure no part of it stuck over the perimeter. Arsa helped Acadian and Flynn into the wagon as Circe meditated at the head of the enclosure. At the tree line just behind them all, Gostor was chasing a fox who was, coincidently, also chasing a squirrel.

Flynn was rotating his arm in circles, trying to work out the soreness left behind by the wound. Acadian reclined on the bench of the cart, lengthening his chest and torso to relieve the tension. He sat next to Arsa, who was still practically bouncing from the relief of last night’s conversation. Zaun poked his muzzle out of Arsa’s bag and sniffed at Acadian’s hand. Instinctually, the elf pulled away and scowled. After a beat, he took a breath, lowered his hand to the baby, and gently scratched beneath his chin.

Morgana swished her finger in the air, causing an invisible force to grab Gostor by the ankles and fling him onto the cart.

“All packed up,” she said, approaching the meditating Circe.

She opened her eyes and glanced contemptibly up to Morgana. Without a word, she mounted the head of the cart next to Frank and began to mumble. Her eyes flashed a luminescent green as the wind swirled faster around them. The trees swayed with the power, a torrent of force filling the space. The runes on the stones lit like beacons, shooting magical power through the wind and the trees. Morgana stepped back out of the area, her expression studying the act of magic around the group. As her body became obscured by the dust, Arsa could still see her eyes through the barrier. They caught the light and reflected back at him, like a cat watching him in a dark alley.

At the pinnacle of the hurricane, Circe gasped out, “Itintrionem Hirondale.”

The ground beneath them began to shake and the wind seemed to close in around them. Their bodies disappeared, becoming almost like the very dust that encircled their heads in the midst of the storm Circe created. Everything went completely dark except for the two piercing green dots that remained ahead of them all. They were moving at a volant speed, but they couldn’t see where. The wind screamed and howled, as though they were in a lightless tunnel.

The speed ceased and the wind quieted as their bodies regained their physical forms. Each of them glanced around nervously, ensuring that no one got left behind in the teleport circle. It was strange - not even a hair had moved out of place since they disappeared. It was as though they hadn’t moved an inch.

When they had all regained their bearings, they looked around to orient themselves in a colder, more northern land of Hydraan. They had landed on a grassy hill that overlooked a strait that spilled into the Tolwin Ocean. Beyond the salt beaches of the Nacial Shores was a misty body of water, across which lay the Sheirkan Empire - the land of necromancers.

A few miles off from the hill they sat on, though, was the tail end of a road they had traveled on before. The primary trade route that cut through the center of the Cities of Hydraan. In the light of the sunrise, they saw caravans rolling down the path like ants crawling to their nest, bringing food and sustenance to their queen.

The queen they were traveling to was an opulent kingdom of marble, surrounded by a thick wall of dark, reflective obsidian. Out of the barrier peeked the shimmering emerald roofs of every house, business, and landmark that clustered in the city, reaching out like hands in worship. At the back of the city, closest to the western shore, was a marble palace, its water-colored stained glass windows catching every newborn ray of sunlight that greeted them. Their conic rooftops were emerald as well, though somehow more ethereal looking as they rose above all other architecture in the city.

The group gazed on, fighting to remember to take another breath.

Circe swallowed hard, “Welcome to Hirondale.”