Chapter 1
The Sorcerer of Nan Farlas
— The Year 2558 —
Little light ever reached the depths of Nan Farlas. The island lay cloaked in the mists that drifted over the lake, whilst a dense grove of alders veiled the ruined tower. Beneath the tower, the dungeons and the endless dragon labyrinths were shrouded by stone walls and clay-bound earth. Yet there was a narrow fissure in the ancient masonry through which, on moonlit nights, a slender beam of silver light would slip into the gloom below. Habel had discovered it long years past, and he would oft gaze through it at the evening sky — especially when he tarried in the beloved shadows, reluctant to heed the Sorcerer’s summons.
This evening, the heavens glimmered with a rich, dark blue, and even the Darksome Sage was swathed in sapphire radiance, as though clad in some ceremonial druidic cloak of airy silk. Habel drew near to the wall, pressing his upturned nose close to the narrow crack. The nocturnal light caught in his sylph eyes, turning them for a moment an even deeper shade of navy than usual.
Lowering his gaze, he looked upon a swirling host of bats, darting wildly through the air, flitting in and out of the tower’s ruins in a frenzied, restless dance.
Black, blind fools , Habel thought wearily, wrapping himself more tightly in his own wing. He scarcely knew whether the thought was aimed at the bats or at himself. Yet he had no time to ponder it further, for a call reached his ears — a second cry, tinged now with impatience. Muffled by stone, it echoed down through the silent maze of corridors: “Habel!”
The sylph grimaced. He despised everything about the Sorcerer — save for his voice. That he could never bring himself to hate: dark and enchanted, it flowed over the Last Dragon Isle like a soothing song drifting above a forest marsh. It crept unbidden into the cold hollows of Habel’s indifferent heart, stirring a warmth long buried, a warmth as fleeting as it was cruel. In that brief moment, the Child of Eternal Night felt a flicker of something perilously close to joy.
The Sorcerer, of course, knew precisely what he was doing. Joyful memories were torment for Habel, burning like the dragon-fire of that ill-fated day. The instant urge to flee from them bound him to the Sorcerer’s shadow more tightly than any chain. Even now a shudder ran through his slender frame, as if his body sought to shake off every last trace of those treacherous recollections. He rubbed his hollowed eyes with the back of his webbed hand, seized a torch from the wall, and trudged up the narrow, stone-hewn stairs.
Habel had served the Sorcerer for decades now, though he remembered nothing of the time whenas his master had first rebuilt Nan Farlas from its ancient ashes, fashioning it anew as his stronghold. Nor did he know what had reduced the place once more to ruin — the desolation it yet remained. Even Hercho, the Sorcerer’s wolfish companion, seemed not to know the truth, though he sometimes spoke of a mighty tower clad in moss, where alder branches crept through shattered windows, and of the mysterious Lady of the Alders, fair as moonlit night, who wove threads finer, whiter, and more luminous than any spider’s silk.
Such tales were among the few things that Habel had never grown indifferent to. From the moment he had first learned the wolf-speech of Hercho, early in his service to the Sorcerer, he had listened with a childlike eagerness, though he never betrayed this outwardly — and scarcely admitted it even to himself.
Emerging at last from the depths to the surface, Habel was struck by a fierce wind sweeping in from the lake, howling hollowly through the shattered windows of the tower. The gust cut through him like a blade, but he paid it no heed. Not so much as a shiver passed through him as he began to ascend further up the vast stairway, whose steps, crafted by the hands of the trees, were far too large for his slight sylph feet.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Some steps were laid with stones, now flecked with moss and sprouting slender blades of grass between their cracks. Others were formed from the living boughs of the alders that entwined themselves with the tower — those he loathed most of all. Whenas forced to tread upon them, his feet, ill-suited for branch-walking unlike those of the elves, would slip upon the damp, slick bark as though he stood on ice.
Flying is yet a blessed thing, he thought with a wry twist of his mouth, absently massaging the brittle edge of his once broken wing.
At last, he surmounted the final step and found himself within what remained the highest enclosed floor since the tower’s ruinous fall. He drew a deep breath, his gaze drifting once more to the night sky through a gaping window. Beyond the slender gap between alder branches, the Chestnut Bridge stretched forth, linking Nan Farlas to the foothills of the Moonlit Mountains, their silvery peaks gleaming like sword-blades under the faint glow of the Misty Wanderer. The bridge's sprawling roots rose from the lake's edge, arcing directly onto the courtyard of a hidden fortress nestled 'mongst the rocky crags — a fortress as vast and formidable as the tower upon the isle, shimmering faintly blue in the moon's misty glow.
“Habel!”
The third summons rang out, edged with sharper impatience. One unacquainted with the Sorcerer of Nan Farlas might not have noticed it at all. Whatever emotions he harboured, the Sorcerer remained ever composed, restrained, and dignified.
But Habel had learned to discern the subtleties of his master's voice with the precision of a weaver stitching intricate patterns of vibrant threads. He knew all too well that the Sorcerer's wrath was worse than the bite of dragon's fangs, even if it was delivered with a courteous smile upon his lips.
The workshop lay steeped in dim half-light and hushed silence as Habel entered. At first, he did not see the Sorcerer. Only a curt, rough “You are here” drew his gaze upward to a short wooden stairway, which merged with an alder bough leading to a nearby hollow — the workshop’s hidden backroom.
The Sorcerer paused for a moment upon the bough, still as a statue, before descending with measured steps. Habel watched him impassively, as the tall figure slowly emerged from the shadowy gloom, as though rising from a black mist. The pale glow of a single lantern crept ever higher across the folds of his emerald silk mantle.
Paying no heed to Habel, as though he were not there at all, the Sorcerer strode to a crucible suspended above the firepit of a broad, clay hearth and resumed his work. The sylph clasped his hands behind his back and stood motionless, like a statue of stone, waiting to see what would unfold.
“Matter,” the Sorcerer intoned after a long pause, not so much as glancing at his sylph servant, his focus fixed entirely on stirring the contents of the crucible with a slender rod. Though this was but a simple task, one he must have performed countless times, he carried it out with near-reverence. “What a marvellous thing — matter. I have ever held it in high regard.”
“You do not linger here through the night for the love of matter, master wizard,” Habel said quietly as he stepped closer to the hearth, catching the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across his master’s lips. His own soft voice echoed strangely loud in his ears, and for a fleeting moment, he regretted his words, fearing the punishment that might soon follow.
Ere the Sorcerer could respond, the liquid in the crucible boiled suddenly and spat forth a plume of orange-hued vapour. The mist thickened swiftly, coalescing with each passing second until it formed a faint, ethereal cloud hovering above the cauldron. Habel's bulging, flashy eyes widened even further in sudden alarm. For some inexplicable reason, the thought struck him that the cloud would ignite into a blaze of flames.
Yet no such thing came to pass. The sylph quickly steadied himself, silently rebuking his own foolishness.
Even in the Sorcerer’s workshop, vapour did not turn to flame on a whim - unless by the force of illusion.
“No,” the Sorcerer at last said, laughing mockingly. Habel could not tell whether the laugh was directed at his own words or at the sylph’s momentary display of fear. “Not for the love of matter.”
The vapour sank back into the liquid as swiftly and inexplicably as it had risen. Habel smirked crookedly into the depths of the crucible, lifting one corner of his clenched lips. Cursed colour!
The liquid boiled fiercely once more, as though chiding its master for slowing the rhythm of the rod, which he ought not to have done. The Sorcerer’s hand quickened its pace, and his fair, radiant face grew solemn, hardening for a moment into silent contemplation.
“Are you a skilled thief, Habel?” he asked at length, his voice now cold and piercing as the echo from the depths of a well.
Habel knew full well this was not a question for which the Sorcerer sought an answer. He merely shifted his weight from foot to foot and stood waiting, still and expectant, for his task to be given.
“You shall steal something for me,” the Sorcerer commanded. “An elf-boy.”