Ever since his first night in Felisen, when he shared his gift with Cadence, the bonfire hill had become Storyteller’s favorite place in the town. From the high vantage point, both the glittering sprawl of the village’s residences and the peaceful darkness of the forest that lay beyond them were laid out before him. With the unique senses he had awakened as his awareness was boosted, the panorama Cadence loved so much was made even more beautiful, a tapestry of life and emotion.

He didn’t turn away from the view when his soul sense told him that a new presence approached from behind. “Good evening, Mistress Ryme. You’re up late.”

“It’s been a long couple of weeks,” Felisen’s chief hunter replied. She sat down next to the lanky adventurer, staring out at the town with a touch of protectiveness she probably wasn’t fully aware of. “Yet I find myself too tired to sleep tonight.”

Storyteller made a sound of soft agreement.

“And you? You don’t even actually sleep, do you?”

Storyteller’s lips twitched in a brief flicker of a smile. “You are far too perceptive, Mistress Ryme. Even for your level.”

Ryme huffed out a breath of laughter.

Storyteller sighed. “You’re right. I have little need for sleep these days. But I find I think better at night in any case.” Before Ryme could press him for any further details, he asked her, “How are the Beltleys faring?”

Ryme blew out a breath. In the nearly two weeks since the miasma had struck the Beltley farm, Ryme had kept herself busy, her time split between coordinating the hunters to sweep for any other goblins or warbeasts created by the magical fog and assisting the Beltleys in adjusting to their new lives.

“It was rough, the first few days,” she admitted. “Waking up to find your home ransacked, your farm destroyed, your livestock slaughtered, and your family transformed makes for a rude awakening. To say nothing of the reactions of most of the people in town the first time they saw them.”

While the invasive power of the Chained World’s miasma had transformed the livestock of the Beltley’s farm into monstrous beings, the family themselves had only been turned into wraiths. Their souls were preserved against the corruptive influence of the magic, leaving the family the same on the inside, but their bodies had been changed significantly.

“Denning and I did all we could, but…”

“You cannot tell people to leave aside their prejudices.”

“Exactly.” Ryme shook her head. “It was Callahan who changed things, actually. While everyone else was gasping and murmuring and judging, the old bastard walked right out like nothing had changed and offered his services in fixing up the property, free of charge.”

Storyteller had only been in Felisen for a couple months, but he still recognized the value of the old carpenter’s opinions, as one of the more influential (and wealthy) men in the little town. “Quite the gesture.”

“It worked, too. Once they saw Callahan reaching a hand out, everyone else started to do the same. Just like we always come together after a disaster.”

Storyteller still kept his eyes on the town below, but he didn’t need to look at Ryme to feel the quiet pride inside of her.

“This is a good community you have here, Mistress Ryme.”

“I like to think so.” Ryme paused for a moment. Storyteller knew what she was going to ask before she spoke, though he could not say if that was due to his charm attribute or merely his experience with conversations like this one.

“Why is it you insist on that title, Teller?” she asked, her voice troubled. “I’m no one’s mistress, whatever you might say. I’m just a woman with a job.”

“We may have to disagree on that point,” Storyteller replied with a quiet grin. He knew she’d have no more problem seeing in the darkness than he did. “You lead these people, Mistress Ryme. And you’re good at it. That alone deserves recognition, whether you realize it or not.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question. We both know there’s a stark difference between you and me. No matter what you think, I'm certainly not your mistress.”

The smile slowly faded off Storyteller’s face, leaving a pensive frown behind. “I’m strong, Ryme. I’m sure you know this.”

Ryme nodded, unfazed. “With four gifts… that would make you a Master, right?”

The levels above Adept were rarely discussed in places like Felisen, as it was unlikely the citizens of the frontier towns would ever meet anyone beyond that vaunted level. Ryme had scarcely heard of Master, a level above Expert, which itself was a step above Adept. She only understood that it was a level rarely reached. The King himself was the only other Master level gifted she had ever heard of.

Storyteller blew out a long breath. “Not quite, though you’re on the right track. Suffice it to say that I’m stronger than nearly anyone I’m likely to meet.”

Ryme stayed quiet for a moment, imagining what Storyteller was describing. Power was fine and good, but Ryme was already aware of how isolating it could be. Among the villages closest to Felisen, even Initiates were rare, and Adepts even rarer. Callahan was the only other Initiate in the town, with Denning likely to achieve the level before the end of the year as well. Even in a close knit community like Felisen, her power separated Ryme from the people around her in a thousand small but noticeable ways.

She tried to imagine how much more difficult it would be to be not just one or two levels above the people around her, but three, or four, or more. How many people even existed at that level? There couldn't be many, even in the bastion cities. She couldn’t imagine the isolation he must feel.

“That must be lonely.”

“In ways you can’t even know,” Storyteller agreed quietly. “It is human nature to distrust strangers, much less dangerous and powerful strangers. It is difficult to help people who neither like nor trust you.” He shrugged with a casualness he didn’t feel. “No amount of charm can overcome certain prejudices. Rather, I find it simpler to treat the leaders of the places I go with deference and respect–provided they deserve it–regardless of our respective powers.”

Ryme didn’t quite know how to respond to that, though much of it matched her suspicions.

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A few long minutes of silence passed between them, only broken by the peaceful chirp and buzz of insects in the dark around them. Finally, Ryme asked the question that had actually carried her up the bonfire hill.

“You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?”

“We are,” Storyteller confirmed, his voice solemn.

“Even with everything happening here?” Ryme’s voice had a faint whisper of hope in it. “The ogre, the miasma, the barrens. Something’s changing in Felisen. We could use you here. You, and Cadence.”

“You’re right,” Storyteller gave another affirmative. “But we still can’t stay.”

“Why?”

Storyteller exhaled slowly, and for the first time, Ryme caught his eyes change. In the dark, she had barely been able to make out the deep shade of brown that seemed to be their natural tone. But as she watched, they changed, like they had caught and reflected some invisible light, leaving them a bright, inhuman shade of yellow.

“You are familiar with the natural flow of magic, are you not?”

“Of course,” Ryme answered, troubled. “Magic swells through the fall and is at its most turbulent in winter, then recedes until summer, when it is at its calmest.”

“Exactly. The specifics change depending on the place and time, but in general, it ties to the seasons in some way.”

“Then… are you saying this is some sort of cycle? The same as the normal seasonal shift in the magic?”

“The exact opposite, actually.” Now it was Storyteller's turn to sound troubled. “The connections that link our world and the Dark Worlds are explicitly unnatural. They do not follow the same cycles as the magic inherent to our world.”

Ryme studied Storyteller’s profile more carefully, and a thought occurred to her. An impossible thought. “Teller… did you…”

Storyteller couldn’t help a small huff, already knowing where her thoughts had turned. “No, Mistress Ryme. I am not that old. The Wastes predate even me,” he answered her unfinished question, amused. “I’ve never heard a convincing theory as to why our world shares connections to the three Dark Worlds, but it is clear that they defy the rules our own magic follows. Outsiders do not have gifts, or levels, and their magic is not cyclical or dynamic, the way ours is.”

Ryme nodded along, though she only barely followed Storyteller’s words. She wasn’t a sentinel, dedicated to standing against the endless outsiders that crossed over from the Dark Worlds. She, and hunters like her across the heartlands and the frontier, were more dedicated to the removal of the magical monsters actually native to the Realm.

“But then… How is this happening?”

“An excellent question, Mistress Ryme. One I’m still trying to find an answer to.” Storyteller’s gaze drifted up, from the sprawl of the town below to the infinite expanse of the stars overhead. “Places like your barrens are common enough. Think of them as tiny Wastes, small, isolated places that have a connection to one of the Dark Worlds. I suspect, were we to trace Felisen’s roots far enough, that we’d find this village was actually founded to monitor what you now call the barrens.”

“Really?” Ryme asked. Her own head had turned towards the dark stretch of the forest beyond Felisen, as if she could see the barrens in the distance, dark and sullen and dangerous.

“That yearly expedition you undertake is what convinced me,” Storyteller told her. “Even if the meaning of it has been lost, it's clear someone in the history of this village wanted to keep an eye on that place.”

“But we never found anything on those trips.”

“Indeed. The barrens are, in fact, so small that I suspect you’d have to be tragically unlucky to get more than a couple outsiders crossing over every year. Most of them probably got themselves killed in the forest without ever being seen by a hunter.” Storyteller huffed a dry laugh of amusement. “The magic is exceptionally volatile here. How do you think goblins like those we encountered at the farm would stand up against some of the monsters you and yours hunt in the winter?”

“Huh.” Ryme couldn’t help her own helpless laugh. “And we always undertake the expedition in spring, when the magic is receding. Anything that manifested must’ve gotten itself killed during the winter, when the strongest monsters are about.”

“Likely, yes.”

“But now… that’s not happening.”

“Correct. The ogre I killed was an old one. A hill giant, we call them, when they get to that size. It would’ve taken a very powerful or specialized monster to be able to kill it, and unfortunately, I doubt your hunters would have fared any better.”

“And the miasma?”

“A sending. The miasma is a weapon, and I believe it operates on some level of intelligence. The farm was an ideal place for it to do its work.”

“But I’ve never heard of anything like either of those,” Ryme protested. She bit her bottom lip, fretting. If Storyteller hadn’t been there, either of those threats could have resulted in the kind of destruction she was dedicated to preventing, and there was nothing she could’ve done about it. “What changed?”

“Something,” Storyteller replied, lifting his hands in a futile gesture. “I don’t know what. But something is causing the stable connections between the Dark Worlds and places like the barrens to fluctuate, allowing more manifestations through.”

“That’s why you can’t stay,” Ryme said quietly. “Because what we’re facing isn’t a problem, it’s a symptom.”

“A symptom I’m able to delay, at the very least. It’ll be some time until you’re troubled with problems like these again, but if someone doesn’t fix the problem itself, the barrens will open back up again eventually.”

“And you’re the one who has to do that?”

Storyteller couldn’t help a bitter smile. “It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.”

“And… Cadence?”

“One day, it will be her job too,” Storyteller told her. He looked over at Ryme, and she noticed that his eyes had gone from their previous eerie yellow to that piercing blue shade. “She has it in her. I saw it, and so did the Adventurer himself.”

“But… my Cadence, dealing with problems like this…” Ryme’s voice grew tight as she considered her only child finally leaving Felisen. It was a thought she had put off for a long time, even as they trained and prepared for this inevitable day.

Storyteller chuckled. “Not quite this scale,” he reassured her. “Not for a while, at least. She’ll need to get at least to Adept before she starts having to deal with the big stuff.”

“Well. That’s good at least,” Ryme swallowed thickly.

“It’s a good life,” Storyteller told her. “Cadence will see things you can’t imagine, make friends and allies that will last a lifetime. Adventurers may be little more than a story to most of the world–but as you’ve no doubt begun to recognize, some of us do still exist. And we watch out for each other.”

“Good,” Ryme said, though the crack in her voice compromised the sentiment.

“She’ll also be able to come see you whenever she wants,” Storyteller added.

Ryme blinked away tears to look at Storyteller, baffled. “W-what?”

“At Adept.” He explained. “One of the abilities the gift of the wanderer grants is a sort of teleportation to certain places. I have no doubt she’ll ensure Felisen will be one of those.”

“But… Adept, that’s years away.”

Storyteller shrugged. “Not as long as you’d think. Three, maybe four.”

“What?” Ryme asked, even more baffled. “It took me nearly a decade to get to Initiate alone!”

“Mmm. And how often did you fight? How often did you push yourself, and really force your gifts to grow? Once or twice a year? Maybe three, in a bad winter?” Storyteller shook his head. “That may be the timeline for hunters like you, dealing with only occasional threats. But for a sentinel working frequently in the Wastes, or an active adventurer, I’d say the road from Novice to Adept is perhaps five years at the longest. And Cadence doesn’t seem like someone to take the long way.”

Ryme chuckled, the sound a little shaky. “No. No, she is not.”

“Then there you go. She’ll be able to come see you in just a matter of years–and that’s assuming her road doesn’t just take her through here again before then.”

Another long moment of silence passed between the two, Ryme processing that news. Storyteller waited with the patience born of a lifetime counted in decades rather than years, until she finally said, in a quiet voice, “Thank you.”

Storyteller nodded, turning his gaze back to the town below. “You have a beautiful home, Mistress Ryme.”

Ryme arched an eyebrow at Storyteller as they both heard a stick snap on the other side of the hill. It was far from the first sound they had heard from Cadence–neither had felt the need to keep her from hearing their conversation.

Storyteller winked at Ryme, then stood up. “I’m getting restless. I’m going to walk around for a bit.”

Ryme lifted a silent hand in goodbye, her eyes still fixed on the glittering sprawl of Felisen.

Storyteller’s path off the hill walked within a few paces of where Cadence sat on the ground, her back against the stone bench, hidden by shadow. “Cadence. Go talk to your mother,” he told her as he walked by, not pausing for a response.