Smoke curled through the branches above the clearing where the battle had ended, mixing with the damp breath of Dimlaith. The air stank of scorched bark, stale blood, and something more bitter: a charred, metallic tang that clung to their tongues.

Theo sat propped against the twisted roots of an ash tree, pale and trembling. One leg of his trousers was torn open at the thigh where the gash had been. Now, only a faint line of pink marked the skin; not fresh, not angry, but healing. It would likely scar.

Kiera crouched beside him, her hands still faintly glowing, though the light was fading now. Eira watched from a nearby limb, her wings folded tight, her massive eyes reflecting firelight from the still-burning pile of the dead.

Theo broke the silence first and sighed with relief, “Thanks,” he mumbled, trying to smile. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Kiera gave a weary shrug. “Neither did I.”

Jaxson stood a few paces away, arms crossed, Kestel shifting restlessly on his shoulder. He hadn’t spoken since the fire died.

Boaz knelt at the edge of the clearing, staring at the scorched ring where the Handler had stood, or tried to. There wasn’t much left of him now. Bone, mostly. The fire had taken everything else.

Boaz’s hands still tingled. The air around him was warm, even in the mist.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said softly.

No one responded at first. The others were too busy checking the wounded, dragging the corpses of the Fallen into a pile, cleaning weapons with grim, automatic motions. The forest seemed to lean in, listening.

“I just wanted him to stop,” Boaz added, barely audible. “To stop hurting us.”

“You did more than that,” Jaxson muttered. His voice was quiet, but sharp. “You turned him into ash.”

Boaz turned, slowly. “He was a Handler. You should’ve seen what his kind did to my father. He would’ve killed Theo. Kiera.”

Jaxson’s jaw was tight. “But you didn’t stop at stopping him. You … incinerated him.”

Boaz rose, his expression tight. “What are you saying?”

Jaxson didn’t flinch. “I’m saying you lost control of that … whatever that was. You could’ve killed all of us.”

“Jaxson,” Kiera warned.

“No,” he said, pointing toward the pile of blackened bones. “We need to say it. That could’ve been any of us. What if Kiera had been standing too close? What if Theo had?”

Theo raised a hand, wincing. “Still here, thanks.”

Jaxson ignored him. “You didn’t just burn him, Boaz. You burned everything. Trees, ground, even air. You didn’t know where it would stop.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Boaz said again. The words sounded weak, hollow, even to him.

“That doesn’t make it better,” Jaxson shot back.

“Enough,” Cayden said, stepping between them. “That’s enough.”

His voice carried more weight than volume, and for a moment, the tension broke like a taut rope snapping.

Lyra emerged from the undergrowth, dragging a limp Fallen by the ankles. Her long curls were matted with sweat and whatever passed for the blood in the Fallen, but her eyes were steady.

“They’re not the ones who took the villagers,” she said. “They don’t match the descriptions from the survivors in Forlon.”

Kiera stood, brushing dirt from her knees. “You’re sure?”

Lyra nodded. “This one had a forager’s satchel still on him. I think he was part of that missing group from the edge of the forest. Three days ago, maybe four.”

Boaz’s mouth went dry. “That’s how fast they turn to Fallen?”

“Looks like it,” Cayden said grimly. “No one really knows how they turn once they’re captured. I imagine no one living knows,” He crouched at the edge of the trail they’d followed in, brushing aside leaves and broken twigs. “And whatever group we were tracking… they’re gone.”

“Gone?” Theo asked.

“Gone,” Cayden repeated. “Trail’s been wiped. Clean. No blood, no drag marks, not even a broken blade of grass. Someone, or something, erased it. Magically.”

Boaz stared at the forest floor. “Can they do that? Just… erase their path?”

“Not the Fallen,” Cayden said. “But a Handler might. Or something worse.” A long pause followed.

Jaxson swore under his breath. Kiera stepped closer, frowning. “So we don’t know where they went?”

“No,” Cayden said. “And moreover, this group that attacked us definitely wasn’t the ones we followed in.” Silence stretched over the clearing again.

Boaz stared down at his hands; hands that hadn’t asked the fire to come, but brought it anyway. “We’re not ready for this,” he said. “I’m not ready.”

Nobody disagreed.

“So … what? That’s it?” Lyra said. “We just give up? Go home?”

“No,” Cayden said. “But we have to face the truth. We are outmatched. We came into these woods with steel, instinct, and revenge. We found sorcery.”

“I didn’t mean to —” Boaz started.

“I know,” Cayden said, gently.

Jaxson still looked shocked. “Look, I know you did what you thought was right, and none of us, except maybe Kiera, has good control yet, but —”

“I know,” Boaz snapped, louder now. “I know what I did. You think I’m proud of it?”

“Enough,” Kiera said sharply. She stepped between them, her voice quiet but cutting. “We’ve all lost something. Let’s not lose each other.”

Silence again.

Then Kiera turned to Cayden. “So what do we do? Wander blind? Keep hoping we’ll stumble onto the right path while the Fallen make more of our people into them?”

“No,” Cayden said again. This time, slower. He glanced toward the misted treetops, then back to the group. “There’s someone who may help,” he said. “But it won’t be easy.”

Boaz frowned. “Who?”

Cayden hesitated — just for a breath — and that hesitation changed everything.

“You’ve known something,” Kiera said. “All this time.”

“I’ve known some - one,” Cayden said, emphasizing the last syllable. “A man. A hero from long ages past.”

Jaxson scoffed. “You mean like you?”

Cayden’s gaze seemed to soften at the rebuke, rather than be angry. “No. Not like me. Far from it.”

Boaz stepped closer. “Who is he?” Cayden looked at him; not as a commander looks at a soldier, but as a guardian weighs a secret he was sworn never to speak.

“His name is Aldryn Quell,” he said. “He was once called the Arcwarden of the Sigil Order, a sorcerer. He fought in the Battle of Beltin Fields. He saw Vortannis fall.”

The others stared at him, stunned.

Lyra blinked. “I thought all the old sorcerers were dead. It’s been one hundred years since Beltin Fields.”

“Most of them are dead,” Cayden said. “Not Quell though. He disappeared decades ago. Left the world behind. He must be close to one hundred twenty-five years old by now, but he’s still out there. Waiting.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “And you just ‘happen’ to know where he’s hiding?”

“I do,” Cayden said quietly. “Because I helped him disappear.” A stunned silence fell over them.

“You helped him?” Kiera echoed.

“I was sworn to protect someone once,” Cayden said. “And part of that protection meant keeping secrets; from everyone. Even you.”

Jaxson shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell us before?”

“Because it didn’t matter before,” Cayden said, voice low but firm. “Before Boaz burned the Handler. Before Kiera healed Theo. Before … magic began to wake.” He said the last with a meaningful look at Boaz. In a flash of intuition, Boaz realized he meant the Sigil.

“I’ve been watching. Waiting. Hoping I was wrong. But I’m not. You’ve all touched something ancient; something that hasn’t stirred in many lifetimes. And that power, without control, is more dangerous than the Fallen themselves.”

Boaz said nothing. The Sigil felt hot against his skin, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

“So,” Cayden finished. “We find Aldryn Quell. And we learn. Before this thing burns through you … or all of us.”

They left the Dimlaith behind by midday.

The trees began to thin, the air lightened. Moss gave way to stone, and the damp silence of the forest faded beneath the hush of wind winding through the open slopes of the Reaches. It felt like stepping out of a dream and into something older, colder, and very much awake.

The path angled upward now, winding through crags and exposed rock. Here and there, twisted shrubs clung to the ledges, their leaves already crisping with the cold.

Boaz tugged his cloak tighter. “When did it get so cold?”

“It’s been waiting,” Cayden said. “The forest holds its warmth. Out here, it’s just you and the sky.”

Lyra huffed into her hands, blowing warmth into her fingers. “Remind me why we didn’t bring gloves?”

Theo, of course, had no gloves either — but he didn’t seem to mind. Tink was perched on his shoulder, bundled in a ragged scrap of scarf that Theo had tied like a cloak. She seemed enormously proud of it.

The wind picked up as they crested the next ridge. A swirl of white drifted past Boaz’s face; just a few flakes at first, melting the moment they touched the ground. Then a second gust brought more. “Is that …?” Kiera tilted her face up. “Snow.”

The group paused, blinking at the soft flurry swirling around them. It didn’t stick, not yet, but it danced in the air, catching light like crystal dust.

Kestel wheeled above them, her wings slicing through the falling flakes with sharp elegance. She seemed to relish the cool wind on her wings. Thorne, standing beside Boaz, lifted his head and gave a slow, satisfied blink, as if approving of the shift. Snowflakes caught between his twitching whiskers.

Mika, Lyra’s spotted hyena, took it differently. With a snort and a wild whoop of delight, she bounded forward into the dusting snow, tail spinning like a windmill. She skidded on a patch of slick rock, then scrambled upright and did it again, barking like a fool.

Eira ruffled her feathers and looked deeply unimpressed from Kiera’s shoulder. Though she too blinked in a satisfied way.

Thorne sat down and watched Mika’s antics in dignified silence, but then, without warning, lunged forward into the snow with a graceful bound and vanished over the ridge.

“Mika started it,” Lyra grinned.

“They’re worse than children,” Cayden muttered, but there was no anger in it.

Tink squeaked, leapt from Theo’s shoulder, and promptly landed face-first in a shallow drift. She emerged spitting flakes, then started making what looked vaguely like a snow-angel, although it involved more flailing.

For a few minutes, the fellowship was quiet; not from grief or fear, but from watching. Watching as the creatures that had bound themselves to them, these Familiars, these companions, chased joy in the middle of a frozen nowhere.

Snow dusted Boaz’s shoulders. He tilted his head back and let it fall across his face. Cold, clean, silent. Behind him, someone said softly, “It’s beautiful up here.”

It was.

They made camp beneath the leaning crown of an ancient wind-scoured pine, whose roots gripped the edge of a shallow stone hollow like claws. The tree had clearly survived a couple dozen winters or more, its bark blackened in patches from old lightning strikes. One side had split open, and between that and its dense needles, was just enough to shelter the six of them from the worst of the wind.

The group huddled beneath it as night fell.

A small fire crackled in the mouth of the hollow where they lay, more for comfort than heat. The wind stole both faster than they could feed it. The snow had stopped, but the ground was harder now and frost-dusted. Their breath plumed like smoke in the cold air.

Kiera passed around a pouch of dried fruit and root chips. Theo tried to make a joke about chewing through bark, but the others were too tired to laugh, and he let the silence return.

No one slept easily.

Mika curled against Lyra’s legs, growling softly in her dreams, her legs kicking out, as if she were running. Kestel nested in the crook of Jaxson’s arm, head tucked under one wing. Eira remained awake on her perch, ever watchful, head turning nearly full circle in that way only owls can.

Boaz lay on his side, his back to the fire, one hand resting over his chest where the Sigil hung beneath his tunic.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but suddenly, he was standing.

Darkness surrounded him; not the black of night, but the deep, glowing dark of embers under ash. The ground beneath his feet cracked with each step, dry and hollow. There were no stars. No sky.

In front of him: fire.

Not a blaze, not wild, but contained. Waiting. Burning in a perfect ring on the earth. Three distinct flames danced within it: one white-gold, one blood-red, one deep blue.

He stepped closer. The flames flared. The Sigil at his chest pulsed once, hard.

He looked down. His tunic had vanished. The metal shell of the Sigil was bare, embedded in his skin, glowing at the edges. The center jewel, the emerald, the one he’d always thought was just decorative, seemed to shift. A new groove formed in the shell, like the start of another leaf structure.

He tried to touch it, but the fire recoiled, then surged. A voice, not a whisper, not a scream, filled the void. “Not yet. You are not shaped.”

He fell.

Boaz jolted awake, breath catching in his throat. The fire was low. A few red coals blinked in the darkness. Thorne lay beside him, eyes open, tail curled protectively around his back.

Boaz sat up, heart pounding. The Sigil was cold against his skin, but his shirt was damp with sweat. He looked around. Everyone else still slept. Everyone but Cayden.

The older man sat just outside the hollow, wrapped in his cloak, his profile lit faintly by starlight. Watching the sky. Or watching Boaz. He couldn’t tell in the dark, and from this distance.

The Sigil gave one last faint pulse against his chest — then stilled.

By late morning, the snow had melted to frosted patches between tufts of hardy grass. The path wound upward, narrowing as the trees gave way to sheer rock and scrub. Every breath came colder. Cleaner. Thinner.

Boaz pulled his cloak tighter. The Sigil at his chest had begun to thrum again; not burning, but steady.

They crested the last rise and saw it.

The cabin was nestled against the mountainside, as if the earth had made space for it and then grown around it again. Its roof was half-covered in moss, its walls a patchwork of stone, bark, and polished metal that glinted faintly in the morning sun. A crooked chimney released a ribbon of smoke that smelled like cedar, lavender, and something older — the scent of ink left too long uncorked.

A strange tree stood beside the door, its bark a pale gray-green, its branches bare but tipped with faint points of light, like stars caught in winter thorns.

Boaz stepped forward before anyone could speak. The Sigil pulsed harder with every step. He lifted his hand to knock, but the door opened before he touched it.

A man stood there. Tall, lean, robed in layers the color of dusk and lichen. His face was lined with age. It was not frailty that lived there, but memory. His beard was short, neat, and streaked with copper at the edges. His eyes … were not the same.

One was a deep, weathered brown, steady and sharp as carved oak. The other was pale gray, almost silver, with a faint glow beneath the iris. Not clouded, not blind, but watchful in a different way.

He looked straight at Boaz. “It’s about time.”

His voice was low, dry, not unkind, but not impressed either. He glanced past Boaz at the others, eyes narrowing at the Familiars.

“All of you. Inside. Before that tree wakes up enough to start asking questions.”

Kiera blinked. “It asks questions?” But the man had already turned away. They followed, cautious but curious. Boaz paused at the threshold. The Sigil thrummed with something deeper now; not danger, not pain … recognition.

He stepped through.

The interior defied the exterior.

The walls bent outward into irregular alcoves; shelves grew from the roots of the tree that formed one corner of the room. There were tables made from rune-scarred stumps, chairs cobbled together from mismatched woods. Scrolls and books littered every surface. A fire burned in a squat hearth — blue at the center, fading to soft gold at the edges.

The air smelled of parchment, pine resin, and something like ozone after a lightning strike, or a summer thunderstorm. Near the far wall, a table lay covered in maps: old, crisp parchment drawn with looping ink. Four places on the map of Eluvia glowed faintly.

Boaz stopped. The Sigil responded, warm. A low hum, as if something had been waiting for him to arrive. The man turned again to face him.

“I am Aldryn Quell,” he said. “Or I was. Those who knew me just called me Brim.”

He looked Boaz up and down. Then the pale eye narrowed just slightly. “You’re early. Or late. Depending on which eye you ask.”

Theo squinted. “What does that mean?”

Brim tapped his temple lightly. “One eye sees now. The other …” He shrugged. “Once in a great while, it glimpses the thread of what might come. Not often. Not clearly. And not when it would be convenient.”

He turned his back again, already moving toward the center of the room. “Well? Come in. Sit down. Put the lynx somewhere it won’t claw my rug. We’ve got work to do.” Boaz glanced at Thorne, who had flattened his ears back and stared at the old man, affronted.

Brim lit a few hanging lanterns with a gesture. Flame caught without spark or smoke, casting warm amber light through the rafters. The room came alive with shifting shadows, etched with scrolls, tools, and strange trinkets hung from hooks like herbs drying.

As the group looked around in cautious awe, a quiet flutter of wings stirred the air.

A raven landed lightly on a crooked perch by the hearth. She was not large, smaller than Kestel, but carried herself with a quiet dignity. Her feathers were dark and glossy, and her eyes calm and sharp.

Boaz noticed her before the others. She said nothing, only tilted her head as if appraising them one by one. “She’s been watching you since you came over the ridge,” Brim said, not looking up from where he unpacked a small ceramic pot. “Don’t mind her.”

“She’s yours?” Kiera asked.

“My Familiar,” Brim confirmed. “Name’s Nevara. She remembers more than I do, and forgets less.” The raven gave a soft “krraah,” low and throaty, and resumed watching.

Theo squinted. “How long has she been with you?”

Brim’s mouth twisted in a half-smile. “Since before the sky split open over Beltin Fields. Longer than most friendships last. Smarter than most of mine, too.”

“She seems …” Lyra hesitated, “quiet.”

“She talks when it matters,” Brim said. “Usually to correct me.” The raven preened her wing modestly, as if to affirm this.

They sat near the hearth on uneven stools and low benches. Scrolls and jars crowded the shelves around them, and strange things glinted from the rafters: herbs drying upside down, feathers, small bells with no clappers.

Outside, the wind curled along the eaves, carrying the sound of distant owls and some bats. Inside, only the crackle of the fire and the quiet voices of the deputies and Cayden stirred the stillness.

“It’s good to see you again, my old friend,” Cayden said to Brim with a bow of his head. “I find it hard to believe it’s been twenty years.”

“Yes, twenty years of solitude, and watchful waiting, my friend,” responded Brim, with a thoughtful look at him. “You and I have bided our time, although if you had asked us at the time, we didn’t know that’s what we were doing.”

After what seemed like a long awkward pause, Lyra quipped, “Why do people call you Brim? It seems … odd, almost disrespectful.”

The old wizard laughed quietly, “Ah, well, I used to wear an overlarge hat that had, um, quite a brim on it. Never realized how ridiculous I looked wearing it until I took the time to wear it in front of a mirror.” He laughed again, as if remembering long years past. “The name I kept, to remind me and to keep me humble.”

Theo cleared his throat. “So, uh … this place. You live here alone?”

Brim didn’t look up from his teacup. “Most days. Some nights the mountain talks. Or Nevara gets chatty. But yes — alone.”

“Why?” Kiera asked. “Why disappear after the war?”

Brim glanced toward her, then to Boaz, whose hand lingered unconsciously near the Sigil under his tunic. “Because after Beltin Fields,” Brim said, “the world seemed to break, and no one seemed to want to fix it. I tried, but you can’t fix everything all by yourself.”

“The Sundering,” Lyra murmured.

“Mm.” He leaned back. “The Altan retreated to their high spires, sealed off every path that led upward. The Terran collapsed their tunnels and muttered about bloodlines and betrayal. The Aguan disappeared into their lakeshores and river-holds and stopped answering questions altogether. And the Human …” He let the words hang a moment. “We just built walls. And burned our magic books.”

Jaxson frowned. “So the war ended, and everyone just left?”

Brim’s mouth curled. “You’d be amazed how quickly alliances unravel when no one’s trying to kill the lot of you. There are strong bonds formed in adversity.” He let these last words linger, as his eyes gazed across the group.

“The races were all afraid,” Kiera said quietly.

“Of each other,” Brim agreed. “But more than that: of magic. Because it didn’t belong to any one race. And that meant no one could control it.”

Theo picked at a splinter on the table. “But you were there, right? Weren’t you supposed to … protect all that?”

“I tried,” Brim said. “But it’s hard to protect something everyone thinks has been the enemy. They had all been magically bound, united, by the power of the Sigil, but they discovered that the one who wielded it meant their ultimate destruction.” He sipped his tea. “So I did the only sensible thing. I left before they turned on me too. They saw me as a powerful magic-wielder, one who might take over where Vortannis had left off.”

Jaxson leaned forward. “So why come out of hiding now and help us?”

Brim fixed him with a level stare. “Because for the first time in many generations, the Sigil stirred. And five young adults called upon power they don’t understand.”

His eyes flicked once to Boaz, then back to the group.

“Which means the world’s about to wake up again. And if I don’t teach you something fast, it’s going to burn you down before you figure out which way is north.”

They spent a few hours in conversation with the old man, sometimes laughing at his wit, and other times puzzled by it. He was deep, thoughtful, witty, mischievous, and quirky, all in one. The young deputies felt they could spend days just listening to him. But he bade them to sleep, and promised that tomorrow and the following days would be difficult training for them.

The fire burned low. The others slept in woolen heaps, breathing deep, their Familiars curled close. The wind outside had settled, but the stillness inside remained taut, like a bow drawn and waiting.

Boaz sat near the dying coals, his back against a post, one hand resting lightly over the Sigil beneath his tunic. It no longer burned. It no longer pulsed. But it waited, silent and heavy, like a stone that remembered being more than a stone, once.

Across the room, Brim sat by his map table, sketching ink lines by the light of a floating orb. He hadn’t spoken in hours, but he glanced up now and then, studying Boaz like a half-finished equation.

“Hard to sleep?” Brim said, not looking up.

Boaz didn’t answer right away. “I keep seeing fire.”

Brim nodded, dipping his pen again. “That won’t stop. Not for a while.”

Boaz hesitated. “Do you think … do you think I was meant to carry it?”

Brim’s quill paused mid-stroke. “I think it found you,” he said. “And I think that means something. What, exactly … we’ll figure out before it kills you.”

Boaz let out a breath. Half a laugh. “And if I can’t wield it?”

Brim looked up, eyes steady and clear. “Then someone else will. Someone worse.”

Boaz didn’t respond right away.

The fire cracked, sending up a thin snap of sparks. Most had burned low, just enough warmth to keep the chill from creeping back in.

Across the room, the others slept in uneven shapes beneath Brim’s mismatched blankets. Familiars shifted in dreams, the occasional snore or rustle soft beneath the roof’s groaning beams.

Boaz turned back toward the hearth. Thorne was there beside him, silent as ever, eyes half-closed but watching. Boaz reached down and laid a hand gently on the lynx’s shoulder, patting his sleek fur. “Someone worse,” he whispered.

His thumb brushed the edge of the Sigil beneath his tunic. It didn’t answer. But he felt it: that quiet pressure in his chest, like something waiting to be called.

Behind him, Brim’s quill scratched across parchment again.

Boaz didn’t look back. He simply drew his cloak tighter and settled in beside the embers, eyes open. He didn’t know if sleep would come.

But the weight was his now. And he would carry it.

Leave feedback on this chapter