Some chose to fight, others to make peace.

  Still some elves followed the dwarves, and vanished.

  The elves did not die in a blaze of fire, nor did they fade all at once.

  The way of the elves is a candle, its wick sighing out.

  Artaghan is the home of the humans, and the grave of the elves.

  Spirits are playthings to be abused, and the land humanity’s to mold.

  And yet, there is still fire, the candle is not yet snuffed.

  Remember the ways of the past, remember the promises trampled.

  Remember our legacy, and remember that all is not lost.

  The way of the elves, the way of the old, kindles our hearts.

  We but need the wind to carry on the spark.

  We but need the spark to ignite a fire.

  We but need a fire to burn down the forest.

  And in the ashes, like the phoenix, we can be reborn.

  -The ending to the Galadrin poem, Artaghan Endless, Translated by Ty’lan the Burning Grove in the year 1096.

  Gwynfor woke.

  She leaned against the Unicorn. Its body was cold, she was cold. Once pristine fur was stained with silver blood, and dirt clung where it lay in the mud. Bugs buzzed, but kept their distance. They looked tempted to dine upon the corpse. Gwynfor thought even they had a period of mourning, even they understood the significance of the Unicorn’s passing.

  She ached. A litany of pains new and old weighed her down. A phantom hurt stung her stomach, the agony of it worse than what it should warrant. She still hurt from when those stupid kids beat her down, still hurt from the riot, still hurt from her failure. She wanted to keep lying here, never move again. It would be easier.

  Live well.

  She stood up, the last lament of the Unicorn in her mind. Her body was a rotted tree, yet still she held strong, not collapsing from the effort. Her knees wobbled, her stomach churned and at the same time, her vision swam. She did not fall. She took a step forward, then another. Forward she went, towards Redport. She looked down at her hands. They were glowing. They were dim, and beneath the rising sun, it was barely perceptible. At night, or in shadow, it would be obvious. She knew Gifts left a mark upon those given them, but to see it so clearly on herself... She stared at her hands as she walked, everything else seemed to fade away.

  She felt no different, felt no power to use, no manifestation of Illumimancy. Yet she had the ability, it was clear as day. She was a mage. She could form a new Line of House Itterarkh. Each of the High Houses were made up of various bloodlines of mages and their families. Normally, new mages were raised from the ranks of one, but on occasion, an outsider would gain power, and they were allowed to make a new branch. It was rare to occur, the last time had been Kaladhen the Black Dahlia, and before him it had been nearly two hundred years. But Kaladhen had been the son of a wealthy noble, and had swiftly allied himself with members of the ruling class. Gwynfor would not do that. No, she was certain as the oak. It was a ruse. The creation of a new line was a myth told to keep outsiders in check, letting them live in the hope they would be the lucky few. Gwynfor had no such delusions. She would be an outsider at best, and likely killed for even requesting a Line of House Itterarkh made for her.

  Besides, where had the nobles been when Willow was taken, when Iodal was taken, when the elves had been abused and trampled over. Gwynfor would die before she joined their ranks. Caistlin had promised her power for making a deal with a devil. Well, she had gotten that wish, and she would turn it upon the very forces who ruined her life. Dylon would not rest until she was dealt with. Well she would do the same. He had hurt Lydia, taken Willow, had tried to kill her and succeeded in slaying the Unicorn. She would start with him.

  But first, she needed to get her parents to safety, to get Lydia out of jail, and to return Willow from Morterran’s hell.

  The next few hours were a miserable affair. Even healed by the Unicorn, she struggled against the little pains and wounds her body suffered. Each step was a slog, and she did not travel by road. She could not risk being noticed or for her skin to be observed. So she dragged herself through the terracotta fields, through the red grasses tall against her, and through the rolling hills. On a good day, the trek would have been two hours, but the sun was far overhead by the time she could see his light shine upon Redport. There was a thick cover of clouds drifting in from the sea, and they would soon obscure the city. It looked like rain was on the horizon, and a storm was brewing. A terrible omen for her plans to sail to Ghost, but you worked with the hand you were dealt.

  She stood still for a long moment, looking at the city, at the clouds coming in. She needed the chance to rest, but also, she was struck by how much change a few days could bring. The city seemed almost otherworldly, entirely alien to her. Gwynfor fell to her knees, and felt tears begin to fall from her eyes. She was almost home, she was still alive, and yet, this would no longer be home. Dylon would make sure her old life burned behind her. Would this be the last time she would gaze upon the city, to see it rise against the sea, to breathe in this fresh air?

  She clutched at her head, and it felt oddly empty without a scarf to cover it. She hadn’t had one since the riot, since everything changed. What a difference a few days made. What an odd thing to have been fixated on, to have so utterly despised and yet cherished. Gwynfor stood back up, the tears still falling. She did not wipe them away. It felt good to cry, to feel, to let herself be. She missed the simplicity of the yesterdays, but she also realized something: Never again would she wear one of those cursed scarfs. She was done having her life defined by the expectations of others. She was an elf, and proud of it.

  The final push to the city seemed a breeze. Whether she had gotten better at handling the pain, or if she had surpassed it, Gwynfor did not know, but it no longer held sway over her. Each step brought her closer to home and closer to leaving home behind. Life brings change, but change brings opportunity. Soon, Redport was close enough to smell, to hear, to live. She stayed away from the gates. She did not know fully Dylon’s sway, or who knew about his plots. It would be better to avoid notice entirely. There were several other ways into the city, and none seemed appealing. Gwynfor followed a rugged path on the south side of the city, winding through old farmsteads and ruins of the old city. Soon, it wound closer to the wall of Redport, and Gwynfor could smell a putrid stench. Despite the fact she was close enough to the ocean to catch whiffs of salt and to hear the waves crash against cliffs, it did little to dull the smell.

  Rain began to fall and the wind blew her hair, hard enough to cause her to flinch and instinctively reach for a non-existent scarf. Gwynfor approached the entrance to the sewer. They were a labyrinth and often butted into the ruins of old Redport, from when the city had burned in a revolt five hundred years prior. Many streets had been built atop the old city, as they sank slowly into the clay upon which the foundations were laid. Gwynfor had explored some of them–most kids in the city had at some point. She only knew a little, but it would be enough to get home without notice. Pinching her nose, she stepped into shadows which were lit up in her presence.

  *

  Atilan woke to the sound of metal scraping against leather. He blinked his eyes open and saw just in time the dagger thrust at his chest. Silver flashed and a heavy weight slammed into him, expelling the air from his lungs and sending him and his chair sprawling to the floor. That was a far better proposal than being skewered though. He kicked the chair back and saw it hit his attacker’s legs, forcing them to stumble back, and giving Atilan a moment to pull himself to his feet. It was dark, very faint light breathed in through the closed curtains–it must be dawn. Most people would have needed more sleep, and Atilan may have too–but being awoken by an attempted assassination tended to get the mind going quickly. Bronze, gold, and silver light burned into existence and cast the room in battling metallics.

  Nathan stood just in front of him, hunched over, dagger in hand, cloaked in the same clothes Atilan had seen him wearing last. But there was something wrong, his skin was covered in goosebumps, and he was not looking at Atilan. Nathan was also shivering, as if he were out in the frigid night. Atilan narrowed his eyes, and felt–

  He had no more time, as Nathan charged him, dagger twirling through the air as if it were a cleaver. Silver light formed into a sword as Atilan intercepted the first swing, catching it beneath the handle and with a flick of the wrist, wrenched it from Nathan’s hands. It should have clattered to the floor, but instead Nathan’s shadow seemed to writhe and move on its own accord, and catch the dagger.

  “What devilry is this?” Atilan asked, walking backwards, as Nathan gripped his weapon again. He still did not look at Atilan, yet moved with an assuredness towards him that belied exact knowledge of his position. There was no answer save for another charge. It was far from a sophisticated strategy, and one that lacked an elegance or great chance of success now that Atilan was aware of his attacker. At least, it would be risky if Atilan intended to bring harm or slay Nathan. Instead, he was forced on the defensive, moving about the small room with as much skill as he could, parrying when possible. He disarmed Nathan again, but once more the dagger was caught and returned in a second.

  Atilan didn’t even have a chance to Strand. It required thought and concentration, if even for a second, but here his attacker pressed the advantage, leaving Atilan no room to maneuver, to work around him without risking harm to Nathan. So, gritting his teeth, Atilan took a risk. He paused and allowed Nathan to strike him. He managed to turn aside the worst of the damage with a last second silver Strand, but he felt the pain shear through his side as the dagger bit into him. Atilan tackled Nathan to the ground, and finally looked into his eyes. At least he tried, for Nathan’s were closed, as if in sleep. With his thoughts confirmed, Atilan held Nathan in place as his body bucked and tried to force Atilan off. Silver light flashed and manacles dug into the earth holding him down.

  Atilan fell back, breathing hard, chest heaving, as stared at Nathan. The kid was still squirming against the chains which held him down. Atilan saw Nathan’s shadow had fallen utterly still. “You are a wraith, aren’t you?” It was a statement more than a question.

  We are the end. We are endless. The words were like the slithering of a snake in Atilan’s mind, their forked tonguing lashing his thoughts. They were cold and empty, utterly without emotion. “Are you the Black Shepherd?” He is one end, we are another.

  “Why do you refer to yourself as we?” We are eternal, we are the end. “You’ve said that.” Atilan was beginning to feel a tad crazy, speaking aloud to a voice in his mind. He kept glancing behind him. Wraiths were more myth than monster, the kind of Spirit most did not believe in. Atilan hadn’t entirely been certain of their existence until this moment. But, like the Red Wraith for whom she was named, wraiths were believed to only be seen in the corner of the eye, never leaving there. “Do you know the Black Shepherd then?”

  He is one end, we are another. “Are you allies?” We seek an end. “An end to what?” It all. Simple, to the point. At least he can grasp their goals then, assuming they were not lying. Suspicion began to creep into Atilan’s mind. “Why are you sharing so much with me?”

  Atilan had heard many terrible things in his life, and seen worse. The sound the wraith made in his mind was horrific, and even worse, he knew it to be laughter. It was maddening, he fell to his knees, clutching at his head, trying to drive the sound from his thoughts. Atilan stood, and tried to shake it out through question, “What of the Red Wraith?”

  The sound began to die and the silence it left behind somehow seemed worse. It was the darkness of uncertainty, the fear of what if. They are the innovator, THE true end. That bore consideration. “Hadian?” A failed end. It still was answering his questions, and perhaps the answers were illuminating, but why? Atilan was bothered, it felt as if it should be obvious. A chill ran down Atilan’s back, as he heard the curtains behind him rustle with a gust of wind. “Nathan, is he still alive?”

  For now. “We cannot determine our ends, for it is the will of the High Father to determine our fate. Instead, we must determine our now, and all should strive to make it the best present possible.” Quoting the Compilations? Atilan heard that awful sound in his mind again, as the wraith laughed. Meaningless words from mere simple men.

  “Simple men?” Atilan said. “Perhaps. Yet I have found that simple men are the ones who keep the world running. They grow the food, they build, they live. A simple life is an envious one. It is to live, to enjoy, to be human.”

  He found only silence after he spoke, as Nathan continued to writhe against his chains. “Let go of Nathan Spirit, and perhaps I shall have mercy for you.” I need no mercy from you, only for you to continue speaking. There was an edge to the wraith’s voice that unnerved Atilan. It was gleeful, and far too joyous to be anything other than terrifying. He glanced around, seeking a danger he did not yet see. Atilan froze, staring at the ground where the chair had tumbled.

  Hadian’s journal was gone.

  Something the matter mortal?

  The window was open, the wind whispered through the room. Atilan had noticed it before but had been too tired to understand the implications. There had been another wraith, and they had stolen Hadian’s journal. Atilan turned back to face the wraith.

  He barely had time to avoid the dagger Nathan was thrusting at his chest. Confusion and fear sprung into Atilan’s mind as Nathan leapt onto him, putting his full weight into stabbing the weapon at Atilan’s throat. Somehow, Atilan had the time to notice that the manacles that had been holding Nathan were still undamaged. We are your end.

  The dagger was pushing past Atilan’s skin, he felt a detached pain, as blood began to bubble out from the wound. His arms were tired, as he pushed against Nathan, stopping him from cutting the mortal coil, but stopping him was all Atilan could manage. If he had more sleep, maybe he could have done more. It bit further down, and Atilan began to scream.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The door burst open and there was a flash of silver light. The weight atop Atilan vanished, and he leapt to his feet. Nathan had been thrown back by a sudden arch of stone that had grown from the ground. Lacian stood in the doorway, fury in his eyes as silver Strands burned around him. “Evil hath no place in the halls of heaven! Begone Spirit.” He spoke with authority, and Atilan saw Nathan’s eyes roll back into his skull. The young man shivered. You dare defy us? Atilan healed the wound of his throat with a Gold Strand, before it had a chance to grow worse.

  “Begone foul creatures, in the name of the High Father, I banish thee!” Lacian waved forth his hands and Nathan reacted as if he had been struck by a hammer, stumbling back. You are nothing to us. We must complete–

  “Thrice I speak and demand thou begonst! I BANISH THEE!” Silver light streamed forth and struck Nathan. Atilan heard the sounds of a bell tolling, a phantom sound, and Nathan writhed upon the ground. He began to cough and spluttered, and then went still. In the corner of Atilan’s sight, he saw something move fast beside him. He felt a sudden jolt of pain, as he saw a cut appear on his hand. It immediately reddened with blood.

  Lacian fell back against the wall, sweat beading over his bald head, as he rubbed his forehead. “Are you injured Sir Vessel?”

  “Nothing vital,” he ran to Nathan, and pressed a hand to the kid’s throat. He felt the pulse, and saw the rise and fall of his chest as he still breathed. Atilan sighed in relief then ran to the window. “You have my thanks, Lacian.”

  Lacian wheezed as he waved a hand. “No need to thank me. I woke to a feeling of evil pervading this place and searched for the source. I am glad to have stumbled here in time.”

  Atilan kept staring out the window and into the city beyond. A feeling of evil was the right description. He could still feel that stench of evil in the courtyard. The wraiths left it behind wherever they went it seemed. The sun was rising, slowly enveloping the land in light. Evil feared the sun, and Atilan suspected if he wanted the chance to follow the wraith and retake the journal, he musn’t delay. “Please make sure Nathan is safe for me Elder Lacian,” Atilan said, bowing his head to the man. Perhaps he did deserve Atilan’s respect. “I have a wraith to follow.” He leapt out the window, and created a slide of metal with his Stranding, sending him off at a high velocity.

  He attracted much attention as he did, the few people out and about apparently did not expect to see such a sight. He heard the usual greetings and praises to him. “Greetings Sir Vessel. Praise be the High Father. I love you Sir Vessel!” Maybe that last one was not as usual. Atilan sprinted past the walls of the church, vanishing part of it with a bronze Strand as the portcullis had yet to be drawn open. The stench of evil was weak deeper into the city, thinned by the constant movements of life, yet he still managed to follow it. It wound deep into the heart of Redport, and took a twisted path that seemed to double back on itself. Atilan had to pause multiple times and guess which way was the correct one. He had to double back himself twice and try a new path. Each time he did, he could feel the sun continue its climb, its light spreading further and further.

  Atilan had been stupid to allow himself to be drawn into conversation with the wraith. He had been so intent on getting information, he hadn’t truly considered what the wraith’s goals had been. If he had not been so tired, had not been so single-minded, he would still have the journal. What of its contents did the wraiths wish him to not find?

  Finally, Atilan found himself at the end of a street, and at a terrible discovery. He stood at an open sewer grate, and wraith’s trail ended here. The rot and decay of a sewer would overwhelm the stench of evil, and Atilan would not be able to follow it. Besides that, the sewers were a labyrinth, with many twists and turns and other dark denizens dwelling in its depths. He sighed. He could not abandon his search. Whatever he found, if anything, Atilan was sure the next few days were going to be a miserable affair.

  *

  Gwynfor usually was not bothered by terrible smells. She had explored the sewers before, and all of Redport was well acquainted with the stench of manure when planting season came. But today, it was acrid. It stung her nose, and made it hard to breathe. Her back ached, as she had to duck through the current segment of the sewer. Much of it was designed to be accessible to make repairs, but that did not mean they were easily walked. Swallowing back bile, she kept forward, relying on the light of her body to guide her path. She just needed to be out of here. Something felt wrong. It wasn’t just the smell, there was something watching her. She kept glancing back, each time expecting to see something.

  There was nothing.

  She shivered, and recalled a tale Willow had told about one of his adventures here. He claimed he discovered a tunnel that led into a cave glittering with pink crystals. He told her he would have brought one back, but a surly looking dwarf had chased him away. Another tale of his had him encounter a beast made of sludge and ooze, that had corroded the pathway and nearly melted him. Such tales were fun to listen to beside the hearth of an inn, with hearty food and warm drinks. They did little to ease her worries now, moving through that same darkness, hearing odd noises and feeling the creeping sensation tickle her neck. Why had she not just risked going through the gate, or even climbing the wall where they were shortest. She had done it before, and had even been caught once. The guards didn’t really get you in trouble for having a bit of fun. Except sometimes they did, and now, tensions would be higher than ever.

  She heard a squelch somewhere in the distance, vaguely off to her left. It was a thick sound, something had fallen into the sewage, and did not make for a pleasant noise, and it caused her to retch. Should have just gone through the gates. Wiping her mouth, she kept on. But what was the sound? Was she being paranoid? She had a right to be, considering her last few days. She glanced back. Nothing there. There was never anything there. Could the Red Wraith have used these sewers? Was that how they got around without being seen?

  Gwynfor doubted that. But the thought was no assurance either. She did not have too much further. Two more corners, and a long straight away, then she could emerge into an alley a few minutes from her house. In fact, it was within sight of her encounter with those stupid kids not long ago. It felt like a lifetime had happened since. She wondered what happened to Caistlin. The man had struck Dylon in that fight, and she hadn’t given a thought to him since. She spat. He didn’t deserve it. He had mired her in this just as much as Dylon and Gavin and Vericho. Whatever he was seeking, it was not in her best interests. He worked for himself and none else.

  Gwynfor rounded a corner, and suddenly walked into something in the dark. She screamed, falling flat onto her back as her feet slipped on the mossy-covered stone. She heard a grunt and saw in that brief moment another shape falling backward. She landed hard, and ignored the pain, as she pushed herself to her feet and went to draw a weapon, but found none. She cursed herself for being so stupid as to leave herself undefended.

  Light exploded around her, and Gwynfor saw odd shapes of bronze and silver and gold twisting around through the air. She recognized them, after a moment, and then recognized the man she had run into, as the point of a Unicorn’s horn was an inch away from her chest. She froze and stared at the horn. It looked so similar to the one of the Spirit who had given its life for her, for the Spirit she had helped slay. She began to cry, and she hated herself for that, for showing weakness in front of a near stranger.

  “Ahem,” Atilan said, as he lowered the horn. Gwynfor saw he looked both surprised and uncomfortable. “Are you hurting child?”

  “I am not a child, and I am fine!’ Gwynfor said, and instantly regretted it. There was no faster way to be seen as a child than by pouting being called one. “I mean, I am quite alright Atilan.”

  “What… are you doing here? And where is Dylon? Wait…” Atilan paused and Gwynfor saw the Strands wink out, leaving the only light coming from her. He was clarity and understanding. Oh great, he was too perceptive for Gwynfor’s liking. “What happened to you?”

  “How is Lydia, and what happened to the Red Wraiths?” Gwynfor responded in kind.

  He furrowed his brow, staring at her. Then, he sighed. “Perhaps answers would do you good. Lydia is safe for the moment. High Chamberlain Judge arrived to the city and pardoned her, but demanded she still be brought before Arrietty to clear her prior claim as a Thane of the Throne. She is gone, and has tasked me with helping you if I can.” He leaned against the wall, and Gwynfor saw his shoulders slug forward, one hand rubbing his temple. “Might you answer my question?”

  She was quiet for a moment, staring at the supposed Vessel. She had seen Lydia fighting beside him. She remembered him walking away from Dylon at the Banishment, right before Morterran’s hell was unleashed. She remembered the disappointment in him, for not helping. But he had, he had lent his hand to their cause. He did not seem a liar to her, and right now, she was in a predicament. In addition, there were the rumors and the stories of him. Both the old and terrifying of his Baptisms of Blood, the murders he had committed in the name of the High Father, but also his more recent tales of redemption and serving others.

  Gwynfor had been burned accepting the help of another not long ago. But one did not get far spitting into providence when it fell onto one’s lap. So, struggling for a moment to speak, she told him. She told him about Willow, about the kids hurting her, about Caistlin, about the Banishment and her imprisonment. She told him of the deal she had made and all that happened there, including her role in the Spirit’s demise and Dylon’s eventual fury and revenge he would have for her.

  Atilan–it turned out–was an excellent listener. He did not interrupt, and the few questions he probed, clarified her story quickly and helped her tell the events. When she was done, she realized she was crying again, and strangely, did not feel nearly as worried as she had before. Neither spoke as she rubbed away her eye’s sadness.

  Finally, Atilan spoke. “That utter bastard.”

  Gwynfor looked up, feeling a flutter of hope in her heart. Would he truly be an ally? Did she have a friend on her mission? Atilan knelt and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Gwynfor, if what you told me is true, you are in the position to become a noble yourself, and challenge–”

  “NO!” She hissed, and Atilan blinked. “I will not be one of them. I refuse to let them change me, force me into their systems. I am going to burn them.” She swallowed, realizing the implications of what she said too late, and how it might be taken. She slowly looked up and tried to pierce Atilan’s expression which seemed so blank and without tells.

  “You have an understandable amount of rage, that much is clear.”

  Gwynfor’s fists tightened.

  “I believe we stand in a similar spot. I find myself questioning the very foundations upon which my own faith is built. The church, the nobility, all seems to rest on a bedrock of sand. It crumbles to the slightest of touches, and is held together only by the wills of the people who benefit from it, and the whips they use upon the rest to keep it together. But that is a bold goal for one so young and without experience. Would you be willing to consider an alternative course, for at least a moment.”

  “I will not be a noble.”

  “I will not force you. But Dylon is not someone you can so easily enact revenge upon without retribution. Allow me to help you, and we can find a safer way to deal with him.”

  He looked at her with pleading eyes, sounding so sure. He seemed an easy man to trust, to put a modicum of faith into. Could she really so easily give up on her plans, her wants of revenge? No, not give up, but delay, perhaps do it smartly? “The rest of the wraiths, are they safe? Did anyone die?”

  She saw his face blanc, and felt a pit in her stomach. “who?”

  “Several, Malcolm chief amongst them.”

  Tears buried her vision. She tried speaking, but found that words would not come. How could they? Only after a few failed attempts, did she manage, “how?”

  She saw his jaws working, the hesitation behind him, and knew the answer.

  “And yet, you want me to forgive them?”

  “Not forgive them but–”

  “I am not fucking working within their system. They will never face justice from that.” Gwynfor bit her lip, rising to her feet and stared at the Vessel. “Try and stop me if you wish. But I am going to burn it all down.”

  For a brief moment, she thought he was about to strike her, to take away her freedom, to act as any other man of nobility would. Instead he held out a leather pouch that jingled with the sound of scales. “You will need this. I have a friend who lives in dockside, called Theothere. He has myriad friends amongst the sailors. Give him my name and twelve bronze scales, and he can get you and your parents anywhere.” He sighed and looked much older than Gwynfor had noticed before. “We should first get your parents away from here, someplace safe.”

  Hesitantly, Gwynfor snatched the purse away, worried it may have been a ploy to let her guard down and grab her. But no, she safely took it and saw an earnest look in his eyes. “Thyshar’Ra, can we get them there?” The home of the elves. It was an island off the southern coast of Artaghan, and the one place left given to the elves to rule. It was said to have been the birthplace of their peoples, and still one of the elder trees lived on the island, perhaps the first of all trees–if legends were to be believed. Dylon would not dare go after her parents there.

  “I can think of no place better.”

  “How quickly can you get them there?”

  Atilan rubbed at his chin. “Tonight. Theothere works quickly, especially incentivized with scales.”

  “Let us go then.” Gwynfor began to walk forward, impatient to get going, now that a new path was before her. “Why are you down here?”

  Atilan was not following, he seemed to be thinking upon her question. “I told you of the foundations on which I stand. I am mired in conspiracy unrelated to your own predicament. I would share it with you, but I give you the choice, and I warn it could bring greater danger upon you.”

  She tilted her head, looking at him. Forthrightness, and she detected a genuine twinge of fear from him. “I think I shall pass then, if that’s the case.” No need to endanger herself any further. Not with her current enemies. “You are not dissuading me from my goals?”

  Atilan took a moment to answer, as they darted through sewers. “I have spoken my opinions on corruption. I think I myself have taken too patient a role in its change. I already have set myself on a path against powers beyond me. I would be a hypocrite to deny the fellowship of our paths. Besides–” Atilan fell suddenly silent. Gwynfor did too, as she heard the sound of laughter right behind them. It was not mirthful, but a crazed giggle that would have chilled winter itself. Gwynfor turned.

  And saw nothing. Something flashed in the corner of her eye, a glint of metal.

  Silver light burst around her, dazzling her gaze and leaving her blind for a moment. Her eardrum exploded with the sound of metal clashing right beside her.

  She fell forward and began to run, the laughter right behind. “ATILAN!” She bellowed, and some detached part of her brain noted the hysteria bubbling in it. “WHAT’S GOING ON!”

  The Vessel was cloaked in light, both his skin and the horn practically shone as the sun did. His eyes burned bright gold. Where the light shone, Gwynfor saw a shadow cast by neither of them twist and move, holding a wicked and curved looking blade. From there the laughter came.

  “So here dwells the darkness which fled the light.’ Atilan growled. “I have sought you Spirit, and answers you still have to give.” Gwynfor saw him look at her, eyes still completely gold. “GO, find the man I mentioned. Those scales will secure your passage. I will find you when I can!” The shadow struck towards Atilan, the laughter turned into a homicidal glee. She saw the phantom of a sword strike towards the Vessel and he intercepted it with his horn. “GO!” he bellowed and with such utter authority Gwynfor’s legs moved on their own accord.

  Once more, Gwynfor ran, leaving another to face the shadows of the world, for what else could she do? She had no weapon, no understanding of her magic, no idea what that ghastly thing was. Again, she was left without an ally, and had only the promise of his help. Heart in her throat, she moved faster than she had ever ran before, without care to the repugnant sludge she splashed through. It took only a minute to reach her destination, as she clambered out of the sewers and into the late afternoon of the city. She emerged in a back alley, and a few feet away, she could see the spot she had been beaten. She shivered, and retched, her body expelling whatever it could manage, scant amount it was. She was starving, and could not recall her last good meal. There were few people around, the streets seemed filled with ghosts, and empty of life. It should be full of mothers with their children, workers about their day, fathers tending their homes. The few people she saw had a look of worry about their brows, though Gwynfor doubted her appearance would help.

  She needed to make it home. She ran, no longer caring if she attracted attention. She was at the finish line. She just needed to grab her parents and get them out of here. After that, she would sail to Ghost, to rescue Willow. She hoped Atilan would be safe. He was the Vessel, surely he couldn’t die there? Yet, Gwynfor knew the fates of the Vessels. Each and every one of them died before their time. It was their fated destiny to fall by the hands of another. They lived for the High Father’s will and died carrying his duty. Had she left another to die for her safety?

  What else could she have done?

  She kept moving, focused on her breaths so as to expel the thoughts she wished not dwell on. Market Winding was left behind as her feet found the cobbles of Iron Hill as she wound through the labyrinth of back-alleys to her home. One last time.

  Ahead, she could see it. The simple two story house, the place she had been raised, where her parents had worked to build them a better life. A life she had ruined, and would ruin again. She stopped as she neared. Did she have a right to ask them to leave, to take them away? Did she have a right even to look them in the eye again? She had gone against her parents wish’s, and had cost them everything in the process. Would they still love her?

  Then something moved. Pain bellowed through her stomach and she slammed into the ground, everything going black.