Having settled the matter with Danni for the time being, Glenn excused himself, citing other business, and left the shop.

  Guiding his stag-drawn carriage through the winding streets, he happened to run into Sheriff Douglas.

  “Heading back already?” Douglas asked with a genial smile.

  “Yes, but I’ll be returning soon,” Glenn replied politely, mirroring the man’s tone. “You’re still busy? What are you working on?”

  Douglas sighed softly. “A few children lost their parents. I just sent a knight to escort them to the Relief Society.”

  Glenn fell silent. He had half expected this outcome — the cultists who called themselves the Followers of the Old Gods were not known for sparing the innocent.

  A pang of sorrow stirred in his chest. “I’d like to see them,” he said quietly.

  “They’re over there,” Douglas replied, pointing toward a building guarded by two knights.

  Glenn nodded, leapt from the carriage, and walked toward it.

  As he went, Douglas placed a hand over his heart and murmured under his breath, “May the gods above watch over those poor souls.”

  At the building’s entrance, a knight stepped forward to block Glenn’s path. Only after Glenn explained himself and touched the knight’s sword — showing no reaction to its enchantments — was he permitted entry.

  Inside, the air was thick with the scent of fear and despair. Refugees huddled together — those who had lost family, limbs, homes.

  Glenn only meant to glance around, but one boy crouched in a corner caught his attention.

  The boy was filthy, his hair and face caked with grime, his clothes little more than tattered rags. That much was ordinary. What drew Glenn’s gaze was the look in his eyes.

  He had seen countless eyes before, and from them, he could read much. It was a skill he prided himself on.

  Yet the boy’s eyes were utterly out of place in this setting.

  There was an air of calm mastery in them — the kind one might see in a seasoned player wandering a beginner’s village. The boy wore the mask of a victim well, but it didn’t fit him.

  A powerful transcendent, perhaps, playing the helpless lamb? Glenn mused.

  As he watched, the boy seemed to sense his scrutiny and turned his gaze toward him.

  Glenn instinctively looked away, feigning indifference. He did not glance back and instead made his way to the room where the other children were being kept.

  He had no wish to stir trouble. If the stranger was indeed hiding among refugees, his goal was surely to slip away with them — toward the royal capital. Once there, if he caused chaos, others would deal with him.

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  After exchanging a few words with the female knight watching over the children, Glenn entered the room.

  He hadn’t expected what happened next.

  The moment he opened the door, the five children looked up — and immediately ran into his arms, crying loudly.

  Whether they had been weeping before or not, now they sobbed as though their hearts might break.

  The knight hurried in after him, clearly unsure how to handle the scene.

  Glenn knew then that they remembered him — that was why they reacted so strongly.

  He and the knight spent some time soothing them, until their cries finally quieted to muffled sniffles.

  Crushed by the loss of their parents, these children — none older than ten — were desperate for someone to cling to, someone to pour their grief into.

  And to them, Glenn was that anchor — the one who had turned into a great wolf and torn them free from a monster’s belly when all hope had seemed lost.

  “It’s all right now,” Glenn murmured, signaling to the knight to give them a moment alone.

  She nodded, stepping out softly.

  For a long moment, Glenn said nothing, looking at the fragile lives before him. Then, in a gentle voice, he spoke:

  “Listen to me, little ones. All of this — the pain, the fear — it will pass one day. There’s nothing to be afraid of. And when you are afraid, think of me. Remember — I’ll always be there, just like that day.”

  “Won’t you stay with us?” a small girl asked through tears.

  “I wish I could,” Glenn lied softly. “But there are other children who need saving too.”

  “Then you must come when we need you,” another girl said, her eyes still wet.

  “I promise,” Glenn replied, resting his hand on her head.

  Anyone with a shred of conscience would have felt the same — seeing these lost souls, their helpless eyes filled with confusion and sorrow, who could not be moved to pity?

  He knew he could not take them in himself — his life was far too uncertain — but he would do whatever lay within his power to help.

  At last, a faint light returned to their eyes.

  “How about this,” Glenn said softly. “Let me tell you a story. Would you like that?”

  “What’s a story?” the youngest asked, wide-eyed.

  Glenn smiled. “This one is called Harry Potter.”

  …

  By the time Glenn emerged from the refugee shelter, dusk had settled over the city.

  He had shortened the tale greatly, and told only the first part — even so, it had taken quite some time.

  He hurried back to Bayek to check on his home.

  Everything was as it should be, though his young maid, Tia, looked worried from his absence the night before.

  “Tia,” Glenn said in a calm tone, “let’s move to Dood’s place for a few days.”

  “Why?” she asked, puzzled.

  Glenn leaned close and whispered, “My sister’s here. I’m afraid I won’t be able to take care of everything — I’ll need your help.”

  “Your sister?” Tia’s eyes widened. She had always thought Glenn had no family — or had been abandoned by them.

  “Yes. But if you’d rather not—”

  “Of course I’ll go!” she answered quickly.

  …

  To the east of the Kingdom of Zern lay the realm of Sehi, ruled by the High Elves.

  In its western reaches stood the Shadowgrove Forest — an endless canopy of towering trees that blotted out the sun, their trunks draped in strange, luminous vines.

  Each colossal tree bore, as if grown from the wood itself, dozens of hollowed dwellings — the homes of the forest elves.

  Slender and graceful, with long pointed ears and smooth, radiant skin, they lived here in numbers to rival any human city.

  Their voices filled every corner of this vast woodland metropolis.

  At its heart stood a grand castle, seamlessly woven into the living forest — a masterpiece of natural architecture.

  From the luminous core at its pinnacle pulsed a vast current of nature’s power, nourishing all life around it.

  And within that castle, a heated quarrel was underway.

  “My child has been captured for so long! Why has the kingdom done nothing? Are you not sworn to defend the rights of our people?!”

  The cry came from a female elf in a flowing white robe, her voice echoing across the marble hall toward three solemn, austere High Elves seated upon the dais above.