The forest received them without a sound. The dead boughs knitted overhead like iron, and the mist clung close as breath.

  “I see now why they call this place the Felwood,” Karl muttered, peering into the tangled branches. “A more fitting name there never was.”

  “Be wary,” Gil’Galion murmured, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. “This forest is perilous. Even I cannot see what dangers lie within. Keep silent, keep watch. Better to pass unseen than to rouse what may linger in the dark. Worse still would be to face it unprepared.”

  His body moved with practiced poise—alert, but fluid. Every step was measured, every motion silent. Baronsworth watched him with quiet admiration. There was much to learn from Gil’Galion’s manner.

  With cautious steps, they entered the broken maze of the Felwood—dead trees twisted like claws, black trunks forming a gnarled wall on either side. Each step drew them further into the dark; what little light remained outside quickly withered, swallowed by a choking mist that clung to their skin like a living veil.

  More than once, Gil’Galion raised a hand for silence. Baronsworth and Karl froze, ducking behind roots and fallen trunks. Karl, burdened by his broad shield, moved less gracefully, but each time managed to stay low. Shapes rustled in the undergrowth ahead—things unseen, swift, and many. Faint sounds drifted through the air: wet clicks, scraping limbs, whispering breaths.

  Each time, the noises passed without discovery. And each time, they dared to breathe again only once the silence returned.

  Their nerves frayed. The forest was a place of tension drawn taut—a bowstring on the edge of snapping. Blood surged; hearts hammered; yet none spoke. To break the silence was to invite something worse.

  As they went deeper, the darkness grew thicker, pressing down like a weight upon the soul. Vision dulled to vague outlines and restless shapes. Their eyes, straining against the gloom, began to catch glimpses—shadows flitting between trees, forms that shifted as they moved, melting into grotesque parodies of life.

  They remembered Aenarion’s warning: the forest would deceive their senses, and not all they saw would be real. Yet fear gnawed still, whispering that some of it was. Baronsworth clenched his jaw, steadying his breath. Step by step, he forced his dread down, burying it deep where it could not rise.

  Time lost meaning. Hours, or days—it was impossible to tell. Still, the mountain’s foot remained hidden, veiled behind mist and shadow.

  They moved forth, into the heart of the Felwood—where even the memory of light began to fade.

  Then, through the endless dark, a glow flickered—small, golden, alive. Fire.

  The three halted, huddling close.

  “What is that?” Karl whispered.

  “I do not know,” Gil’Galion said. “It could be a band of creatures… feeding, perhaps.”

  “Then we move carefully,” Baronsworth said. “Eyes sharp. No sound.”

  They advanced, each step deliberate. Over twisted roots, beneath hanging limbs, they crept—hunters moving through the corpse of a forest.

  At last, they reached the edge of the clearing.

  A single shadow stood across the fire—a broad silhouette cast against the flame. It did not move, yet its outline wavered, as though even the firelight struggled to hold its shape.

  “Perhaps an Orc warlock,” Karl muttered. “Performing some foul rite. Best we strike now—before it sees us and lays a curse on us.”

  “Wait,” Baronsworth whispered. “Aenarion warned us not to trust appearances, but to listen to our hearts. And mine says we should not take a life in haste.”

  “I see only the outline,” Gil’Galion said quietly, narrowing his eyes. “Not the face. I agree—it would not be just to slay a soul unseen.”

  Karl sighed. “I doubt any who wander this forest are innocent, but I’ll follow your lead.”

  Baronsworth nodded. “Then ready yourselves. On my mark.”

  Karl lifted his shield, gripping his spear tight. Gil’Galion nocked an arrow, bow angled low but ready. Baronsworth slid Lightbringer from its sheath—the blade gleamed faintly, catching the flicker of the firelight.

  “Now!”

  In a heartbeat, they broke cover and surged into the clearing.

  Gil’Galion’s bow was trained on their target’s head, while Baronsworth and Karl flanked from either side.

  But there was no demon. No beast. No chanting warlock.

  Only a man.

  An older warrior sat beside the fire, clad in chainmail and a red tabard emblazoned with the symbol of a flame set behind an equilateral cross. Long grey hair spilled over his shoulders, and a thick, weathered beard framed his stern face. Across his knees rested a fine longsword; at his side, a shield bearing the same sigil.

  His eyes were closed, seemingly in meditation—until, in the instant their ambush broke, they snapped open. In one smooth motion he rose, sword and shield flashing into his hands.

  “I’ll send you back to the abyss, spawn of Mortharas!” he roared, charging forward—then halted mid-stride, blinking hard.

  “By the Nine Hells, what in blazes are you three doing?” he barked, lowering his stance. “Trying to frighten an old man to death?”

  Baronsworth and the others froze. Of all the horrors they’d braced for in the Felwood, finding another living Man calmly tending a fire had not been among them.

  Baronsworth studied him. No deception. No malice. Only weariness—and quiet strength. He lowered his sword, and the others followed suit.

  “Forgive us, sir,” Baronsworth said, sheathing Lightbringer. “We did not expect to find another wayfarer here. At least not one without claws or fangs.”

  The old knight raised a brow, then smirked.

  “My teeth are sharp enough, boy—and so is my sword. But I understand your caution; in these woods, vigilance is the truest virtue.”

  He slid his blade back into its scabbard, then glanced at Baronsworth’s weapon.

  “That sword,” he said in a low voice. “Is that… one of the Asturian blades?”

  Baronsworth blinked. The question was precise—and rare. Whoever this man was, he knew what he was looking at.

  “Perhaps it is,” Baronsworth said, resting a hand on the hilt. “But where I come from, a man offers a drink before prying into another’s past. Or at least, his name.”

  The old warrior chuckled. “Fair enough. Where are my manners? I am Fredrick—a Knight of the Flame.”

  He paused, his expression tightening with a hint of rue. “Or was, before I was cast out.”

  “A Knight of the Flame?” Baronsworth echoed, brow raised.

  Gil’Galion stepped forward, his voice calm and measured.

  “They are the guardians of the Crystal Fragments—scattered across the world when Asturia fell. An ancient order, by the reckoning of Men. They alone have long known the secret paths into our hidden realm.”

  Fredrick gave a half-smile. “Indeed. And I’m grateful your hunters didn’t loose their arrows at the sight of me,” he said, inclining his head in a brief bow. Then, with a sigh, “That was our purpose once—to safeguard the fragments, to stand as sentinels of the Light.

  Now? The order has lost its soul. Most of our knights are tangled in court intrigue, currying favor with the High Pontiff, hoarding gold and titles while the land around them withers and burns.”

  Bitterness edged his words, though he mastered it quickly.

  “Wait—so you were part of the order sworn to protect the Crystal?” Baronsworth said, eyes bright with sudden hope. “Then you must know where the one in these lands lies!”

  Fredrick gave a solemn nod. “I do.”

  Baronsworth smiled faintly. “Then this is most fortunate—for that is precisely where we’re headed.”

  Fredrick looked them over, as if puzzling through a riddle. “I must admit, I cannot fathom why three capable young lads—none of whom seem entirely witless—would choose to march willingly into such a place, when the world beyond still holds lakes, meadows, and the warmth of sunlight. Yet here you stand.”

  “We do it to protect those lakes and meadows,” Baronsworth said. “That beauty must be defended.”

  Fredrick blinked, caught off guard by the conviction in his tone.

  Gil’Galion spoke then, voice steady. “Then may I ask, Sir Knight, why you are here—alone—in the heart of the cursed wood?”

  The old warrior drew a measured breath and eased himself down beside the fire, stirring the embers with a stick.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said. “But first, you must give me your word you won’t think me mad.”

  “We promise,” Baronsworth said, exchanging a look with the others.

  Fredrick stared into the flames for a long moment, gathering his thoughts. When he spoke again, it was with quiet reverence.

  “I received a message from the Father—a calling. I was told to come here.”

  Silence followed.

  Karl leaned toward Baronsworth and whispered, “He’s mad.”

  Baronsworth barely kept a straight face.

  “Do tell us more,” Gil’Galion said evenly, settling onto a smooth stone near the fire. “I have a feeling this will be a tale worth hearing.”

  Baronsworth joined him, curiosity stirring like wind through dry leaves. There was something about this man—something solemn, steady, true.

  Fredrick nodded, shifting slightly. “Well then,” he said. “Let me start at the beginning.

  I have served long years in the Order—years of prayer, meditation, and service. I always believed my bond with the gods to be personal and unmediated, though the Church insists otherwise. According to them, it is only through the rites and blessings of the priesthood that one may speak to the divine.

  But I have communed with the Most High in solitude. The peace, the bliss, the eternal joy I have felt at times can only be the gift of His grace—poured down from the heavens themselves. I spoke of these things to my brethren, and for that… well, let us say I’ve never been in the clergy’s good graces. Respected, yes—but always controversial. A Knight-Captain still, when younger men rose above me.”

  He paused to sip from his canteen, clearing his throat before continuing.

  “Some nights past, I fell asleep while meditating upon the doctrine of Saint Antonius—the great ascetic who taught that simplicity and stillness bring the soul near to the gods. I must have been moved deeply by his words, for that night I dreamed a dream unlike any other.

  In it, the Father Himself lifted my soul from the earth and carried me to a realm of blinding light and boundless beauty. He did not speak with words, yet I understood Him utterly. It is hard to describe… but I know, in the marrow of my spirit, that what I beheld was no illusion. It was divine.”

  “What did He say to you?” Baronsworth asked softly.

  Fredrick’s eyes glimmered in the firelight.

  “He told me—though ‘told’ is not quite right—that I must journey to the Felwood. That brothers of mine would be there, in need of my guidance. That the darkness would soon make its move, and the balance of the world hung by a thread. A great battle loomed—not of blades alone, but of will, of light and shadow.”

  He looked at each of them in turn.

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  “I was told I had a part to play in what is to come. That without me, the cause of the Light would suffer a grievous blow. Yet I was given a choice. The path ahead would be filled with peril and sorrow. If I turned aside, others might rise in my stead—for the Light does not rest upon one man alone. But I knew, if I had strength, I must answer.”

  Karl leaned forward. “So what did you do?”

  Fredrick smiled faintly. “At first, I questioned my own sanity. Who marches willingly into the Felwood, after all? But then scripture came to me: ‘Blessed are they who do not tarry when the divine calling is upon them.’ And so I knew what I must do.”

  He exhaled slowly, the firelight catching in his tired eyes.

  “I requested an audience with the High Pontiff, to ask leave from my duties in the capital. He granted it, though with reluctance. When I told him of my vision, he mocked me—scoffed at the notion that the Father would speak to a lowly knight and not to him, the High Pontiff of the Church of the Unconquered Sun.”

  Baronsworth grimaced at the mention of the man. “And what did you say to him?”

  Fredrick’s eyes flared. “I said, perhaps He speaks only to those who are still listening.”

  Karl let out a low whistle. Gil’Galion gave a rare, approving nod.

  Baronsworth, meanwhile, felt a strange certainty stir within him—that the gods had indeed guided their steps. This man, this exiled knight, had come to the edge of the world on nothing more than a dream—and somehow, in this cursed forest where no light dared shine, their paths had crossed.

  Fredrick went on. “He did not take kindly to my words—perhaps spoken in rashness, yes, but if there’s one virtue I hold most dear, it’s honest speech. I tried to reason with him, to appeal to his sense of faith, but it was no use. The Pontiff could not be swayed. He would not—could not—see truth in my vision.”

  His hands curled into fists.

  “Instead, he drowned me in mockery and scorn, laughing with the coldness of one who mistakes power for wisdom. At last, he threatened to have me cast into the madhouse if I would not renounce what he called ‘flamboyant delusions.’

  I won’t lie to you—his words struck deep. For a moment, I faltered. I wondered if perhaps I was losing my mind. But then… the Light stirred within me. My heart grew calm, comforted by a stillness not my own. And I realized—it was not I who was deceived, but they, those hollow men in their golden halls of decadence and rot.”

  He straightened, voice steadying with renewed fire.

  “The Grandmaster of my Order begged me to reconsider. But I would not. I returned to the Pontiff and declared that I was leaving for the Felwood—with or without his blessing.”

  Fredrick’s hands clenched again.

  “He flew into a fury. Berated me before the assembly. Stripped me of rank and honor. Excommunicated me from the Church itself. Ordered me to surrender my sword and armor. But that was one command I would not obey. I turned from him—turned my back on all of it—and walked from the hall with tears in my eyes and fire in my chest.”

  He looked upward through the black canopy, his voice softening.

  “Yet my heart was calm. For I knew I had chosen rightly. The words of Saint Antonius echoed within me: ‘Even should you suffer for what is right, count it joy. The esteem of men is dust beside the favor of the Almighty. Fear not their threats. Be unmoved by their scorn. Though mocked by the ignorant, though cast out or condemned—if your path is righteous, He walks beside you.’”

  Fredrick drew another breath, slow and measured. His hands relaxed.

  “I could no longer hear the Pontiff’s shouts behind me. His voice was like distant wind against a mountain. All I could think was this: how could I, who had long prayed for the Father’s voice, finally hear it… and then turn away? No—I could not. Not for the ravings of a man enthroned upon his pride.”

  He fell silent. The fire hissed low.

  Then Karl broke the quiet. “What happened then? Surely the Pontiff didn’t take that kindly.”

  Fredrick allowed himself a small smile. “No. He did not. As I walked away, he raged behind me—shouting curses that no holy man should ever utter, especially not upon sacred ground. But what happened next... I’ll never forget it.”

  He leaned in slightly, as if sharing something sacred.

  “I passed by my brothers—former brothers now—standing guard in that hall. And not one of them lifted a hand to stop me. Not one. The Pontiff screamed at them to seize me, to bind me and drag me to judgment—but they stood still as stone. I do not believe it was fear. No. It was as if something held them, some unseen force that stilled their limbs, arrested their will. These were men of obedience, raised from youth to follow orders without question… and yet they watched me go, silent and unmoving.”

  Fredrick looked into the fire, its light dancing in his eyes.

  “It was a moment heavy with divine presence,” Fredrick said. “I believe—no, I know—that the Father was with me then. That it was His hand which stayed theirs. I did not linger. I walked out quickly, lest the spell break and they come to their senses. The Pontiff was furious enough to call for my head, of that I have no doubt. I’ve thanked the gods every day since that it remains firmly attached to my shoulders.”

  “The man who speaks with the Father,” Karl muttered, wide-eyed. “Color me impressed.”

  “Please, do not call me that,” Fredrick replied, softly but firmly. “I am no saint, no prophet. I am simply a man—flawed like any other—trying to walk the path of what is right. I claim no special favor from the Father, not even after what I’ve seen. I only wish to honor Him, in the time I am given.”

  He drank deeply from his canteen and leaned back, letting silence settle over them.

  But before it could linger too long, he looked up again.

  “But I’ve spoken enough about myself. Perhaps now it is your turn. At the very least, you might begin with your names.”

  Baronsworth drew a steady breath. Only then did he realize he had never truly introduced himself.

  “I am… Baronsworth. These are my companions—Karl of the Golden Gryphons, and Gil’Galion of Ellaria.”

  The words had scarcely left his lips before regret seized him.

  He had spoken his true name.

  Fredrick raised a brow. “Baronsworth. A pleasure—even in a place so accursed. But tell me… who are you, truly? You’ve spoken of your friends and your quest, but little of yourself.”

  Baronsworth’s jaw tightened. “I am… nobody. A mercenary of the Golden Gryphons, like Karl. Of such lowly rank I thought it unworthy of mention.”

  Even to his own ears, the lie rang hollow. He had hidden his truth for so long it had become reflex, yet this one faltered—like a foal unsteady on its legs, doomed to stumble.

  Fredrick chuckled, low and warm. “I see. Master Baronsworth Nobody. And I suppose that gleaming sword at your side is the kind common mercenaries wield?”

  Shame pressed at Baronsworth’s chest. He had been caught—not by scorn or threat, but by quiet grace. Fredrick had offered trust freely, and in return he had answered with deceit.

  “You are right to call me out,” he said. “I have lived too long in hiding. So long that concealment clings to me, like a blade to its sheath on a frozen day.”

  “I understand,” Fredrick said quietly. “If I may—what is it you hide from, Baronsworth? I sense some great terror hunts your steps.”

  The words struck true. The old knight’s gaze seemed to pierce through mail and flesh alike, into the secret heart beneath.

  “You have shown me honesty,” Baronsworth said at last. “It is only fair I do the same.”

  He drew a deep breath, the weight of a lifetime of struggle settling upon him.

  “Yes. Many have hunted me. With wit and steel I have kept a step ahead, yet I am weary of the chase.”

  He rose, back straightened, shoulders squared—the posture of a man reclaiming himself. His face seemed carved from stone, like the kings of old. And then, with a breath like the breaking of a long-held dam, he spoke the words he had never dared to utter aloud.

  “I am Baronsworth, rightful Lord of Arthoria, the Sunlands. Of Cael Athala, the Sunkeep; of Caras Athalor, the Dawnstone; and of Alden Valen, the Golden Woods—where the sun shines eternal and no shadow dares linger.”

  As the words left him, something within shifted. A weight unlatched. These were words once spoken by his father, half ritual, half pride. Now they were his own, and they rang with truth.

  But the ache of memory followed swiftly, rising like smoke through his chest. He bowed his head.

  “…Or I was meant to be. Until I was cast out from all I knew.”

  His gaze fell to the sword at his hip.

  “This blade is all that remains of that life—the sole relic of what was lost.”

  Fredrick bowed his head, reverently. “I heard of the fall of Sunkeep. A tale whispered in sorrow. A tragedy so cruel, it was said none survived. You do right to guard your name.”

  “Indeed,” Baronsworth murmured. “Someone has gone to great lengths to see me undone, for reasons I have yet to fully understand. But the hour of reckoning draws near. The time will come when I will reveal myself to the world, as I have done unto you.”

  “You have my word, Baronsworth of the Sunkeep,” Fredrick said. “Your secret is safe with me. And I thank you for trusting it to a stranger.”

  Baronsworth nodded. “Secrecy has kept me alive thus far upon my journey—and no small measure of luck. You have entrusted me with your story, and I have done the same for you.”

  He glanced toward the firelight. “The Father must certainly favor you, Sir Fredrick. To walk free from the wrath of the High Pontiff is a miracle in itself. That man—if he can even be called such—is wickedness made flesh. His soul reeks of rot. How such a creature came to sit at the heart of the Church of the Unconquered Sun is beyond reason.”

  He paused, and something darker entered his voice. “But not all have been as fortunate. Many lie buried in ash and secrecy—victims of the Great Purge.”

  Fredrick stiffened. “The Great Purge…” His voice dropped to a hush. “It is forbidden to speak of it in the capital. Heresy, even to whisper its name.”

  His eyes found Baronsworth’s, and a terrible weight entered his gaze. “But… could it be true? The rumors—that infants born under the Great Star were hunted down and slaughtered?”

  Baronsworth was silent for a time. Then, his voice rose barely above a breath:

  “It is no rumor. It is history—buried beneath ash and lies.”

  His eyes locked with Fredrick’s. “I know… because I am one of those children.”

  Fredrick’s face went pale. Slowly, he bowed his head.

  “If that is true—if the Church has slaughtered the innocent in the name of false prophecy and fear—then I… I cannot undo the evil.”

  With a grim breath, he sank to one knee. “But I can repent of it.”

  His voice wavered. He looked up at Baronsworth, and in his eyes there was grief. “You have my deepest sorrow. On behalf of the Church and the Empire, I ask your forgiveness.”

  He paused, swallowing hard. “I was blind—willfully blind. I heard the whispers. I saw the unspoken fears. And I chose to look away.

  I buried myself in scripture, in ritual, in silence… while darkness crept across the world. I told myself I was preserving faith. But in truth… I was hiding from it.”

  His voice cracked. He turned his face aside, and for a long moment said nothing.

  Then—quietly—he wept.

  Tears carved slow lines down his weathered cheeks as he bowed lower, shoulders trembling.

  “I should have seen. I should have spoken. I should have demanded an Inquisition—unleashed righteous fire upon the corruption festering in our most sacred halls. Perhaps I could not have stopped it… but I might have tried. And I did not. In that silence, I share the guilt.”

  He drew a long breath, then straightened slightly. The tears still fell, but his voice was steadier now.

  “The Light does not command us to hide. It commands us to rise—to go forth and banish darkness from the world. That is our sacred charge. And in that, I failed.”

  He lifted his head higher, eyes red but unwavering.

  “Perhaps that is why the Father stirred my heart. Why He placed the vision in my dreams—so that I might finally rise, abandon my retreat, and strike back at evil with the Flame that still burns within me.

  So I ask you now… forgive me, Baronsworth of Arthoria. Forgive me for this terrible failure—that I did not protect you, nor the innumerable innocents slain and silenced forever. I will carry this grief with me. And with what time remains, I will seek atonement.”

  Baronsworth placed a hand on Fredrick’s shoulder.

  “There is nothing to forgive, Fredrick. You did not command this atrocity. And no one man could have prevented it.”

  Fredrick shook his head. “Perhaps not. But I have been blind to the rot festering at the heart of the Empire for too many years. I should have seen it. I should have acted.”

  A silence followed. Then Gil’Galion, quiet until now, stepped forward, his voice calm and bright as moonlight. “There is no healing in despair and regret. Turn now toward what may still be done—toward the present, and the path that lies ahead.”

  Fredrick gave a measured nod. “Yes… you are wise in your counsel, Elf-Prince.”

  He remained kneeling for a time, until the tears had passed and his shoulders ceased to tremble. The fire crackled softly. No one spoke.

  Then, at last, he looked up and drew a long breath. He turned to Baronsworth, his expression grave but warm.

  “May I offer some of my own? Unsolicited advice is rarely welcome, I know—but mine was earned upon the long road from Argos to the Felwood, for on that journey I had much time to think. In that solitude, I came to understand a truth that had long eluded me.”

  He took a breath, deep and steady.

  “I once believed my worth lay in my title—Knight-Captain of the Flame. When that title was stripped from me, I felt hollow, as though something sacred had been carved from my very soul. But now I see: the Father did not take something from me. He cleared a space, that He might fill it with something greater—His love, the purest joy I have ever known.”

  His voice was low and steady, carrying conviction like fire.

  “Titles, gold, reputation—these are not what make a man. We are not our rank. We are not our failures. We are sons of the Most High, and that is enough. Our worth is not measured in the treasures of this world, but in our deeds—in how we choose to walk the path given us. When we learn to let go—when we cast off the weight of lesser things—then, and only then, are our hearts free to receive what is greater.”

  A hush lingered after his words. Then, more gently, he added,

  “And perhaps, when the time is right, what we hope for may yet come to pass—if it be His will.”

  “Every purpose has its moment,” Karl murmured, “and every moment its purpose in the grand design.”

  The words struck Baronsworth like a bell tolling through memory. His father had often said those words, and he saw now in his mind’s eye Godfrey, speaking them on a hill of wildflowers beneath a sky of gold. Something deep within him stirred—an echo of the past answering the call of the present. Fredrick’s words had kindled something—not a certainty, perhaps, but a quiet resonance. Not every part of him believed. But in the hidden chambers of his heart… something did.

  “Thank you, Fredrick,” he said at last. “Your words ease a burden I did not know I still carried.” He paused. “And for what it’s worth… were I the Father, I would be well pleased with you. You left your entire life behind at a moment’s notice; you cast aside comfort, honor, and reputation, and walked into darkness—solely because you believed it was right.”

  He looked up.

  “If more in this world were like you—and fewer the kind who preach righteousness in public yet practice wickedness in secret—then this world would be a better place.”

  Fredrick bowed his head, humbled. “You honor me, my lord. I pray I prove worthy of such praise.”

  A moment of silence lingered between them as they enjoyed the warmth of the fire—the only light amidst the darkness.

  Then Baronsworth stood and brushed the dust from his cloak.

  “We’ve lingered long enough. You seek the temple that houses the Crystal, do you not? Then it seems fate has chosen well—for we are bound for the same place. I say we travel together. There is safety in numbers, and strength in unity.”

  “Aye,” Fredrick said with a nod. “You seem like able companions, and truth be told, I would feel far more at ease with you at my side. Though none have attacked me thus far, I have felt eyes upon me in the dark—eyes that meant me no good. If we are to journey as one, though, I must ask—what is your purpose in seeking the Crystal Temple? Few have cared for such things in many an age. Why come here now, to a place most would not dare to tread?”

  Baronsworth met his gaze. “Then let me answer you with honesty. But you must promise you’ll not take me for a madman.”

  Fredrick gave a faint smile. “I swear it.”

  “You are not the only one led by visions,” Baronsworth said. “I, too, have seen things. In dreamlike revelations I’ve seen my ancestors—my father among them. It was he who bid me come here. It is by his urging that I now walk this path.”

  Fredrick blinked once, then gave a soft laugh.

  “So… I was led here by my heavenly Father, and you by your father who is in heaven. Poetic, isn’t it? Very well, Baronsworth. Neither of us will call the other mad. And together, we shall make our way to a place where only madmen would dare venture—the heart of the Felwood.”

  “Poetic indeed,” Gil’Galion murmured, his voice light as air.

  “Then it is settled,” said Baronsworth. “Lead on, Fredrick. And if your dream spoke true—if darkness awaits us in the heart of the Felwood—then we shall meet it not as strangers, but as brothers, bound by purpose and light.”

  The group gathered their packs and stamped out the fire. The darkness of the cursed forest pressed close about them, yet it felt less oppressive now, as though the gloom had lifted a little. There was something in Fredrick’s presence—his calm, his conviction—that brightened the path before them with quiet resolve.

  “Well then,” Karl said with a crooked grin, slinging his shield onto his back, “off we go—chasing visions and following an old man’s hunch, straight into the mouth of madness. Truly, none but the sane would dream of such a quest.”

  They all laughed—Baronsworth most of all, and Fredrick louder still. Somehow, in this grim place, surrounded by death and despair, their spirits had lightened. In their unlikely meeting, something rare had been forged: trust.

  For though they had only just met, Fredrick was no longer a stranger. He was one of them now—a friend found in the most unlikely of places. And if such a bond had formed so swiftly, who knew what might follow?

  So it was that our company—now four in number—set off toward the Ancient Temple, their path lit not by sun nor moon, but by the strange and sovereign light of destiny.

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