22.

  Spook

  Drops of water struck my face, cold as needles, dragging me from uneasy dreams. The coat draped over me, once my mother’s and now my blanket, was soaked through, heavy with rain. Shivers raced up my spine. Above me, through the splintered bones of the fisher’s shack roof, the night wept into our home. I let out a sigh that trembled more than I wanted it to.

  This place had been abandoned long before we claimed it. A crooked husk at the edge of the city, good for nothing but rotting nets and forgotten tools. Yet it was all we could afford when we stepped ashore with empty purses and hopeful eyes. My parents had whispered promises of new beginning as we sailed across the vast see, fleeing the hunger and unrest that swallowed Veridia. Here, they said, life would be different. Here, traders prospered, and a man willing to work would not see his children starve.

  But a month had passed, and the city gave us no kindness. My father bent his back on the docks, my mother’s hand grew raw, and our bellies stayed hollow. The streets were cruel and their children crueller still. I had no words to throw back at their taunts, only silence, shame burning in my chest.

  I crouched by the fireplace, coaxing breath into the ashes, willing the fire to return. Outside, the storm raged like some vast creature tearing at the world. Rain lashed, winds screamed through alleys, and every puddle swelled until the very streets seemed to drown. At last the embers caught, sparks unfurling into fragile light. I searched for something to catch the water dripping through the ceiling and found an old bucket covered in webs. Setting it beneath the leak, I prayed it might hold.

  Then came the groan. The shudder.

  A crack like thunder right beside me.

  I burst into the storm just as the old tree by our house gave way, its limb tearing through the roof in a shower of splinters. Half the shack collapsed in a heap of wet wood and dust. Heart hammering, I called for my parents, but the rain stole my voice, the storm swallowing their names. They should have been home. They should have been safe.

  Barefoot, clothed in nothing but a thin tunic and worn trousers, I ran into the tumult. Every drop a lash against my skin. I knew where they could be, the haven, the docks, their never-ending work.

  When I reached the shore, chaos met me. Sailors and dockhands fought the storm as if it were a living foe. Men shouted, ropes snapped, crates splintered and spilled across the cobblestones. Boats heaved and slammed against the piers, breaking like toys in a child’s rage.

  I searched the crowd with frantic eyes, and there through the blur of rain, I saw a familiar face. The captain who had ferried us from Veridia.

  “Capatino! Capatino!” I cried, stumbling toward him in my own tongue. He turned, eyes widening, recognition flashing in the storm’s lightning. He barked something in the common tongue, words I could not grasp. My confusion must have shown, for he rubbed his brow with a weary sigh and switched to Veridian.

  “You must learn their tongue, boy,” he bellowed above the wind. I gave a weak smile, a nod, an apology for being small, for being helpless.

  “What are you doing here? Find shelter!” he continued.

  “My parents!” I screamed back. “Where are they?”

  The lines of his face deepened, sorrow pulling his features taut. Slowly, he turned his gaze out to sea. Only then did I notice, the place where their fishing boat should have been was empty.

  A cold dread surged through me, worse than the storm, worse than hunger.

  “I’m sorry lad,” the captain said, voice rough as broken wood. “I don’t think they’ll return.”

  The world dropped away. I swayed, my stomach hollow, the rain mixing with the heat of tears. What god had I angered? What cruel fate would strip a child so bare, so soon?

  Seven years old. Alone in a city whose words I could not speak, with no coin, no kin. The storm outside found its echo inside me. A loneliness vast and merciless, one that carved its mark into my very bones. One I would always remember.

  Stumbling, I turned from the haven, from the captain’s pity, and ran back to the ruin we had called home. When I reached the shack, I was not alone. Beneath the fallen tree limb, children huddled like shadows, their eyes sharp in the storm. One pointed at the wreck of the house, as if to claim it, but I shook my head. His hand rose then, revealing a coin purse. One too fine, too heavy, too real for any ragged boy to own.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  And I understood. These were no ordinary children. They were urchins.

  Just like me.

  ? ? ?

  A sharp noise tore me from uneasy slumber. The memory in my mind dissolved like mist at dawn, leaving only the ache of loss heavy in my chest. Blinking, I realized I lay sprawled on my stomach, cheek pressed against the damp grass.

  We had stopped, just for a few hours, before the march continued toward Sylvaeris. All day, we had trudged through the enchanted forest, wrists bound tight. Even Artemis had been chained with a leash, which he despised with every fiber of his being. He had growled and snarled until his throat grew raw, his frustration punished by cruel tugs that made him stumble. My heart twisted with every sound he made. But worse still was the thought of Elora, left behind in that cavern. Alone. Wounded, perhaps dying. The image of her lying in the dark gnawed at me, relentlessly.

  The elves wasted little time in rousing us. Rough hands hauled me upright, shoving me forward to rejoin the journey. Faelwen spun, her eyes alight with fury, and hissed a venomous string of Elvish at our captors. Though I did not know the words, the venom in her voice made the meaning plain. Ash’s glare was darker still, heavy with the promise of violence should they touch her. But the elves remained unshaken, their calm more dangerous than hopeful.

  Hours blurred as roots and moss-laden paths swallowed our steps, until at last the forest opened before us, and we beheld Sylvaeris.

  It was… breathtaking.

  The city rose like a cloud around a colossal tree, its trunk wider than any tower. Its crown vanishing into a canopy of green so high it almost seemed to kiss the sky.

  Homes clung to the roots below, their walls softened by moss and trailing blossoms.

  Others nestled within the trees themselves, their doors carved into bark thicker than any cathedral pillar. Golden shafts of sunlight spilled through leaves, painting the air in shifting patterns of emerald and gold.

  This city was alive with wildlife. Deer with antlers crowned in ivy moved freely through the streets, their hooves sinking softly into the moss. Birds wheeled overhead and perched along vine-strung bridges, their songs echoing in harmony with the rustle of leaves. Squirrels, foxes, and bright-eyed creatures I had no name for darted between homes, unafraid. The city was vast, yet it breathed with warmth, as if every stone and branch welcomed those who walked upon it.

  Our captors led us to the heart of it all. A giant tree in the middle. There, bound by woven cords, hung a wooden cage. They herded us inside, following after us, and ringing a bronze bell. The ropes shivered and then the cage began to rise. Faelwen’s lips parted in wonder. “What an ingenious contraption,” she whispered, awe chasing away the sharpness from her voice earlier.

  One of the elves glanced at her. “We call it a lift,” he said in the common tongue. The lift swayed as it climbed, higher and higher, until the entire city stretched out below us like a living tapestry of light and leaf. My breath caught despite the fear pressing against my ribs of this thing tumbling down.

  For a moment, even as a prisoner, I could not help but marvel at the wonders around me.

  At last the lift came to rest at the highest level, where bridges wound like golden threads around the ancient trunk. Ahead stood their palace, half-grown, half-built into the tree itself. Flowers spilled from carved balconies, fireflies drifting like lanterns to mark the way. It was a place of both wonder and quiet power.

  We were ushered across a broad plankway, into a vast chamber shaped like an oval hollow within the tree.

  Stairs ascended towards two thrones of rustic, old wood, twined with vines that bloomed in colours more vivid than any painter’s brush.

  And upon them sat the Lord and Lady of Sylvaeris. Watching us, silent, as though they had been waiting all along. The elves who had escorted us dropped into deep bows, their voices lifting in songlike Elvish. “Me Gilthoniel ? nin quevá,” one announced, the words ringing clear beneath the vaulted hollow of the great tree.

  Though I could not decipher the meaning, the way Ash’s brow furrowed and Faelwen’s eyes narrowed sent unease coiling through me. Whatever had been spoken, it was not without a double meaning.

  The elf turned to us then, switching to the common tongue. “I present to you our Lord and Lady, Thalindra and Zelphar Cevenor. You stand before our rulers. Bow.”

  Bound hands made our gestures clumsy and slightly awkward. Yet still we bent as reluctant shadows of reverence. The lady’s voice cut through the chamber, cool and unyielding. “Strangers rarely earn the right to cross our gates, much less stand within our hall. But word has reached us of a… unique fellowship moving through these woods. For the sake of the greater balance, we grant you audience. Tell me… why do you trespass in Sylvaeris?”

  Faelwen lifted her head, her voice steady despite the ropes that bit into her wrists. “If such a fellowship is the one you speak of, then it is us. We sought the Runestones of Creation. Another company pursues them as well, and we believe they have found safety in this city. Together, we must bring all the Runestones to Westray.”

  The lord and lady regarded us with the stillness of ancient oaks, their gazes unblinking. Then, softly, the lady said, “Show us the stones.”

  Faelwen slid them carefully from her pack, holding the relics in her bound hands. Their glow, although faded, seemed to paint the chamber in quiet reverence.

  “Very well,” Thalindra replied at last, her tone like water flowing over stone. “Release them. Give them quarters, and summon the others. They are expected.”

  Blades flashed and our ropes fell loose. The ache in my wrists eased as the cords slipped away, yet my heart beat faster still. We were being guided from the hall when I felt the words burning within me, too heavy to swallow.

  “Please wait!”

  The rulers’ gazes found me at once, sharp as the edge of a blade. Their silence pressed against my chest. I drew in a shuddering breath, forcing strength into my voice.

  “Our companion, Elora daughter of the lord and lady of Caradsher?n, is still trapped in the dragon’s old hatching grounds. She is wounded. She may die without aid.”

  For a long, aching moment, nothing stirred. Only the flicker of fireflies and the rustle of leaves high above.

  Then Zelphar inclined his head slowly. “We will send a search party. No noble blood shall be abandoned to such a fate.”

  Relief crashed over me like a breaking wave. As we were led from the chamber, hope stirred within my chest. Fragile, trembling, but alive.