Chapter 1 - Happy Fucking Birthday

The night felt more oppressive, gloomier, and colder than any Aluriel could remember. Clouds obscured the moons, cloaking the forest in an eerie glow. The towering firs, which until recently had simply borne silent witness to her failures, now seemed to lean inward, looming upon her. Almost as if to judge her. As if they remembered what she’d done. The chill bit through her clothing, worming its way into her bones; the powdery snow clung to her cloak like a blanket as it landed. Every sound reminded her of her newfound vulnerability: the distant snap of a twig, the furtive rustle of unseen creatures, the clumps of snow gently falling from the branches above. Each sent a jolt of fear running through her spine. The whispers intruding into her mind reminded her of her own madness. Every time she closed her eyes, her mind conjured flashbacks of her crime.

Perhaps the forest, too, was now afraid of her.

There were no celebrations for her birthday, like there had been for every other elf stepping across the threshold of adulthood. No drinking elven wine until she fell over, no dancing around fires until dawn, no songs or poetry to fill her ears with joy.

Her previous birthdays had all been celebrations anyway. Even though it was not me they were celebrating. Midwinter, they called it. A time of singing and fire, of poetry and promise. A day the elves marked with joy, with wine, with lanterns raised to honour the stars, with bonfires set ablaze to defy the longest night.

This year, no lanterns. No bonfires burned for her. She had been marched out of her mother’s home, far enough that she could no longer even hear their songs or revelry.

Instead, on the day she’d turned forty, officially an adult by elven custom, Aluriel sat huddled in the hollow of a fallen tree, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Why couldn’t they see me for who I am? Was it really easier to cast me out than to try and help me? The questions swirled endlessly in her mind like a whirlwind, one no less a heartache than the next. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the bitterness, trying to ignore the ache of heartbreak and guilt that filled her chest. The bark felt rough against her skin, and the smell of damp earth and rotting wood filled her nostrils with decay. Her breaths were shallow, vanishing into the cold air like fleeting apparitions. The elders’ decree still echoed in her mind, the words cold and firm, closing a door she would never cross again.

Exile.

The word circled around her thoughts, quiet and inescapable, like the silence after a scream. Final, as the engravings on a tombstone. Did they even care what this would do to me? Or was I just another burden to cast aside? The thought stung, as it had many times before in the days preceding her exile. In her heart of hearts, however, she feared she already knew the answer. The council had looked at her with a mixture of fear and disdain, their faces hardened, eager to pass judgment. Some had long awaited an excuse to punish her. To them, she was not Aluriel, not the child of their revered Grand Druidess. She was something else entirely, something they could not understand, and so they seized the opportunity to rid themselves – and their perfect elven society – of her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the memory of their stares, but it was no use. The image was replaced by that of Elenwen’s scarred face, the burns forever marring her once flawless skin. The scars no elven magic could fully heal. The scars Aluriel etched on that beautiful face she had leaned in to kiss.

The forest, her home for as long as she could remember, had never welcomed her. But now, it seemed to resent her presence, and it made sure she felt it. The familiar songs of the night birds were no longer a comfort to her. An eerie, swirling sense of anxiety seemed to stifle all her other thoughts. She was left alone with her anger, shame, and pain, as her mind replayed the words of the council over and over: the verdict that stabbed through her heart like a cold steel dagger.

“Your magic is out of control. It is a foreign magic, and it is a danger to us all,” one elder had said, his voice heavy as he passed the council’s judgment with authority. “You unleashed it by accident, and this we can believe: you had never managed to cast magic before. Your lightning killed some animals and burned some trees, yet it did not kill elves. Because of this, your punishment is lessened, and shall be exile in place of death. You will live, but you cannot stay.” Aeliana’s husband, the Grand Druid Aelavaron, had at least succeeded in convincing the other elders to spare Aluriel’s life. “With the power granted to us, we hereby sentence you to exile. You are never to return to the enchanted forest for as long as you live, unless by act of this council you are granted pardon.”

Aeliana had pleaded for leniency, begged them to reconsider. But even her mother’s status as Grand Druidess had not been enough to sway the council any further. “She’s just a child!” Aeliana had cried, as tears welled into her eyes and glistened on her cheeks. The elders remained unmoved, and their decision was final. “Next week she will turn forty, and that day marks her adulthood,” the same elder stated coldly.

A pause.

“She may remain confined in your home until the midnight that starts her birthday, but then, she must leave.”

Their verdict was final.

Exile.

Aluriel’s gaze drifted to the faint glow of the horizon, where the first hints of dawn began to rise through the trees. The light seemed distant. More distant than it ever felt even when she had tried – and always failed – to channel it. It reminded her of the life that had been taken away from her just days before. She rested her forehead against her knees, letting her straight silvery hair fall over her face like a curtain.

In the stillness of the previous night, the whispers had grown louder still. They had begun in dreams, decades earlier. Soft, at first, yet insistent murmurs she couldn't understand. Then, they began creeping from the threshold of her sleep, bleeding into her waking hours, flickering at the edges of her thoughts, baiting her mind with the elusive and tantalising illusion of meaning that was always just beyond her grasp. She had been taught to fear them deeply: to hear such whispers was, in elven teachings, to flirt with madness itself. Their nature did feel maddening, like tendrils of chaos weaving through her thoughts. She clutched her knees tighter, feeling the weight on her chest as she ruminated on the thought. Am I losing my mind? Her thoughts whispered. “Am I mad?” her voice whispered back, trembling from a mixture of the cold and her own anxiety. The whispers gave no answer. Not that she expected one. Instead, they simply carried on as relentlessly as before, the same tormenting mystery she had grown accustomed to. She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms, as if pain could drown the whispers out. It did not.

Madness.

That was the word the elders had used to describe the few mages who heard such whispers. It was said that only mages could hear the Lady of Twilight. It was said that the Lady of Twilight was not a Goddess, that she did not exist, and that hearing her was merely a sign of insanity. Aluriel felt doubly cheated by this. Not only did she have to endure this maddening in secret, but to add insult to injury, she was not a mage. Or at least, she thought she was not. Not before the chain lightning. And yet, despite her fear, a small part of her wished to understand, to uncover the truth behind the voice that called to her in the dark and had done so for decades. Was it related to her latent affinity for lightning? Is affinity even the right word here? Where exactly would it lead her, if she surrendered to the whispers? Who or what is really behind these whispers and now, these visions, anyway?

The first rays of sunlight filtered through the vegetation, and Aluriel wearily forced herself to her feet. Her legs felt weak, her body heavy with exhaustion, but she knew she couldn’t stay there. Her kin would not protect her anymore, and neither would the forest. She adjusted the straps of her backpack, staggering under its burden. A journey to… where exactly? Where am I even going? I’ve never even left the forest!

With a deep breath, she stepped out from the hollow trunk, her heart pounding as she took her first steps into exile. The clearing where she once trained with Thalion, the home where Aeliana’s warmth had once wrapped around her like a shield from the judgement of others… all of it was lost now. She was banished, not just for failing to meet their expectations, but because she had become a danger they could no longer ignore. The memory of that night seared the back of her mind, just like the lightning she’d unleashed. Elenwen’s cruel laugh, the others mocking her, the spark of rage that had consumed her, and the searing arc of lightning that had followed. A part of her still loved Elenwen, despite everything. Or was it love? She wasn’t sure anymore. She only knew that the memory of what she’d done to her tore at her heartstrings. Yet, even through her anger and shame, the thought of Elenwen – her lips, her voice, her very presence – lingered in her mind. What wouldn’t she give to kiss her, just once more? That longing, as maddening as it was undeniable, twisted her emotions further, making the guilt that much more unbearable.

She hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. Or rather, her rational mind hadn’t. Not in a million years would she have caused Elenwen, of all people, any harm. But wasn’t there a part of me that wanted to? she thought. Wasn’t there some dark, angry part of me that wanted them to feel my pain, to feel what I’ve been through? The rage inside her had wanted to see them all burn to a crisp. The chain lightning had been wild, uncontrolled, and channelled emotions her will could not contain. She now felt anger and guilt in equal measure, and was powerless to untangle them. But the damage was done. Elenwen had been left with burn marks and scars across her chest and face. Not even the most powerful elven healing spells could undo them, to everyone’s surprise.

The council had ruled then that Aluriel’s magic, and by extension, she herself, bore the markings of a curse. A curse – many had whispered – placed upon her on the night when she was born. Aluriel had overheard much about that night, about how the moons aligned in a strange and unique way. Whenever she asked about it directly, the Elders grew silent. At most, they’d offer vague words, about that night being different, “A night unlike any other,” like Aluriel herself.

Only her mother told her more: the night of her birth had not only been the Winter Solstice. All four moons had also risen together, high in the sky, each exactly half-lit. Two waxing. Two waning. A pattern so precise, it was unique rather than rare. The astrologers called it “a harmony of the impossible”. A moment not unseen in calculations, but never expected in their lifetimes. Like Aluriel herself, they said, that night was different. Unique.

And yet, she couldn’t entirely disagree. She had always known she was… different. Every time she looked at her hands, or looked at herself in a mirror, her physical features reminded her she was not truly one of them. Not fully. Yet, despite her own guilt, part of her seethed at their judgment. After all, they didn’t treat the other half- high elven children – those born of a union with humans – with such disdain. They could have at least tried. Tried to listen, to begin with. Maybe they could have figured out what her own magic was and guided her on her own path. Instead, they forced her into studying forms of magic she could not grasp. Druidic magic, Nature magic, then Sun magic…

They tried. They failed. She failed to learn even the basics, and not for lack of effort.

Eventually, they gave up, assuming she had no affinity for magic at all, only to blame her later when her own magic, magic she didn’t even know she possessed, proved uncontrollable and destructive.

Her failure wasn’t hers alone. It was theirs as well.

And the resentment she felt for them burned almost as bright as the rage she aimed towards herself.

Footsteps crunching on the forest floor pulled Aluriel from her thoughts abruptly. Her head snapped up. Instinctively, she reached for her bow and nocked an arrow, prepared to fire at a moment’s notice. The vegetation parted, and a figure – one much, much shorter than Aluriel – stepped into the faint light of dawn. Is this… A dwarf? A gnome?

He barely reached her waist.

“Aluriel,” the man said, his voice loud but steady. His squat frame was weighed down by metallic plate armour and a round shield, both covered in red runes that gleamed even in the dim light. A war hammer, also etched with runes she did not recognise, was strapped to his golden metal belt. On the other side, a hand-axe – runed, too, but relatively plain in comparison – balanced the weight. His face was weathered, lined with deep wrinkles that betrayed his age long past its prime, his endurance, and perhaps past laughter and sorrows. His bushy ginger beard reached his belly, and it was damp and frosty from the icy, humid air that surrounded them. A couple of pale scars with signs of stitches gave his face the aura of one who had fought and had survived. And who knows how many more scars he's hiding under all that plate armour. His hair was of the same red colour of his beard, neatly tied back in a single braid which reached just below his shoulders. His brown eyes met hers with a mix of cautiousness and kindness, as if trying to quietly plead for trust. He glanced around warily before moving closer. “Dinna shoot! Yer mither sent me.”

Aluriel blinked in disbelief. “Sent you? Why? Who are you? What are you?” she eased the tension on her bowstring somewhat, though her arrow remained aimed at him.

“Me name is Ian.” Aluriel continued to stare at him, poised to fire at the first hint of hostility. Ian approached her slowly, hands raised to show he meant no harm, and sat down a couple of metres away from her, placing his shield and weapons by his side. If she did fire an arrow, and if his armour didn’t block it, Aeliana could take care of his wounds.

But he hoped she’d sense the truth: that he really meant no harm.

As he looked her up and down, he couldn’t help but notice the striking mix of features that made her look unique.

Her sheer height was the first thing Ian noticed. She was gigantic, even for an elf. A head taller than most high elves, yet just as slender if not more so, she stood before him with a demeanour that blended fragility with the quiet, defiant power seen in the eyes of someone who has nothing left to lose. Her light turquoise skin, smooth and luminous even in the dim light of dawn, instantly gave away her father’s heritage, though it lacked the full depth of his people’s dark blue hues. Her violet eyes glowed dimly whenever the pale light of dawn struck them. It was a trait typical of her father’s kin, and yet unseen in other races, which felt almost alien to the dwarf who rarely saw their kind. Hers looked tae glow, nae jist shimmer. But hells if I ken if that's normal fer sea elves, he thought as he strained to remember the last one he’d seen. The straight, silvery white hair cascading over her shoulders stood in stark contrast to the golden locks, common as wheat in summer among High Elves. On her forehead rested a simple silver diadem, its pendant vaguely shaped like a blooming flower, yet wrought from angular lines rather than petals. A small chain just under her neck and a three-pronged metallic clasp over her chest fastened her bright red cloak.

Ian’s gaze flicked to her hands, where partially webbed fingers held her bow and arrow. Not just a sign, but rather a dead giveaway of her mixed lineage. At least she’s nae shot me yet. That’s a guid start, he thought. Yet, most of all, what had surprised Ian forty years ago – Ian, and everyone else who heard about it – was that a child born of a union between two such as her parents was thought impossible. Aluriel knew this all too well, for she’d lost count of the times she’d heard the word “freak” whispered, when others thought she was out of earshot.

“Ian Redhammer,” he said, with a voice as soothing as he could conjure. “Priest o’ the Tireless Forger, aye. Aeliana thinks ye’ve a better chance oot there wi’ me than left here tae fend for yersel’. Sent me a fire message, she did. Barely a handful o’ words: ‘Come Forest, urgent, Aeliana.’ I dinnae ken what tae expect, but here I am, lass, and here ye are. The forest’s nae kind tae those it casts oot.”

A flash of anger crossed Aluriel’s face. “She thinks sending me away with a stranger will solve everything?” Her voice rose as her shout mirrored her frustration. No, not a gnome. I saw visiting gnomes once before. Much shorter than him. Must be a dwarf.

Ian sighed, reaching into his satchel to pull out a flask. He took a long swig before offering it to her. “It’s nae aboot solv–” He paused, his nose wrinkling, and suddenly vomited what he just drank and then some more onto a snow-covered patch of moss. Wiping his face with a rag, he grumbled, “Och, that teleporter still has ma guts churnin’. Bluidy contraptions. Ne’er again. An’ mind ye, it was the one yer mither gave me after the battle at Steelforge’s gates. She kent I’d need it one day, though I doubt she kent it would be fer this shite.” He paused, then added quickly, lest she take it the wrong way: “Shite, I mean, yer bluidy exile. Bleedin’ fools, them High Council, aye.”

Despite herself, a faint smile tugged at Aluriel’s lips, and before she could stop it, a brief chuckle escaped. She took the flask and drank a long swig. It burned her throat and stomach, but it helped. It made her relax slightly, and she felt some of her tension ease. “This is good.” She paused to catch her breath and let the fire in her throat dim somewhat. “So, what happens now?”

“This here be Dwarven mead,” he said, taking the flask back from Aluriel’s hands and placing it into his pack.

“As fer fit we do?” Ian tilted his head upwards to look straight into her eyes.

“We leave. Heid tae Vashlin. Ye might nae ken it yet, but it’s a place that’s seen its share o’ misfits, lass. Folk who dinnae belong anywhere else. Ye’d fit right in.”

He hesitated just a moment before finishing: “I ken folk there that can help ye. Teach ye things yer lot here couldnae. An’ there’s a train atween Vashlin an’ Steelforge.”

“And if I refuse?”

Ian’s eyes hardened slightly, though his tone stayed calm. “Then ye’ll be left tae fend fer yersel’ in a world that’ll chew ye up an’ spit ye oot. Ye’ve got potential, lass. I dinna ken fit kind yet, but I’ve seen plenty o’ misfits turn oot tae be somethin’ extraordinary.”

Aluriel glanced away and felt her jaw tighten. The weight of his words pressed against her, but so did the sting of her exile. She thought of Elenwen’s scorched face. The council’s cold decree. The whispers that had trailed her every step since she remembered her first dream. The thought of leaving everything she had ever known filled her with dread, yet staying in defiance seemed an even worse prospect. The uncertainty of what lay ahead felt daunting, but maybe, just maybe, the path into the unknown held more promise than what she’d leave behind. My life as an outcast… maybe I could leave that behind too.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

Ian chuckled dryly. “There’s always a choice, lass. Ye can wallow here, waitin’ fer the forest an’ the snow tae finish what the council started, or ye can get up an’ fight fer somethin’.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint whistle of the wind passing through branches and fir needles.

Finally, Aluriel put the arrow back in its quiver, then strapped the bow on her back.

“Fine.” She sighed. “But don’t expect me to be grateful.”

Ian rose, his grin widening. “Wouldnae dream o’ it, lass.”

They began to walk in silence.

Aeliana was standing on the trail to the north-east, the great tree that housed her family’s dwelling far behind her, waiting to give her daughter one last farewell. She had to endure leading the Midwinter ritual. She had to endure the celebrations. Throughout all that, her mind had been fixed on her daughter alone in the woods. She had spoken the sacred verses, lit the bonfire, led the songs… but none of it had been for her own child. Only when the rites were complete could she slip away to her home and make the final preparations. She forced herself to smile, though her eyes glistened with the effort of holding tears back. Her love for Aluriel had never wavered. Not once, not through the whispers, the judgments, the concerned friends and elders who came again and again to speak to her. It did not waver when her daughter was sentenced to exile. To her, Aluriel was perfect and unique, despite her kin’s refusal to see it. Her fingers gracefully held the bracelet she had spent the last week crafting, its delicate elvish runes glowing faintly with protective enchantments. Words engraved in Elvish read, “May you always be protected”.

When Ian emerged from the shadows, Aeliana’s breath caught. Aluriel trailed behind him. Her daughter’s face was pale, and her expression gloomy. Ian approached first, raising his head towards her. “She’s comin’. Takes balls, that does. Aye.”

Aeliana stepped forward, her gaze locking with Aluriel’s. “I…” Her voice faltered. She had so much to say, but the words tangled in her throat and would not come. Instead, she held out the bracelet, her voice soft but steady, barely suppressing her urge to break down in tears. “I love you. No matter where the journey takes you, no matter what path you tread, you will always be my daughter, and I will help in whatever way I can, even from afar.” Tears began to well in her eyes. “For your journey,” she added, putting it on Aluriel’s wrist.

Aluriel hesitated, then adjusted it on her wrist in quiet acceptance. Her fingers brushed against her mother’s briefly. “Right. Thank you,” she said quietly, though her tone carried no warmth. She turned away quickly, not wanting to linger on the pain in Aeliana’s eyes.

Wearing the bracelet made Aluriel’s guilt resonate and grow. What if they take away your seat as Grand Druidess too, Mother? From her week of confinement in her home, she had sometimes overheard other elves’ conversations, and some had hinted at this. Will you be punished too, just for loving me?

Ian cleared his throat. “Right, then. Time we were aff.”

Aeliana watched as they disappeared into the shadows of the forest. She had always known, deep inside, that one day Aluriel’s path would take her far from the forest, but that knowledge did nothing to dull the searing pain of this moment. The moment when she had to watch her leave. Not out of her volition, but exiled.

Long after they vanished into the trees, Aeliana spoke aloud, part to herself, and part to the sky: “Your brothers sent word from Varthia. Perhaps your paths will cross again.”

Then, in a whisper, “May the Sun guide you, my child.”

Only once she was sure they were out of earshot did she finally allow herself to cry.

In the days between the judgment and the exile, she kept herself busy packing supplies for Aluriel and Ian: clothes, food, waterskins, bottles of elven wine, and as many other essentials she thought the two might need.

But more importantly, she had included her own mithril short sword. Light, razor-sharp, and perfectly balanced. She had paired it with an exquisite Elven composite longbow and a quiver full of finely crafted arrows, made by the forest city’s finest fletcher. They were made of mithril: thick enough to pack a punch, yet light enough to fly a great distance. Aluriel’s skills with a sword were rudimentary at best, and her archery was just about decent: comparable to a skilled human archer, though far from the level of an Elven sniper. Still, these gifts gave Aeliana a glimmer of hope that she wouldn’t be entirely helpless in the journey ahead. As soon as Ian had arrived and she explained the situation, she had handed him a sturdy backpack, almost bursting with provisions. Ian had taken it with a bemused expression, muttering under his breath about having prepared for “a fight, nae a bluidy trek,” but he had not refused it.

As they walked deeper into the forest, Ian kept his steps steady, his warhammer rattling faintly against his armour. Aluriel followed, her gaze fixed ahead whilst her mind spun with a kaleidoscope of emotions. All of them swirled too fast. Far too many. Far too fast to pick one out and focus on it. After what felt like hours, Ian broke the silence. “I dinnae suppose ye ken the way tae Vashlin yersel’, do ye?” he asked, half-joking, though his tone held a trace of seriousness.

“I thought you had a plan,” Aluriel tilted her chin down to look at him.

“Oh, Ah had a plan,” Ian muttered, scratching his beard. “Teleporter wand. One-use, like all o’ them. Rare as blue diamonds an’ fixed tae one spot. Got me here, right enough. But unless yer druids’ve somehow learnt tae craft the things an’ ye’ve got two more stuffed in that tunic o’ yers, we’re hoofin’ it.”

Aluriel blinked. “You… don’t have a way back?”

“Och, aye, o’ course I do. Just nae a quick way. We’ve three choices, lass.” Ian held up three stubby fingers. “Varthia, The Sunless Depths, or the Dragons’ Peaks.”

He paused.

“But before we dive intae the details, lemme explain somethin’ aboot Varthia, seein’ as it’s one o’ the routes. Their roads? Mighty fine, marked wi’ milestones every ten kilometres, an’ maintained like a dwarf’s best blade. But those milestones? They come wi’ gallows. Aye, gallows, right there by the road. So, route one, we go ower the mountains, the Dragons’ peaks, which is certain death from exposure an’ dragons, obviously. Unless ye’ve grown wings and the fur of a yeti an’ I missed it.”

He grunted, breathing in, and kept walking, “Two, we trek through yer enchanted forest, skirt the edge o’ the desert, and cross Varthia. Then we climb No Man’s Pass tae reach Vashlin. From there we can catch the train tae Steelforge too, if we want. Long, treacherous, and full o’ folk lookin’ tae stab us in the dark… An’ that’s if the Varthian paladins o’ the Peacemaker dinnae decide tae hang us first fer nae guid reason. An’ their idea o’ justice? Nae exactly fair.”

“And the third?” Aluriel’s eyes narrowed. The image of gallows dotting the Varthian roads unsettled her, making that path seem as grim as the other sounded.

Ian sighed heavily, visibly unsettled. “The Sunless Depths. Quicker, aye. But nae pleasant, nae by a long shot. Monsters, madness, poison ‘shrooms, an’ things that cannae thole each other, far less the likes o’ outsiders like blue skinned elves an’ dwarves who reek o’ mead.”

More madness? Aluriel frowned, the burden of each choice settling uneasily in her mind. None of them sounded appealing, and yet… What else is there for me? Every path feels like it’s designed to test me, to break me. But perhaps that was the point. Perhaps this was the universe’s way of asking her how much she was willing to endure.

The world was not going to make her path easier. It never had.

“We’ll decide as we go,” Ian said after a moment, his tone softening slightly.

“But either way, ye’d best steel yerself, lass. This… this is where the real journey begins.”

Aluriel didn’t answer. Instead, she walked in silence, her mind ruminating on the options and the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

Aluriel and Ian walked in silence through the forest. The thick foliage above shrouded most of the sunlight, yet what little did come through would reflect off the blanket of snow on the ground, enough to interfere with her darkvision. She didn’t know whether Dwarves had darkvision, too. She thought of simply asking Ian, but she was in no mood to talk. So they walked, hour after hour, and said nothing. The fresh snow crunched softly under their footfalls, and the rustling of fir branches filled the quiet with an almost comforting rhythm. Aluriel led the way with an instinctual ease. No banishment, no exile would take away her knowledge of the forest paths. She avoided poisonous plants and dangerous thickets without hesitation, though her heart ached with every familiar landmark they passed. Each one struck a chord of grief, a silent farewell to a home already lost.

“I’ve nae seen a forest like this afore.” Ian eventually broke the silence. “Back in Steelforge, a tree’s just somethin’ that comes already chopped, tae make firewood, a beam, or a barrel.”

Aluriel gave a small snort but didn’t look back. “It’s more than that here.” Her tone was laced with a faint edge of jealousy and contempt. “Each tree, every glade, is part of something greater. The druids can commune with the forest. They speak to it, feel its will.” She hesitated. Bitterness crept into her voice. “I was never able to do that.” The next thought she did not speak, yet it echoed in her mind: Maybe the forest hates me. Maybe our goddess, the Lady Most Beautiful, resents my existence.

Ian grunted. “Aye, sacred’s one way tae put it. Still feels like it’s watchin’ me. Like it knows I dinnae belong.”

“It does,” Aluriel said, with the faintest trace of amusement in her tone. “But don’t worry. It’s not you it hates.”

Ian chuckled, the sound rough but warm. “Comfortin’. Aye. Real comfortin’, lass.”

Their banter broke the weight of the silence, and for a moment, Aluriel allowed herself to relax. Every step forward was a step away from the only home she had ever known, and whilst the forest still felt familiar, it no longer felt like it was hers. She glanced at Ian, his stocky frame trudging along with a resilience she could not help but envy.

“Why did you come?” she asked suddenly.

Ian raised an eyebrow. “Yer mither sent me. Thought we covered that.”

“No.” Her tone was stern. She shook her head, defiance rising in her voice. “Why did you agree to come? You could have ignored her message. Made up an excuse.” Her voice grew louder. “You could have given me a wide berth, as everyone else has done since just about the day I was fucking born.”

Her voice grew even louder, booming into a scream. “Why DID you come?”

He paused for a moment, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “Aeliana saved me life once, lass. Back when we fought tae keep Steelforge from fallin’, she did, aye. If she asks, I listen. Simple as that. She asked me to take ye tae Vashlin or Steelforge, an’ I will. Even if it costs me life.” He chuckled. “Besides,” he added with a wry grin, “a forest elf lass wi’ lightnin’ magic? I had tae see it fer mesel’.”

Aluriel looked away, visibly deflated. “It’s not magic,” she muttered. “It’s a curse. I… I can’t even control it.”

Ian stopped in his tracks, forcing her to turn and face him. “Now ye listen tae me,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Curse or gift, it’s fit ye’ve got, aye? An’ if yer feelin’ sorry fer yersel’, it’s nae goin’ tae do either of us any favours. Ye’ll learn tae control it. An’ when ye do? There’ll be nae one who can stop ye.”

The conviction in his tone startled her, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. She simply gave a small nod and walked on.

As the first signs of twilight made the shadows even longer, Ian pointed ahead. “We’ll rest soon. Best find a place tae hunker down afore we’re too far oot in the open.”

Aluriel gave him an amused look. “We’re this far south, in the middle of the forest at Midwinter. The sun rises late and dusk comes early. We’ll have to travel in the darkness for much of our journey, I’m afraid.”

They forged ahead for few more hours. Then, Aluriel nodded, scanning the forest. “There’s a small clearing not far from here. It’ll do for the night.”

The journey ahead loomed like an impossible task, but for now, they had each other, and the quiet shelter of the forest.

As they trudged through the dense snow, Ian broke the silence again. “So, tell me, lass, did ye catch fit I was sayin’ aboot them milestones in Varthia?”

“Milestones? With gallows?” She shot him a sidelong scowl. “You said this already. Are you drunk or getting old, that you forget what you said a few hours ago? It’s not exactly pleasant to think about.”

Ian let out a bark of laughter. “Old an’ drunk. Yer nae wrong. Ah, just makin sure ye dinnae forget. Every ten kilometres, ye’ll find a gallows standin’ proud, a fine monument tae the Peacemaker’s justice. Paladins an’ priests use ’em tae hang folk they reckon deserve it. Sometimes it’s bandits. Sometimes a hungry bairn who stole some bread. Sometimes even a beggar they dinnae fancy lookin’ at too long.”

Aluriel frowned, the image now etched in her mind despite her attempts to banish it. Her voice carried a sharp edge, a mix of disbelief and disgust. “That’s barbaric. How could you even consider taking us through there?”

“Nae ideal,” Ian admitted, scratching his beard. “But the Varthian roads are well-kept.” His tone shifted, a touch practical, a touch sarcastic. “Smooth paths, aye. Plenty o’ rest stops, though meist o’ them come wi’ sanctimonious lectures free o’ charge. Ye’ll love it!”

“Sanctimonious lectures I can tolerate,” Aluriel said, matching his sarcastic tone. “But hanging for simply existing? That… might be a problem.”

Ian’s expression darkened. “Aye, but hangin’s nae the worst o’ it. The ones they really want tae see suffer? They tak them tae Varthia itself, an’ I mean the city Varthia, the capital. Impalement’s their grand spectacle, reserved fer the folk they think are a proper affront tae their so-called justice.” Ian shrugged. “It’s nae a picnic, I’ll grant ye. But compared tae The Sunless Depths or the Dragons’ Peaks, Varthia’s the lesser o’ three evils. Long as we keep our heids down an’ dinnae draw the wrong kind o’ attention, we might just make it through wi’ our necks – an’ our bums – intact.”

Aluriel sighed, her gaze shifting back to the trail ahead. “And the other options? Are they really much worse than that?”

Ian chuckled darkly, but there was an undercurrent of terror in his tone that Aluriel couldn’t miss. “The Sunless Depths are quicker, aye, but ye’ll nae like the company. Spiders bigger than me beard, things that’ll steal yer soul wi’ a glance, an’ gods help us if we run intae ony Dark Elves or Gaze Tyrants. I’ll nae lie tae ye, lass, it’s a path I’d sooner nae set foot on, no unless there’s nae other way.” He shrugged, as if to shake loose the dread that clung to him.

“As fer the Dragons’ Peaks, in summer ye might have a chance tae cross, but in winter? Ye’d freeze tae death afore ye even saw the summit. It’s suicide tae even try. So that leaves Varthia. But afore Varthia, we’ve tae cross the desert. Ye’ll roast by day, freeze by night, an’ maybe take a scimitar in yer ribs fer yer trouble. Worse still, the desert folk dinnae look kindly on magic-users, so ye’d best keep yer lightnin’ tricks tae yersel’, aye?”

“And yet you don’t seem worried why?” Aluriel giggled, raising an eyebrow.

Ian grinned. “Worryin’ does nae solve problems, lass. Planning does. We’ll make it. One way or another.”

A small, genuine smile tugged at Aluriel’s lips. “You’re an optimist, Ian.”

“Nae.” His grin widened. “I’m a realist who drinks enough tae make optimism look like a plan.”

Aluriel pursed her lips and offered no comment in return, her mind suddenly distracted by a whisper.

A whisper of madness. Or maybe of a Goddess. Or, for all she knew, perhaps a Demon. Happy fucking birthday, Aluriel, she thought.