“Been a year since my wife died,” Jorn said, his hand reaching for Dnara. “Desperate times...”
The flesh of her arms burned, and all around them the ashbirds took flight. There came a whisper in her ear, unintelligible but calming, and a void shadowed her vision. The whisper promised things, no longer an urgency to run, but instead a call to give in. Dust swarmed around her ankles and the air surrounding her squeezed tight.
“Jorn,” Yorn’s words were distant within the void. “Maybe you shouldn’t touch her.”
“I’ll take it all,” Jorn muttered, his words echoing into her heart and dripping with tangible despair.
His calloused fingers wrapped around her thin arm, and the whisper in her ears became a furious howl. A soundless thunder cascaded through Jorn’s hand, rolled up his arm and crushed into his chest. The popping crack of breaking bones preceded his screaming as his eyes went wide. One by one, his fingers snapped upward in unnatural angles. Then, deafening silence, as if all the air in the world had been sucked out, only to be released in a singular vibrating force that knocked Jorn’s broken body past the other men and into the river.
When the whispering buzz in her mind subsided and the sounds of the world returned to her, the void snapped shut and the sunlight blinded. Her arms throbbed painfully and the men were screaming. With her hands clamped over her ears, it took her two struggling breaths to realize she was screaming, too.
Stumbling forward, she squinted past the aching light. A shadow moved nearby. A familiar voice called to her. Athan stood, eyes wide in terror but arms open to catch her as she fell.
“It hurts,” she rasped through a raw throat, and quickly the pain overwhelmed. The whisper returned, calmer and quieter than before, and spoke a single word she could understand.
Sleep.
And she did.
6
Retgar and the Dragon
And Retgar, fearless sun god and savior of man, came out of the Red City, following the line of the mountains east into Uriman where the great dragon dwelled. Retgar, his red beard bristled and keen eyes sharp, walked without fear nor hesitation, for his heart held true the reason for his quest. He took his mighty axe, its blade shaped by his brother Brodan in the forges of Thaldis Dar, and hunted the dragon from field to forest to mountain to desert. The dragon could not run far enough nor hide deep enough from Retgar’s blade, for the dragon had stolen what Retgar valued most in all Ellium.
The dragon had taken Faedra, Retgar’s beloved, and Retgar would end the whole world to take her back. But there, in the lands of Uriman, the dragon came upon Demroth. Together they conspired of Retgar’s end, for Demroth, too, had fallen in love with the fair Faedra. The battle to come would be fierce, for Demroth held a great magic, and the dragon could topple mountains in a single breath.
Lo there she wept, the fair Faedra, that such grief could be caused by love. From her eyes sprang the Indrisil Riverlands; at their heart, a pool of tears which ran bitterly salted and ripe with death: the Grey Marsh. She cried and begged the shadow lord Demroth not to use his magic, but he could not be swayed. Her pleas fell upon the dragon, and the dragon saw a great truth revealed by the full moon.
When Retgar came to save his beloved, Demroth met him in the field. Demroth gathered his greatest magics about him, ready to strike. Retgar raised his axe and would not be moved. The moonlight glimmered along its blade and caught the dragon moving from the shadows in its reflection. The dragon struck, quick as the wind. It struck, not Retgar but Demroth.
Faedra cried in joy at the dragon’s betrayal. Injured beyond measure, Demroth faded into shadow to save what remained. Retgar, victorious, returned to the Red City. He carried with him Faedra and the powerful magics once hoarded by Demroth, now to be shared with all the lands. The remaining kingdoms rejoiced as Uriman sunk into the sand.
What became of the dragon, no one can say. Some say it flew south, into the Elvan homelands. Some say it disappeared west over the sea. The truth lies with Demroth, forever trapped within shadows and lost to the wind.
-Retgar’s Saga, Chapter 7
Verses 64 - 70
7
The Traveler
Deep within the Silverwood forest, Serenthel awoke with a scream.
His wide eyes stared wildly up at the tree canopy as his chest heaved in an effort to draw in air. The branches swayed with a strange wind, their forms slowly taking shape to dispel the lingering visions from an unsettling dream. A nesting pair of honey breasted wrens vocally protested his disturbance, and the scattering of deer could be heard through the nearby thicket.
Ah, nettles!, he cursed silently and raised a hand to his aching head. He’d been tracking those deer all morning, hoping to catch sight of the sickened doe reported by a local watcher. The herd had been close, just in the next clearing over, when the dream had overtaken him.
He sat up and found himself alone, nestled in the crook between moss topped tree roots half a man high which jutted from the earth like miniature mountain ranges along the forest floor, connecting each tree to the trees around it. The forest breathed as spring-sweetened breezes played through the branches like an exhale. Above, the wrens gave up their arguments and the forest fell silent once more. In the settling stillness, Serenthel heard his own heart pounding in his sharply pointed ears as an ominous shiver twitched up his spine.
He had never dreamed before.
With legs crossed, eyes closed and his back pressed against the rough
