Chapter 126

Northwatch Keep lay in the north, nestled in the foothills of the Worldspine Mountains. The lands stretching from those foothills to the White Horse River were, by right, goblin lands - granted by the Treaty of Briarcreek, stolen by Arvellia, then returned at the end of the Second Silent War.

The goblins had never formed a formal nation and had no central authority to speak for them. That absence had made it easy for Nyssira to rewrite their history - altering records and erasing their sovereignty. With nothing official to contradict the lie, people simply accepted what was written.

To the north, the Worldspine Mountains belonged to the dwarven kingdom of Dumrath Kol-Varn. When Urzan-Brek fell, they turned on one another. Civil war gutted their numbers and what remained withdrew inward - nursing old wounds and older grudges. In the past few years, they’d grown increasingly insular - cutting off trade and rejecting diplomacy. As our closest neighbors, I felt obligated to try… but I wasn’t sure they would still be there to meet me in a decade or a century.

To the south lay the Grand Kingdom of Arvelle, better known as Arvellia. Mostly human, mostly decent folk - they were farmers and laborers who built tight communities and kept to their own. Near our borders, goblins and humans lived side by side in uneasy but genuine peace. Orcs and naga passed through now and then, treated as curiosities more than anything else. But the farther south you went, the worse it became. Suspicion hardened into disdain. Disdain into hostility. Goblins, naga, and orcs were openly scorned. Even elves and dwarves found themselves pushed to the margins, their differences unwelcome.

Beyond Arvellia lay Caldris - a nation built on wealth and trade. A narrow coastline opened them to distant shores, while their borders touched Arvellia, Morentis, Ilyr’Vaeneth, and Esmori. Their cities thrived on diversity - not from idealism, but because it was profitable. I’d never been there myself, their merchants were everywhere and their arrival was often cause for celebration.

After the war, I’d heard rumors - corruption spreading through the merchant houses, power shifting hands, criminal syndicates rising in the cracks. And now, the Covenant of Mercy. I wasn’t sure what I’d find there.

Further south, where land met sea, lay Esmori - the breadbasket of the world. Before the war, I’d imagined rolling hills and golden fields stretching to the horizon. I’d seen paintings, heard stories. But I’d never set foot there.

After the war, those stories changed - famine, drought, neighbors turning on each other, bandits carving out what little remained. Their coastline was harsh - rocky cliffs and churning waters made sea travel treacherous. Most lived inland, where the soil still held promise. What was left of that promise, I didn’t know.

With all that in mind, and my bags packed, I reached into my Faith-scape. I found the beacon I was looking for - bright green threaded with yellow, shifting like sunlight through a forest canopy - and stepped.

I appeared in a small bedroom. Elarion’s.

It was sparse - just a bed, footlocker, desk, and chair. Two pieces of art hung on the wall - a painting from Lilae, soft with color and care, and a charcoal sketch from Brinja, sharp and deliberate. Morning light filtered through the shutters in narrow golden slats, cutting across the room.

The figure in the bed stirred - then bolted upright. Elarion’s eyes met mine, confusion flashing across his face.

The sudden movement pulled the blanket down, revealing another form beside him - a young elven man who blinked, then turned toward Elarion.

“Nae enae, thren! Thalen vae naethir!” Elarion snapped, hurling a pillow at me.

“Sorry! Sorry,” I said quickly, already turning. I found the door, slipped out, and shut it behind me with a solid thud.

I stepped aside and leaned back against the polished wood of the narrow hall, closing my eyes and taking a breath.

“Lethae venar?” Nymeth called from downstairs.

I exhaled slowly. “Nereth. Nereth vae enae,” I replied, pushing off the wall and heading down.

Nymeth stood in the small sitting room near the kitchen, concern etched across her face until she saw me. It softened immediately. “Seth. We weren’t expecting you. Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” I said, forcing a bit more composure into my voice. “I apologize for the disturbance. I assumed Elarion would be awake.” My face warmed despite myself.

Nymeth smiled, gentle and knowing, and rested a hand on my shoulder. “It’s his day of rest. But he’ll need to rise eventually - he can’t spend the whole day in bed. Come,” she added, turning toward the kitchen. “Have you eaten?”

I returned her smile. “Even if I had, I wouldn’t turn down one of your meals.”

* * *

I’d finished a quail egg leaf wrap and a small bowl of morning broth and was working through a slice of nut bread with berry jam when I heard feet pounding down the stairs.

The front door opened, soft words exchanged, and then the door shut again.

A moment later, Elarion stepped into the kitchen, anger written plain across his face.

“I’ll get your breakfast,” Nymeth said gently.

“I’m not hungry,” he replied, already turning. He crossed the room and slipped out the back door without another word.

Nymeth and I shared a look. I pushed back my chair and stood.

“Thank you for the meal,” I told her. “It was delicious, as always. I should go talk to him. Apologize.”

She smiled softly and nodded.

Nymeth was fairly average for an elf - just under five and a half feet, lithe to the point of seeming fragile, though it was simply the way her kind was built. Her long blonde hair fell freely in tight curls down her back, framing a narrow face softened by gentle, elegant features. Green eyes watched me with quiet concern, equal parts compassion for me and for Elarion. She had that young, working mom kind of beauty to her.

Today she wore a simple green dress, embroidered with arrow patterns and small flowers. It suited her - practical, modest, and warm. At sixty-seven, she was older than me by over a decade, but she looked no more than twenty-five. Elves aged differently like that.

Her husband had been a Pathwarden. He’d died a few years ago in an accident, leaving her with two young children - eight and ten now. She supported them by picking fruit - steady, unglamorous work. Since Elarion had come to stay with her, I’d made sure she had what she needed.

I tried to stay out of politics, so I didn’t collect taxes despite living in a keep. Most of what we had came from trade. Crops grew in the demesne throughout the year - corn, wheat, squash, potatoes - allowing us to provide even when they were out of season elsewhere. I conjured raw materials shaped from Will - wood, cloth, rope, paper, wax. Things that were always in demand.

And we sold books.

A copy of every book I’d ever read lived in my library, and if one was gone long enough, it was magically replaced. Coupled with Elise’s collection - staggering in both size and breadth - we had a steady stream of knowledge to trade.

All things considered, we were doing well.

I leaned down, pressed a kiss to Nymeth’s cheek, and made my way out the back door.

Like most elven homes, hers was grown from living wood. Two stories, broad and balanced, with smooth white bark on the outside - almost like birch - and polished grain within. It didn’t look like a tree, but short, well trimmed branches offered shade and fruit.

Elarion stood at the far edge of the yard at a small archery range.

Bow raised. Arrow drawn. He loosed.

The shaft struck dead center of a target two hundred feet out.

Another arrow followed - drawn smooth, released without hesitation - burying itself beside the first.

I gave a low whistle. “Nice shot.”

There was no response. He nocked another arrow and let it fly. It joined the others in a tight cluster.

I stopped a few paces behind him - close enough to be heard, far enough not to interfere. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have stepped into your room. I made an assumption, and I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Another arrow struck.

“He seemed… nice,” I added. “Not that we got a chance to talk.”

The next arrow clipped the edge of the target and vanished into the trees beyond.

“I just want you to know - you can love whoever you want. It doesn’t change anything between us. You’re still my son. You always will be.”

He spun on me. “What the fuck does that mean?”

I flinched. I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard him swear before. Somehow, despite Mirri’s love of obscenities, most of the kids avoided it.

“Who I love is none of your business,” he snapped, glaring.

I lowered my gaze. “You’re right. I just thought-”

“What did you think?” His voice cut sharp.

I hesitated. “Where I’m from… some people don’t approve of-” I paused looking for the right way to phrase it.

“Of what?”

“…same-sex relationships.” The words felt clumsy coming out. “I just wanted you to know I don’t care. As long as they make you happy, I’m happy.”

His anger faltered, confusion bleeding into it. “Why would anyone care who someone loves?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I thought you might be embarrassed that I saw you with a boy and I didn’t want you to think that-”

“I was embarrassed because you stepped into my room while I was sleeping!” he snapped. “I don’t give a fuck what you think about Syl. It’s none of your business.”

I leaned back against a nearby tree and slid down until I was sitting. I dragged a hand over my face and let out a quiet, humorless chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” he demanded.

I looked up at him. “Nothing. Just… another reminder of how different our worlds are. Mine was full of hate and suspicion. And this one is so… not.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I projected my own baggage onto you. I should have trusted you to be better than that. Better than me.”

He studied me, confusion lingering - but the anger had mostly drained away.

I pushed myself back to my feet, took a breath, and stepped forward, pulling him into a hug. “You should bring Syl to Brinja’s birthday,” I said. “I’d like to get to know him. I think the others would too.”

* * *

After my apology to Elarion, I found myself wanting something simple. Something easy. Something relaxing. Like fighting a war single-handedly. Curing cancer. Or flying to the moon by flapping my arms really, really fast.

Instead, I settled for speaking with Master Iriandor, the Pathwarden of Caelwynne.

We got along well - no small part of that due to Elarion being the most promising prospect for the Tîr-Lîn Díneth he’d seen in his lifetime. And that wasn’t idle praise. Elarion’s archery was unmatched. He tracked like a bloodhound, spoke six languages, had already seen real combat, and crafted his own bows and arrows with a skill most masters would envy. And he was only sixteen. Even without the rest, that alone would have been impressive.

“Master Iriandor,” I said, clasping his shoulder.

“Master Grimm,” he replied, returning the gesture. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He was an older elf, though you wouldn’t know it at a glance. Chestnut hair streaked with silver was combed back and fell neatly to his shoulders. His ears stood sharp and alert, catching things most would miss, and his eyes were a pale, storm-touched green—like leaves just before the rain breaks. If he’d been human, I’d have placed him somewhere around fifty. In truth, he’d seen four hundred and twenty-seven years.

He stood a little taller than most elves, lean and wiry with the kind of strength that came from constant movement rather than training for its own sake. Not handsome, exactly - his features were a touch too angular for that - but there was nothing unpleasant about him either.

His Pathwarden uniform was a muted blend of brown and green, meant to disappear into forest and field alike. His rank sat pinned at his right breast. A short, curved sword rested at one hip, a quiver at the other, and a bow rode easily across his back. He wore them easily, comfortable in their weight and position.

“I’m chasing down a few rumors,” I told him. “Wanted to make sure everything was alright. I heard a city vanished overnight. No name. No location. Just that it happened somewhere in Ilyr’Vaeneth.”

“City?” He shook his head. “No. Overnight? Also no.” He paused, expression tightening slightly. “But there are problems in Noraethil. Small village, southwest of here - two days, maybe. They’ve had over a dozen Lethirae Vaelthorn appear in the last week. Some have taken root inside homes.”

“A dozen Weeping Gallows in a week?” I asked. I didn’t like that. Seeing two within twenty miles of each other was unusual. A dozen…

“Sae,” he said with a nod. “And another five the moon before. The village has been abandoned. No one wants to live in a cursed place like that.”

“I don’t blame them.” I exhaled slowly. “That’s not how those things usually behave. I don’t know if I can help, but I’ll take a look. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

He inclined his head.

I paused. “Do you mind if I take Elarion with me?” I asked.

“I’m not his father, but I think he can handle it,” he said with a grin.

“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t think he could handle it,” I returned with another smile. “Anything else I should be aware of?”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” he said, giving a small shake of his head. “It’s been quiet, for the most part. Drove off a group of bandits from Caldris earlier this week. Out here, it’s usually just bandits and wargs. Occasionally a grave-weaver.”

He said it like that was normal. “We’re fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “If that changes, you let me know.”

I clasped his shoulder again, then stepped away, leaving him to his watch.