High on a hilltop, beneath the fading eldergreens, he walked a silent, lonely path to the world’s end.

The song of life was still and silent. There were no birds; no bugs; no peremalkin dangling from overhead branches. All that reached his aching ears were the creak of frozen trees, the sigh of escaping air, and the wheezing gasp of his laboured breaths.

The trees parted before him, and he looked out across the ruin of Laskwood; the crater where had once stood Wengarlen and the seed of life. Blackened stumps swathed in ice, for as far as the eye could see.

First had come fire; a seething fury that had seared away the forest and boiled away the sea. Then darkness and creeping ice and slow suffocation. One by one, his people had succumbed to the slow doom. He may very well be the last alvar to walk the boughs of Ciendil.

And now his time had come.

He teetered and fell backward into a mound of hard-packed snow. Gazing up at the blackened sky, his final breath fleeing from frozen lips, he wondered if this had been Abellion’s plan all along.

“Probably,” said the dark-eyed dwarrow. “Your god’s an arse. But the shapers who did the deed were much closer to home. You could’ve stopped them. And yet here you lie, impotent keeper.”

A fist pounded against his chest. Garrain blinked and spluttered and gasped in a lungful of searing air. Nuille peered into his eyes, her brow knitted in concern.

“Deus, I thought you were dying for a moment there,” she breathed, sagging back against his chest.

An icy chill seeped into his bones, in spite of the warm body pressed against him. It had felt as though he were dying. The dreams had been getting more dire each night since their return to Wengarlen.

No, not just dreams. Warnings.

“Demon be damned, we must go back,” he murmured.

“Go back where, ardonis?” said Nuille.

“To the dwarrow den. To finish what we started.”

She let out a long-suffering sigh. “I know you want your revenge for what they did to Ollagor, but have a little patience. And stop worrying. Those dwarrows will get what’s coming to them just as soon as the Chosen returns.”

The elders had said much the same thing. They’d assemble a warband when Thiachrin returned to lead it, and not a moment sooner. It irked him that none of them—not even Jevren—had taken his warning seriously enough to sanction a more immediate response.

“You don’t understand,” said Garrain. “We’re running out of time. And Thiachrin…he’s not a good person, my light.” He stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t know what will happen when he gets back.”

Nuille sat up in their sleepsack, arms folded across her breasts. “What do you mean? He’s the Chosen now. If Abellion saw fit to bestow his blessing on the blademaster, he must be worthy of it.”

“I just don’t know any more,” he admitted. “Everything we’ve been taught—about the Chosen, about alvari and dwarrows and demons, about the Arbordeus himself—what if it’s all lies?”

She stiffened. “Why would you say such a thing? You know, you’ve been acting strangely ever since we got back. You’ve barely been sleeping. You regained your magic but not your focus. There have been whispers… Something’s not right, and I’m not talking about those devious little stoneshapers. What really happened down there, ardonis?”

“I…want to tell you,” he said. “But if I do…if anyone else should learn of this, I don’t know what she’ll—I may lose it all over again.”

She cupped her hand to the side of his face. “We’re lifemates, Garrain. Our fates are bound. Whatever it is you have to say—I can’t promise I’ll be happy about it—but I won’t betray your secret.”

He lay there silently for a long moment, gazing into her exquisite amber eyes. Then he smiled up at her. “You’re right. I should have just told you from the start. Saskia, if you’re watching this, know that you can trust Nuille. She deserves to know the truth. And if you don’t like it…you do what you have to.”

Nuille glanced about the room, before turning back to him, looking bewildered. “Who is Saskia? Why are you…?”

He placed his fingers to her lips. “Now who’s the impatient one, my light? That’s what I’m about to tell you. You see, the demon isn’t—deus!”

At that very moment, the housetree shuddered so violently that their sleepsack popped off its hooks and deposited them in a heap on the floor. They clung to one another as the floors and walls creaked and swayed around them. A rumbling sound filled the air, drowning out their hammering heartbeats. Finally, the shaking and the tumult receded, and they picked themselves up off the floor now scattered with fallen debris.

“W-what the fuck was that?” said Nuille, sounding as shaken as he felt.

“It is as I feared,” he said. “This is the dwarrows’ doing, I’m sure of it.”

Throwing on some clothes, he slid down the central pole to the ground floor and rolled open the door.

“Don’t forget this!” said Nuille.

Garrain deftly caught the staff she threw at him, eyeing the gnarled witherbark, inset with arlium at the tip. He’d taken to carrying this counterfeit focus with him wherever he went, so he could cast spells without arousing suspicion. He probably wouldn’t be able to keep up the pretence indefinitely, but for now, only Nuille knew that it was fake. As far as Jevren and the other elders knew, he’d pulled the arlium shard from his old, broken staff, and grown a new staff around it.

The ground outside was littered with sticks and leaves and fruit shaken free by the disturbance. Down the path and across the stream, a nude alvessi knelt on the grass, her face a mask of confusion and fear. A trickle of blood ran down her neck. Nuille rushed across the stream to tend to her injury, which had resulted from a falling branch that had struck her on the side of the head.

They were fortunate no-one had been seriously hurt, but a sinking feeling in his gut told him this would only get worse. Until the dwarrows were dealt with, no-one would be safe.

“Keeper Garrain?”

He spun to face the new arrivals: a trio of wardens, standing with spears and shields at the ready.

“You have been summoned, keeper. Please come with us.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” said Nuille, glaring at the newcomers.

“Perhaps in light of this morn’s disturbance, the elders have decided to take heed of my warning,” said Garrain.

In truth, he rather doubted that. The elders could have sent a messenger skrike, after all. But the last thing he wanted was for Nuille to make a scene and get herself in trouble with the wardens.

Garrain followed them into the heart of Wengarlen, to the drackenwood grove, where stood the ring of elders, all watching him with blank expressions. Even Jevren withheld his usual friendly smile.

Well, he thought, at least they aren’t laughing at me.

A large band of wardens and rangers stood to one side of the grove. He recognised many of their faces. He’d trained with them and fought with several of them against Ruhildi’s minions, but they offered him not a hint of acknowledgement.

Addressing the elders was a familiar silhouette. Familiar and yet…changed. Garrain recognised the impressive size and musculature, as well as the claymore at his back. But the hair was gone from the top of the alvar’s head, and on his face was set a rigid mask, pale as bleached bone.

Garrain stepped up to Thiachrin and the elders, his stomach a knot of dread.

“Imagine our surprise when we learned that a certain fledgling survived an unsurvivable fall,” said the Chosen, turning to face him. “Tell us, fledgling, how did you accomplish such a remarkable feat?”

Thiachrin’s appearance wasn’t all that had changed. He’d never referred to himself with the plural ‘we’ before. Garrain didn’t know the full extent of a Chosen’s abilities, but he had serious doubts about his ability to tell a convincing lie to his former mentor.

“As I told the elders, the demon…” He swallowed. “I landed atop her. She broke my fall.”

Technically, that wasn’t even a lie. The only deception in his statement was the order in which those two events had occurred. That unfathomable creature she’d briefly become had broken his fall by snatching him out of the air—smashing his leg against a wall in the process. He’d landed on top of her just as she folded in on herself, assuming, once again, the guise of a trow.

“Indeed,” said the Chosen. “And where is the demon—the caedling—now?”

Garrain stared into the pale eyes behind the mask, now looming over him, and swallowed again. There was no way to answer this without earning himself a slow death, or telling an outright lie. He chose the latter. “As far as I know, she’s but a lump of meat splattered across the rocks where we fell.”

Thiachrin was silent for a long moment before he spoke. “Really, fledgling, you may have fooled these…” He gave a derisive grunt. “…elders, but you can’t deceive us.”

“It’s the truth!” lied Garrain. “I know how implausible this must sound but—”

“Garrain, we have a serious proble—oh crap.” Saskia’s voice burst into his head, cutting through his denial like a heated blade through a putrescent squashfruit. Garrain cast his eyes to the sky, letting out a resigned groan. This was it. He was finished.

The Chosen barked out a single laugh, loud enough to hurt Garrain’s ears. His eyes blazed behind the mask. “Caedling. You have a faultless sense of timing.”

As one, the elders pointed staves toward him. Standing among them, Jevren flicked him an apologetic hand gesture, though his expression remained unchanged.

Thiachrin tore the faux staff from Garrain’s nerveless fingers, and with a casual flick of his wrists snapped it in twain. Something flicked toward him, impossibly fast. The next thing Garrain knew, he was lying on his back. His ears were ringing. He couldn’t move.

“Take him to the cage trees,” said the Chosen.

Darkness descended.

Garrain awoke to the sight of an eyeless face peering down at him. Purple leaves sprouted from the open eye sockets, rustling in a stiff breeze.

Whisperer.

Here was a greenhand who had betrayed his duty to the Circle; forced to nurture the flesh-eating plants that had slowly devoured his eyeballs, while he stood vigil over the damned.

More gaunt, disfigured forms stepped out of the shadows, gathering around him. Dry, leathery hands tore away his clothes, leaving tattered rags flapping in the wind. A booted heel smashed into his back, sending him tumbling into a stinking, mud-filled hollow beneath a twisted trunk. At the flick of the whisperers’ wands, a cage of writhing tree roots closed around him.

Garrain hauled himself into an awkward crouch—there wasn’t room to stand—peering up between the roots at the feet of his captors.

This had all gone so badly, so fast, it just didn’t seem real. But it was real. They’d thrown him—a keeper—into the cage trees! He was so stunned he didn’t even feel angry. Not yet. The anger would come later.

His days as a free citizen were over the moment Thiachrin saw the demon behind his eyes, and laid bare his lies.

As though she’d just read his thoughts—a notion that seemed as likely as it was terrifying—the demon spoke into his ears: “Dogramit, I’m so sorry. I really frocked this up.”

“Haven’t you tormented me enough?” he muttered. “Why are you still here?”

Immediately, he regretted his words. She may be a demon, and the cause of his predicament, but as long as she remained with him, he wasn’t alone. He didn’t want to be alone down here.

“I came to warn you about…well, it seems kinda pointless, unless you can break free somehow.”

“Tell me,” he said. “It appears I suddenly have a great deal of time with little to do but listen.”

“Not as much as you think,” she said with a wry chuckle. “You were right about the stoneshapers, Garrain. They are up to something. And it’s bad. Really bad…”

He sat in silence, his despair growing deeper with her every word. He’d suspected this was coming, but not so soon. In as little as a fiveday, the dwarrows’ dark design would be realised, and everyone and everything he knew would be consumed by fire.

He began to make a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. Even to his own ears, he sounded broken. “If you’d come to me with this news just a pinch of days sooner, I might have been able to do something about it. The elders were being useless as ever, but I could have gone with Nuille and Morchi and perhaps one or two others to pay the dwarrows another visit. In all likelihood, most of us would have perished down there, but not before we crippled their ability to carry out their plan.”

“Why didn’t you? You knew they needed to be stopped this whole time, didn’t you?”

He rested his head in his hands. “Why? I’d have though that was obvious. I didn’t act because of you, demon. I didn’t want to risk having you steal away my magic when I needed it most. And I thought there’d be more time; time enough for the elders and the Chosen to assemble a proper warband.”

“Crap!” she said. “I…well maybe you still can do something about it. If you could break free…you know, do something magicy.”

“Perhaps I could break out of here,” he whispered. “They don’t know I still have my magic. But then what? I wouldn’t make it a hundred steps. And if by some miracle I did manage to escape Wengarlen, I’d be alone, with no chance of defeating the dwarrows. No-one will join me now. Probably not even Nuille. I was so close to telling her about you. So close. But now she’ll doubtless hear of it from Jevren or Thiachrin. I’ll be a traitor and apostate in her eyes. But none of that matters, because of one simple fact: I can’t get there in time to stop them. The journey from dwarrow den to Wengarlen took us nine days. Nine. Even if I ran myself ragged, it would at best save a pinch of days, and I’d be in no condition to fight when I got there.”

“Oh. Crap.”

“There might be one person who could get a warband there in time, but there’s no chance…”

“Who!” she demanded.

“The Chosen. Thiachrin. His predecessor had a form of travel magic that allowed us to go for days without food or sleep.”

“Well that’s just frocking fantabulous. The one person who might be able to save us is the bad guy. Who came up with this stupid plot?”

The sound of a raised voice interrupted their conversation. A very familiar voice. “I said let go of me, you fucking bald clod!”

Thiachrin laughed. “Such a feisty little malkin. A pity you have such poor taste in lifemates.”

“Fuck the lot of you with a splintered staff!” shrieked Nuille. “When I get my wand back, I’m going to—augh!” A loud thwack filled the air, and she fell silent.

Ice ran through Garrain’s veins. “Thiachrin!” he shouted. “I need to speak to you!”

“In good time, fledgling,” said the Chosen. “We wish to see you wither a bit first.”

“This cannot wait! It’s a matter of urgency, not for me, but for all of Laskwood, perhaps Ciendil itself. If you don’t like what I have to say, you can do as you wish with me. But please, hear me out.”

Footsteps crunched on dried leaves, signalling Thiachrin’s approach. Garrain found himself looking up at a pale mask affixed to a hairless head.

“Speak,” said the Chosen.

And speak he did. He explained what the dwarrows were up to, where they could be found, and how little time they had.

“And why should we believe a word of this?” said Thiachrin when he was done. “Coming from one who’s in league with the demon—an ally of the very dwarrows you’d have us destroy.”

“Can’t you tell if I’m lying?” said Garrain. “Everything I’ve told you is the truth, I swear it!”

“Perhaps you believe that,” said the Chosen. “But what if you’ve been deceived?”

“I saw with my own eyes—”

“And you believe everything your eyes tell you, even with a demon in them? You’re a blind fool, fledgling. And you’ve wasted enough of our time.” Thiachrin turned to a whisperer. “The cage trees aren’t punishment enough for his transgressions. Move him to the Screaming Tree.”

From his nestling days, Garrain had been subjected to harrowing stories of what occurred inside the dark recesses of the Screaming Tree. Now, it seemed, he was about to find out how much truth there was to those tales.

The roots of his cage tree lifted, and two pairs of arms hauled him out onto the dusty ground. Frantically he sought out Nuille beneath the nearby tree, but it was too dark to see beyond the gnarled roots that caged her.

The whisperers hauled him up into the crimson-stained branches of the Screaming Tree. The branches snapped shut around him, and he found himself in complete darkness.

Something stirred in the dark. Agony coiled about his leg. He gritted his teeth, determined not to give his tormentors the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

“You can feel it now, can’t you, fledgling?” Thiachrin’s voice came to him as if speaking directly into his ear. “Just a taste of the exquisite delights that await you in the Screaming Tree. Enjoy your stay. It will be a long one.”

Garrain listened to the crunch of departing footfalls, trying to ignore the torment that crept onto his other leg and up his spine. It continued its advance, constricting and releasing, scouring away flesh as it moved. A trickle of hot blood ran down his back.

Only now, in the heart of the Screaming Tree, did Garrain begin to feel the fires of rage. Thiachrin wouldn’t see reason, and he was the one person the elders would listen to. Nuille had been imprisoned—or worse. For all his efforts, here he was, trapped in this monstrous vessel of pain and suffering. And not one of his former friends would lift a finger to help him.

He was finished with this festering pit of a city.

“Saskia,” he murmured. “I’ll need to draw a considerable amount of essence.”

“Oh good. This time, I’m right there with you. Here, this may help.”

A circle appeared in the corner of his eye, covered in splotches of green and brown and sprinkled with strange symbols and markings. Some of them were moving.

“This is a map,” said Saskia. “That dot in the centre is you. The other dots around it are those creepy plant-faced guys. The blue one under that tree is probably Nuille. And see that purple dot, moving away? I think that’s the Chosen. You might want to wait until he’s far enough away that he can’t just come back and chop you in half the moment you break free.”

Garrain watched as the purple dot made its way across this peculiar map of Wengarlen. It stopped by a cluster of red and orange dots in a grove at the Circle’s heart. Those must be the elders. One of the red dots joined the purple one as it left the grove, along with a separate group of yellow and orange ones that might be the wardens and rangers. They made their way across Wengarlen, heading straight for the main gate, moving at what must be a running pace. Once outside the Circle, they headed east, in the direction of the Frostspire Mountains.

“Well this is interesting,” said Saskia. “Are they going where I think they’re going?”

“Perhaps the Chosen isn’t as stupid as he led us to believe,” said Garrain. “In all likelihood, he feigned disbelief in an attempt to fool you, so that if you had prepared a trap for them…” He paused, as a thought suddenly occurred to him. “You haven’t prepared a trap for them, have you?”

“Please. What do you take me for? Some kinda demonic supervillain?”

Trying to ignore the unseen horrors that continued to tear at his quivering nerves, Garrain waited as the swarm of dots continued eastward, moving faster with each passing moment. They must have entered the greenway.

“Okay, escapy time,” said Saskia. “You’re not going to get a better chance than this.”

“Indeed.”

He reached out with questing tendrils of essence, seeking the song of life within the Screaming Tree. This tree was old—so very old—and it had drank more than its fill of blood across the ages, twisting it into a strange and malevolent form.

Yes, this would suit his purpose nicely.

What he was about to do might never have been done before. Undain the Eversmile had designed the spell, but the famous hero had never been able to cast it himself. The spell required more essence than any portable focus could channel. Until now.

Once again, Garrain was in a unique position to make something useful out of his greatfather’s notoriously useless inventions. This time, it would work. He could see the pattern in his mind. All he needed to give it form was essence.

Garrain drew it forth—a flood of essence the likes of which none but the driads of the Age of Legend could have summoned. Saskia let out a pained gasp. Soft wood pressed against him; no longer ripping into his flesh but encasing it nonetheless. He felt himself sinking into a hollow shaped to perfectly fit his body.

And then he could see. Not with his eyes, but with something else. Something…wider. Dizziness swept over him. What he was seeing was everything around and above and below the Screaming Tree—all sides, all at once.

The eyeless whisperers all turned to him, wands raised, spells gathering at their tips, and in that moment he wondered if perhaps this was how they saw the world.

Branches flexed, stretching, stretching, reaching out. They were his now, more so than his own arms and legs, which lay encased in solid wood. His many limbs flailed and snatched up the whisperers, hurling them high into the air and driving them down into the ground, where they lay twisted and broken.

The tree that was now his body gave a violent shake and tore its roots from the dirt. His roots flowed along the ground, flexing and contracting, dragging him forward with surprising speed.

“Oh my god, it hurts,” said Saskia. She sounded out of breath. “But it’s almost worth it to see you take a level up in badonk. Riding a tree like a mech. How cool is that!”

Garrain, having no idea what she just said, ignored her. He reached down and tore away the roots of Nuille's cage, watching in relief as his alvesse scrambled out of the dark hole, naked and covered in mud.

She stared up at him, her eyes wide. “Garrain? Is that still you in there?”

“It is I.” He spoke through tiny holes that had formed in the side of the trunk, allowing him to breathe. “I’m leaving this Circle, never to return. I’ll understand if you don’t wish to follow.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Fuck that. I’m coming with you. But I’ll need my wand. The whisperers took it from me.”

“I can help with that,” said Saskia. “Here.”

Something twinkled on the map. He reached out in the direction indicated, plucking the tiny wand from the belt of a fallen whisperer, then whirled about, holding it out to Nuille. She took it gingerly.

“Let’s go. Oh but before we do…”

He tore aside the roots holding other prisoners in their cages. Some huddled beneath their trees, staring up at him with terror in their eyes. Others dashed away. He had little sympathy for his fellow prisoners, Nuille excepted. Rapists, murderers and thieves, the lot of them. But they would serve as a distraction, perhaps diverting some of the wardens away from him and Nuille—although he was certain he’d be attracting an abundance of attention, regardless.

Enfolding his alvesse in his branches, he lifted her gently and set her inside his leafy crown.

Then he was off—not running, precisely, but flowing across the ground faster than his alvar legs could have carried him. All too soon, shouts rang out across the canopy, and a horn sounded. Arrows began to rain down on him. He swatted them aside before they could reach the fragile body of his precious cargo, crouching amidst his branches.

The ground shook violently, and not from the weight of his passage. A crack opened beneath him, and he hurriedly shifted to the side.

A large band of wardens rushed toward him, only to be swatted aside with such ease that it surprised even Garrain himself. More arrows came at him, some of which had been dipped in oil and set aflame. Though those often flew wide of their mark, one lucky shot was all it would take to end him. He took to the stream, splashing the water across his branches as he moved.

Something lit up the air before him.

“Out of the way!” shouted Saskia.

He leapt aside just in time to avoid the roiling globe of a scorching sap spell, hurled by a young greenhand lurking behind a bush on the streambank. A moment later the alvar let out an ear-curdling shriek and collapsed in a pool of his own blood.

“What the hell was that?” gasped Saskia.

Garrain didn’t answer, though he knew precisely what—and who—had just ended the greenhand’s life. Nuille crouched amidst his branches with her wand extended, the echo of her spell still shimmering on its tip.

Though it was a risk, they stopped by their housetree, and Garrain waited outside, fending off treetop archers and the occasional foolhardy warden, while Nuille ran inside. She emerged a moment later bearing Trowbane, with Morchi at her heels. Setting them both inside his shield of branches, he charged straight for the main gate—and freedom.

Almost, he felt pity for the wardens who stood in his way. They hacked at his flailing branches, and tried to set them alight with blazing torches. And all they earned for their efforts were splintered bones and shattered skulls.

Once they were safely away from Wengarlen, Saskia spoke in a wheezing voice. “Garrain, I’m sorry, but I’m gonna…have to ask you…to cancel your spell now, before I…pass out from heatstroke.”

This wasn’t the first time Saskia had mentioned heat in connection to his spellcasting. Interesting. But he’d best do as she said before she took away his magic permanently. He let his roots settle back into the soft ground. His branches sagged. Reluctantly, he willed the tree to disgorge his alvar body, feeling the flow of essence slow to a trickle, and fade away.

Blinking in the harsh light, he found himself looking into Nuille’s exquisite eyes. He reached up to cup her cheek, and she shivered against his touch. Then she flinched away, eyes widening. “Ardonis, you’re…oh deus!”

The back of his hand was streaked with red, but it wasn’t blood. Or at least not only blood. Patches of his skin had acquired a smooth woody texture, like that bestowed by a bark sheathe spell. Except he had no such spell in place right now.

Glancing down at himself, he saw what had so shocked his alvesse. He may have left the Screaming Tree, but it had not entirely left him. In places where the tree had stripped away skin and sinew, something more plant than flesh had grown in its place. Coils of red roots and plates of smooth, hard wood grew at irregular intervals across what had once been smooth flesh. Tiny leaves sprouted from odd places, where the tree’s tendrils had burrowed deep.

“Okay that’s weird,” said Saskia in his head. “No weirder than what happened to me, but still…”

He brushed aside the clump of leaves from his crotch, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. The infestation had spared a certain important part of his anatomy.

“Aaand that’s my cue to leave,” said Saskia. “Good luck!”

Nuille turned her wand to his strange new flesh. Warmth spread across his body. But when she tugged at a patch of red wood on his arm, pain flared. She frowned. “It’s resisting my mending spell. I don’t understand.”

“We can try again later,” he told her. “For now, we need to keep moving. Whatever this is, it’s not painful if you don’t pull at it.”

Morchi sniffed at him curiously, and he ran his hand across the beast’s soft fur. The grawmalkin seemed to recognise him, at least, even if he no longer recognised himself.

“Where will we go?” asked Nuille. Her voice quavered slightly. She was still in shock over the day’s events. He felt wretched to have been the one responsible for upending her life so completely.

Her question was a good one though. Where would they go?

There was no point in following Thiachrin’s warband to the dwarrow den. Either the Chosen would get there in time to save Wengarlen or he wouldn’t. The only thanks Garrain would get, should they meet again, would be death. They needed to go far from here, where the Chosen would never find them. Briefly, he considered heading south to the Illerenes, and Fellspur, until he remembered that his last journey there had resulted in the pointless slaughter of a party of rangers. He very much doubted they’d welcome him with open arms.

No, a better option would be to head northwest into mer territory. He’d had no dealings with the mer, but they at least welcomed trade with outsiders.

“Let us head to the coast,” he said, coming to a decision. “We’ll see if the mer might offer us safe harbour in exchange for our magical services.”

When the time came to make camp, Nuille once again tried to restore his flesh to its former state, and once again her magic proved ineffectual in this regard. Before long, she turned to a different kind of magic, and he discovered to his (and her) great relief that the transformation had not impeded his sense of touch.

On the fourth night, he and Nuille sat on the battered rocks of a windswept mountainside, leaning against one another, and waited. If the Chosen had failed to stop the dwarrows, tonight might very well be their last night. But if the end came, at least they would get a spectacular view of it. From here, by the dim light of Lumium, they could see out across the vast green expanse of Laskwood, from Fellspur to Wengarlen and beyond, across the Arnean Sea.

Though she remained silent, he could tell Saskia was with them, watching through his eyes. He didn’t begrudge her this moment, though he’d rather share it only with his alvesse.

The night marched slowly on, and his eyes began to droop. Perhaps it would be…

A burst of light shone through his closed lids, followed by a rumbling roar. Garrain jerked upright, eyes going wide, heart smashing against the walls of his chest. Only then did he realise that the light and fury came not from Wengarlen, but far across the sea.

“Deus,” whispered Garrain. “The northern project…”

Nuille put her hand to her mouth. “Elcianor. It’s gone!”

On a plateau far beyond the northern shore had stood the crown jewel of Ciendil; a city of a hundred thousand alvari. The city was no more.

In its place rose an immense shaft of white light, brighter than the sun. The light turned yellow, then amber as it spread across the sky, swathed in billowing black clouds—and began to rain down upon the land.