TŪMBṂĀR awoke from the wolf’s nudge. A searing pain welled in his chest and left hand, and he clutched tightly to them. His hand had been wrapped and bandaged, but the bandaging did little to allay the agony. As he propped himself up, he saw the princess running around frantically; her wounds seemed to have healed at least. The wolf told him he had been asleep through the night, with the sun to rise soon, but within the time he had been asleep, the maiden had disappeared.

He ran to Feyūnhaḥ in desperation and asked, “Is it true that Iḷēhaḥ is gone?”

She nodded her head in sadness. “She left without a trace. All her belongings are gone as well. Though she hasn’t taken the Dvhaḥṣhtro with her, so we can be glad of that.”

Tūmbṃār knew then that Iḷēhaḥ had intended to leave them, but at the time, he could not make much of her intentions or destination. He looked around him and saw Nakthaḥm strolling about with little care. He went to him and tugged at his black cloak with his head hanging down. Nakthaḥm faced him with a smile. His shackles had vanished, and one might have viewed it as cause for alarm, but while his hands and feet seemed free, Tūmbṃār could tell even without their presence that they were still, indeed, bound.

While Tūmbṃār was still asleep, Nakthaḥm introduced himself to both Vrihkhaḥ and Feyūnhaḥ and healed them with the little power still available to him. And though the two were incredibly distraught upon waking to him, he assured them he was with them now.

Feyūnhaḥ, in anger, grabbed onto him and said, “And by what means shall you be able to prove this, Ranger of the Night?”

He held his arms out to them and the shackles that had disappeared came once more with their brilliant light, and at once, his arms and feet stuck together. “I am now shackled to the boy and maiden. My will is no more my own. I could not kill you even if I desired it. But I do apologize for our fight.”

And he stood up rather awkwardly and the shackles disappeared anew. Then bowing, and with a grin, he continued, “It was not my intention for any of you to become as hurt as you did, or even to perish for that matter. Unfortunately, even though I attempt such a thing, given my nature, it is hard to be sincere in any respect. And so I hope you can forgive this demon who stands before you.”

“Do not seek forgiveness from me!” shouted the princess. “Your actions will be paid for! The lord shall decide your fate.”

His grin did not leave him and he said, “So be it, princess, but you must be wondering where the maiden is.” And Feyūnhaḥ at once realized that Iḷēhaḥ was gone. “She has taken flight from here, leaving–” Feyūnhaḥ pushed him aside and she ran in search of her.

“The jailer has awoken! What be the matter, child? Is this about the maiden? Iḷēhaḥ I think you people called her?”

“Do you know where she went?”

He pointed due north. “It would seem she has gone in that direction, but there is little that I know of down that path. Perhaps she wanted to lose our trail. But oddly, I cannot sense her at all within the time that has passed; though these shackles of yours and hers have bound my powers, still able am I to use my instincts—at least, that is, until they weaken, which I shall hope does not come soon. However, none of my abilities available to me are of use here. It is as if she vanished into the air.

“Maybe something could be done were you to remove these shackles. I have many other abilities and powers that are well-suited to pursuit.”

The boy shook his head, and Nakthaḥm sighed. Tūmbṃār ran back to Feyūnhaḥ and asked her what was north of here. But she did not know, having already said that she was unfamiliar with this area. But she then realized on account of her brother that there were no towns, villages, or cities save for Siḍhrehḷūr in the Cedar Forest. Were Iḷēhaḥ to make her way to any other domain, she would no doubt have to cross through Siḍhrehḷūr first.

When she told the others of this, Tūmbṃār quickly gathered their belongings and tossed them atop the wolf. And as he leaped up, he said, “Feyūnhaḥ! Nakthaḥm! Let’s head back to Siḍhrehḷūr; there should still be time for us to catch up with her.”

With haste, the two climbed onto the wolf. And with great speed Vrihkhaḥ ran due east into the forest.

Making through the many glades, fields, hills, and forests with little rest between them, they at last reached Siḍhrehḷūr. But almost all who were to greet them stood shocked by the man the group brought along back. Nakthaḥm gave them a jovial smile, but they were none pleased and all the warier. News had already spread far of what he had done to those he fought with, and though he did not kill them, the wounds he inflicted were indeed serious. Had they not been given proper care in a timely manner, they would have likely perished.

As the group walked through the city, the folk kept their distance and muttered to themselves. But through the throng, many officials with the retinue of soldiers, approached the group angered, and said, “Princess! Why have you brought the demon to this city? He would surely be the end of us. Do you not understand what he has done to our people? Have you now gone mad! I fear we have made a grave mistake in trusting you.”

Feyūnhaḥ desired at that point for Nakthaḥm to be castigated. The trouble he had caused far exceeded what was done to them, and while this did not anger her before, with all the trouble they went through just to shackle him, only to have Iḷēhaḥ flee, was enough for her to be fired with wrath.

Yet she refrained and held her bearing as a future regent, and said, “I would ask you not to judge him on first sight. While he has dealt damage to those that journeyed to the cave, he is now very much pacified. He shall not harm any of us; both the boy and I will be sure of that. I presume him to have much information that is needed in our quest. And when that is given to the lord my brother, he shall decide his fate.”

“You think us to be fools princess? Nay, that shall not happen. No more shall we abide you! We shall cut you down at this moment!”

And they drew their blades. And though the soldiers were hesitant, they likewise bore their weapons and turned them to their princess. Nakthaḥm smiled, yet it seemed to turn to a scowl. He elongated his nails and he sought to strike them down. Tūmbṃār drew his sword and alighted the Dvı̄sahlvah. And Vrihkhaḥ snarled and his hair stood on end as his teeth salivated.

And as the assailants drew near, Feyūnhaḥ shouted, “You would now attempt to slay an heir to the throne: to break the duty of keeping a line secure!” And her voice reverberated, and the officials were shocked and stepped back. The others were equally surprised and lowered their guards. “I know why it is you hold me in contempt! I have known all my life, and yet just this once, I ask you to give me your trust. You have never done so before, but at last you relented, even if it was under malice. Give me just this one chance. Let his fate be decided by the lord; and let me do my duty to represent our people at the council. My kin may have left us, but know I hold you and all the people in this city to be of greater worth than them. If I should fail, then do with me as you wish. Should it come to that, I shall even seek pardon for you, before the deed is done; and with my death: let your rage be appeased and our race dwindle into the night.”

Her words silenced them, and they stood frozen. Never before had she lashed at them before, much less in the manner she had done now. Their anger lessened, and their faces became solemn as they sheathed their weapons and looked upon the solemn face of their princess.

“Do as you will!” they scoffed, and left the area.

“I see there are still many other problems to contend with here,” said Nakthaḥm.

“Indeed, so stay quiet!” said the princess, and they left for the palace.

Upon reaching, the demon’s presence shocked Athruyam and the attendants. And he looked to Tūmbṃār who did all he could to hide his pain and anguish. He said, “Now it has all become clear. Come sister and friends; we have much to discuss.”

Dusk was falling on the land, and under a patio in the garden, they talked at length.

“A few days before your arrival, Iḷēhaḥ had come hither alone. Her clothes were mostly torn, but her wounds and cuts had already healed. And I saw she had not the Dvhaḥṣhtro on her person. Rather she had little if anything for even her staff and the Dvı̄sahlvah were gone.

“She said, ‘I have come here alone and will journey on my way soon after. But worry not, for the group is well and fine and shall make here soon enough. They already know the reason for my departure. I shall only need one day of rest before I set to the mountains in the northwest. Will you allow me to stay?’

“I obliged to her request and let her stay, but during that time, she did not once utter your names or give me a reason for her split,” and then looking to Nakthaḥm, “but I can surmise what that might have been now.”

“Where’d she go, Athruyam?” interjected the boy. “It’s my fault she left. I want to apologize to her and hope she can accept Nakthaḥm in time.”

“She indeed has quite the hate for my kin,” said Nakthaḥm, “and I could tell as much from our fight. A very peculiar maiden that she is. But tell me, Lord of the Cedars, what is the reason for such hate? I understand wariness, but I did not think any to be so antagonized to us – at least not to the extent she displayed. Knowing could very well help us in recovering her.”

The lord was suspicious of his request. “I have fought many of your kind before, and though it would seem you harbor no ill will, I do not very much trust your intentions.” Turning to the others, he continued, “No details shall I give of Iḷēhaḥ herself. It is not my place to do so; you will need to ask her yourself.”

The boy and princess hung their heads low. If Iḷēhaḥ would not tell them before, there was even less reason that she would do so now. She was likely to still be furious and may even have grown to despise them, but Tūmbṃār held out hope that she would forgive.

Athruyam continued, “But you demon, Nakthaḥm, what is your business here? Was the Dvhaḥṣhtro all that you were coming after? What is it you were planning on doing with it?”

Nakthaḥm grinned and said, “Before I speak of that, do you not wish me to tell them of what shall happen in the future, Lord of Cedars? I know quite well from Lord Daryurhaḥ, the Lord of Death and Justice, that you have refrained from speaking to them of the maiden’s mission.”

Tūmbṃār and Feyūnhaḥ were shocked to hear this, and the princess immediately questioned, “You were sent here by that God of Justice? What could have made such a one send someone so terrible as you? You who have assailed our kin to no end these many months!”

Athruyam calmed Feyūnhaḥ, but her anger did not abate. He too was surprised to hear that god’s name mentioned and—as if a mighty weight had just been lifted from him—said, “I suppose there is not much use in hiding it now, but I shall not speak as to the nature of the maiden. She will have to tell you herself.” Then he cleared his throat, continuing, “She has been sent hither on a mission, by the Highest of That One, Ishvhaḥṃār, to halt the incoming invasion of the Yavhaḥṃār.”

And just those words were enough to shock the two even further. Tūmbṃār then realized, that the evil, both Iḷēhaḥ and the sage—his teacher—had suggested was the Demons themselves. If he had known at an earlier point, he might have been excited. But now he felt dread, knowing this to be one reason for his friend’s anguish. And having fought Nakthaḥm, he felt much death would follow if the Demons were to come here en masse.

“I know not when they shall arrive, but from the celestials that have approached me concerning the matter, they have suggested some years from now. Not too many but not too few either. And that she has traveled for at least two years now in Ārhmanhaḥ, to seek individuals that should halt the Demons’ advance. But from my guess, she now has given up. Ever did she wish to return home, and I cannot blame her for it.”

The two of them did not know what to say, much less Vrihkhaḥ who sat in the grass, sullen.

“I suppose the question that should be asked now is: will you pursue her?”

Tūmbṃār stood and said, “Yes! I won’t leave her alone. She’s still as much a friend as anyone else here. Neither will you leave her alone, right, Feyūnhaḥ?”

She nodded and then he looked to Vrihkhaḥ who howled, and then to Nakthaḥm who simply smiled.

“There you have it, Athruyam!” said the boy with a newfound resolve.

“My gratitude to all of you,” he said as he stood and bowed. Then he turned to Nakthaḥm and said, “And what is it you wish to do, Agent of Daryurhaḥ? For all the Demons I have fought and with whom I have conversed, never would they have lied in their association with that Lord of Death. The God of the Lower Realms would not take to such a thing very kindly and would no doubt dispense with the most terrible of punishments, as he often does with your kind.”

“I shall travel with them, lord,” said Nakthaḥm, “as was the role given to me. Just as the mission was there for the maiden to seek worthy individuals to fight the coming invasion, so is it mine to aid such individuals. That is all I know concerning my mission.”

Then his grin left him, and he seemed melancholy, “As for the Dvhaḥṣhtro, well, let us say, if the worthy individuals were not found, then by my hand it was to be put to a purpose that though of righteous accord, would have caused me immense grief.”

He turned to the boy and princess and said, “Do not take to heart the words I spent at the battle; I say such things when bloodlust overtakes me, as given to me by my nature.”

And the two were surprised, and it seemed as if surprises would just keep coming their way. But they could not say whether he had lied about the Dvhaḥṣhtro; they did not press for any more details, having enough information now over which to ruminate.

The lord sighed and shook his head. “Well at least out of most of your kin, you seem to be reasonable; I do not sense any business of untruth on your part, and I should think Daryurhaḥ would hold you to your word, so far as concerning your mission. And the shackles that bind you will surely keep you in line if that were not the case.”

He went back inside and returned with a map, then spread it across the table and put his finger near the position of a lake. “You four will need to journey to the town by the lake, Viprūtaram. She is en route to the high shrine atop the Trdsyhrvti: the Central Mountains. Though you have only just come back, it is best you leave in the morning, tomorrow. Otherwise, it shall be hard for you to catch up to her.”

He then thought to himself whether there was any more to say and his face became grave as he seemed to remember something. “There is one other thing I must mention.” He looked to Feyūnhaḥ. “Should your path at all take you to Trdsyḷūr, be wary of the King.”

She was suspicious and said, “Why? I have not seen him for some time now, but is something wrong with him?”

“I myself know not the full details, but there have been more Dvı̄sahlvah users as of late gathering there, and I feel it bodes ill. The many times I have spoken regarding it, he simply laughed it off. I cannot say for certain if it has anything to do with the King.”

And Feyūnhaḥ burst into laughter and said, “Of course, it shouldn’t! They’re there to bring spectacles for the city. I haven’t seen them used for anything else—well, except for a few war exercises, but not as combatants! The place keeps growing larger every year and I should think they need them to keep the people entertained somehow.”

He sighed and said, “Perhaps I spoke in haste. In any case, if you should happen to go there, be vigilant. I know you have been there many times before, but given current circumstances, one can never be too cautious.”

She patted her brother and with a seemingly forced smile, said, “You needn’t worry, Athruyam. I will take the utmost care.”

And he smiled and said, “That should be all for now. Have a good rest, and I shall see you in the morning.”

He curled the map and gave it to his sister, who stowed it away in her sack. Feyūnhaḥ, Nakthaḥm, and Vrihkhaḥ then retired for the night, but Athruyam kept Tūmbṃār back, wishing to speak further with him.

“It is as I feared! You unleashed the higher power, and now it has ailed you. Verily a miracle that you have not died. But as I have said before, this is not something that can be cured, and though the pain shall subside over time, the damage will not. It may well take its course when you have reached later years and – no, I shall say no more on it. Your life has diminished, and no amount of hope I have to give you will release you of it. It is best you learn to come to terms with it along your journey. A grave error I made on my part; never should I have taught this to you. The demon, as far as I can tell now, had no intention of slaughter. Forgive me. I am sorry, Tūmbṃār, truly I am.”

Those words weighed heavy in Tūmbṃār’s mind during the night as he walked the empty halls, unable to find sleep.

Tūmbṃār had not imagined Athruyam to be as distraught as he was over it. Yet, it was not altogether unusual for the lord to feel guilt over actions that need not have been taken. More often than not would people feel as such, but it was not as if they had the foresight to plan for such events. Should blame be cast on them, whether by others or by themselves? Tūmbṃār did his best to reassure him that all was fine and he would be too, and though Athruyam smiled at him, the sadness about his person did not abate.

The pain was slowly subsiding in his chest, but still it waxed great in his hand. Was he to die soon? Well, it would depend in relation to whom, for Athruyam himself had lived many thousands of years. But strange it was that he felt no fear or apprehension toward it.

Usually, only the old men and women in his village would remain calm toward their demise, feeling as if they had lived their lives to the fullest—and indeed they would have done as many died close to a hundred—and perhaps their outlook had rubbed off on him.

More often than not, the other villagers would chatter about their fear of death over any such nonchalance, wishing not to perish anytime soon, understandably so. But, it always felt odd to him that people believed in the World of the Ancestors and the Heavens of the Gods while still displaying such remorse over their eventual deaths. After all, would it not be better after they had died, even should they suffer a little in the process? Regardless, it did not concern Tūmbṃār all that much, for even with the affliction, he would not have to worry over his demise for some time. If Athruyam’s words were anything to go by, long yet would he have to live.

When he came to the open hall, the light breeze of the night air taking its hold on him, he stopped near the balustrade, looking out under the arch toward the moon that shone bright and full. Its light shined on all the land underneath. All save for the Fiyukthi that curiously remained dark even under the light of its flame.

The bustle of the city had ceased and a tranquil quiet held in the air. Tūmbṃār wondered to himself if he should ever convince Iḷēhaḥ to come back with them. Having spent such a long time with her, it was not easy to let her go. To him, she was more than just a friend; she was family. The same held for Feyūnhaḥ and Vrihkhaḥ.

He pulled out his Dvı̄sahlvah from his pocket and held it in front of the moon. It glistened under the light and felt almost alive. To think that this stone held so much power yet could all the same be destroyed.

Their fight with Nakthaḥm had left them exhausted. Even with days passed since that incident, their fatigue had not lifted. A large circular scar was left in Tūmbṃār’s palm from the maiden’s stab. And every so often, it would pain him, and during that night, was especially strong.

The boy grasped his hand and held his wrist tight. There was little he could do, and as strong as he was, such affliction and emotional distress were enough to make him weep. A full-week of fifteen days had come to a close and for the first time in a long while, he caved to his emotions and wept in that night of rest.