Then the chasm disappeared, and he was back in the cave in Nymbrax.Calista was there, and in horror he realized in the time he had let his guard slip, when he was experiencing the vision, more assassins had slipped into the cave.
They were helplessly outnumbered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The wagon jolted to a halt, its wooden wheels grinding against the desiccated earth like bones underfoot.Gwendolyn stirred from her fitful daze, her body aching from the endless days of travel—bound, blindfolded, and battered by every rut and stone in the road.The air had changed over the last few hours, growing drier, hotter, underscored with a faint, ashen bitterness that clung to her tongue.She heard the creak of the door swinging open, rough hands seizing her arms, hauling her out into the blinding light.
"End of the line, Majesty, your palace awaits," one of the guards sneered, his tone mocking.She blinked against the sun, her vision swimming as the blindfold was yanked away before her stretched an endless expanse of desolation: the Ashen Plains, a forsaken scar on the eastern edge of the Ring.Gray, baked soil stretched to the horizon, broken only by jagged outcrops of blackened rock and sparse, twisted shrubs.No trees, no rivers, no shelter, no signs of life—just an unrelenting wasteland where the wind howled mournfully, carrying fine dust that stung her eyes and coated her skin.
Lord Aldrich's men—four of them, armored and impassive—shoved her forward.One tossed a small bundle at her feet: a half-empty waterskin, a crust of stale bread wrapped in cloth, and a thin blanket riddled with holes."His Lordship's mercy," the leader grunted, his lips curling into a cruel smile."You built the kingdom from ashes, they say.Let's see you survive in them."
Gwendolyn straightened, refusing to cower despite the chains that still bound her wrists, chafing her skin raw.Her gown, once a symbol of regal authority, was now torn and soiled, hanging loosely on her frame after days of meager rations.
“Are you going to keep me in chains?”
One glanced at the oldest of the four, obviously the leader.His eyes quickly shot to the chains that bound Gwendolyn’s wrists and then shook his head.
“You fear me still.Even out here?”She eyed the men, challenging them.One had the grace to look at his feet.
Gwendolyn stepped forward and stared into the eyes of the leader."Tell Aldrich this," she said, her voice steady, cut through with the unyielding resolve that had carried her through exile and war."The Ring will remember.My people will remember.And so will I."
The guards laughed, a harsh bark that echoed across the empty plains.They mounted their horses, the wagon turning round in preparation for its return to less harsh lands."The plains will claim you long before you claim vengeance," the leader called over his shoulder.With a crack of reins, they were gone, dust billowing in their wake.She watched them as they receded, gradually becoming smaller until they vanished altogether into the shimmering heat.
Alone now, Gwendolyn knelt to examine what they had left her with.The waterskin was warm to the touch, its contents sloshing meagerly enough for a day, perhaps two if she rationed it.The bread was hard as stone, the blanket barely adequate against the chill that she knew would descend with nightfall.She scanned the horizon, seeking any sign of shelter or water, but the plains offered nothing.Legends spoke of this place as cursed, a battlefield from ancient times where druidic wars had scorched the earth, leaving it barren and hostile.Travelers avoided it; even beasts shunned its borders.Aldrich had chosen well—this was no prison, but a slow execution, death by thirst and exposure.
She began walking, her steps deliberate, heading eastward into the heart of the wasteland.The sun beat down mercilessly, its rays reflecting off the desiccated ground like a forge's glow.Sweat beaded on her brow, mingling with the dust to form a gritty paste.Her throat tightened with each breath, the dry air sapping her strength, the chains that bound her arms felling heavier and heavier.She conserved her water, taking only tiny sips when the dizziness threatened to overwhelm her.Hours passed, the landscape unchanging, a monotonous gray that swam in front of her eyes.Her mind wandered to Guwayne—had he reached safety?Was he even alive?What would he do if he heard what had happened to her?She prayed he wouldn't come and try to rescue her.It would be like walking into a trap, and besides, it would be too late by then.The guard had been correct.She would have succumbed to the heat, thirst, and hunger long before then.
And what about Thor?The seed of hope Kellan had planted refused to die, but here, in this void, it felt like folly.
As the suns dipped lower, casting long shadows across the plains, exhaustion set in.Her legs burned, her bare feet blistered from the harsh, uneven terrain.She spotted a cluster of rocks ahead—a low outcrop, perhaps enough for shelter against the wind.It was not much, but it was the first sign of anything remotely offering protection since she had been there.She pushed toward it, collapsing against the largest stone as the first hints of evening chill crept in.The blanket offered scant warmth; she wrapped it around her shoulders, nibbling at the bread to stave off hunger.Night fell swiftly, the sky a vast canopy of stars indifferent to her plight.The wind picked up, whistling through the rocks like mournful spirits, carrying whispers that teased at the edge of her hearing.
Sleep evaded her, broken by thirst and the gnawing fear that this was her end—not in battle or chains, but forgotten in obscurity.It was not the way anyone wanted to end their years, especially a proud queen.She rose before dawn, driven by a stubborn will that had rebuilt kingdoms.The plains seemed even harsher in the pale light, the ground crumbling underfoot like brittle bones.She trudged on, her footsteps slower, her feet dragging, searching for any sign of water—a depression in the earth, a glint of moisture.By midday, her waterskin was empty, her lips cracked and bleeding.Dizziness blurred her visions, made her steps falter; she stumbled, falling to her knees in the dust.
It was then, in her desperation, that she felt it—a subtle vibration beneath her palms as they pressed into the soil.Not the tremor of an earthquake, but something deeper, more intimate.A pulse, faint and rhythmic, like the heartbeat of the earth itself.She froze, her breath catching.
Was she imagining it?Was she hallucinating, brought on by the thirst and exhaustion?She pushed her hands harder against the baked earth and held her breath.
No, she hadn’t been mistaken.The vibration was definitely there.Insistent.Alive.
The Ashen Plains were said to be dead, but this...this was life, dormant and waiting.She dug her fingers into the dry earth, scraping away the top layer of ash.Beneath lay darker soil, veined with faint, glowing filaments—like roots of light, pulsing weakly.
She looked, bewildered, trying to compute what her eyes were telling her.Then it dawned on her.
Ancient Druid magic.The realization hit her like a gust of wind.The legends were true—this wasteland was the remnant of a great cataclysm, where druids of old had clashed with forces beyond mortal ken, weaving spells that scarred the land but left echoes of their power embedded in the very soil.Thor had spoken of such places in his tales of the druids, no doubt tales handed down from Argon himself, where the earth's energy lingered, accessible to those with the blood or the will to awaken it.
Gwendolyn closed her eyes, her desperation fueling a reckless impulse.She pressed her hands deeper, whispering a plea—not in words, but in the raw emotion of someone clinging to survival.Help me, she thought, her mind reaching out to the faint pulse.At first, nothing happened.Then, a warmth spread through her palms, subtle at first, like sunlight filtering through clouds.The filaments brightened, their glow seeping into her skin, traveling up her arms in tingling waves.
Visions flickered in her mind—fleeting images of robed figures chanting under stormy skies, their hands shaping the earth into barriers of stone and vine.She saw battles where roots erupted to ensnare foes, where winds were summoned to scatter armies.And woven through it all, a sense of kinship, as if the magic recognized something in her.
But why would that be?
Her bloodline—had there been druids among her ancestors?Her family history was a tapestry of warriors and rulers, but whispers of mystical heritage had always lingered, dismissed as folklore or as the habit of monarchs to paint their lineage as grander than it was.Thor's druidic powers had been hidden until his training, perhaps her own lineage held untapped secrets, dormant until now.
The warmth intensified, coiling in her chest like an awakening flame.She gasped as energy surged through her, banishing the fog of exhaustion.Her thirst lessened—not quenched, but eased, as if the magic drew moisture from the air or deep below.Tentatively, she focused on the chains binding her wrists.A faint green light emanated from her skin, tracing the links.With a concentrated effort, she willed them to weaken.The metal groaned, rust flaking away unnaturally fast, until with a snap, the chains fell apart, crumbling to dust.
Freedom.She stared at her hands in wonder, flexing her fingers.This was no illusion—the power was real, stirring within her.Emboldened, she reached out again, this time seeking water.The soil responded, a subtle shift under her touch.A few paces away, the ground softened, a small trickle bubbling up—clear, cool water pooling in a shallow depression.She cupped it in her hands, drinking greedily, the liquid revitalizing her like nectar.
But the awakening was not without cost.As the magic flowed, a headache bloomed behind her eyes, visions intensifying: darker images now, of druids consumed by their own power, the land rebelling against overuse.She pulled back, the pulse fading, leaving her breathless but empowered.What secrets did her blood hold?Was this a gift from forgotten forebears, or a curse that would demand more than she could give?
