"Aldrich," Vargul rumbled, his accent thick as the steppes' mud."You come like a thief in the night.Fitting for a schemer."
Aldrich shed his cloak, warming his hands by the fire with feigned nonchalance."And you camp like conquerors at my door.Let us dispense with pleasantries, Khan.Our arrangement stands?"
Vargul's lips curled in a predatory smile."The breaches in your 'Shield' grow wider each day.My horde hungers for plunder—the rich farms of your south, the gold in your courts.You promise us entry, unopposed, to raid select villages.In return, we retreat when your 'heroic' forces drive us back, making you saviors in your people's eyes."
Aldrich nodded, this man may be a savage but he had caught onto the plan quickly, seeing in it, the benefits for him and his people.In Aldrich's mind, he was already envisioning the narrative: the nobles, united under his banner, repelling the invaders after a staged incursion.The dissent in the villages would shatter; gratitude would bind the peasants to their new protectors.Doubt would evaporate.Gwendolyn's imprisonment would fade into irrelevance amid the manufactured crisis."Precisely.You'll strike Eldridge and Barrowford—burn enough to terrify, but not so much as to cripple.Take slaves if you must, but leave survivors to spread tales of your 'savagery.'My forces will arrive in three days, defeating you in a glorious battle.You'll withdraw to the Wilds with your spoils, and I'll ensure the borders remain...porous for future raids, should you behave."
The warrior woman snorted, her hand tightening on her axe."Behave?We are wolves, not dogs on your leash."
Vargul silenced her with a glance, but his eyes held a glint that unsettled Aldrich—a calculating depth beyond mere barbarism."Your plan is clever, schemer.But the steppes whisper of greater prizes.Your kingdom fractures; beasts pour through your magic wall.Why settle for scraps when the whole feast lies open?"
Aldrich's pulse quickened, though he kept his voice steady."Our deal is for scraps, Khan.Overreach, and you'll face the full might of the Ring's armies—breaches or no."
Vargul laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed off the stones."Might?Your queen rots in chains, your king feeds the crows, your heir is a ghost.My scouts report your nobles squabble like rats over cheese.Perhaps we invade in earnest—claim the Ring for the horde, forge a new empire from your ruins."
The threat hung in the air, all the more potent because it had an undercurrent of truth.Aldrich studied Vargul, noting the subtle signs: the fresh tattoos on his arms, symbols of steppe gods invoking conquest, not mere raiding; the way his lieutenants shifted, eager rather than cautious.This was no simple warlord; Vargul had ambitions that dwarfed their pact.Could he be controlled, or had Aldrich unleashed a storm he couldn't quell?
"Stick to the plan," Aldrich warned, his tone steely."Or our alliance ends here, and my archers line the borders tonight."
Vargul's smile widened, but his eyes remained cold."We strike as agreed.But remember, schemer—the wolves decide when the hunt ends."
As Aldrich rode back through the forest, the unease coiled in his gut like a serpent.The barbarian's agenda loomed larger than anticipated, a shadow that could engulf his carefully laid schemes.Power was not just a balance but a gamble—and he wondered if he'd wagered too much.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Guwayne's consciousness returned in fragments, like shards of ice melting under a hesitant sun.First came the sensation of warmth—soft, enveloping, not the biting cold of the sea that had so nearly claimed him.Then, the scent: earthy and herbal, mingled with the faint tang of salt and woodsmoke.His eyelids fluttered open, heavy with exhaustion, revealing a ceiling of woven thatch and rough-hewn beams, dappled with the golden light of what must be late afternoon filtering through a small, shuttered window.He lay on a pallet of furs and straw, his body swaddled in dry blankets, his sodden clothes replaced with simple linen garments that felt foreign against his skin.
Panic surged through him as memory flooded back: the storm, the fog that had swallowed theDawnbreaker, the huge wave, the visions of ancestors and shadowed figures, the relentless pull of the currents toward this jagged island.He bolted upright, his head spinning, his hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.Where was he?Had the sea spat him out only to deliver him into some new peril?
The room was modest, a single chamber in what appeared to be a cottage built into the side of a cliff, its walls of stacked stone adorned with hanging bundles of dried herbs and peculiar talismans—carved bones etched with runes that seemed to shift subtly in the light, much like the tattoos he'd glimpsed in his visions.A fire blazed in a stone hearth, casting flickering shadows that danced across shelves lined with ancient tomes, vials of shimmering liquids, and crystals that caught the flames like captive stars.The air hummed with an undercurrent of power, a subtle vibration that raised the hairs on his arms.This was no ordinary refuge; it thrummed with magic, ancient and potent.
A soft rustle drew his gaze to the far side of the room.There, by a wooden table cluttered with parchments and a steaming kettle, stood an elderly woman.She moved with deliberate grace, stirring something in a clay pot over the fire, her back to him.Her hair was a cascade of silver-white, braided with feathers and beads that clicked softly with each motion.She wore a robe of deep emerald, embroidered with intricate patterns of vines and stars, frayed at the edges from years of wear.Though her frame was slight, bent slightly with age, an aura emanated from her—an invisible mantle of authority and wisdom that pressed against Guwayne's senses like the weight of a gathering storm.It put him on guard immediately; this was no frail hermit.She radiated power, the kind that whispered of secrets long buried and forces beyond mortal ken.
"You're awake," she said without turning, her voice calm and resonant, carrying the timbre of someone accustomed to being heeded.It was neither warm nor cold, but measured, like the steady flow of a deep river."Good.The sea is a harsh mistress, but she delivered you intact, as I intended."
Guwayne swung his legs over the edge of the pallet, his muscles aching from the ordeal, but he forced himself to stand.The ring on his finger warmed slightly, as if sensing a kindred energy in the room."Who are you?"he demanded, his voice rough from saltwater and exhaustion."Where am I?What do you mean, 'as you intended'?"
The woman finally turned, setting down her spoon with a gentle clink.Her face was lined with the etchings of time—deep creases around eyes that gleamed a remarkable clear blue, the most beautiful color Guwayne had ever seen in his life.A faint scar traced her left cheek, pale against her weathered skin, and around her neck hung a pendant of glowing crystal, pulsing faintly in rhythm with the fire.She regarded him not with surprise or hostility, but with a quiet appraisal, as if she had been expecting him for years.
"I am Calista," she replied simply, gesturing for him to sit at the table."And this is Nymbrax, an island forgotten by maps and men, hidden in the northern mists where the world thins and the old powers linger.Sit, boy.Your body mends, but it needs sustenance."She ladled a steaming broth into a wooden bowl and placed it before an empty chair, along with a hunk of dark bread.
Guwayne hesitated, his instincts warring.The aura around her was unnerving— it reminded him of Aunt Alistair's presence during her druidic rituals, but amplified, fortified with an ancient depth that made him feel like a child stumbling into a sacred grove.Yet hunger gnawed at him, and the broth's aroma—rich with herbs and roots—promised strength.He approached warily, lowering himself into the chair but keeping his eyes locked on hers."You didn't answer my question.What did you mean by 'intended'?Did you...bring me here?"
Calista seated herself across from him, folding her hands in her lap with the poise of a queen."Yes," she said plainly, without a trace of apology."The fog that engulfed your ship, the storm that rose from calm seas, the wave that plucked you from the deck, the currents that bore you to this shore—they were my doing.A summoning, if you will.The elements heed those who know how to speak their language."
Guwayne's spoon paused midway to his mouth, the broth forgotten.A chill ran through him from the casual admission of such power."You summoned a storm?You wrecked my ship, drowned my crew?"Anger flared in his chest, hot and sharp.Visions of Captain Stolk's desperate shouts, the sailors' muffled cries in the fog, flashed before him."Why?What gives you the right?"
Calista's expression remained serene, though a flicker of sorrow crossed her eyes."The sea took what it willed, but your crew...many will live.The fog disorients, scatters, but does not always kill.As for the right—I act for necessity, not whim.You carry the Sorcerer's Ring, Guwayne, son of Thorgrin.It called to me across the waves, a beacon in the dark.The world unravels, boy.Breaches, not the trifling ones in what you call the Shield, far more important, terrifying ones, tear at the fabric of reality, and shadows stir in the deep places.You chase your father northward, driven by visions and duty, but you are unready.I brought you here to prepare you, before the unmaking consumes all."
He stared at her, the ring on his finger now throbbing with heat, as if affirming her words.How did she know his name, his purpose?The visions he'd seen in the sea—the ancestors, the chanting figures—had they been her doing as well?"Who are you, really?"he pressed, setting down the spoon."A witch?A sorceress hiding on this rock?"
Calista's lips curved in a faint, enigmatic smile."Labels are for the ignorant.I am one of the last surviving Druids of the East, guardians of the ancient ways that predate your Ring and its shields.Long ago, when the world was young and wild, we walked the ley lines, communing with the earth's pulse, weaving spells to balance the chaos.I trained alongside the legendary Argon himself, in the hidden groves where the veil between realms is thinnest.He was my mentor, my brother in spirit, teaching me the secrets of the stars and the stones.While he wandered west to aid your forebears, I remained in the east, watching, waiting for the cycle to turn."
Guwayne's breath caught.Argon—the mythical druid who had guided his father Thorgrin through trials and battles, shaping him into the king he became.Tales of Argon were woven into the Ring's lore, a figure of immense power who vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared.If this woman had trained with him, she must be centuries old, preserved by druidic arts.The aura around her made sense now—it was the same ethereal presence he'd sensed in Alistair's teachings, but purer, more primal.Yet it put him on edge; such power could heal or destroy, and he was alone here, far from allies.
"The Druids of the East," he echoed, piecing together fragments from his studies."They were said to have faded into legend, scattered by wars and the rise of empires.If you're one of them, why hide here?Why summon me now?"
Calista rose slowly, moving to the window and parting the shutters.Beyond, the island revealed itself in glimpses: rugged cliffs plunging into a restless sea, mist-shrouded forests of twisted pines, and distant peaks veiled in eternal fog."The Druids did not fade," she said, her voice tinged with quiet melancholy."We retreated, for the world grew deaf to our wisdom.Empires rose on blood and steel, ignoring the earth's warnings.But now, some of the things you have seen—the tears in your Shield—are but symptoms of a greater problem.The unmaking stirs, an ancient force that devours balance.Your father, Thorgrin, touched it in the north, and it nearly claimed him.You sense it too, in your visions, in the ring's call."
