‘When I become king... will ya tell me?’ he asked.
Ash did not answer. Instead, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift to a place far from the crumbling temple, a memory of a young girl with golden hair, black wyverian horns and purple eyes, her laughter echoing like wind through the ruins of what once was.
How curious it is that those who begin as strangers may become lifelong companions, while those we once held closest may one day drift into the quiet realm of strangers.
Tabitha Wysteria
Kage had been journeying alongside the three enigmatic members of the Black Lotus, his ever-watchful crow and the silent wolverian wolf in tow, for what felt like an eternity, though in truth only a handful of days had passed. The first three had been spent in the twilight-hued depths of Hollowmere, where the trio drank themselves into stupors night after night while Kage lingered in the shadows of the tavern, a brooding figure with eyes that missed nothing. He had made several attempts to slip away into solitude, but each time, one of them—Arden most often—would appear as if conjured from smoke and guide him back with an infuriatingly casual smile.
It was Arden, too, who had seen to the wound in his own leg, the very one that Nymeria’s blade had so unceremoniously delivered. With the elegance only a Fae could summon, Arden had drawn forth his magic, golden filaments unfurling like spunsunlight from his dusky fingers. The threads danced in the air, some fluttering into delicate forms of butterflies that shimmered for a heartbeat before vanishing into the ether. The rest wove themselves gently over the injury, a gossamer mist settling like breath on skin, until the torn dark flesh knit itself anew and the pain receded into memory.
Kage had watched it all with a stoic sort of wonder, silent and still as stone, the light of Arden’s magic glinting in his black eyes.
‘Can you heal anything?’ Kage had asked, his voice quiet with curiosity as the hour crept past midnight. Most patrons of the tavern had long since succumbed to drink and slumber, leaving the space cloaked in shadows and the scent of stale wine.
‘Unlike witches, we Faemournthe march of time,’ Arden had replied with a lazy smirk, green eyes catching the dim light. ‘We use our magic to mend not only wounds but appearances too by smoothing wrinkles, brightening hair, refining what age seeks to tarnish. The gods, after all, did deem us their most exquisite creation.’
‘Could you live forever, then?’ Kage had asked, a faint frown creasing his brow. The notion was one that had always eluded him, though many he’d met clung to life with desperate hands.
Arden had chuckled, low and amused. ‘No, our magic isn’t so omnipotent. We can stitch flesh, ease pain, delay the inevitable. We live a little longer than most mortals, yes, and weave illusions with ease… but immortality?’ He shook his head. ‘No. Nor would I wish it. Thank the gods for that.’
‘You wouldn’t want to live forever?’ Kage had found that surprising. Hadn’t everyone dreamt of such a thing?
Arden merely shrugged. ‘One mortal life is hardship enough. Why prolong the suffering?’
Now, in the present, Kage cast a final glanceover his shoulder at the fading edge of the forest they had left behind, the elusive woodlands of Hollowmere. The trees had already begun to blur from memory, the magic of the Forest of Forgetful Hollows doing its quiet work. He knew he would never find his way back, but the thought didn’t trouble him. He hadn’t seen much beyond the tavern walls.
They emerged from the gloom into a burst of colour, fields of wildflowers blooming in unapologetic beauty, and a silver river threading through the landscape like a ribbon of moonlight. Arden pointed towards the dense green horizon. ‘The city of Velunthar lies just beyond that rainforest.’
Kage inclined his head but remained silent. He knew of Velunthar, had read of it in forgotten volumes tucked deep within the Dark Library. A city cradled by the rainforest, veiled from the eyes of most. And beyond it, past the mists and foliage, lay the border where the Kingdom of Fauna gave way to the wild lands of the wolverians.
‘You ought to give it a name,’ Arden said, slowing his stride to match Kage’s measured pace. ‘The wolf, I mean.’
‘It’s not mine.’ Kage didn’t look up, though the wolf remained faithfully pressed to his side, its thick fur brushing his arm with every step, as if it sought comfort, or perhaps understood that Kage was the one who needed it most.
‘Still deserves a name, even if it isn’t yours,’ Arden replied with a careless shrug.
‘It may already have one,’ Kage murmured, exhaling through his nose.
‘You didn’t ask?’
‘I didn’t expect to be stuck with it this long.’
At that, Arden came to an abrupt halt and, with exaggerated flourish, pressed a dark hand to the wolf’s leg. ‘Don’t listen to the wicked wyverian,’ he said in a sing-song voice. ‘He’s justperpetually grumpy.’
‘I’m not grumpy,’ Kage muttered, frowning.
‘Then name the wolf.’
‘No.’
‘Pretty please?’
Kage inhaled deeply, trying to summon patience from the brittle edges of his temper. He was beginning to see why this infuriating Fae had once got along so well with Wren. He sighed again, more dramatically this time, when Elric and Nymeria noticed the pause and circled back.
‘You haven’t named your beast?’ Elric asked, eyebrows arching in mild astonishment.
‘It’s not mine.’
