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Esme

Agnar freezes in the mouth of the cave like an alicorn kicked him in the head. Mouth ajar, he slowly inspects the interior.

After all we shared, sadness that my dire wolf dashed off without warning pings through me. At the same time, secondhand pride unfurls in my chest even though I can’t claim ownership of Veradin’s life work.

But it is mine in a way.

In all the ways that matter, this cave and the rooms in it are my home. This impossible repository of knowledge and magic is the only place in the world where I have ever felt like I belong.

These rocks once housed an unground lake with water burrowing in and out over a millennia. The Wardens found and built upon it, smoothing walls and shaping additional rooms.

The interior sprawls larger than the modest entrance suggests, rising over three stories. Chambers and tunnels branch off in multiple directions, each one visible through archways Veradin cut from the living rock decades ago.

But the main cavern is what stops people short.

The walls glow with embedded crystals—amethyst, quartz, something luminous and green I’ve never identified—arranged in deliberate patterns that capture and multiply the light from the braziers scattered throughout the space.

Each cluster corresponds to a specific type of magic or a particular field of study, creating a reference system only Veradin and I fully understand.

Shelves line every available surface, some carved into the rock, some crafted from reclaimed wood, and others suspended by chains from the ceiling.

Jars of preserved specimens—plants, insects, small creatures suspended in amber liquid—are labeled in Veradin’s neat script. Bowls of dried herbs and crushed minerals are arranged by property and purpose.

Our collection of crystals includes every size and color, each tagged with notes on its resonance and application. Books and scrolls stuff every gap.

This is the result of decades of accumulated studies, a lifetime of careful observation, and the stubborn refusal to let the old ways die just because the kingdom forgot to value them.

Veradin’s workspace dominates the middle.

A massive table hewn from a single piece of oak assumes center stage, its surface scarred with cuts, burn marks, and stains that will never wash away. Mortars and pestles in varying sizes form a line.

A small forge for metalwork sits tucked in the corner. Bundles of plants in different stages of drying hang in random spots around the room. Their earthy, medicinal scents permeate the air.

I inhale deeply and take it all in. As I do, my shoulders drop. I didn’t realize they were up near my ears until the muscles relaxed, the tension draining from me in a dizzying rush.

This is not merely a cave. This is a life and a calling.

Agnar gawks like he’s never seen a proper Warden’s sanctuary before.

He probably hasn’t.

His mouth hangs open, shock rendering him mute as he continues to drink in the sights. Pleasure over surprising him hums through me, and I wonder if I finally have the upper hand for once.

“Esme?”

At my name, I grin and spin toward the northern archway.

Veradin Valcor emerges into the main cavern, his white hair loose around his shoulders. Going by his rumpled clothes, he either slept in them or simply forgot to change, both scenarios equally likely. He might forget to eat if I’m not around to remind him. I like that he relies on me in that small way, to ensure that his basic human needs are met.

He looks older than I remember. The lines around his pale gray eyes have deepened. His shoulders curve forward more. But when he sees me, his entire expression transforms, his smile lightening the years as warmth blooms in his gaze.

“Thank the gods.” Long strides belie his age as he crosses the space and tugs me into a rosemary- and mint-scented embrace. “When I heard about the chaos in Edgehallow…the Graywatch sweeps, the violence…I feared the worst. Are you hurt?”

He pulls back and performs a visual scan of my entire body. His concern cracks the last bit of resolve that’s kept me going. Guilt floods in.

I should have found a way to let him know my situation so he wouldn’t worry. “I’m fine.” I lean back far enough to meet his gray eyes. “I’m sorry. I should have sent word. But I didn’t think⁠—”

“You’re here and whole. That’s what matters.” He cups my face in both hands, studying me with the same intensity he applies to rare specimens under magnification. “The rest we can sort out.”