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Instead of brushing aside Bartholomew’s concern, I mull it over in my mind, examining it from all angles. Humans are not native to Caldenbauer, but we came as peaceful settlers—first welcomed by the High Vales and then enslaved. We did not raid as conquerors—we did not steal this land from them unjustly.

But still, there is no easy answer, because Bartholomew’s concerns are valid—this is not our land.

Before I can piece together an answer, Pranmore joins us. Solemnly, he says, “Since the humans came out victorious those long years ago, there has been peace. Your people are not perfect—you have many,manyflaws—but the Woodmores have flourished under the Phoenix King’s line, and under his rule, the Boermin are a free people. Whether it was right or wrong for your ancient ancestor to declare war against the High Vales…that is a question for kings. We must look at the people—the humans, the Woodmores, the Boermin, the gnomes. Will they thrive if the High Vale duke declares war upon us yet again? They will not. We must protect them, at all costs, because that is our duty as citizens of this kingdom.”

Clover turns to look up at Pranmore, appearing just as surprised as I am. “Pranmore…whoareyou?”

“He’s my friend,” I say, rising as I clasp my hand on his shoulder. “And I am grateful for him. You saved my life, Pranmore.”

Humbly brushing aside the praise, he says, “Well, what can I say. We Woodmores have a natural immunity to magic, and I swore I would keep you safe.”

Clover laughs, wiping more tears away, and then she stands as well. “Henrik, I’ve thought of something.”

“Hmm?” I ask, turning to her.

“If this doesn’t earn you your seal…I don’t know what will. You’ve uncovered a conspiracy against the crown.”

If nothing else, that thought is intensely satisfying.

“Now what?” Bartholomew asks.

Pranmore turns his eyes on the fallen. “Now, we honor the dead.”

“But…you don’t even like High Vales,” Bartholomew says.

“I don’t,” he answers with a sigh. “But that is irrelevant.”

31

Clover

We bury the fallen elves,following Pranmore’s instructions, creating small memorials for them and those who fell to the rocks below. It’s a somber process, and we speak little.

It’s strange how much respect Pranmore shows his enemies, and it makes me wonder if I would do the same.

It’s a sobering thought.

The journey back to the guard post is solemn as well. We carry weighty news, and though we’ve solved the mystery of the aynauths, the nest we’ve uncovered is far more concerning than a few rogue monsters wandering the lower forests.

On the third day, we walk the woods, looking for something familiar. We’re making good time now that we’re not trying to track the aynauths, and we should be back to the post tomorrow.

“Are you certain this is the right area?” Bartholomew asks. “I’m not sure.”

“Perhaps the gnomes don’t wish to be found,” Pranmore says. “We were fortunate to stumble upon them the first time.”

“Let’s look a little longer,” I say, feeling a touch wistful, not only for a warm nest of blankets by the fire and cup of mint tea but also at the prospect of seeing Maisel once more.

And I want to thank Ayan. He didn’t send us on a fruitless path after all.

“Hello!” I cup my hands over my mouth and call into the surrounding forest. “We’ve returned!”

But the woods are silent.

We end up walking until dark, heading southeast toward the guard post. Every few minutes, I look over my shoulder, looking for rogue boulders.

But there is no sign of the gnomes.

We make camp, but I’m unable to sleep. I stare at the lonely sky instead, wondering if they’ll attack when we’re least expecting it—for old time’s sake.