Page 2 of Whisper Woods (Legends of the Whisper Woods #3)
Rafe
Breathing in deeply, I draw in the familiar scents of Tathys. The sun has only just begun to rise above the horizon but still, the town centre is bustling with beings beginning their day. In my usual seat at the only sidewalk cafe open at this vaguely obscene hour, I have the perfect view of my home city waking for the day.
A steaming cup of rivosh—a coffee like drink only available in Tathys—cradled in my hands, I watch the white robed Orun stream down the steps of their temple to begin their morning offerings to the Gods.
Usually, this simple ritual—a taste of home enjoyed at the very centre of it all—is grounding. A small moment to reconnect me after having been outside of our world.
For the very first time since I began these homecoming rituals after my first venture out of Tathys alongside my uncle, I am unable to find that same feeling of peace and rightness.
For all is not right in Tathys.
Once, we stood proudly as one of the three Realms of Carconnois. However, more than seven hundred years ago, before the beginning of the great war, a great seer had visions of the future and Tathys’s ruin should we remain a part of the world.
The seer announced their prophecy that Tathys should withdraw from the world, protecting itself and our magic by sealing ourselves away until such a time as we are required to return.
Our High Council, led by the Great Eminence and advised by the Orun agreed with the prophecy. They could see how the warring and disputes—both in our lands and abroad—were escalating and the danger we faced in the inevitable conflict.
The Gods even gifted the seer with the knowledge to complete the great feat, and they sacrificed their life to complete the ritual.
In the centuries since, the Mundane—as the outside world is known to Tathissians—forgot about the third realm on the southern side of the Whisper Woods. And we became comfortable with our safety, the warning of our return to the world largely forgotten. Especially when recordings of the magical rites, and how to complete them, were lost over time.
And so, Tathys has stood, isolated from the world. Though not entirely so.
Through the generations, Tathissians have chosen to leave our ethereal walls and venture out into the Mundane—knowing that the magic that binds us means they can never return to our lands or speak a word of our existence.
Then there are beings like myself. Known as Tavishers, we are beings granted the unique dispensation to walk between the two worlds, bound by the same magical oaths of secrecy.
A Tavisher’s role is twofold. Our first duty is to trade with the Mundane for items not available to us here. While Tathys has become self sufficient, largely out of necessity, there are still things our beings wish for that can only be obtained in the Mundane.
Some items we trade for are practical, be it metals or minerals our beings require for creation or ritual. Or the years we required extra food when we experienced a terrible crop blight. Some are luxuries or novelties Tathissians covet for their uniqueness in our world.
Our second role is to maintain a connection to the Mundane. We collect all the secrets and knowledge of the outside world, so that when Tathys rejoins the Mundane, we are not bereft in a sea of unknowing.
Well, that was the idea.
It seems, however, that now the time appears to be upon us for the prophecy to be completed and Tathys is unprepared for the reality of such events.
The walls that keep us safe are thinning and the beings of Tathys are scared.
It is not only the thinning of the walls that are whipping a frenzy of fear through our citizens.
In the Mundane, modern convenience and their cohabitation with humans has dimmed beings' connection to the Gods and thus, their magic. Long ago, it is said that all beings lived as we do now in Tathys. To the outside world, magic exists within constraints and limitations, almost as if it is something to be controlled.
For Tathissians, magic exists in everything we do. It is a vital part of us and integral to how we live our lives. Our magic is the thread that connects us to the Gods, the earth, our community and our very existence. We are taught from childhood that it is as much a part of us as our heart or our lungs or our stomach. Magic just is in Tathys, as it has always been.
And now it is failing us.
The loss of our magic began only weeks ago. At first, it seemed small and isolated—beings unable to conjure fire or call upon the water in their homes. Wards and glamours began to fail at random. Then, the shifters began changing against their will, often partially and our healers were unable to heal the most basic of wounds. Panic truly began to set in when the first of the crops failed at harvest and the earthquakes began.
Taking another sip of my rivosh, I watch the line of Orun file across the town centre. They are stoic in their white robes, dappled in the pink and orange light of the sunrise, ignoring the beings watching them avidly as they cross the cobblestoned town centre to the Fountain of Oshkbare to begin their daily offerings.
Standing in the very heart of our city between the magnificent palace of our High Eminence and the Temple of the Orun, the fountain is considered the very altar of our collective magic. It sits on the ishke—the astral veins that run through all the lands, connecting us to the Whisper Woods, carrying the magic on which we thrive.
The Fountain of Oskbare is a monument to the five Gods that created our world—Viestra, Gahimmyar, Luminstrique, Kob and Xilliquin—their figures carved out of the same beige stone that our city is built from.
Usually water spills from the representations of the Gods, spouting from their fingers, their breasts, their genitals. In the case of Kob, their many tentacles, and Luministrique, their great feathered wings. But the water has run dry—only the sacred flame, burning a bright green, remains in the centre of the Gods.
Watching the Orun lay out their offerings and raise their arms to the sky—now joined by a growing number of Tathissians presenting their own offerings to the Gods—my growing anxiety ruins my last sips of my rivosh, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
“Will there be anything else?” The voice of Bennison, the cafe’s proprietor, interrupts my thoughts. Looking up, I see he’s not even looking at me. He’s watching the devotions, his craggy face pinched into the same concern I feel deep within my instincts.
“No, Bennison. Thank you. I believe it’s time I visit my girls.”
Bennison humphs, disgruntled either by my girls, or more likely the tension brewing between the devotees at the fountain.
Prophecies are not known for their specificity and unfortunately, the ambiguity can lead to all manner of strife. Since the troubles began, and the whispers that the prophecy is coming to pass started to spread, Tathys has been torn.
There are those that believe we must have the utmost faith in the Gods, and they will protect us no matter what is to come. There are those just praying for a safe reunification and the return of our magic. There are those who believe it is all nonsense and we are simply experiencing a rough season and everything will return to normal soon enough.
Yet another group believes that we are being punished by the Gods, or perhaps an outside force, they are never quite clear, and our magic has been taken from us. And then there are those who are—out of arrogance, fear of the unknown or prejudice against the Mundane—insisting we deny the secondary prophecy and seek to re-fortify our boundaries and force the return of our magic. Though not a single being in Tathys seems to know the answer on how to do so.
The question of Tathys’s future has been much debated since the first sign of troubles. The Orun have poured over their records, the High Council has held meeting after meeting. Increasingly, it has become the sole topic of conversation amongst the citizens. In the two weeks I have been away visiting Ulydessia, the conflict has only become more inflamed.
“You’ll be safe, then, won’t you?” The double meaning of the sentiment isn’t lost on me. I clap the elder fae on the back, watching with him as the palace guards make their presence known to the gathered crowd, allowing the Orun to file away in peaceful silence. The guards, in their pearl-coloured breast plates and bronze feathered shoulder armour and double swords strapped to their backs, are an intimidating sight. Enough to quell the worst of the rabble at least.
“I always am.” I assure the elder fae, with another clap to the shoulder.
The unsettled feeling follows me as I leave the city, though the aching tension in my shoulders eases as I make my way through the fields and the farms to the very edge of the Tathissian borders, where my girls call home.
Bennison’s warning was not uncalled for. The gravel is rough and far too loud under the pads of my feet as I creep closer to the nest tucked somewhat precariously on the cliff face. Whilst the dragons are usually rather welcoming of me and my kind, hatching season is different.
Hatching season is dangerous.
I learned that particular lesson the painful way as a child. When you mix protective mothers and wild, untested babies, and protective bulls, accidents happen. And unfortunately, sometimes you lose an eye. Which makes caution even more important, because now I only have the one left, and it would be rather foolish to risk it.
Yet here I am, creeping closer and closer to the dragon's nest, having scaled the rocky cliffs to the outcrop she’s made home, the sound of the sea crashing against the rocks below, hoping to catch a glimpse, to make certain that the hatchlings are safe.
With things the way have been in Tathys these past weeks, I feel the need to be certain.
Especially when the dragon concerned is Estella, the favourite out of all my girls. When it’s not hatching season, she is a rather delightful beast, her size belying her playful spirit. When it is hatching season, however, she’s as temperamental as the rest of them .
Currently resting in a nest made of stone and grass, Estella lets out a huffing rumble as I approach. Well versed in her ways, I know the warning and ease my creeping steps. Looking up, I find her bright yellow eyes focused entirely on me, the pointed frills framing her face flared wide.
“Do not worry yourself, Estella. I am just here to ensure the babies are well.” Without the gift of communicating with creatures, she shouldn’t be able to understand me, but she seems to nonetheless. There is another warning huff and puff of smoke from her flared nostrils, and then she moves, shuffling her great red and orange wings from where they are protecting her precious babes.
The nest itself is taller than I am—all the better to protect the babies from the biting wind whipping the cliff face—so I use the sharp black points of my claws to haul myself high enough to peek over the edge. They are nestled together like jewel toned puppies. They are tiny little things, well, tiny for dragons anyway. All four of them are larger and heavier than me.
They must have hatched longer ago than I thought, as the shells have been cleared, which is rather unfortunate as dragon shells are one of the things us dragonkin collect from our creature brethren, along with the dragon glass formed by the fire of the dragon's breaths. With the last dragons in existence living on our lands, it is a fantastic and wonderful burden that falls to my brethren to care for them.
Dragonkin are just as rare as the dragons themselves. As far as we in Tathys are aware, we are the last of our race of beings. According to the stories in the vaults of the Orun, we are the original shapeshifters, the beings from which animal shifters originate. Though I have travelled enough of the world to have heard the same legends told of other shape shifting beings.
Unlike animal shifters, we do not share our existence with our beast. We dragonkin are our beast—it is only our physical selves that change shape into the dragon-human hybrid forms we are able to take. The ability to change is what allows us to complete our duties. Our scales, claws and talons—some dragonkin even have tails, though I myself do not—protect us and allow us to withstand the somewhat brutal nature of our dragon charges.
Not wanting to push my luck any further, especially should the little terrors awaken, I jump down from the nest's edge and cautiously back away from the new mother.
There are only three other hatching mothers still sitting on their nests and I want to find them and check them too. But before I can leave the burrow on the cliff’s edge Estella has chosen, her tail, long and thin but amazingly strong, whips out, lashing towards me.
For a moment I flinch, ready to incur her wrath rather than risk hurting her to defend myself. However, rather than finding myself on the receiving end of a lethal blow, her tail wraps around my waist, holding me still. My instincts flair a warning, almost too late, distracted by my wariness of the dragon pups.
The midnight blue of the scales and leathery skin on my torso contrast against the fiery colours of Estella’s tale as she squeezes me tight, securing me just as the tremors begin.
An earthquake.
I stroke Estella’s tail as it squeezes against the hard plates of my abdomen.
“It will be alright, precious one. It will pass.” The sound of the quake, and its loud cracking rumbles, smother my attempts at soothing the beast. Even so, I try anyway, attempting to keep my breath and heart rate steady where she can no doubt feel it against the crush of her tail. Her large body moves restlessly over her nest, readjusting her wings to protect her babies more thoroughly. I can only wait and pray to the Gods that the other dragons are safe. Since the quakes began I’ve worried about the mothers perched on the cliff nests. Especially when I, or the other dragonkin, have been unable to attend them.
After far too long, the shaking subsides, and the tail around my waist loosens its grip. I give her one last affectionate pat as it recedes, promising to come and visit again soon. Thankfully, the climb to the crest is not too far up the sheer cliff face.
Grunting loudly as I claw at the clifftop for purchase, I’m too focused on not falling to the churning sea below, and I fail to notice the being waiting for me until a strong, green hand clasps at my forearm. The unexpected aid startles me, and I almost lose my grip. Thankfully, between my cursing and the being’s laughter I make it safely onto land .
My saviour, to put it one way, and I tumble to the ground together with more grunting and curses, a tangle of vivid green skin, shocking blue hair and dark blue scales. I am the first of the pair of us to recover, pushing myself off him with a growl.
“Brydon,” the exasperation in my voice is palpable, even with the rougher, more gravelly tone this form takes. “What in the name of the Gods are you doing?”
Brydon, my assistant—and usually an extraordinarily helpful one—manages to right himself. Standing, he brushes dust from his behind and inspects a rather nasty looking graze on his elbow.
Brydon has only been officially working with me for five years once he completed his schooling and further education with the Orun. Unofficially, he’s been with me for ten years, ever since he was a lonely fifteen-year-old skulking around my home, right next door to his own. At first I thought he’d been up to mischief. Then I thought that perhaps he’d had a schoolboy crush on one of my staff, or worse yet—considering our ten year age gap—me.
But no, it hadn’t been anything of the sort, thank the Gods. He had simply been lonely and intrigued by my work and my dragon blood.
Brydon Allasayan, “son” of Heylor Allasayan, one of the Grand Masters of Tathys, was born different. A rare being born out of a broken mateship seal.
His mother, Briony, mated Heylor for his position and status in Tathissian society. He chose her for similar reasons—though I’m sure the fact she was a renowned ethereal beauty was rather pivotal in his decision making.
Unfortunately, as the rumours went at the time, she regretted the choice when she found love with Aen, a dragonkin of no particular wealth, status, or power. Briony committed what most considered the greatest offence and conceived a child outside of her mateship. Whilst Heylor and Briony had not been bonded mates—a fated union, blessed by the Gods themselves—they had still magically bound their lives together in mateship. Brydon was the result of Briony’s supposed betrayal.
She did not survive his birth, and Aen soon followed, not able to survive the loss of his true mate. Heylor, for all his many, many faults stepped in and claimed the child, raising him if not as his own, then with the very basic necessities his immense power and wealth could provide.
Everything except love and compassion.
The people of Tathys followed suit and thus began Brydon’s life. Tolerated, but never accepted, forced to carry the legacy of crimes he did not commit.
That he looks so incredibly different to all other dragonkin doesn’t help. Brydon is unable to shape shift. He was born a strange amalgamation of his fathers dragon form and his mothers more human body, unlike any other being in Tathys. His green skin, his thin, scaled tail, round black eyes, distinctive wide nasal bridge, and long webbed ears are all vivid reminders of his origin.
Who knows? Perhaps in the Mundane he would be mistaken for a fae or an orc or some other being. But here, in Tathys, no one forgets.
But their loss had been my gain. He soon proved himself to be quick witted, and adept at nearly all things useful to a Tavisher’s assistant.
“Well, first I came to tell you that I finished the translation of those papers you brought back from the mages. They were mistaken, it has nothing to do with the fauns. There’s three different languages and a code and—” the thundering of hooves in the distance cuts him off, ears twitching as his black eyes dart in the direction of the sound. His teeth sink into his bottom lip, a dark bruise-like blush colouring his green cheeks. “And the High Eminence Elianora is on her way with a couple of the High Council members. They don’t look happy.”
I join his wince, the frilled spikes framing my jaw twitching. “I assume your father has joined her?”
Brydon rolls his eyes, scoffing loudly. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his tailored Mundane cargo shorts, altered to accommodate his tail, and scrapes his booted foot across the pebbles on the ground, kicking up a plume of dust.
“Of course he is, I swear he thinks he’s the ruler of Tathys the way he tries to order her about.” Thankfully, the High Eminence—or Lia, as she prefers to be called by her friends—has little tolerance or liking for Heylor. Unfortunately for all of us, the position of Grand Master is inherited, so he remains our burden to bear.
Everything about my dragon form seems designed for fearsome strength and protection. From the menacing teeth filling my maw, to the aggressive flare of my nostrils on the scaled, stubby snout and the dual rows of spikes running from above the exaggerated ridges of my eyebrows back over my skull and down my neck. Smaller spikes line my jaw. The spikes lie flat and harmless when I’m calm, though they can flare quite dangerously for protection when necessary and have a tendency to twitch with my emotions.
As such, it is considered poor manners to stand before the High Eminence in such a threatening form, even if we are in the dragon's home—the grasslands at the borders of Tathys and the sea. So I change back, the change tingling my skin as the scales retreat into flesh—but only partially so, leaving my lower half covered in the shimmering midnight scales.
Because the only thing worse than greeting your queen as a ferocious beast, is greeting her naked with your dick hanging in the wind.
Brydon moves to stand closer beside me as the five riders approach on their tall Tathissian horses. Taller and more muscular than any of the horses I have seen in the Mundane, their shining coats almost glow in the sunlight as they carry their riders towards us.
They come to a halt in a cloud of dust. I see that, as Brydon reported, Heylor has joined Lia and her two guards, Gurt & Edley—two hulking beings, half orc, half berserker with deadly sharp horns and greyish green skin.
While their strength is one of their, well, strengths, their wicked speed, hidden by their bulky size, is their true value. It’s a good thing the High Eminence has the pair on a tight leash—though I’m not sure that anyone else in Tathys is aware that their relationship extends well beyond that of guard and protectee. The pair have been Lia’s lovers since they were all teens, one of the many reasons she has not taken on a mate to rule by her side.
Joining Heylor, whose steed is arrogantly in line with Lia’s, is his lackey and fellow Grand Master Edris—a man so far up Heylor’s backside I wonder if he can lick his tonsils.
The final rider is yet another Grand Master, no doubt here to stop Heylor and Edris from stirring up too much trouble. Grand Master Yorin is a portly fae with the unique ability to take the shape of any bird. Yorin, older than myself by more years than he would like me to admit, always had a fondness for me as a child. His affinity, perhaps, was based in his fervent defence of the difference between us as shapeshifters and other shifters whenever he got too far into his cups.
The horses paw the ground as the riders settle themselves. They’ve obviously ridden hard to get here, no doubt having to fight the spooked horses during the earthquake. The creatures have a wild look in their eye, either from the quake or from the stupidity of having been ridden into the dragon's land, where any and all unwelcome beings and creatures alike are at risk of becoming dinner.
The Tathissian breed is especially valued for their connection to their owners, but even that connection doesn’t seem to be helpful right now, which can only mean the riders are anxious too. Thankfully, the area seems clear of dragons at the present, though I can feel their presence on the edge of my instincts so they are liable to return at any moment.
“Your Eminence,” Brydon follows me in bowing low in the direction of our ruler, who inclines her head in return, the pink puff of her hair bobbing in the breeze as she does. “Grand Masters.”
Our bow to them is more of a deep nod of the head, rather than the more formal bend at the waist. Respectful enough to not cause a slight, but still, I catch the flare in Heylor’s eyes when he tightens his grip on his reins.
“Tavisher Rafe,” Heylor intones, looking down his beak-like nose at me, pointedly ignoring his son. Lia, however, doesn’t miss the disrespect. Nor the fact that he spoke first. Or that he has crept his horse to be ahead of hers.
Narrowing her pink eyes in his direction—bold against the palest pink of her skin, she clicks her tongue to edge her horse to the front. Beside me I can feel the twitch of Brydon’s hand, a reflex no doubt caused by his attempts to restrain his snicker of laughter when the ruler's horse pushes its way past Heylor’s.
“Darling Brydon! Rafe, my dear! I’m glad we found you.” The affection in her voice is so pointed and over the top it borders on ridiculous.
We, well, I, manage to contain the laughter tickling at my chest. Brydon can no longer hold back his snickering chuckle.
Lia slips off her beast with effortless grace, despite its height. Gurt is the first to react, moving to assist her, but he pauses at the almost imperceptible shake of her head.
Like I said, perfectly trained.
Stepping towards us, she brushes her hands over her coat, a deep inky blue, buttoned all the way to the high collar with shining brass buttons. She must be stiflingly hot in the increasing heat of the day, but she hasn’t broken a sweat. Or at least, her glamour isn’t showing it.
She embraces us both and when it’s my turn, I can feel the energy vibrating off her. My instincts, already thrown for the morning, start screaming far too late.
“Rafe, my darling. We have come with a command from the High Council. I thought it best to bring it to you myself.” She has to tilt her head back to look me in the eye, her hands gripping my biceps tightly.
Swallowing down the anxiety I can feel ratcheting through my body from where she is touching me, I nod my head into a polite bow.
“Anything, Your Eminence.”
As if by agreement, we ignore the irritated snort from one of the Grand Masters. More than likely, Heylor.
“We are asking you to return to the Mundane.” There is a slight pause, a brief flash of something flashing over Lia’s features before she decides her next words and continues. “We, the Council and I, are aware you have only recently returned from your recent travels to Ulydessia, but with circumstances as they are, we cannot wait.”
“The north-eastern wall is gone,” Edley announces, out of nowhere, his gruff voice edged with anxiety. The horse beneath him prances with it. Everyone’s horrified faces turn to the guard, who frowns back to cover his embarrassment at his outburst.
“What do you mean it’s gone?” Brydon is the first to gather his wits, relieving Edley of everyone's attention.
“Not entirely gone, but a section of it. We have riders out to confirm, but Kian returned overnight with stories of woolchucks hopping through the boundaries. A guard managed to catch him in time, before he spread his news throughout the city.” Yorin’s voice is suspiciously even. Without even a hint of judgement or hint of his take on the situation.
On the one hand, Kian, a local shepherd, is a known drunk who likes to spin wild tales on lonely stretches out in the hills with his sheep. On the other hand, the loss of the wall entirely feels inevitable at this point.
“Kian is a known fool, and no being with a lick of intelligence would believe a word out of his drunken bellig—” Lia cuts Heylor’s rant off with a raised gloved hand. No doubt she’d heard enough of it already. Heylor has always been impudent, forever toeing the line of disrespect in his continual search for more power than his position deserves. It seems that the current climate in Tathys has emboldened him further, especially as the purported leader of the voices calling for the return of our walls.
“Be that as it may, the rumours are being investigated. As is right.” A ripple of magic flows through the air, punctuating Lia’s point. The display of power is met with uncomfortable clearing of throats from her council, while their horses prance beneath them. Lia takes a deep breath, closing her eyes gently before she expels it, clearing her lungs with her hands on her hips. “So far, we’ve found that the boundaries have not fallen, though they are weaker than they have ever been. But that isn’t why we’ve come, Rafe. Grand Master Lughis, they’ve had… visions.”
Concern tightens low in my gut, my hands tensing reflexively. Grand Master Lughis isn’t just a member of the council. As the Master of the Oruns, Lughis is the council's Seer.
Lughis scared me as a child. It wasn’t their vivid white complexion, hairless face, or hauntingly deep violet eyes. No, it was their constant silence, their impenetrable calm. And the time I saw it all disappear when they were lost in a violent vision. They became deranged, screaming incoherent babble, flailing their body until the Hands managed to restrain them safely. I was removed after that, but it was too late. I have never been able to forget their wailing screams.
“And what were these visions?” I impress myself with the neutrality of my voice.
Lia smiles a small smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. She looks tired, the strain of the recent troubles beginning to show. “As I said, under orders of the Seer, and the Council, you, and all Tavishers are to go to the Mundane. To seek information, to pave the way. I am aware that there has been conjecture and suspicion, but the Orun, they have confirmed that the prophecy has begun. We need to know the cause. We need to find a way to keep our citizens safe—”
“What we need is to know how to stop it.” Heylor interjects bitterly, earning himself a dark glare from the High Eminence.
When she turns back to me, there is a softness when she recognises the shock and the sympathy in my eyes. I cannot imagine the stress my old friend is under if the Orun are declaring the end of Tathys, as we know it, is officially here.
“Lughis’s vision was quite specific, Rafe. They were insistent that rather than visiting your usual regions, you are to travel to Carconnois. Specifically, the Whisper Woods.”
“Why me? Why there?” Despite the dire situation, there is still a frisson of excitement running through me. The Woods are not my territory. Finding reasons to visit another region over the years has been difficult, so I’ve taken advantage of every opportunity. Always in the hopes of seeing him again. Seff.
“I assume it’s because you have been there before? You know that Joa mated the human, and therefore cannot return to us here. Maybe that affected the Gods’ decree. But it matters not, Lughis was insistent.” There is a snort from one of the council members. I can only assume it is because Lia is downplaying the intensity of this 'insistence'. Lia cuts another irritated look over her shoulder. “The others have been tasked with securing pathways for the future, for reunification with the world. But you Rafe? Lughis had a message.”
I don’t particularly wish to ask, but I know she’ll make me wait on this cliff’s edge until I do. “And what, my beloved High Eminence, is that?”
Lia’s smile is genuine this time, brightening her face as the cloud moves out of the sun's light just long enough to light up the colours of the dragon's glass on her decorative chain mail shoulder armour. “They said, the answers you seek begin at slash.”
I blink a few times at my ruler, while I digest the words. The answers you seek begin at slash? “What does that even mean? ”
“I have no idea, old friend. But I trust you will figure it out.” Despite her long and heavy skirts, Lia climbs back on her horse in one fluid motion, signalling her readiness to leave. As the other council members slowly begin their turn, urging their horses on, she again faces Brydon and myself. “And not to put too fine a point on it, but the fate of Tathys is likely resting in your hands. So I suggest you figure it out quickly.”
Without so much as a goodbye, she flicks the reins and she’s off, closely followed by her burly guards and the Grand Masters. Left with nothing more than the shocking news and a cryptic, unhelpful message, Brydon turns to me, already attempting to figure out the meaning of the vision.
“The answers you seek begin at slash,” He mumbles to himself a few times, jamming his hands in his shorts. His love for all things Mundane, and especially their clothing, is yet another nail in the coffin of the relationship between him and his father.
I clap him on the shoulder, startling him out of the mental rabbit hole he has already started down. “Come on, we won’t be figuring this out here. Let us head home and we can figure out the meaning of the words while I pack.”
A sly smile tugs at my lips, my instincts urging me to run home as fast as I can. I’m returning to the Woods, and if the Gods are willing, I may just run into my golden wolf once again.