Guild Wars 2

Chapter 10a:
“Don’t move a muscle. Don’t breathe, don’t look in the cages, and don’t say a single word,” Tiachren hissed. The few guards around them ran back to their original positions. Some went to the gate, others to the weapons. They had been fortunate enough to have been assigned to prisoner duty, though Llumin struggled with Tiachren’s order to stay away from the cages.
“What are those noises?” she whispered, her blue eyes glowing in the dim light. In the orange light running in veins through his pale skin, she saw his lips tighten.
“Like I said,” he replied, a far-off crack and a scream interrupting him, “don’t look.” His head suddenly whipped up, and his eyes widened. “I sense her,” he murmured reverantly.
Llumin’s heart panged in sympathy. “Don’t worry,” she said softly, reaching out and placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “She’ll be fine.”
“I know she is,” he smiled, hope lighting his features.
Despite his assurance, she couldn’t help but feel as though something was off. Her eyes slowly turned to the wall of prisoners next to them. Sylvari, some shivering, others mutely staring in defiance at them, were lined in thorned hollows. She briefly recognized some of their faces from her birth. Though she didn’t know their names, a surge of determination flooded through her. She set her jaw and glanced around before striding toward them.
“What are you doing?” Tiachren hissed in her ear as she walked by.
“We already know Ysvelta’s alive,” she replied, grip tightening on her sword. “But these Dreamers don’t know their own fate. You go ahead and find your wife; I’ll set these prisoners free.”
“What of the guards?”
“There aren’t too many. You heard Renvari; if he doesn’t get a new batch of sylvari by sunset, our skins won’t be the only ones burning. Everyone who wants a good chance at self-preservation is on the hunt- the Coil is desperately-low on numbers. If we want to free those who have not yet turned, this is our best chance.”
For a moment, she thought he would argue. Then, his face relaxed, and he nodded. “After you’ve freed them, follow me down the main hall. There may be more guards hidden there.”
“I’ll see you soon, then.” She smiled. “Say hello to Ysvelta for me.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” The prisoner looked up at her warily, seafoam green eyes gleaming from walnut-brown skin. “I won’t fall for it. I won’t go into Nightmare!”
“Relax,” Llumin whispered. She imbued her words with magic, sending the resonance into his ears with the gentleness of a spring breeze.
The prisoner’s shoulders slumped visibly. “You- you really mean it?” he whispered. Thin, twiggy fingers clasped desperately at her own. “Oh, Pale Tree bless you, bless you, bless you,” he sobbed quietly.
Llumin gently pried her hands free. “There will be time for thanks later,” she smiled. “For now, gather your senses about you and prepare to flee.” Her eyes caught the form of another sylvari curled onto the floor. “What of your companion?”
The light in the freedman’s eyes dimmed. “He is dead. The Nightmare Court thought that leaving his body in here would persuade me to turn to their side. They almost were right.” He smiled back up at her. “But you proved them wrong, eh? I’ll head down the other way and free the prisoners by the entrance.”
“Good. Don’t wait for me to leave. How will you pick the locks?”
He looked back at her, fierce determination in his eyes. “I might be weak from refusing their poisoned food, but I am still a Shaper. If I can direct a vine in this rotten hole, I can use it to pick the locks. It shouldn’t take too long. If it isn’t too much to ask, though, would you have any food to spare? Hope may give one strength, but…”
She pressed a skin of water into his hands and gave him a chunk of grilled fish. “It’s not much, but for an empty stomach, it should be enough. Be careful.”
“You, too,” he whispered, stepping unsteadily down the hall.
Llumin turned her attention back to the gates. She finally freed the last prisoner and was preparing to head down and check on the first when she heard a cry that echoed throughout the air with such terrible agony that her mind reverberated with its pain.
Tiachren, her mind whispered. She grabbed the hilt of her sword, readied her torch, and charged down the hall.

Chapter 10b:
She found him on his knees with his head buried in his hands. A sky-skinned sylvari bent over him, smiling sadly.
“Why are you weeping, my love?” she asked, her light, musical voice somehow chilling Llumin’s bones. “We have each other now. I thought I had lost you.”
“Ysvelta, Ysvelta,” he whispered, his voice tormented. “Why did you do this? Why did you listen to them?”
“I don’t understand why you’re crying,” she replied. “We can be together now! I have had the veil torn from my eyes. The Pale Tree is lying to us, holding us back by the words of a human and a centaur who no longer are among us and who never understood our kind.”
“Ysvelta?” Llumin stepped forward cautiously. The sylvari’s eyes snapped up to hers, gleaming suspiciously.
“Who is this?” she asked. Her voice was still pleasant, but there was an undercurrent that crackled with magic.
“A… a companion.” Tiachren’s voice cracked. He still did not face his wife. “I thought we could save you.”
She threw her head back and laughed- a cold, ringing sound that felt like knives in Llumin’s skull.
“Save me?” she said incredulously. “Why would I need saving? I am the one who is truly safe. The Court has freed me from my old ways.” She bent down and held Tiachren’s chin in her hand, tipping his face up to look at her own. His eyes continued to avoid hers. “Join me, my love. Come, and learn what it means to be truly sylvari.”
“Tiachren, don’t listen to her,” Llumin cautioned, drawing her sword and stepping towards her. “She has been corrupted by Nightmare. We’ve already freed those we can. Let her go.”
“Oh, come now, who are you listening to?” Ysvelta turned to her and bared her teeth in a savage snarl. “This little blossom looks as though she can’t be more than a month old. In human terms, she’s practically an infant! Leave her behind. You know you belong with me.”
“Stop this,” he whispered. He finally raised his gaze and met hers. “Stop these lies, Ysvelta.” He slowly reached up and grasped her wrists, rubbing them gently. “Come home. Come home with me. The Pale Mother will understand.”
Llumin stepped next to him. “You cannot possibly think that inflicting this kind of pain and suffering on others is what we are truly meant to do.”
“Life is pain, young one,” Ysvelta retorted. “The sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll be free. The citizens of Caer Astorea have been selected to learn this quite soon. In fact, I have been selected to lead the raid against the town!” She beamed excitedly.
A dull flame burned in Tiachren’s eyes. He dropped her hands and slowly stood. “You are not the woman that I married. These Courtiers have corrupted you.”
For a moment, Ysvelta was silent. “You still refuse to belive me? Very well,” she finally said, her voice trembling yet resolute. “If you will not join me in life…” She swept her hand in an arc, several shimmering clones appearing at her side. “I will have you in death!”
She faded into the shadows, and several Courtiers slunk into the light.
“It’s an ambush,” Llumin whispered. Tiachren stood rooted in despair and shock. “We must fight!” she shouted at him.
From around them, the clones spoke with the voice of the lost Ysvelta. “If you ever truly loved me, meet me where we first met!”
That is assuming we survive, Llumin thought grimly. Her mouth thinned into a line, and she shifted into a battle stance. Tiachren slowly raised his weapons, and in the choked light of that horrid place, she could have sworn that as he readied himself to fight, a single tear trickled down his lips and glimmered before plunging into the shadows below.
“I won’t lose her so easily,” he whispered fiercely. The Courtiers above them drew back their bowstrings and fired.

Chapter 11a:

“There you are!” Myrie huffed. “Sylfia here thought you’d gone off and killed someone.”
“Oh, not yet, not today,” Nettle replied. “I simply had some business to attend to.”
“So you have offed someone,” Sylfia groaned.
Nettle shot her a glare. “Must everything I do relate to death and dying? That’s a rather negative stereotype, my dear drunkard.”
“Is everyone ready?” They all snapped to attention. Elmfrond raised his hand.
“Lady Firestone, what exactly is my expected position here?”
“You are here to fight, Elmfrond. If necessary, you and Myrie will be sent ahead to find out about an area, especially if we are uncertain as to what we will face.”
He nodded. “Not a bad plan. Myrie, if we do need to scout a place, should we stick together, or-?”
“We’ll split up. I don’t know about you, but I’m not half bad at dodging irate fighters.” She smirked at Sylfia, who pointedly ignored her and proceeded to mutter darkly under her breath. “Not only that, but we’ll be able to get a better view of what the terrain is like. Sound good?”
“It should work,” he affirmed. His eyes gleamed excitedly. “I must admit, I’ve never been terribly far from the Grove. I can’t wait!”
“You’ll have to for another few minutes,” Selana said simply. “Before we head out, I want to be sure that everyone’s ready.”
There was a brief clamor where all restated their eagerness and preparedness. Sylfia complained only momentarily about a headache and lack of alcohol before Nettle pulled out a flask of brew from her bag and tossed it at her.
“It’s strong stuff,” she cautioned.
The warrior uncorked the bottle and gave it a sniff. “I thought you weren’t one for drinks this potent.”
Nettle grimaced. “I’m not.”
“All right, review time,” Myrie called over the slight clamor. “Our plan is to head out, see if anyone knows where Llumin has gone, and hopefully gain the quickest path to where she is. Elmfrond will make a positive identification. If she’s undercover, he, I, and Nettle will infiltrate the area, setting traps and helping her from the shadows. Should it appear as though her life is in danger, I’ll fire a flare, and Selana and Sylfia will come charging in with the rage of Balthazaar. We good?”
“I’m as ready as I believe I will ever be. Let’s just hope she’s safe and in one place,” Selana said. She used her staff to sling her pack over her shoulder and began walking towards the city gates. “Let’s move.”

Chapter 12a:

“You have to let her go. Whoever Ysvelta is, that was not her. Don’t let this Nightmare get inside your head.”
“That was her,” Tiachren replied, running a shaking hand over his brow. “I may have once believed that those who fall to Nightmare are truly irredeemable, but now…”
“Others have tried to return Courtiers to the Dream, brother. You know how it has gone.”
“They weren’t her! Ysvelta was the kindest, most gentle soul, and compassionate towards anyone who suffered. This…woman… is not her. It’s as if some other creature has taken over the body of my wife.” He kicked a nearby corpse with the toe of his boot, his face obscured in shadow. “Was that what happened to these souls? Is there truly no other way to free them but through death?”
“Tiachren, you must focus. Before she teleported, Ysvelta said something about meeting you in a place you first met. Do you have any idea why she would want you there?”
He sighed tremulously, swallowed, and replied, “Yes. She refers specifically to the garden where we were wed. She may want me there in an attempt to convert me against the Dream. If the Nightmare is puppeting her, I would find it horrifying to know that it is aware of so much.”
“The Nightmare has never truly been sentient, Tiachren. You must realize that this is what is left of her. If she’s trying to lure you to the garden, you must not go.”
He whirled around, eyes bright with pain and rage. “And why not?” His voice cracked, and his throat bobbed. “Without her, I don’t know who I am.”
“You are the Knight of the Moon.” Llumin stepped in front of him and pointed at his shield. “I saw that same weapon in my Dream, and though it was but a glimpse, we have already become a part of each other’s lives.”
“This shield,” he replied slowly, “was her gift to me.”
“And would you abandon the memory of joy for the truth of pain?” She bent to the side and stared at his downcast face. “Is the memory of love really worth its corruption?”
He was silent. She straightened.
“If you can’t think properly concerning her, think of Caer Astorea. In mere hours, without any warning, this corrupted Ysvelta is going to lead an attack on the innocents of that village. You can either go to the garden, or you can come and warn the Wardens. The choice is yours.”

She stood and began walking back towards the main hall. She could not let him see her insecurity, her worry that his mind, so heavily clouded by emotion, would lead him down a path where there was only darkness. Was love really so powerful? Could it somehow pull such a stalwart knight to the depths? She paused and turned her head back towards Tiachren, who stood still in the clearing, his stance like that of the accused and his back ramrod straight. Her throat tightened with unease. Perhaps she would need to direct him. She took a breath and cleared her mind. Ignoring her wriggling sense of guilt, she extended her awareness towards him. With a little effort, she sent an idea into his mind. Go to the Wardens, she thought. His head twitched as if shaking off an annoying bug. Ysvelta is gone, she pressed. Save the innocent. You are a knight; protect your people from that which would destroy them. He was resisting, his mind stubbornly churning on the thought of his wife. A spike of terror stabbed her spine. Deep in the darkest corners of his mind, she saw a tendril of doubt rising. No. Joining the Nightmare Court will not save her. Resist its call. She reached further in, feeling the swirling, conflicting emotions. His thoughts seethed with agony and torment, and in the center of his empathetic vortex, his image knelt, bent over and clutching at his head. She projected her consciousness deeper into his own and sent her own form towards him.
“Let her go,” she whispered gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “The true Ysvelta is dead. Honor her memory, and protect the helpless.”
The inner Tiachren gazed up at her through a tear-stained face. He said nothing, his eyes dark with sorrow.
“You are the Knight of the Moon. This is merely a long night; remember that hope is just a sunrise away.” She slowly lifted him to his feet, sending one last influence to him. With that final push of thought, she felt his mind bend. She gradually faded from his thoughts, returning to her own body and opening her eyes. The Knight of the Moon had picked up his shield, and his gaze was steadily boring into hers.
“Caer Astorea holds no chance of survival against a surprise attack,” he said. “We cannot let them die because of my foolish hope.”
Llumin gave a weary smile. “Then let us help them. Lead on.”

Chapter 13a:
Myrie was used to being the first and fastest member of the “traveling circus.” With Elmfrond striding alongside her in the shadows, she found out that he may be just slightly faster in the wooded, lush jungle by the Grove. Her eyes narrowed, and she lunged forward, determined to keep pace. Their height difference didn’t help her very much. Although she was abler to dodge stray branches and vines, his longer legs gave him increased speed.
“Hold up!” she finally hissed, propelling herself forward and nearly kicking him in the back of his head.
“Be careful!” he replied, keeping his voice down yet still somehow managing to sound cheery.
She squashed her irritation. He reminded her of when she was young and had begun training her body, finding out how to test its limits. Back then, the sensation of the wind in her hair had been a new and thrilling sensation; although it still was exciting, nothing could match the first experience. She supposed that he felt as she once did. Even though she wasn’t bothered by his happiness, in a mission where search-and-rescue or retrieval were the goals, giddiness was the least of her concerns.
“I haven’t forgotten the mission,” he whispered as if reading her thoughts. She somehow managed to restrain herself and kept from jumping. “Even though I’ve only met her once, Llumin seems like a nice person. There’s something different about her, but it’s nothing too concerning. If she is near the Nightmare Court, I have little doubt that she’s not there to join them.”
“Well, that’s reassuring. What are these ‘Nightmare Court,’ anyway?”
“Sylvari who have rejected the tenents of Ventari’s Tablet, which acts as a moral compass for most of our race. The meditations and proverbs the centaur, Ventari, discovered were passed on to our kind through a tablet of stone which he had carved before his death. As the Pale Tree grew, the stone became cradled in her branches. If you get the chance to visit the Pale Mother, you can still see it, so some say.”
“You’ve never met your own mother?”
“She’s rather busy.” He sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes flicked down to the forest floor. “How are your companions keeping up so well?”
“Selana’s an elementalist. She’s probably using wind magic or something like it to keep pace. Do you see anything out of the ordinary yet?”
“No. Wait! Do you see that bramble-covered area over there?”
“It kind of looks like a black, thorny basket.”
“Yes, that’s it. According to what I’ve heard, Llumin and some other guardian were headed that way.”
“Well, then, let’s see what we can find.”

“All clear!” Myrie’s voice rang through the trees, startling a few flocks of toucans from their perches. “Might want to step carefully, though. There are bodies everywhere.”
Selana stepped gingerly into the clearing, eyes scouring the fallen. “What happened?”
Nettle slunk beside her, bending over a corpse and staring into its unblinking eyes. “There appears to have been quite a struggle,” she hummed. A long, white finger stroked the ancient skull at her side. “Adam says this is the result of two fighters. He can still sense their presence.”
“Who’s Adam?” Elmfrond had slid down a vine and landed softly on his feet.
“Her skull.” Myrie lowered her voice. “She claims it talks to her. Says she found it by an ancient Ascalonian grave.”
“Well, shouldn’t she have left it there, then?”
“You know necromancers. They can’t help themselves.”
“Actually, Adam said he was getting rather annoyed that his former companion wasn’t returning. Since he was tired of hearing her voice yammering on about her adventures in the Underworld, he made me his new bearer.” Nettle’s smile did not reach her eyes. “We necromancers hear more than just the dead, you know.”
Myrie cleared her throat. “So, does Adam have anything else to say about Llumin or this other sylvari?”
“Well, they’re not dead. Their essence is still strong, but there appears to be some psychic resonance here that’s muddling their steps. Sylfia, watch your big clunking feet. You’ll mess up the evidence.”
“Oi, I’m jus’ trying to see if I recognize any of these blighters. I think I remember hearing ‘bout one of their leaders a while back, but I’ll only be able to tell if- ah, there we are.” She pointed out one of the bodies, which looked as though she had a blackened hole burned through her. The corpse’s mouth was open in agony, and an amber-like substance, blackened at the edges, had bubbled out of its mouth.
“She’s been burned alive from the inside out,” Sylfia grunted, standing again. “Renvari’s the one who led this place. Pyromaniac and cruel to boot. If Llumin and whoever she’s with are still alive, once word reaches him of their infiltration, they may not be.”

Chapter 14a:

“Someone’s following us.” Tiachren’s eyes narrowed as he peered behind them and into the thick brush.
“I doubt that it’s the Nightmare Court. As far as I know, we didn’t leave any survivors that would know our destination.”
“Just the same,” he said, drawing his sword and continuing forward, “we’d best keep on our guard.”
Llumin nodded. She tried extending her awareness further ahead. After a moment, she shook her head, wincing. She had strained herself greater than she had before when she bent Tiachren’s will back to reason. Even now, though his thoughts were once more his own, she kept a wary sense on his mind. He was unstable; if he decided to try running back to Ysvelta, she had a sinking feeling that he would not return the same.
“Is there something you’re concerned about?” he asked. She blinked, turning back to face him. His eyes were stormy, and a jolt of pain rent her heart. If this was what he was like after the battle of wills, then how would he feel when he had to see her again?
“Nothing much,” she replied, brushing a thick, waxy leaf out of her path. “Let’s keep moving.”

~~~
“Did you see that?” Elmfrond squinted down from the treetops, focused on something distant on the lush floor.
“What?” Myrie wiped the back of her hand on her mouth, grimacing at an insect that she inadvertently smeared on her lips. “Gross,” she hissed, feverishly rubbing her face again.
“You aren’t even looking- hold on, you’ve got a spider leg on your cheek.”
“A what?”
“Kidding! It was a beetle wing.”
“Oh, that makes it so much better. What did you see, Leafy?”
He pointed down at the grasses. “Do you see that path? There are a bunch of broken and bent leaves heading towards Caer Astorea.”
“You mean that thin trail? Yeah, I see it.”
His eyes widened. “No, I was talking about the wider one. That one’s more interesting.”
“How so?”
He leaned away from the tree, holding loosely onto a branch and dangling out in the air. “We sylvari try to use paths that go with nature. Animal trails or otherwise-established tracks allow us to move through the forest while disturbing as few creatures as possible. However, that wide one,” he restated, pointing with his free hand to the crushed greenery once more, “seems more like something that would be left by a small army.”
Myrie arched a cynical eyebrow. “Your small army is rather efficient at hiding their steps, then. I would have thought it was made by an angry boar.”
“And that is why you are not sylvari.”
She whipped her head towards him with a glare, but he had returned his gaze to the greenery below.
“What if the bodies we found weren’t all of that Court’s occupants?” he wondered aloud. “It did seem like a small force that had been there.”
“What are you saying?”
His face was taut with solemn fear. “I’m saying that the rest of those Courtiers of that bramble-pit are on the hunt. If Caer Astorea isn’t aware of the danger they’re in, they could very well be slaughtered.” He leapt from the branch, ignoring Myrie’s shout of alarm, gripped a vine, and slid down onto the ground, landing heavily in front of Selana.
“Be careful!” she ordered.
“We are quite possibly running into or near a combat zone,” Elmfrond gasped.
The elementalist narrowed her eyes. “Explain.”

~~~

Llumin had been as careful as possible to disguise her steps and those of Tiachren as well.
“Are we still being pursued?” she asked quietly. Her heart rumbled in her ears.
“I believe so, but we must shift our concern.” He pointed towards the town, where the citizens of Caer Astorea were milling about their lives, completely unaware of the danger that approached. “The good news is that we’ve arrived before the Nightmare Court.”
“But that probably means they’re still gathering strength,” Llumin mused, her face grim. The guardian nodded, his grip tightening on his weapons.
“Let’s get the word out and start organizing a defense. We may not have much time.”

Chapter 14b:

The Wardens acted quickly. After explaining the danger to them, Tiachren and Llumin helped with escorting civilians from the town. Those who remained shored up the defenses, readying countermeasures to protect the town from the Court.
“Do you hear them yet?” Llumin asked, breathing shallow as she hefted a panel onto a makeshift barricade.
“No, but keep moving,” Tiachren replied, pausing to direct a confused woman towards the safe area. “Don’t come out until you have received the signal,” he ordered. “We will do our best to save what we can. If you can find a willing runner, tell them to go to the Grove and bring healers in case of any severe injuries. We may not be able to treat everyone.”
She nodded, wide-eyed, and took off. An expectant silence smothered the town. Wardens stood at the area’s entry points, weapons drawn and eyes wary.
“Now what?” Llumin asked, peering intensely at shadows.
“We keep our guards up and pray that the Mother Tree watches over us,” he replied. An uncertain smile bloomed on his face; for what reason, Llumin did not know.

~~~

“We’re catching up to them. What should we do if we meet the Court on our way?” Elmfrond’s face was a shifting mask of confusion, excitement, and worry.
Sylfia growled. “Whaddayer think we’re gonna do, sprout? We’re gonna flank ‘em. If Llumin’s related to this crazy elementalist – ” here she nodded her head at Selana, “ – then she’ll probably already have gotten everyone to safety and prepared counterattacks.” She smirked with cynical respect. “It’s in their blood to look out for the people over their own kind,” she said. “Granted, if we try to charge in without any warning, even if it’s to offer defense of any sort, she’ll probably shoot first and ask questions later.”
Selana gave her a look. “Do you believe me to be so impulsive?”
“No, but this ain’t you we’re dealing with. If Oi were part of a defense team, anything that wasn’t on it would be marked hostile until otherwise proven. We fight ‘gainst the Court, we prove our mettle, and then we’ll ‘ave a lovely reunion where libations abound.”
Myrie rolled her eyes. “I sincerely doubt there’s going to be any alcohol immediately following a skirmish, you drunk log.”
The warrior shrugged. “Never know.”
“And I would be careful with any ideas of ‘reunion,’” Nettle hummed, pursing her lips. “If she has any curiosity or inclination towards Selana, or if she shows any particular interest in human culture greater than what is generally normal, then I could see the reason behind revealing her true nature. If not, I recommend we keep this one under wraps. Some things will only bring pain and confusion if brought to light.”
“You would know somefin’ bout that, wouldn’t you?”
“Balthazar’s beard, shut up!” Myrie hissed, barely managing to keep her voice from becoming a shout. The other members looked her way in shock. She ran her hand down her face and continued. “Look, if we’re going to have any chance of flanking these guys, we need to be quiet and go in stealthy. Elmfrond and I will let you know if or when they break into the town, but until then, I suggest everyone keep quiet and play nice. We’ll fire a shot to let you know to rush in. Are we clear?”
A rare smile played across Selana’s face. “Very well. We’ll remain at the ready for your signal. Go at ‘em, Myrie.”
Briefly shocked at such an informal statement from the elementalist, Myrie simply nodded and leapt back into the trees.

Chapter 15a:

The Nightmare Court did not announce their presence loudly. They instead slunk their way through the forest, only making themselves known when they let loose a hail of black arrows, tipped with deadly poisons which ravaged the flesh of those they struck.
“Get down!” Tiachren roared, conjuring a magical barrier to deflect the attack. “This is only the first wave! Brace the gates!”
The wood was reinforced with vines, but it still buckled under the assault. A Shaper turned to them, her face taut with fear.
“We can’t hold out forever! I’m using all of my concentration to strengthen the vines, but -”
An arrow dove from the sky, striking her in the throat, and she crumpled to the ground with a gurgling gasp.
“They’re upon us!” Llumin cried, leaping back as another arrow bit hungrily into the ground by her. “Prepare yourselves!”
The gate held for a brief few seconds before buckling beneath the assault. Nightmare courtiers swarmed into the clearing and were met with the swords and shields of its defenders. At the back of the chaos stood its two directors, eyes gleaming with mad glee and ravenous hunger.
Llumin saw Tiachren’s sword falter as he stared at them. Although she recognized Renvari, Ysvelta’s lovely features had been altered by the frenzy etched across them, transforming them into an unrecognizable mask of rage and bloodlust. Renvari stalked forward, his face grim and eyes dancing as he conjured a set of flaming blades. Ysvelta followed closely behind, cleaving through the defenders like an elegant thorn.
“I told you I would have you,” she called to Tiachren. “Whether or not you join me in death or in the Court is your decision, love. But ask yourself this- is it worth risking these lovely people,” she paused, gripping the throat of an orange-skinned sylvari, and gazed directly at him, “just to keep yourself ‘pure?’” She squeezed, and with the crunching of delicate vines and veins, she dropped his corpse. “Wouldn’t it be more pleasant,” she asked, sending mesmeric clones of herself forward, shattering them on a guard to his right, “if you were to simply come with me?” She was nearly upon them now, and Llumin was stuck fighting in a different part of the town, unable to reach Tiachren.
“Stay strong!” she screamed above the chaos and din of battle. “Don’t listen to her!”
He was silent, and for an odd moment, the battle quieted. Though the forms around them seethed and struggled, he stood still, his face unreadable. Ysvelta weaved forward, walking gracefully towards him and reaching to his face with a delicate blue hand.
“Come with me,” she whispered, her eyes seeking his own. “Don’t you remember what we once were? We were unstoppable.” She gently traced his jawline, smiling slightly. He reached up and grabbed her hand, his fingers shaking as he ran a thumb over the back of her fingers.
“What we once were,” he whispered uncertainly, staring at their twined fingers. A heartbeat, two heartbeats passed.
He snapped his gaze back to hers, eyes narrowing. Uncertainty and fear flashed upon her face, and her smile faltered. With a surge of rage, he cast down her hand, drawing his weapon. It was only her reflexes that saved her from death; she blocked his lunge with her sword and rolled back, eyes wide with betrayed terror.
“How dare you say that to me!” he snarled, voice cracking. “Would the woman I loved murder innocents?” He rushed at her again, shattering a clone which had taken her place. “Would the woman I knew kill for pleasure?”
“Tiachren –!”
“Do not speak my name, witch!” he roared. “You chose your path! Now let me choose mine.”

~~~
“And that’s our cue,” Myrie grinned, firing a shot into the trunk of her perch. “Let’s give those bad heads some knocking!”

Chapter 15b:

Llumin’s heart soared. He had made his choice; the Nightmare would not claim him today. Although this was an invaluable boost to their defenses and chances of survival, now was not the time for celebration. Spittle flecked her face, and she turned to the side, grimacing as a snarling Courtier leapt towards her and landed on her drawn sword.
“Well, that was stupid of you,” she muttered, kicking his corpse off. A roar alerted her to a charging knight, and she quickly crouched, rolling to the side and dodging his attack. “Does the Nightmare Court make you an idiot in addition to a megalomaniac?” she shouted, punting him in the rear as he flew past. He fell to the ground with a yelp, which she cut short with her blade.
“Tiachren?” she shouted.
“Do not interfere!” he commanded, panting as he blocked Ysvelta’s wild swing with his shield. He was bleeding from several wounds on his face and arms. “This is my fight!”
Well, that’s all very good and fine of you, she thought, gasping as she whirled below a stroke that nearly cleft her neck in two, but there is a town to concern yourself with! Their defenses were running low; natural-grown turrets had been decimated, and the Wardens who remained were concerning themselves with ensuring the safety of the citizens. Oh, Pale Mother, she prayed, arms weary and lungs burning, help us.
A shadow fell from the canopy above, landing on a courtier’s shoulders. It fired two shots into his head, flipped off of his still-standing corpse, and landed behind her, still shooting at the surrounding enemies. A strange, fleshy face grinned up at her, eyes bright.
“Heya! Name’s Myrie Ward, and I’ve brought assistance.”
A red horror of a sylvari lunged from the shattered gate, roaring in fury and with a hammer of ancient stone. She was followed by another agile form, weaving through the air with a set of daggers and maroon, leafy hair. The last to follow were a pale necromancer who grasped a skull and a fire-headed ivory woman who rained fire upon the attacking forces.
“Don’t strike them and try not to worry,” the woman behind her continued, arms jolting from her pistols’ recoil. “The red one’s Sylfia, greenie’s Elmfrond, and pale leafy’s Nettle. I’m human, as is the tall one over there who keeps ashing those nasty Nightmare whatsits.” She swapped to a set of daggers and crouched low. “Excuse me a moment,” she said cheerily. With that, she leapt back into the writhing mass of bodies in the town’s center. Llumin nodded mutely, reacting too late to realize that the human had lunged into the thickest part of the battle. She blinked, refocusing on the task at hand. Tiachren and Ysvelta still struggled in the corner of the town, and Renvari was by the gates. Whoever these people were, they had seemed to turn the tides of battle; Nightmare Courtiers and Wardens alike were briefly stunned by their appearance, and it took a precious second for the attackers to realize that the newcomers were not on their side.
“Regroup!” Renvari snarled, pointing his sword at a nearby lackey. “Don’t let these simpering fools convince you they’ve won! We won’t give up until they’re all turned to Nightmare or ash!”
The whimpering Courtier turned to respond, but was thrust forcefully in the air from below. Renvari’s eyes widened as the screeching Courtier pinwheeled through the air, frowning in disgust as he landed heavily on a spiked tower. He whirled back to the empty space where his guard had been. “Who are you?” he spat, arching an eyebrow at the figure in front of him.
The stone hammer-head lowered, revealing an angular face whose features were twisted in a vicious snarl of glee.
“Name’s Sylfia Wyldcaller,” she grinned, hefting her hammer high. “And Oi’m gonna be the one to smash yer pretty likkle ‘ead into the ground!”

Chapter 15c:
“Duck!” Myrie snapped, throwing a blade over Elmfrond’s descending head. It landed with a thick thump in a Courtier’s chest. He glanced back at her, nodding in gratitude before returning the gesture.
“Thanks!” she panted. With a swift hook to the jaw, her opponent staggered back, and she discharged her pistols into his exposed jaw, grimacing as a strange, raw-pumpkin –and-electric scented matter splattered her armor and cheek. “Gross,” she hissed, shuddering slightly. She craned her neck behind her. “How are you holding up, Flamey-locks?”
A white-hot bolt of fire slammed into a charging fighter, throwing him heavily against a tree. His corpse slumped to the ground, a smoking crater blasted into it. “Fine,” she replied calmly. “And you?”
“I’ve got sentient salad brains on my face, so, not so great!”
Myrie could have sworn she heard a dry chuckle. “Well, at least you’ve still got your wits about you. How are the defenses?”
Elmfrond leapt down from the branches, bringing two less-graceful Courtiers crashing to the ground with him. “We’re gaining ground!” he declared.
Llumin let out a triumphant cry. “Fight on!” she called to the defenders. “We can drive them back!”
Myrie strained her gaze across the town. Her eyes widened. “Sylfia?” she gasped.

The fiery warrior was battling against a golden sylvari whose blades of lava left trails of sulfuric smoke in the air.
“Busy!” she snarled, her face a mask of bloodlust and murderous giddiness. “Quit dancin’ around!”
“That would rather nullify the purpose of my movements, wouldn’t it?” Renvari smiled widely as he leapt away from the crushing Ascalonian stone, which left a heavy dent in the fertile soil. “Tell me,” he hummed, flinging another bolt of fire at her feet, “how did you manage to look so perfectly burned?”
“Sore subject, pretty-boy,” the warrior growled. She shortened the grip on her hammer, using it like a reinforced fist to punch at his exposed arm. Although the strike missed its intended target, she let out a satisfied grin when she heard the wet crack of a breaking rib.
He growled, fingers shifting on his weapons’ molten handles. “As deadly as you are lovely, I see,” he mused. “The Court could use someone like you.”
“You aren’t really tryin’ to flirt with me, are ya?” she said incredulously. Her eyes narrowed to glittering slits of fury. The hammer thudded heavily onto the ground, catching a part of Renvari’s robe and tearing it. “You think I asked to look like this?”
“Well, I –”
His explanation was interrupted by Sylfia’s charging head. Her bellow of rage was punctuated by a wheezing gasp as the air was forced from his lungs. Acting quickly, he twisted his blades down, driving them into her shoulders. She let out a bellow of pain.
“Such a pity,” he purred, his breathing ragged and face flickering with the light from his blades. “You have such great potential. Alas, you should at least burn well.”
“Go and burn yourself!” With one hand holding the hammer, she used the other to wrench the flaming swords from her body and flung them onto the ground. Renvari’s eyes widened.
“Could use a bit of help over ‘ere!” she panted. A dull green glow on the ground alerted her to a necromantic well.
“Force him into that and it’ll provide some help,” Nettle hummed, whipping her dagger against the throat of a Courtier. “We’re all rather busy.”
Renvari’s cool demeanor was cracking. Sylfia smirked, shifting her weight, and waited for an opening. When he next tried attacking, she raced towards him, kicking him off-balance and into Nettle’s trap. The necromancer’s magic lashed into him and raced back to her and Nettle, leeching the Nightmare sylvari’s life to them. Her magic might be weird, she thought, but roots, it sure can be handy. She rushed forward, hammer raised high –

Chapter 15d:
– and was blasted in the face by a plume of flame. Renvari staggered to his feet and laughed, smoke coiling from his nostrils.
“What? Didn’t think I’d go down so easily, did you?” He spread his arms wide. “What kind of fire-wielder would I be if I couldn’t even breathe it?”
The flames had blinded her, wreathing around her shoulders like a halo of agony. Was she screaming? She must have been; her mouth was open, and the unearthly howl she heard had to be coming from somewhere. She tried cracking her eyes open, but was unable to do so. The fire bit hungrily into her arms, her face, her stomach. She was reborn- a new sapling whose senses had turned from the thrill of battle to the horror and pain of being burned alive.

Myrie’s heart stopped as an otherworldly keening lanced through the air. Her head whipped to where she had last seen Sylfia- though that couldn’t possibly be her she was hearing, could it? – and her stomach dropped. “Selana!”
The elementalist batted a duo of attackers back with her staff, encasing them in stone and crushing them. She shot a questioning gaze towards the thief. Myrie pointed mutely towards the warrior, who had crumpled to the ground in an unrecognizable form of fire. Renvari stalked towards her prone form, his swords raised high. Selana’s gaze flicked back to Myrie, and she nodded slightly. Llumin had noticed this and teleported to where she had been.
“Wardens, rally! Push out who you can and focus on those who need aid.”

This was it. She would die like a pathetic worm, curled into a screaming, crying ball of flame and agony. How humiliating. Between the sounds of the all-encompassing blaze and her own shallow breaths, she heard the crunch of footsteps slowly approaching her. Renvari.
“I told you we could use someone like you,” he whispered, bending close to her ear. “Just give in to the pain. Imagine the power you could have if you harnessed it. Imagine the strength you could have if you used it against others.”
She did not reply, not even bothering to shake her head. He sighed, straightening. “Very well. Such a pity. You fought well, Sylfia. And now, you will die.”
Instead of feeling the final bite of his blade in her back, there was a sudden gust of wind. She forced her quivering muscles to her will, looking up where she had last heard his voice. He was nowhere to be seen. She twitched in surprise as water rippled over her back. The flames sputtered and hissed before being put out.
“Get back,” Selana ordered tautly. “You’ve fought well, but now’s not the time.”
“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Sylfia croaked, cracking a grin. Elmfrond materialized from the shadows and stood by her side.
“You keep going; I’ll make sure you get to the Wardens safely,” he said, casting a wary eye around them. “She needs severe help!” he called.
Selana turned back to Renvari, who had once more lurched to his feet. He frowned sourly at her. “You’ve ruined my game,” he spat.
“Lives are never games, weed,” Selana replied. A flaming greatsword materialized in her hands. “You claim to like fire so much- let’s see how well you fight with another of its wielders.”

Chapter 15e:

Llumin’s gaze was blurred from exhaustion. Her arms felt heavy, and her sword was slick with golden blood-sap. How many more must fall before they retreat? she wondered, driving her sword through the neck of a Courtier. She knew it was for the greater good, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt as her foes’ life force was pulled from their bodies in a rattling gasp or acceptant sigh. Focus, she ordered herself, blinking and seeking once more the familiar face of Tiachren. She finally saw him, still engaged in combat with his former lover.
“Please stop this.” His voice carried on the winds. “We don’t have to fight.”
Ysvelta shook her head slowly, a tired smile of resignation on her lips. “Either one of us dies, or we stay together in Nightmare. I will not turn back, love.” She slashed down at him, but her stroke was wide and easily-parried. Tiachren reflexively struck at her, and his face changed to one of horror as his blade bit deeply into her side. With a cry of pain, Ysvelta crumpled to the ground, clutching her abdomen. He dropped his sword and rushed to her side. Her arm rose- was she about to clutch a weapon for one last strike?
She stroked his lips with a quivering thumb. Tiachren let out a sob.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, rocking her in his arms. He pressed his pale forehead to hers.
“Don’t be,” she whispered, a thin ribbon of blood dribbling down her lips. “Hush…”
He grit his teeth. “I should have been stronger; I should have kept fighting to save you.”
She shook her head. “There’s nothing you could do.” She convulsed violently, coughing up mouthfuls of golden sap.
Llumin slowly walked toward them. “Tiachren, step back,” she whispered. His empty gaze met hers. “For your own good, put her down,” she ordered. Slowly, with unwilling hands and fingers loathe to leave his wife’s broken body, he stood, looking at both of them.
“Do you have any last things you wish to say?” she asked, bending by Ysvelta’s ear. The Nightmare sylvari coughed and spat at her.
“Not to you,” she rattled. Her eyes sought Tiachren. Llumin nodded.
“Try anything,” she whispered to her, “and your last moments will be nothing but agony.”
Ysvelta smiled. “They already are.”
Tiachren knelt by her. The blue sylvari’s lips moved in a whisper, too soft for Llumin to hear. After a moment, he stood, face unexpressive.
“Get it over with,” Ysvelta hissed, blood trickling from her teeth. Llumin nodded. She slashed Ysvelta’s throat, and Tiachren let out a shout of betrayal.
“It wouldn’t have been right,” Llumin said quietly. She straightened, blue eyes boring into his. “It wouldn’t have been right for you to kill your wife.” She forced through his consciousness with what little strength she had left and smothered his awareness. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he slumped towards the earth. She caught him and eased his prone form onto the ground, her face shadowed.
“You will understand soon,” she whispered. “I only hope you can forgive me.”

Chapter 16a:

Renvari fell shortly after the death of his second-in-command. Selana had killed him as he killed so many before him; his demise was one of fire and blood, and his corpse was burned to blackened leaves and bound vines by the blazes of their fight. The battle had been won. The Traveling Circus’s fighters sat wearily upon naturally-grown seats, where Wardens did their best to patch up the wounds that had been sustained. Noticeably absent from the group, however, was Sylfia.
“When do you think she’ll be back?” Myrie asked, wincing as an herbal poultice was applied to one of her burns.
Nettle shrugged. “Her life force was weak when she was rescued from Renvari. With an attack like that, I wouldn’t be surprised if she went into some form of psychological shock in addition to sustaining physical injuries.”
“How can you be so calm?” Elmfrond asked. “One of your own team-mates has been severely injured – and she may even die! How on earth could you possibly not be worried?”
“We are concerned, though Nettle may have to speak for herself. Sylfia’s been in tough scrapes before,” Selana answered, shooting both parties a warning glare. “There’s no cause for shouting. She was burned almost immediately after her birth; the fact that she did so well in battle is nothing short of a miracle.”
“I’ll say.” Myrie grunted as a bandage was tightened around her arm. “So, what do we do now? Llumin seems a bit shaken up.”
“She was forced to kill the wife of one of her companions,” Nettle observed. “Apparently she’s only now feeling its effects.”
“I don’t know,” Myrie hummed. “She seemed a bit offish when she was still in the thick of it. Maybe it’s a mesmer thing, but I think she almost felt empathy towards those Nightmare sylvari.”
Nettle shrugged. “The sooner we persuade her to join us, the better. I need to contact some of my associates and see if they know any more about the Elder Dragons.”
Myrie arched a brow. “Who are your associates, anyway? I can’t imagine that too many people would want to hang out with a blood-drinker.”
“Tactful as always, Myrie,” Selana sighed. “But I will admit to being curious, as well.”
The sylvari only smiled – though some would say she bared her teeth. “I’m sure you’ll find out shortly. Oh, don’t worry; you’ll all live. You’re much too fascinating to simply die.”
At that moment, a Warden ducked out from behind a makeshift tent. “We have a problem,” he said grimly.

Chapter 16b:
Sylfia’s condition was worsening. Although she had built up a certain resistance to fire, the attack by Renvari was catastrophic. Her breaths came in uncertain rattles, and bandages shrouded her like a mummy.
“Her wounds have only just stopped oozing, but that’s only because Llumin managed to force her mind to settle down. She’s been induced into a sleep in the hopes that unconsciousness will still her body.”
“And has it worked?”
“Barely.” The Warden’s face darkened. “She’s having nightmares; although whether or not they’re from the attack, her own mind, or outside sources is yet to be determined.”
“What should we do?” Myrie bent over the sylvari, brow furrowed in concern. A weak mutter escaped from Sylfia’s cracked lips.
“Can’t….take ‘em. Won’t let…” Her voice was smothered by a fit of dry coughing. “Run…”
“She feels cool,” Selana murmured. “Is that normal?”
“Most sylvari have a lower body temperature than humans,” the Warden nodded. “But I will admit that her temperature might be falling. She burned off several layers of skin in that fight.”
“Adam says that she’s still fighting for life. I’ll keep an eye on her, but we may need more assistance than what can be provided here,” Nettle hummed. She walked outside the tent, where she found Llumin standing by its entrance. The sand-colored sylvari had been absently running a fingernail down the grooves in her sword’s pommel.
“Have you ever felt the shiver of a soul as it leaves the body?” the mesmer asked quietly. She stared at the rising moon. “Do you ever wonder if what you’re doing is right?”
Nettle blinked. “I have. No, I do not. Every action I take is performed with deliberation. You should do the same.”
“What gives you the right to say such a thing? When were you born?” Llumin’s eyes had taken on a steely glint, and her stance shifted. “You fought with us, but you sound almost like those Courtiers.”
“Do not sort me with them, sprout,” Nettle said. “Though I do believe that some of the Grove’s policies are soft on wrongdoers, never believe that I would fall into Nightmare. They are blinded by hate and bitterness – and such blindness is catastrophic to maintaining your chosen path.” She sighed, fingers stroking the skull at her side. “I was born at Dawn. Why do you ask?”
Llumin shrugged. “You don’t seem to fit with any of the major Cycles. If anything, your personality fits the Night blooms more than Dawn.”
“Another lesson you will learn: People are often more complex than their titles may show.” Nettle gave Llumin a sidelong glance. “You’ve got an interesting aura. But something seems off.”
The mesmer gave her a suspicious look. “What does it matter to you?”
“It matters because there are dragons to fight and you will be required in that battle. For the sake of the world, you will need to be in top condition.”
Her breath stopped. Her mind immediately flashed to her Dream of the beast in the world before waking. Her Wyld Hunt.
“How did you know about my Hunt?” she whispered.
Nettle smiled. “I didn’t. I only know someone else who is called to slay the dragons. You were just a lucky guess.”
The tent flap snapped open. Elmfrond’s golden eyes were wide with worry.
“We need to go to the Grove. Sylfia is dying.”

Chapter 17a:

They arrived at the gates with Sylfia still bound in her bandages. Shortly after entering the city, she was whisked away by a small army of Menders. They carefully cradled the warrior’s form in a bed of leaves, stepping cautiously onto a windborne elevator which whisked them into the upper city like a dandelion seed on the breeze.
“Where are they taking her?” Myrie asked.
Selana had no answer. “Nettle?”
The necromancer’s eyes were narrowed, as if she could see through the thick, leafy ceiling above them. “They’re not headed to the usual place,” she murmured. Her brow furrowed. “The Pale Mother…”
“The Pale Mother what?” Elmfrond huffed impatiently.
“They’re taking her there.”
“Why would they do that? I thought most of the healers were on the lower floors!”
Nettle turned her gaze to him, her face grim. “They are.”
The group was silent for a while. It was Llumin who reached the conclusion first.
“They’re not sure she’ll survive long enough to reach them,” she whispered. Beside her, the prone form of Tiachren stirred. The two remaining Wardens who supported his pallet looked to Llumin for guidance. “Perhaps it is best if we ascend, as well. You have your companion to worry about, and I…” Concern etched itself across her features as the guardian’s mounting shock and grief began to show upon his own countenance. She turned back to Selana. “Tiachren may need counsel.”
A pang of sympathy echoed through the elementalist’s form. She resisted the urge to tell Llumin her reason for originally travelling to the Grove. Instead she merely nodded, placing a gentle hand on Llumin’s shoulder.
“You fought well,” she said quietly. “Do not blame yourself for what you had to do.”
A confused look briefly flickered across the mesmer’s face. “Thank you,” she replied uncertainly. “I fear more for his sake, though,” she sighed.
“Would Her Highness mind if we went with you?” Myrie asked, an unusual show of childish shyness upon her face.
Despite the atmosphere, Llumin gave a small smile. “I don’t think she would,” she answered. “And she much prefers being referred to as the Pale Tree or the Pale Mother. Come. We must be quiet, lest we disturb our friends.”
With that, the group made their way to other elevators, guided by Wardens in the city and helpful citizens, and arose into the Pale Tree’s bower.

Chapter 17b:
The aroma in the upper city was surprisingly-lively. Myrie recalled tracking centaurs in the higher mountains of Kryta where the rising ground brought with it the thin dryness of the ascendant air. Here, though, it was much more different. The air was humid, yet not unpleasant, and a wet earthiness blended with the scents of wood and flowers to create the sense of being in an enormous, royal garden. The tingling smell of magic wove throughout the whole place. In the center of the bower was a tall, graceful being. She appeared to be composed entirely of golden and cream-colored flowers, and her image shimmered slightly, as if from waves of heat or arcana.
“Welcome, my children,” she smiled, though her eyes were filled with concern.
“Mother Tree,” Llumin murmured respectfully. She, Tiachren, Nettle, and Elmfrond all knelt before the flowery woman. Selana curtseyed, and Myrie bowed her head. The Pale Tree raised a hand, motioning for them to stand.
“I see that this visit is not one of joy,” she said. “You bring with you many questions and concerns which weigh heavily upon your hearts.” She turned to Tiachren, who once more inclined his head. “My son,” she soothed, “know that you did all you could. Remember that the love you shared with Ysvelta was not evil, though some may attempt to twist it that way. Her true self resides in the Dream of Dreams, and will wait for you when your time comes. And do not blame Llumin for her actions, for the grief and guilt you would otherwise have borne would have only driven you down the path of destruction.”
He bowed, murmuring his thanks, and stepped back. “I will remember her as she was,” he sighed. “Thank you, Mother.”
“And you, Elmfrond.” The Pale Tree’s face shone with pride. “You who are so young have already faced the enemy with courage and bound fast to those who have aided you. Your kind heart and determined attitude will continue to be a boon to those around you. But,” she added, and Myrie was reminded of her own mother when she would catch her stealing cookies, “do not take that which is not yours. Use your skills to help others – not for your own amusement.”
Elmfrond gave a sheepish smile. “Yes, Mother Tree,” he said. He bowed before stepping away and walking to Selana’s side. The Pale Tree’s gaze found Nettle, who stared back at her calmly.
“I have done nothing wrong,” the necromancer stated.
“Do not be so arrogant as to believe those words, sapling.” The Pale Tree’s voice took on a hard tone, and Myrie flinched at its change. “Though you may have brought justice to some, at what cost has your curiosity landed upon others? Do you even consider letting the law enforcement deal with their own criminals, or do you insist upon being some vigilante?”
Nettle’s eyes flashed. She bowed her head, yet did not break eye contact with the Pale Tree. “I would do everything I have done a thousand times again if it meant that one less scourge roamed the face of this world. Aren’t you the one who tells us to follow the teachings of Ventari’s Tablet? ‘Act with wisdom, but act.’ Too many sit idly. I have made my choice, Mother; though I do not ask for your approval, I only ask for your understanding. If I cannot have that, then I must request that you simply let me be.” With that, she briskly turned and stalked back towards Selana and Myrie. The thief, for her part, scooted slightly further from her when she returned to their side.
The Pale Tree looked for a moment as though she was about to say something further to Nettle, but her mouth closed, and she shook her head in frustration. She sighed and returned her gaze to Llumin, now the only one left in her space.
“My child,” she said, and the smile upon her face was bittersweet, “your path is not an easy one. Though you have only started it, what is not shrouded in the mists of uncertainty speaks of many trials. I cannot tell you much of it, but I can tell you that there will be great joy and deep sorrow intertwined in your life. Already you have felt one of the smaller pains. Know this; the darkest night is right before the dawn. Stay strong; your Wyld Hunt will not be taken alone.”
“Then who will it be with, Mother?” Llumin pled. “I know Tiachren must stay at the Grove, but with whom will I travel?”
The Tree was silent. “I know of only one other child of mine who has dreamed of the Dragon. Caithe may be difficult to bring out of isolation. However, if you are to strike at Zhaitan, the master of the Risen, then you will need someone who knows the land and how its minions behave. But for now, you should rest. Your mind and body are already tired from this journey, and much can wait for a later day.” At this, the Pale Tree’s eyes sought the bound, listless form of Sylfia. A slight gasp escaped her full lips.
“My daughter,” she whispered. She closed her eyes, concentrating. “She still lives, though the Dream calls to her.”
“Oh, thank heavens. I thought that she had…” Myrie’s voice was oddly strangled. She cleared her throat. “Well, at least that besotted salad’s stubborn enough to cling to life, eh?”
“There is still a strong possibility that over the course of her healing, she may die. Do not lose hope, but be cautious against celebration.” The Pale Tree motioned to some of her Wardens, and they sprinted over to her, carefully unwinding the bandages that cocooned Sylfia’s body. A hiss escaped the warrior’s teeth, and a green glint of her eye flickered hazily in the dreamy light.
“Wotch it with that tearing, would ya?” she rasped. Her voice was softer than it normally had been.
“Be still and do not speak, child,” the Pale Tree ordered firmly. “You have a long journey towards recovery, and you will need all of your energy to heal.”
“Don’t wanna stay still…wanna pulp the blighted thorn-root who did this to me.” She tried sitting up, but with a sharp cry of pain, she gave up the endeavor. A frustrated, pained moan leaked from her mouth, and she spat out a gobbet of golden blood. “Somebody tell me they got ‘im… or the next thing I’ll do is give all of your ‘eads a good thrashing.”
Selana gave a low laugh. “There’s no need to worry about that, Sylfia. I can personally assure you that Renvari is dead.”
“Hmmmm.” The warrior’s eye closed alongside its twin. “Good.”
“Now I must insist that you let Sylfia be. She’ll be cared for well up here, and being so close to myself should heal her more rapidly than below,” the Pale Tree said. A seed-elevator rose to the bower, and its leafy hatch opened. “Rest, recover, and prepare,” she continued. “I sense there will be much to discuss in the near future.”

Chapter 17c:

They had all been guided to the living complex, where Nettle, Elmfrond, and Llumin found their respective quarters and allowed their guests to stay with them. When they woke up the next day, a Warden arrived with a letter from the Pale Tree stating that Sylfia had survived through the night and that her wounds had stopped oozing.
“She’s still in nowhere near fighting shape,” the letter detailed, “but rest assured that the healers are doing what they can. Try to enjoy yourselves; there may not be much opportunity later. If you need directions and advice for some of the city’s places of interest, feel free to ask any of my children for their recommendations. However, I would not endorse whatever places Nettle frequents – though I’m sure it’s understandable to all of you the reason why.” She finished with a farewell and more well-wishes. As the courier left, a carrier pigeon flew through a nearby window and landed on Myrie’s extended finger. A scroll had been bound to its leg, but she unrolled it and began to read, letting the bird rest on the windowsill.
“You have a letter?” Elmfrond asked. “Who is it from?”
“It is addressed to me, but gives consideration to Selana, Nettle, and Sylfia as well.” The thief’s eyes scrolled down the unrolled parchment. “It’s from Gryphon Radwing!”
Selana stood by Myrie’s side, but did not peek over her shoulder. “What does he say?”
“He says there’s a contact he would like us to meet. She’s in the Durmand Priory, but we may need to stop at the Black Citadel first to get some supplies.”
“The Grove has supplies,” Elmfrond pointed out.
“Yes, but he also claims that there’s another member of the Knights of Gryphon who might be able to provide some assistance. She has a hair-trigger temper, though.” Myrie sighed. “At times like these, it would really be useful to have Sylfia to provide some extra muscle. Maybe she would know how to deal with someone like that.”
“She has improved in her disposition,” Selana reminded her.
“Yeah, but the charr culture is significantly more war-like than either the sylvari or human races’. Of all our members, she would be the best in this situation. Not that I’m doubting any of our fighting capabilities,” she amended.
Llumin had remained quiet, watching the others as they chatted excitedly. A strange, unsettling feeling had oozed into her heart, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t quite get rid of it. She stood from her corner in the room and walked toward them.
“You may all go without me,” she said. Her brow furrowed. “I still believe I will need to prepare for my Wyld Hunt. I might try meeting up with you later, but for now, I will visit the archives and see if there is any information on Orr or the Dragons.”
“I understand,” Selana replied, smiling soothingly. “The library in Divinity’s Reach has a large assortment of books; feel free to read them if you travel to the city.”
An odd sense of familiarity briefly flashed through Llumin’s mind. Shaking her head slightly to dissuade such unusual feelings, the sylvari bowed her head in acknowledgement. “I will keep that in mind,” she responded. “Thank you.”
“Keep in touch,” Elmfrond said, shaking her hand. “And don’t worry; some are more accustomed to battle than others. You’ll calm more easily.”
“Never lose that fear of killing, Llumin,” Selana continued quietly. “It is a rare to find someone willing to spare the lives of their enemies when bloodshed is no longer required.”
The mesmer realized she had been holding her breath. She inhaled quietly and sighed, a smile returning to her face. “Thank you. Best of luck in your travels.”

Chapter 18a:

The party traveled through the gate with little concern. Though the lion-like guards only earned Elmfrond’s curious stare, to Myrie and Selana, they instilled an ancient wariness.
Humans and charr had only recently been undergoing peace treaties, and the contested city of Ascalon, once a glorious kingdom and now a blasted and haunted husk, was the main negotiation point. Selana kept her eyes focused straight ahead and shifted her jaw forward, determining to keep in mind that the city was practically destroyed; ancestral ties aside, it would be a small loss to Kryta should the charr gain control of the city. On the other hand, Myrie grit her teeth, anger simmering at the race which insisted that the ancient territory, homeland of such legends as Prince Rurik and Mhenlo the healer, was to be their prize. The thick smells of machine oil and hot steel assaulted their noses. It was a harsh change from the lush, green scent of the Grove. Nettle seemed to know her way around the city, despite the confusion of the loud, bustling atmosphere.
“The supply market is this way,” she said, walking briskly past a merchant. “And the contact has reached out to me before. Our usual meeting place is in the Serrated Knife, a tavern which isn’t much further than the market square. I’ll show you the way.” When her companions hesitated, she sighed, rolling her eyes heavenward. “If you doubt me so much, feel free to consult the map. You will undoubtedly get lost in the city’s spirals, though; without a guide, it is deceptively difficult to navigate.”
“I never said we weren’t following you,” Selana replied frostily. “Though you will excuse our hesitation at your familiarity. What has given you such intimate knowledge of the city’s layabout?”
Nettle smiled prettily. “What else? Business as usual.”

The necromancer guided them through the spiraling machinery of the city, stepping deftly over interlocking stairs formed from gears and under arching bridges whose steel was polished from thousands of steps striding across them. The smells of the city mixed with other scents in the marketplace. Roasted meats turned on spits next to enormous barrels of ales and wines, while a little further down the square, leatherworkers punched holes in hides, threading thick twine through and forming intricate polished armors. Shouts mingled with the tolling of the anvil as armorsmiths worked alongside weaponsmiths, arguing over whose materials belonged to whom and by the way, that was their metal, thank you very much. Myrie had gleefully purchased an entire cow haunch and carried it unsteadily with both hands, eyes sparking with mischief.
“What are you thinking now?” Selana arched an eyebrow suspiciously.
“Oh, nothing much,” Myrie replied, still smiling. After a moment, she gave a rare giggle. “I could nail someone over the head with this thing!”
“Please don’t.”
“What, you don’t think I can do it?”
Selana gave an exasperated sigh. “I’m not saying it’s impossible; I am, however, suggesting against it if only for the sake of national diplomacy.”
Myrie frowned and took a bite of the meat. “Wow, this is good,” she remarked, eyes widening. She took another chomp of the enormous meal. “I could probably feast for days on this thing.”
“Well, please keep in mind that we are meeting with one of Gryphon’s contacts.” A smile flashed across the ivory elementalist’s face. “And you don’t look terribly professional with beef juice dribbling down your chin.”
Myrie’s desperately rubbed at the offending spot.
“If you’d like, I could just use the air to blow it away,” Selana offered.
“No thanks. I know how strong your breezes can be, and I’d prefer to remain anchored to the ground.”
Nettle interrupted Elmfrond’s wide-eyed observations and the humans’ banter to inform them that they had arrived. The tang of blood and iron assaulted their noses, and the taste of Myrie’s meat soured on her tongue.
“I don’t think I can finish this,” she said queasily. She handed her remaining meat to a charr cub. The child looked up at her, flashed a wide grin, and proceeded to dash off and whack one of his companions with the enormous haunch. Myrie gave a proud smile. Elmfrond passed a flask to her.
“Sylfia said that we could keep it handy if required,” he explained. “She said we might need it to brace ourselves.”
Myrie thanked him and tipped it upwards, coughing at the burning fluid that scorched down her throat. Nettle had seen the ordeal and promptly snatched the container from her hands.
“That was my medicinal brandy,” she explained stiffly. Her eyes latched onto one of the bar’s patrons. “Ah, there’s our contact.”
A black-furred charr with gears in her horns looked up at them. Recognition flashed across her face, and she bared her teeth. She stood and stalked over to the group, towering over Nettle.
“You,” she growled, “have some explaining to do.”

Chapter 18b:

The charr’s name was Khadr Shadowstalker. Apparently, she and Nettle were not on the best of terms at the moment, though for what reason, Myrie didn’t quite catch. While the two were arguing, her eyes caught movement in the corner of the bar. A male charr, smaller in stature yet broader across than Khadr, had nudged his companion and pointed at the necromancer. In the dim light of the flickering lanterns, their eyes seemed sinister. With no warning, the first male reached down, broke a leg off of a nearby stool, and threw it at the sylvari’s head. Khadr’s ears twitched. She let out a roar and whirled around, batting the furniture away just in time to avert the collison.
Her fangs were bared, and she stalked over the corner, hackles rising. “Who threw that chair?”
The tawny-furred male stood and gave a challenging snarl. “I did, Legionarre. That sylvari has come here before and insulted my honor and position. She did not show the proper respect due a gate guard, and she threatened me. As a member of the city’s defenses, I and my companions can personally attest to the fact that that walking salad is a threat to the Citadel.” He drew a longsword from its scabbard and pointed it at Nettle. “Permission for trial by combat, ma’am,” he growled. Myrie flinched in unease. Something about him didn’t seem quite right.
Khadr’s golden eyes narrowed to slits, and her ears laid flat against her skull. After a long few seconds, a slow, cold smile spread across her muzzle.
“Very well. Permission granted. If you win,” she growled, speaking just loudly for Myrie to hear, “then consider our debts repaid. Should you lose…” Her claws scraped against the barrel of her rifle. “No matter what Gryphon will say, you shall not gain my aid.”
Selana and Elmfrond were stunned into silence. Myrie shot the necromancer an alarmed look. Nettle, for her part, seemed disturbingly calm. “Excellent. I have been craving a battle lately.” She licked her lips. The guard’s assured pose faltered briefly. Khadr gave a guttural growl.
“No more lollygagging. To the Bane!”
Before Myrie had much chance to process what had just transpired, she and the others were mustered out of the tavern and to an elevator. Khadr nodded at its operator, and with a salute, the charr operating the machine tugged on the chain, letting the group rattle down to the arena.
“May the most worthy win,” the charr chuckled darkly. “Don’t stop until one of you is dead.”

Chapter 19a:

Meanwhile in the Grove, Llumin found herself buried between ancient texts and scrolls. She had gathered a veritable fort of knowledge, and the delicious scent of ancient paper mixed with the lush smells of her home. In her little castle of papers, the sylvari’s willowy, dark indigo hair was like a gem of bluish-black in the parchment’s golden-cream center. Despite the pleasantries of her surroundings, Llumin’s lips were pursed in frustration. She finished skimming her current article and closed it, giving a low groan as she put her head in her hands. From what she had seen, legends of the Elder Dragons went back for millennia. Even two and a half centuries ago, Primordus, the Elder Dragon of Fire, had stirred. Though it hadn’t fully risen, it had awoken a champion, the Great Destroyer. The power of its champion was so great that it required the sacrifice of the entire Dwarven race to stop it from ravaging Tyria. Even then, the result was inconsequential; the dragon did not cease to wake, though the defeat of its second-in-command had stalled it. If the lieutenants of the dragons were that powerful, she thought, how much of a chance could they possibly have against the beasts themselves? At Kralkatorrik’s rise, the Diessa Plateu in Ascalon had transformed into a scarred, crystalline landscape. Jormag’s ascension brought with it the unthinkable cold that had driven even the hardy norn from their homeland in the Far Shiverpeaks in the north. And Zhaitan, the dragon her Wyld Hunt called her to kill, had resurrected an entire sunken kingdom and even now turned the corpses of human, norn, charr, and asura to its service.
“This is impossible,” she muttered dejectedly.
“Oh?” A deep, melodic voice, one she had never heard before, gave a dry chuckle. “I’m sure your task can’t be much harder than mine.”
Llumin raised her head from the desk, eyebrows arched in confusion. “Hello?” She peered around a teetering stack of parchments, trying to find its source. On the other side of her self-made fort was another sylvari. He had dark green skin and hair. His yellow eyes shone with cynical amusement. For some reason, she felt rather self-conscious under his gaze, and combined with her daunting task and exhaustion from her studies, the slurry of emotions solidified into irritation.
“Excuse me,” she said. “It’s rather rude to interrupt someone’s reading.”
“It didn’t sound like you were reading.”
“I had been! And it was very important, world-changing, daunting….unaccomplishable reading.” She gave a defeated sigh before laughing apologetically. “I’m sorry; you probably don’t want to listen to the babblings of a sprout like me.” She watched his face for a reaction, but instead of replying, the male sylvari reached for a book in her pile and removed it, eyes flicking across its title.
“I remember this one. It’s an excellent read on Orrian history and the legends of Vizier Khilbron. However,” he gave a smile and put it back, reaching next to him and handing her another book which was bound thickly in tattered leather, “if you’re trying to figure out something about Zhaitan, I recommend this. It’s a tome on dragon myths in ancient cultures,” he explained, watching as she turned the book over in her hands. Unable to resist the lure of information, Llumin cracked it open and began devouring the text. After several pages, she forced herself out of the book and returned her gaze to the sylvari in front of her. Her face was wide with wonder.
“How did you know which book I would need?”
“Let’s just say I’ve had some time and experience with the lay of Orr’s land. Although I must say, you have quite a larger selection than I did when I first began studying that accursed place.”
A distant echo of recognition pinged in Llumin’s head. “Wait, you aren’t possibly…?”
He arched an eyebrow questioningly. “Yes?”
Dread and embarrassment flushed her face. She quickly stood and bowed. “It’s an honor to meet you, Firstborn. I apologize; I should have realized who you were sooner, and I shouldn’t have snapped. It was –”
“ – It was understandable.” He sighed, gently thumbing through the pages of another script. He looked back at her, a look of discomfort on his face. “Please sit down. And call me Trahearne. I really don’t understand the veneration you younger generations hold for us Firstborn. We’re not that different from you.”
“But you’ve been around for so long! You know so much and have seen a great many things. If only for your wisdom alone, you deserve our respect.”
He gave a dry chuckle. “I wouldn’t be so sure about our so-called wisdom. We’ve all made some fairly idiotic decisions.”
Recovering her composure, Llumin sat down again. She wasn’t quite sure if or how to continue the conversation. Fortunately, she needn’t worry.
“In case you were wondering why I think our tasks may be on par, you will need to know my Wyld Hunt.”
“Your task is to cleanse Orr,” she said softly. He seemed mildly taken aback.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“The Blessed Mother told me that there was only one who had dreamed of Orr’s restoration. Naturally, since you seemed to already know a great deal about the place, I concluded that you were the only possible one to whom she referred.”
“Well done.” He smiled again before continuing to browse the selection of books, scrolls, and other texts. Llumin watched him curiously.
“It’s impossible to do such a thing alone,” she said slowly. “To cleanse the land, the dragon would need to be defeated. For the dragon to be beaten, we’d need an army. That army would need a tactician.”
Trahearne closed his book with a snap and glanced over at her. “I am no warrior,” he replied quietly.
“But Tyria would need one. Perhaps –”
He stood. “I am a scholar. Although I am a necromancer, I am no fighter. I have never been in a true battle, and I am horrible with speeches. If you think that I am as venerable and honored as to be given that responsibility simply because I am Firstborn, you are wrong. It’s as likely that the Pale Mother would give me a weapon with the ability to perform the task as I would become a leader of any sorts. Although you flatter me, do not deceive yourself.” His smile was apologetic yet distant. “Perhaps you will find someone who can aid you, but for now, my only help will be with the finding of relevant material.”
Llumin felt her heart sink. How could he not see the obvious? “If you’re not the one the Mother was speaking of, then who is?”
He shook his head. “I do not know. And now I must bid you farewell; I leave to study the outer edge of Orr in a few days, and I have to finish preparing for my journey.” As he turned to exit the library, he paused. “I never did get your name,” he said thoughtfully.
“Llumin, sir.”
A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Llumin. Perhaps someday we will see each other again.”
When he left, the library seemed somehow emptier than before. She scowled at a crude grawl painting and turned it over, studying the explanation. “He cannot run from his destiny forever,” she sighed, tracing over an elaborate letter. “I only hope he will have the confidence to do it when the time comes."

Chapter 20a:

The floor of the Bane was covered in sand which looked as though it had recently been replaced. Below the fine grains of the newest cover lingered the unmistakable rusty color of dried blood. The charr in front of Nettle took her fascination with the substance as unease and gave a low, rumbling laugh.
“So, still thinking this was a good idea, leaf?”
Nettle still stared at the sand and then knelt. She traced a thin, pale finger through it. Some of the stained sand clung to her finger.
“What are you waiting for?” the guard snarled, drawing his sword and slowly stalking towards her. “Calling to your mother?”
The necromancer calmly raised her finger to her eye level, squinting at it. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” she finally spoke. She turned her wrist, letting the red ochre-colored mineral glitter in the flickering torchlight. “Such an unnoticed substance, blood. There’s quite a bit of it flowing through every one of us, pulsing with its own song, its own life. Yet for all of its uses and abilities, it’s only really noticed when it’s let free and when it spatters onto the ground. It’s most-missed when it is absent from the body, when every vein has been drained of that precious fluid which somehow gives power to the very creature it resides in. This sand has seen it.” She stood, head tilted and a small smile across her lovely features. The grains on her fingers flickered once more, and the red on them moved slowly, painstakingly away from their tiny hosts until they floated in the air like little flecks of ruby. The guard’s eyes widened, but he shook his head and growled again.
“If you think your stinking tricks will worry me, than you are wrong, you petal-headed lettuce.”
“Oh, I’m not trying to intimidate you, silly house-cat.” Her gaze returned to him, but it was cold and distant, as if she was looking through him, or just past his shoulder. “If you fear what you do not know,” she continued, and the dried blood-flecks began to whirl together, “then it is no doubt as to the result of our combat. Of course,” she beamed, “if you had any sense of who I am, than you would never have started this fight in the first place.”
The hackles on the guard’s back rose – though from fear or anger, he couldn’t say. With a final roar, he bounded toward the sylvari, blade drawn, teeth bared, and claws extended. Nettle’s smile seemed to freeze in place, and as the snarling warrior barreled down on her, she simply stepped to the side and flicked the blood-chip outward. It grazed off of his nose – not enough to pierce the deeper layers of tissue, but just deep enough to tear off the fur covering it and expose the shiny, pink flesh beneath. He gave a yowl of pain and spun around, dust flinging in the air at his sudden turn.
“Quit your teasing and fight me, miserable wench!” he bellowed, clashing his sword against his chestplate and stalking forward once more. His tail lashed the floor.
Nettle gave a mocking hum, prancing away with mincing steps. “Perhaps I shall, if you can reach me,” she sang lightly. She gave an icy, silvery laugh as the charr thrust his blade at her side. “Go on. Try it again,” she smirked. Once more the sword cleft the air, and at the moment its blade left the charr’s side, Nettle’s fingers rolled, exposing a dagger she had hidden in her sleeve.

From up in the Bane’s viewing chamber, Selana’s back stiffened. She had seen knife-wielding skills like that once before, when she had met with representatives from the oldest-running Order in Tyria back in Divinity’s Reach.
“Myrie,” the elementalist whispered, “I believe that Nettle may be a member of the Order of Whispers.”

Chapter 21a:

Divinity’s Reach, Kingdom of Kryta, Tyria.

The lamp-light in the mansion of Gryphon Radwing flickered dull yet steady, its orange heartbeat of a flame reminiscent of the young woman who he had seen off only so long ago. Selana Firestone has grown, he thought, smiling absently as his quill tapped on a roll of cream-colored parchment. The once-insecure woman who feared love for the sake of its absence had begun to open herself up, learning how to befriend others and protect those who could not defend themselves. So, too, had the suspicious Myrie Ward matured, becoming one who learned to move past her comfort zone and towards the betterment of those who didn’t even know her. It no longer mattered if they were peasant or noble; to the thief, all were now viewed as equal. Even her nerves seemed to settle; he hadn’t heard any tales of sudden yet valuable jewel-losses from when he had seen her last. On occasion, she even sent him rings and amulets of her own making.
“We’re leaving the Grove tomorrow,” Myrie’s most recent letter stated; it had been dated a few days ago. “Sylfia’s been badly burned, and we’re not sure how she’ll do. The Wardens say she’s been making a recovery, but it’s slow and uncertain. Llumin is staying behind as well – something about needing some time to study for her Wyld Hunt, whatever that is – but we’ve hired another new thief. He’s named Elmfrond – another sylvari – and he’s very curious. It’s odd; he’s kind of childish, but there are times when he’s freakishly wise. I only hope the poor soul retains his sanity; he’s rather outnumbered!”
Gryphon chuckled and leaned back in his chair. His smile slowly melted as the parchment next to Myrie’s stared up at him. Contrary to Myrie’s firm yet spidery handwriting, the script on the other letter was very neat, leaving little time for the looping frills which the thief was so fond of adding.
“Lightbringer Radwing,” it began, “I have little doubt that my companions will one day find out that our meeting was not a coincidence and will logically trace my connection with you back to the Order of Whispers. You know that this was a risk that was likely to occur – after all, you stated yourself how these people were quite intelligent – but I am uncertain as to how the Master of Whispers will react. I know that our Order’s existence is nowhere near as secret as it had once been – something which makes even my young lips curl with distaste – but even so, I am uneasy with letting such a number know of our involvement. I’ve worked for far too long building up what little trust they have to simply have them believe that my sole purpose was to deceive. Irritating as it is to admit, for some unforeseen reason, I have come to care slightly for this group of mostly-humans. Though they are, as a general rule, barbaric, stupid, and clumsy, their loyalty and devotion to one another leaves me impressed. Selana still practically oozes magic; it’s no wonder the Master has taken such a keen interest in her. I will try persuading her to join us. Myrie may, contrary to our initial impressions, be more likely to join the Vigil instead of our lot. Unlike most thieves, she seems to prefer fighting in the open. This could be due to her odd sense of ‘honor’; if Sylfia does recover, I’m sure she’ll never let me hear the end of how her Order managed to lure her to their side instead of the ancient and awe-worthy Whispers. Elmfrond, our newest recruit, seems to have potential to go in any direction; despite his seeming-innocence, he is much more cunning than he gives credit. I will study him later.
“And now we move on to our current subject. Llumin is a mesmer – though I am sure you already knew that – but she does not seem to have quite the same confidence or mannerisms as her estranged sister. From what I have heard, her curiosity is fitting to a member of the Dusk blooms, but she has a tendency to bury herself in textbooks and scrolls far more often than others of similar temperament. Adam says that this may be due to the fact that her core soul is human, yet much of it has been altered to the point where it has become a strange fusion between her birth race and that of sylvari. I believe that she has some form of internal conflict due to this discrepancy. Though her body is sylvari, which grants her immunity from the dragon’s corruption, her mind has not at its deepest levels accepted her new form. Furthermore, she appears to be uneasy whenever she is around Selana. It is as if she somehow views her as a source of pain and is attempting to avoid her. I will later test my hypothesis – and hope that Selana’s spectral parents are looking towards their human daughter instead of their reborn child. I will send you the results in the next several days.”
Gryphon’s temples throbbed as he flipped the page over. Myrie’s letter had been much more welcome, but Nettle’s spoke more directly of concerns and plans. Despite its necessity, Gryphon wished that the news from the necromancer was less-dire and more carefree. Though he disagreed with her methods – the Master of Whispers frequently employed her as an inquisitor or assassin instead of assigning her to spy and report – he had to admit that her work was, as it had always been, exemplary. He turned the page over and finished reading. Nettle had ended her letter by stating that she awaited further instructions and that she believed their stay in the Black Citadel wouldn’t take terribly long.
With a sigh, the red-haired mesmer steepled his hands, resting his elbows on his desk and propping his forehead against his fingers. He sent up a prayer to the gods.
“Keep them safe,” he whispered, brow furrowed. “And may Selana and Llumin resolve their differences peacefully.”

Nettle’s dagger hissed by the charr’s nose again, catching and slicing into the sensitive tip. With two injuries and an increasingly-wounded sense of pride, the warrior’s resulting howl was more one of rage than of agony. Acting instinctively, the leonine warrior lashed out with his claws extended, swiping at her trailing arm. Nettle’s face contorted in pain as five lines of flesh were torn from her. She quickly pulled the injured limb toward her, growling at the burning sensation which coursed through her body. Despite the wound, she laughed as she regained her footing.
“Good! You’re relying more on your bestial side like the ancient cats you used to be. Excellent!” Her smile had returned, and a frenzied light shone in her eyes, matching the wild look of her opponent. From up in the audience, the hairs on Myrie’s neck stood up. In the presence of so much tension, she couldn’t help but feel as though she was their prey.
“Do not dare call me a beast, you arrogant sapling,” the charr roared. Briefly stowing his weapon, he rushed forward, using both hands and feet to run on all fours towards her. Nettle tilted her head, letting a low laugh escape her lips.
“But you play the part so very well.” Switching to her staff, she ran around the warrior’s charge, casting necromantic marks on the ground. Unable to stop his movement in time, the charr’s eyes widened in terror as he rapidly backpedaled. The magic on the marks activated, snapping into him with jaws of pestilence, plague, and chills. His movements slowed, yet he was undaunted. Nettle felt a tinge of admiration rising in her chest.
“You must have been a truly remarkable warrior once,” she panted, still carefully holding her wounded arm. “What is it that caused such great dishonor as being cast out as a gladium?” Her hands once more gripped the ancient skull of Adam and her gleaming dagger. The charr’s eyes were glazed with pain and fury. When the skull’s eyes began to glow, she saw something else flash across his face.
“Ah,” she said slowly, grim satisfaction spreading across her features. “It was cowardice, wasn’t it?” Her teeth were bared in a grin that mirrored that of the skull. Maintaining eye contact with the semi-feral charr, she slowly raised her arm to her lips and licked the blood away. Though his face was covered with fur, she knew – she sensed — that he had paled.
“Like I said,” she smiled, golden sap staining her teeth, “it’s quite sad how much blood is taken for granted.”
She drew her knife across her skin, binding her force to his and tethering him in place. Immobilized and with the bloodstained sylvari rushing toward him, the charr writhed in place, lashing out and yowling at the magic which bound him in place.
“Okay, okay, I give! Let me go!” he howled, baring his teeth and strugglging against the bonds which pulsed with a mix of red and gold.
“You shall have your release soon enough, charr,” she spat. She twirled her blade in her hand casually as she continued her path. Slowing down to a calm walk, she paused in front of his face as he strained against the bond which held him in place. She tilted her head at him.
“Those bonds are ones of blood,” she said calmly. She raised the dagger and pressed its tip below his right eye. Giving a thoughtful hum, she traced the fine point down his cheekbone and to the thick, pulsing jugular that throbbed beneath his neck. Her gaze once more found his, and her lips curved into a smile. “I’ve always been curious – what does charr blood taste like?”
“Please, don’t,” he whimpered through gritted teeth. “You’ve made your point. I was wrong to insult you.”
“And?”
“And falsely accuse you of being a danger to the city! The only danger you were was to myself and my pride.”
Nettle nodded, seemingly-pleased. “As you should be.” The dagger’s point tapped lightly against the vein. “However, it is not enough.” Twisting her wrist, the necromancer lashed through the skin and sliced the vein open. The charr’s face briefly was one of shock before it went suddenly slack. He toppled to the sand like a felled tree, and a stream of red flowed from his neck. Bending down to his cooling corpse, Nettle Viridia traced a delicate finger through the liquid and raised it to her lips.
“Slightly piney with a hint of steak,” she smacked, licking the rest off of her knuckle. “But not bad.”

From up in the audience chamber, a roar of applause, threats, and surprise arose. Selana arched an eyebrow at Khadr, who had crossed her arms, tail lashing the floor in frustration.
“You made a promise,” she said coolly.
“And I will keep it,” the charr huffed, glowering in disgust at the gladium’s body. “Gather your friend and I will give you the parts you need.”
From off to Selana’s side, Myrie’s only acknowledgement of the fight was a retching sound. Elmfrond looked at the elementalist with concern. “You may want to request a paper bag – Myrie has just lost her lunch.”

Chapter 23a:

They passed through Lion’s Arch before taking a turn towards the Shiverpeaks, home of the giant, shapeshifting norn. Myrie shivered as the balmy air of the seaside city gave way to the frozen winds and snowy gusts of Hoelbrak, where most of the giant race made their home. Though she had heard of their penchant for large architecture, Myrie still failed to suppress a gasp at the buildings which dwarfed even Selana’s high frame.
“If you haven’t seen a norn in person,” Selana said, “then allow me to tell you this; they average around a height of nine feet. I’m practically a midget compared to them.”
“I’ve seen some around Divinity’s Reach before,” Myrie replied, shivering and drawing her mask over her mouth and nose. “They seem kind of obnoxious and loud. I’ll bet they’re awful in stealth missions.”
“Not always,” Nettle replied, shouldering her now-full pack. “I can assure you that despite their size, most norn are deceptively aware of their surroundings. Hunting is a large part of their culture.”
“And what are some of their other cultural habits?” Elmfrond asked. He grunted as he shifted his bulging backpack to his right shoulder.
Selana’s smile was bittersweet. “Drinking. Sylfia would be livid if she knew we were passing through and didn’t buy her any ale.”
“Well, maybe we should pick something up for her,” Myrie suggested. She walked over towards a stall. Selana put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.
“Later,” she said, shaking her head. “Right now, we need to head to the Priory. Gryphon said that there were at least one or two people there who would be useful to our mission.”
“Who?”
“The first is a norn ranger by the name of Lyca Whitestorm. She’s a follower of Wolf, so she should be willing to work with others.”
Myrie’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Wolf? She follows a big dog?”
Selana sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. “In norn culture, there are four main spirits they believe give them prowess or blessings in combat and other aspects of life. Known as the Spirits of the Wild, the most-known aspects are Bear, who is viewed as the strongest and heartiest; Wolf, who is loyal and fierce; and Raven, the cunning trickster. The Spirit that has only recently come to humanity’s attention is Snow Leopard, whose talents with stealth and silent tracking helped when the norn had to flee from the Northern Shiverpeaks when they were attacked by the Elder Dragon of Frost, Jormag.”
“Too much history lesson, not enough moving!” Myrie declared, holding up her hands and marching toward the city’s center.
“You don’t even know where we’re going!” Elmfrond laughed.
“I’ll figure it out,” she said confidently.
“Myrie, one of these days you’re going to thank me for all of my ‘lessons,’” Selana sighed, striding alongside her. “And you’re going to want to turn left.”
A sudden yelp from by their feet caused the group to stop.
“Watch your big, gallomphing feet!”
“What was that?” Elmfrond leapt back, glancing down at the ground in shock. Two figures, roughly the same stature as human toddlers, glared back up at him. One of them had a small, twitching metal thing in its hand. Its long, shockingly-blue hair was pulled into a ponytail over ears that stuck out over short, rabbit-like ears. Its companion had brown hair pulled into a topknot. Both of them had large, wide eyes. The blue-haired one was snow-skinned with pink eyes, while the other was the color of light silt and possessed a golden-brown gaze.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said gently, kneeling down to reach their eye level. “Did I step on your toy? Maybe its – ”
“Toy?” the blue-haired creature shrieked, exposing a mouthful of sharp, shark-like teeth. Elmfrond leapt back in terror. Definitely not as cute as he had initially thought.
“You bookahs nearly stepped on my greatest invention, the SHU-TY golem! With this, tall folk such as yourself won’t need to bend such a great distance to tie your shoelaces! Consequently, it can be used as distraction in battle.”
“That little device is a death-trap,” the second creature groused, glowering at the tiny metal golem. “I’ve been trying to tell Khimma that her harebrained scheme of inventing housework golems of that size is completely ridiculous! Why use a small golem when you have bigger ones that can do so much more?”
“Oh, Klixx, you’re not still upset about its accident with your own shoes, are you?” the blue-haired asura smiled. “SHU-TY still has some quirks in its programming, I’ll give you that, but just wait. Its size and convenience will take the world by storm!”
The sylvari looked in confusion at Selana, who was stifling a laugh behind her hand.
“Elmfrond, you have just been introduced to the vertically-challenged genii of Tyria, the asura. And that thing she’s holding is a complex technomagical construct which their race mastered centuries ago.”
“Finally some decent respect!” Khimma sighed, smiling. She placed the golem in her tiny backpack and placed her hands on her armored knees, pushing herself up to a standing position. “As you’ve probably inferred from our conversation, I’m Khimma, and that is Statician Klixx. We’re both Statcians, really, but he prefers it to be an introductory point.”
“We work for the Durmand Priory, but we were on our way to scout for new materials for Khimma’s death machine.”
“Golem!” she snapped, not bothering to look back at him. “And it shouldn’t take too long; after this, we’re heading back to the Priory to study hylek physiology.”
“And you do that for fun?” Myrie’s nose wrinkled. “Hylek are slimy and their eyeballs weird me out.”
“Yet another uneducated bookah,” Klixx sighed dramatically. Nettle took this time to whisper behind her hand that Elmfrond must have been too excited to have noticed the asura by the gates to recognize their species. He merely grinned sheepishly and nodded.
“What was it you need?” Selana asked, rummaging in her pack. “I might already have it.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” Khimma huffed, glowering at her own bag. “After all, orichalcum ore is extremely-difficult to procure.”
“Well, then, consider this an apologetic gift for our rudeness,” the elementalist smiled, bending down and holding a coppery golden chunk of metal. The asura’s rose-colored eyes widened.
“Are you absolutely certain?” she whispered, though her tiny hands had already clasped the ingot.
“Keep it. I’m sure you’ll have more use for it. After all, I’m a tailor, not an armorsmith.”
“And I’m an armorsmith, not a tailor!” She grinned brightly. Myrie suppressed a shudder. Something about such a wide, pointed-teeth smile made her stomach crawl.
“Since you’ve been so helpful, how about we guide you to the Priory? I thought I heard one of you mention heading that way.” Klixx’s eyes crinkled in a smile.
“You’ve got pretty good hearing. And we would definitely appreciate a guide or two.”
“Well, then,” the asura stated, puffing out his tiny chest and grabbing a staff, “allow me to conjure some winds and speed us on our way! We’ll be there in no time.”

Chapter 23b:

Nettle had oddly declined the offer to travel to the Priory, stating that her only purpose in coming was to ensure that they didn’t get lost.
“Now that you have other guides,” she said, smiling, “you have no need of me.”
“You’re an excellent fighter; we will sorely miss your skills,” Selana replied.
“Don’t worry,” the necromancer laughed. “I plan on returning. Granted, I do not know when, but I promise that I will be back sometime soon.” She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “By the way, where are your parents’ spectres?”
Selana arched an eyebrow curiously. “I wouldn’t know. They said they’d be guarding me and my sister, but I don’t have the ability to sense them. Why?”
“No reason.” Nettle straightened, her lips curving upwards. The elementalist gave her a suspicious look but said nothing further.
“Well, don’t do anything too weird while we’re gone, will you?” Myrie’s smile was uneasy. Nettle’s returning gaze was not reassuring. “Stay safe, humans. Elmfrond, do take time to write. And Klixx, Khimma?”
The asura paused in their bouncing jog to glance back up at her pale face. “Yes?” Klixx asked, trying vainly to keep his tone even.
“If you fail to transport my companions to the Durmand Priory, I don’t care how much knowledge you have stored in that musty library. I will find you and I will exsanguinate every drop of blood from your diminutive frames.”
“There’s no need for threats,” Elfmrond interjected, crossing his arms. Khimma’s armor clanked as she skidded to a halt and spun around, marching back toward the necromancer defiantly. Reaching to her tiptoes, the asura lifted a finger and pointed towards the sylvari’s inclined face.
“We are Novices of the Priory. Our specialty is knowledge and our threats are dragons. The last thing we intend to do is get any possible allies lost in the snow.” Despite her tiny frame, the asura’s stance exuded power, and the hammer she slung over her back looked deceptively-heavy. Nettle couldn’t help but laugh, straightening as she did so.
“Of course. Travel quickly.” Her robes whispered on the snow as her feet crunched away, leading her back towards the gates of Lion’s Arch.
Myrie sighed. “Why is it that whenever we gain new members, we always end up losing at least one or two others?”
Selana shrugged. “We should be grateful for whom we have with us. I still have no doubt that we’ll encounter hostiles on our way to the Priory. Besides, it will lend our presence greater credibility if we have a couple of Magisters with us.”
Khimma’s pale ears flushed pink. “Although I understand the titular confusion, a Novice is at least a rank or two below Magister. I’m flattered, though; perhaps if you were to join us, you’d understand?”
Selana laughed. “Nice try, Khimma. But I will have to say I’m currently looking towards other Orders at the moment.”
The asura made a sour face, shrugged, and continued through the snow. It reached their waists, but was only knee-deep to most of the Traveling Circus.
“We should arrive there shortly,” Klixx shouted over the howling winds. “This journey should be as simple as introductory hexmancy!”

Chapter 24a:

As it turned out, they were not the only ones travelling on or through the Shiverpeaks. The most irritating encounters they had were with the primitive grawl, a heavily-furred, bipedal apelike race which fiercely defended their lands from perceived intruders. A spear thudded behind Myrie’s back as she ducked its throw.
“I thought you were leading us on the path quickest to the Priory!” she accused, twisting and firing a pistol-ball between the grawl’s beady eyes.
“This is the fastest route!” Khimma huffed. Readying her hammer, she vaulted through the air and brought its head down, crushing the feet of a shaman who had summoned a frost wurm to attack them. Raising it again, the asura gave the shaman’s jaw a bone-pulping blow as the plated mandibles of the ice wurm let forth a shriek, which shriveled under a blast of earthen shards from Klixx’s scepter.
“I didn’t anticipate being set upon by hairy, smelly, rock-worshipping monkey-men,” he shouted irately. “So don’t think we’re doing this just for grins. They weren’t on the path last time we came through here!”
“Well, they’ve obviously moved!” Myrie leapt back, firing a cluster bomb into the center of the gathering. Most of the grawl scattered at its explosion. The rest gave throaty hoots and garbled threats before turning and fleeing.
“I hope they weren’t running from something bigger,” Elmfrond panted, eyes darting around the snowy peaks. He sneezed.
“You really ought to have dressed more heavily while we were in Hoelbrak,” Selana said.
“Says the woman who can generate fire.” Myrie rolled her eyes and pulled her scarf around her ears, leaving only her eyes visible. Selana gave her a sidelong glare and beckoned for the sylvari to step closer, holding out a glowing stone.
“Put this in your belt pouch,” she instructed. “If you keep it too close to your skin, the stone’s heat will burn you. This should at least help.”
“But what about my pouch?”
“It won’t burn through it, but direct contact with the stone at this temperature will cause the heat to be unpleasant. The leather acts as a buffer; it won’t cause holes to scorch through it.”
Elmfrond thanked her heartily and slipped the hot stone into his hip-pouch, a blissful smile passing over his features.
“Thanks,” he sighed, eyes half-closed in contentment. Selana smiled. Khimma gave a low groan, pointing up the rocky trail.
“We’ve got elementals ahead, and I have a feeling that we’re heading back into another tribe of grawl. I’m sorry to say that based on my calculations, we might be traveling for at least another two days.”
Klixx raised his blunt nose to the sky. “You might want to make that three. There’s a storm coming.”
“We should try to find shelter,” Myrie said. She trudged towards the mountains. “Or maybe we could find a norn town on the way to the Priory.”
“Why are you heading towards the mountains, then?” Elmfrond asked.
The other thief rolled her eyes. “Elmfrond, do you know what caves are?”
“Yes!” His eyes widened in understanding. “Oh,” he breathed. “Maybe there are some in the mountains!”
“Exactly.” Myrie and the sylvari jogged off. Khimma gave a yelp.
“What are you doing, you bookahs? This isn’t Kryta or some other tame area – jotun live in those caves!”
“Admittedly, not all of them, but still!” Klixx joined Khimma, and both asura raced after the thieves. Selana quickly followed, bending the frozen air to aid them. However, the thieves were significantly more nimble than their more lawful counterparts, and by the time the rest of the group caught up to them, they had already found and entered a crevasse in the mountain wall. The clearing was much larger than it had appeared on the outside, and much to the relief of all, there were no signs of jotun or grawl activity within.
“No skeletons, either,” Khimma noted, crouching down to the ground and pulling out a piece of flint. “If anything or anyone has been here before, they got out alive.”
“Or maybe something ate their bones, too,” Myrie hummed absently, strolling around the cave’s interior perimeter. Selana gave her a warning look as Elmfrond gulped nervously.
“I’m sure it’s safe, Elmfrond,” the elementalist reassured him. “I’m not sensing any large tremors, so nothing’s stalking us.”
A sudden gust of wind tore through the cave’s opening, chilling all within. Khimma quickly bent and reached into her pack, removing a thick leather tarp and placing it over the entrance. Klixx smoothly altered the rock, pulling small stone anchors from the mountain wall and securing the leather. Now effectively sealed in the chamber, the group huddled around a small fire Selana had made from gathered wood-scraps. The smoke was diverted under the tarp, and through that small gap, the wind’s howling grew fiercer still. Klixx created a pocket of clear air around his head and looked under the leather.
“The blizzard is in full force now,” he sighed, slumping back onto the cave wall. “I don’t know how long it should take. It might pass in an hour; perhaps two. At its longest, we could be in here for a couple of days. Until then, we’ll have to preserve our rations and wait until the storm blows over before continuing to the Priory.” He gave a rueful smile – which still unnerved Myrie – and said sheepishly, “Well, I suppose introductory hexmancy would be difficult for a non-asura…”

Chapter 25a:

“Are you awake?”
Llumin’s head rose from her desk with a flutter of scattering papers. Her wide blue eyes were bleary yet alert.
“Did I miss something? She stifled a yawn as her gaze met that of the sylvari in front of her. Recognition flickered in her mind. “Nettle Viridia, isn’t it?”
The pale woman in front of her nodded once. “Yes.” She walked toward the mountain of papers in which the mesmer had buried herself. “This isn’t exactly light reading, sapling,” she remarked, arching an eyebrow at her.
Llumin gave a sour frown. “Do you think that because I’m younger than you that I am less able to learn?” She turned back to her books and opened a thick, leather-bound tome. “We Dusk blooms are curious, remember? What happened to that trip with the humans to the norn city, Hoelbrak?”
Nettle waved her hand dismissively. “It bored me. I’ve already traveled there, and they acquired new guides.” She resumed leafing through Llumin’s tower of papers. “Dragon corruption…effects of the Elder Dragons on local flora… Why are you reading these?”
Llumin drew back. “Isn’t it obvious? Didn’t you Dream of a dragon? Without the knowledge contained in these tomes, I won’t have any idea of how to defeat Zhaitan.”
Nettle looked at the mesmer as if she had grown an extra head. “You can’t possibly be serious. The Orrian Elder Dragon has been around for centuries, if not millennia. It’s impossible to fight it by yourself, and it’s not even certain if it can be destroyed. Furthermore, even though this is an impressive collection, this is hardly sufficient to take on such a monstrous foe. And what makes you think that I dreamt of it? My Hunt is different from yours, sprout.”
“Then what is it? There is no need to belittle me.” Llumin’s voice seemed to come from two places in the room. Nettle glanced behind her. To her shock, an exact copy of the dark-haired sylvari stood ten feet away. It smiled at her. “Confused?” she asked, a lighthearted laugh silvering the end of her question. Her voice came from in front and to the side now, adding one more echo to the mesmeric clones. “Oh, don’t be so shocked. This took me weeks to master,” Llumin sighed. Wrinkling her forehead, she banished the illusions, shattering them into multitudes of magenta butterflies which soared away on invisible currents.
“Butterflies. Really?” Nettle had regained her composure. The younger sylvari smiled proudly as she peered over her scroll.
“They’re pretty.”
“Oh, well, Pale Tree’s boughs, what’s the point of magic if it isn’t pretty?” the necromancer sighed, staring at the ceiling. She laughed. “We’ve gotten off on a terrible foot, haven’t we? Let’s start over. I’m Nettle Viridia.”
“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Llumin.”
A smile graced the pale sylvari’s lips. “You must have been here for days, judging by the state of this room. What say you and I get a bite to eat, and we can talk later?”
The back of Llumin’s neck prickled briefly. She dismissed the sensation – after all, it had been a while since she had eaten – and nodded. “I’ll see about cleaning up these books and joining you. I could really use a drink.”
Nettle’s smile widened, her teeth flashing in the luminescence of the lanterns above. “I would like that.”

Chapter 26a:

The storm eventually blew over, and within the next several days, the party arrived at the Durmand Priory. Despite their tired legs, the travelers somehow managed to haul their weary forms up the carved stone stairs and into the mountain’s chiseled face, entering the open plaza of the Priory. Myrie leaned heavily against the wrought-iron railing, squinting at the silver-and-blue banners that snapped in the frigid gusts of the Shiverpeaks. For a bunch of bookworms, she thought, I’ll admit that their sense of grandeur is impressive.
A cry of greeting echoed across the frozen air as one of the sentries spotted them.
“The Novices have returned – and they’ve brought allies! Quick, someone bring a stack of blankets. Who knows how long they’ve been out in this cold.”
Before her cold-addled mind could comprehend what was happening, Myrie and the others were rushed into the main building out of the wind and into a spacious plaza where torches flickered in high bronze braziers. In the center of the room was a towering pillar of light, interspersed with hovering tablets of etched stone.
“Some say that these tablets represent the entirety of the Priory’s accumulated knowledge,” a familiar voice spoke. Selana’s head, which had been slumped in exhaustion, whipped up.
“Llumin!” A smile swept across her features. The sand-colored sylvari gave a soft laugh.
“What made you think you could defeat the storms of the Shiverpeaks – and why didn’t you write sooner about your arrival? Magister Lyca only told me of your trip yesterday, and that was after preparing the entire Priory for you.”
“What Llumin means to say,” Nettle said, stepping from the shadows and walking towards them, “is that she is glad to see you healthy and well.”
Khimma sneezed.
“For the most part,” the necromancer amended. A tall, white-haired woman strode into the room, followed shortly by an enormous alpine wolf of similar color. Her skin – what she could see of it — was tattooed with swirling patterns, and her muscular frame seemed to be carved from marble.
“I am Magister Lyca Whitestorm,” she greeted, her deep, soothing voice calming the travelers’ tired bodies. “Gryphon has kept me in contact with your travels for quite a while. I will never forget the first letter he sent, when he enquired about the nature of the Mursaat and their spells. If I remember correctly,” she said, smiling, “it had to do with a particular thief who had found a captured White Mantle and irritated one of their ‘Unseen Ones.’”
Myrie’s eyes widened. “Wait, you were Gryphon’s contact in the Priory? Even back then?”
The woman – who Myrie realized was in fact a norn – nodded. “I’ve been keeping in touch with Gryphon for a while now. Though he hadn’t told me that you were traveling with two of the Priory’s newest members.”
“It was a last-minute decision,” Khimma said, sipping delicately from a mug of spiced wine which had been pressed into her hands. “Nettle over there had decided to go her own way. I see she brought you to us,” she smiled at Llumin with that last statement. The mesmer shook her head.
“In fact, that is not the case. After a brief conversation with some of the Order’s representatives, I have decided to join them. Nettle decided to follow me here to ensure that I arrived safely.”
“How considerate of you,” Myrie muttered, narrowing her eyes at the necromancer. The pale sylvari smiled prettily.
“She’s seemed to take quite an interest in the human gods as of late,” she mused, pausing by a refreshments table to pour herself a mug of tea. “Isn’t that fascinating?” Nettle turned her beaming face towards Selana, whose fingers gripped her mug so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
“Very,” she said coldly. “If you’ll excuse me, Nettle, perhaps we could talk privately. There is something I want to ask you.”

Chapter 26b:

The elementalist, having recovered from her bout with the cold, stood, thanking the nearby Novices for the blankets and refreshments. She beckoned for the necromancer to follow. They walked around a stone pillar, where Selana made sure they were out of earshot. Having ensured that they had not been followed, the human spoke first, her voice struggling to remain steady.
“You told me that you were staying behind because we had other guides,” she said frostily. Despite the fury pouring from Selana’s gaze, the necromancer did not blink.
“I did not lie about that,” she replied smoothly. “You arrived safely, and I went my separate way. I returned to the Grove, checked on Sylfia – who is recovering well, yet still is unconscious – and decided to pay your darling sister a visit.”
“She was supposed to allow her human side to recede or become pronounced naturally. You weren’t supposed to accelerate the process by drinking her blood!”
“And how long would it have taken ‘naturally’, hm?” the necromancer hissed. “The Dragons won’t wait for us to be prepared before we attack them. More are rising and stirring every day, siphoning magic from the world even as they prepare for their attacks upon this plane. The sooner we have our allies in a sound frame of mind, the more ready we will be to finally send them back to sleep.”
“Last I had seen, she seemed to be sound of mind.”
“You are not one to speak on that subject. Though you may be able to claim relation through what small fragment of her mind is still human, you are not sylvari. We have an empathetic connection to others of our race which is unable to be replicated outside of our kind, and to be frank, from the moment I met her, there seemed to be something ‘off.’ To test my theory, I waited for her to fall asleep and forged a blood-link to enter her mind. For some reason she cannot fully know, she is not entirely comfortable in her own skin – and this recent link showed that the core of her insecurities is within the suppression of her central human mind. By freeing what little of it is there, she has become more curious about her heritage. Although she doesn’t know the true reason for her sudden interest in human culture –”
“You didn’t tell her she was born human?”
Nettle sneered. “Do you think I would want her to have a deeper identity crisis than what is already presented? She only knows that her empathy for humans is higher than that of other non-sylvari. Her past is still unknown to her, and if she was to hear that she had been born outside of what she perceives as her true race, the results could be… unpleasant.”
Selana felt her heart sink; at the same time, she recognized the truth in Nettle’s statement. A realization flashed through her mind.
“How were you able to harm her if my parents’ specters were around her?”
“It’s possible that they weren’t,” Nettle smiled, her eyes unsettlingly-cold. “Ghosts are fascinating subjects, but they are only able to exist in one area at a time – and since you are their most-human daughter living, I assumed they would be more likely to stay around you.”
A sharp cry of warning echoed through the frosty air, followed closely by a deep, teeth-shaking rumble. Selana’s eyes flew up as an enormous slab of the mountainside cleaved from its hold and plummeted towards the sylvari.
“Look out!” she shouted, shoving the necromancer out of its path. Both women fell to the ground in a heap of powdered snow and stone.
“That would have crushed you,” the elementalist muttered as she righted herself. A blue mist, which she had initially thought to be dusty stone and ice, formed into two human shapes, revealing themselves as the ghosts of Arcon and Deirdre Firestone.
“Congratulations,” the lord’s ghost spat, eyes blazing white with fury. “You, Nettle Viridia, have done something so idiotic as to pull our attention away from Selana and incur our wrath.”
“We warned you about hurting our daughters,” his wife growled. “And you still decided to hurt Llumin.”
“I’ve helped her! Her mind will –”
“Mists curse it, her mind would have recovered!”
The necromancer barked a laugh. “How would you know? You’re dead! Whatever state you died in is your permanent state until you finally move on!”
Lord Arcon’s ghost stalked forward and pointed a transparent finger at her. “Sylvari, know that no matter how trained you are in the art of death, you are but a young creature, and a mortal at that. If her mental stability does improve, I and my wife will let you be. Until then,” he paused, and a grim smile overtook his handsome features, “consider yourself host to a rather large amount of bad luck.”
“Unless it involves our daughters, you’re going to have a very interesting time while we determine Llumin’s state of being.” Lady Deirdre’s gaze unsettled Selana.
“Mother,” she said firmly, “perhaps you could restrict your ‘bad luck’ to her experiments? She’s an Order of Whispers agent, ” – here the sylvari’s head swiveled to Selana in an expression of shock – “ so it’s entirely possible that her missions may be of more importance than we can tell in a given moment.”
Her father’s ghost crossed his arms and sighed. “Fine. But keep an eye on her if you can, all right? And your mother and I will take turns between keeping the plant in check and ensuring your safety.”
Although Nettle seemed irritated at being referred to as a plant, she had come to the realization that her experiments were in danger and decided to avoid incurring any further spectral wrath by keeping her mouth shut.
“We’ll see how this progresses,” Selana said. “And while I can’t agree with your actions or their results, Nettle, we have more important things on which to focus our attentions for now.”

Chapter 27a:

Llumin was blissfully unaware of the world around her. Surrounded once more in a towering palace of opened parchments, scrolls, and books, she inhaled the scents of old paper, the mellow tang of ancient leather, and the sweet-peppery smell of long-forgotten magics. Unlike her previous study time, her topic of focus was more for pleasure than for her Hunt. She wound a strand of fern-like, dark amethyst hair around her finger and glanced up at her flickering candle-light. Frowning, she lit a new candle with the flame of the dying stub. Her light problem settled, pinched out the old flame, smiled, and wiggled further into her chair. Her fingers tapped on the cracked binding of an old human tome, titled The Gods and Their Legends. Having perused the table of contents, she carefully flipped through the smooth, yellowed pages until she came to an illustration of what at first seemed to be twin sisters, dancing back-to-back. Both smiled, though half of their faces were covered in separate halves of an enigmatic mask. Upon closer inspection, Llumin noticed that at some point in their hips, the sisters were joined together, bound eternally in their weaving dance.
“Lyssa, the goddess of beauty, illusion, and water, is composed of the twins Illya and Lyss. Together they are known as Lyssa; very few refer to her by her dual names. Lyssa is known to represent duality and hidden messages; those who are under disguise are perhaps her closest followers. Actors and mesmers frequently employ her qualities and show her gifts to those lacking – the former through the art of story, the latter through the art of manipulation. By showing truth and knowledge as a many-sided gem instead of a simple black and white, the minds of the unknowing can be made malleable – and those who follow Lyssa know this truth well.”
Llumin’s finger traced the dancing, mysterious image, wondering the reason behind their smiles and recalling her own way of dealing with difficulties. Wasn’t a smile more misleading than showing your true emotions? Despite herself, she found the corners of her mouth moving upward. Truly strange, yet comforting, she thought, inhaling deeply as she brought the tome near her face. The scents of cardamom, cinnamon, and pepper mixed with the smells of incense and old paper, adding to an electric overtone which both thrilled and calmed her senses. She felt drawn to Lyssa above the other human deities; though she couldn’t say she would worship them, the joined sisters gave her an inexplicable sense of calm.
A knock on the library’s doorframe interrupted her concentration. Startled, she nearly dropped the book and stood, dusting her skirt off in a hurry and snatching her staff.
“No need to worry,” an unfamiliar voice said. A white-haired norn, young in face and frame, ducked into the library before straightening. Though short for most of her race, the woman’s head was still closer to the ceiling than most races wold be able to reach. Her eyes crinkled warmly. “You must have been down here for ages,” she noted, seeing the small pile of burnt-out candle nubs on the stone floor. She bent down and scooped them up, depositing them in a bin with other wax ends.
“Magister Whitestorm,” Llumin stammered. “I’m sorry for the mess – I simply became so invested in the books that I completely – ”
The norn waved the sylvari’s concerns aside. “You are not the first Novice, nor certainly the last Priory member who has found themselves enthralled by the archives of our Order. But you should go to sleep.”
“It’s night?” Llumin’s eyes widened in horror. “But I was barely outside enough to greet our guests! I’ll go say goodnight to them right now.”
“Hold on, little one,” Lyca laughed. She placed her large hands on Llumin’s shoulders; the sylvari was made aware of just how small she was compared to the giantess. So she did hold on and arched a curious eyebrow at her.
“Your friends are sleeping,” she said calmly. “We can greet them in the morning. How was your research?”
The mesmer gave a long, tired sigh. “It’s still an ongoing process. I’m starting to wonder, though, if we as an Order are truly prepared to deal with even one Elder Dragon. From what I’ve seen, there are at least five or even six of them sleeping in the world and feasting on its magic. If we, though knowledgeable as we are, are unable to defeat them…” She let her uncertain phrase wither in the air like a rotten vine. Lyca frowned and knelt, facing the sylvari’s eye level.
“Young one,” she said, her tone firm, “know this. If we are unable to defeat the dragons with the power of our Order, it is not the end of the world. There are others out there, and though it turns the stomach of many, it might one day become evident that we will have to join forces with the other two Orders. Though the Order of Whispers is full of backstabbing lowlives and the Vigil’s strongest assets are its muscles and manpower, we cannot deny that their ways are, in many cases, effective. Now, rest. You can continue your research another day.”
The mesmer nodded, sighing shakily. “Should I…?”
The norn waved a hand, fanning the question away. “Don’t worry about cleaning up. I’ll take care of it. Go and rest.”
Llumin bowed her head in thanks, smiled, and walked toward her chambers.

Chapter 28a:

Klixx was not anticipating starting his morning on his face. He had woken up early, stretched, and had his mind almost instantly fill with the thoughts of a delightful breakfast in the Order’s dining hall. The thought evaporated quickly, replaced by one of shock followed shortly by pain as, with a small mechanical whirr and a silvery flash, he glanced down to find his boot-laces had been tied together and his balance had been lost to the ground.
“KHIMMA!” he bellowed after peeling his nose from the stone floor. He glowered after her tiny SHU-TY golem as it clinked up the stairs and away from him. Making a series of curses, most of which promised to turn that scrap of faulty magitech into sparking metal, he stomped as loudly as he could towards his companion’s bed and knocked on its frame. She bolted upright, strands of hair floating wispily in the morning air, and looked down at him groggily.
“What is it now, Klixx?” she groaned, grinding the palms of her hands into her large eyes.
“Your golem,” he spat, trying to keep his eye from twitching, “has just made another assassination attempt on my life.”
“Wh- SHU-TY? He’d never,” she protested. She rolled over, yanking the covers over her head as she snuggled back into her warm cocoon of a bed. “Now, let me sleep. We’ve all got to head back to the Grove later on, and it will be a long trek back to Lion’s Arch.”
The asura gave a low growl and decided that more drastic measures needed to be taken. Concentrating, he began to build a static charge. This task was easily accomplished due to the dry mountain air. A wicked grin flashed onto his face as he gingerly gathered the glowing spark onto his finger, reached onto his tiptoes, and poked his krewemember with a loud, dry pop as it discharged its energy.
Khimma sat up with a yelp, her bright blue hair floating in a halo, and rubbed her arm.
“Klixx!” she whined accusingly, wincing as she massaged the pain away and glowered at her companion. His face showed no remorse and instead displayed a grim sense of satisfaction.
“Welcome to the morning,” he said wryly. “Your golem is already causing chaos in the upper levels and the rest of the party is getting ready to head out.”
“Why should it matter to us?” Khimma groaned, hauling her frame out of the bed and dropping from its frame onto the floor. “We’re not exactly official members.”
“We spent three days in a snow-covered cave, eating spider-legs and keeping the fire from going out. Based on my research into the ratio of hardship-to-bonding, I would almost certainly guarantee that the humans and sylvari would be more than willing to accept our company on their journeys. Besides that, we’ve already proven ourselves worthy combatants and allies.”
Khimma’s bare feet slapped on the stone floor. She sat down and started strapping her armor over her pajamas. “Maybe,” she conceded, squinting an eye closed.
“It’s not even that bright down here,” Klixx huffed. “We were originally an underground species – this should be tolerable, even preferred, to what we’re usually in.”
“Remember another part of your research? Albinos are extremely-sensitive to light.” She lifted up her hair, pointing to the snow-white roots. “I’m going to need to get another bottle of hair dye from that charr when we stop in Lion’s Arch.”
“Maybe you would get more college grants if you went with a more normal color?” Klixx’s tone was hopeful, but his krewemember merely turned her pert nose up and gave a light sniff of derision.
“Anyone who’s as pale as I am without having it due to research-induced lack of sun or tragic experiment gone wrong is seen as strange. You know that, Klixx.”
“Yes, but it shouldn’t be such an oddity. Just because you are…” He cleared his throat, words dying beneath her raised eyebrows. “You know what, forget it,” he sighed. “Personally, I agree with you – those pea-brained smallears should get back to basing grants on brainpower instead of appearance or prestige.”
A smile finally appeared on Khimma’s face. “Even with such prestigious Staticians such as ourselves?”
Klixx chuckled. “Not yet.”
A brown-haired head ducked into their room.
“Hey,” Myrie said, pulling her mask down and letting her breath fog in the cold air, “we’re getting ready. Do you guys want to come or not?”
“Just give us a moment,” Klixx replied, bending down and relacing his boots. When he looked up, Khimma was grinning up the doorshaft.
“This is so much better than writing papers for grants,” she beamed.

Chapter 28b:

The asura emerged into the torchlit clearing and found themselves in the middle of the party’s final preparations for their next expedition.
“We’ve had reports come in of a possible Risen sighting in Overlake Haven,” Llumin stated as she hoisted her pack over her shoulder. “Normally, Priory members are more focused on artifact retrieval, but Iowerth, my recruiter, says that for Risen to attack such a well-fortified compound must mean that something incredibly strong is leading the assault. The unpredictable nature of this attack makes it a repel-and-defend mission only. We are not to engage if they flee and should keep our focus on the people involved.”
“So is he leading the mission?” Khimma asked. She tapped her golem on its cranial crystal, and it folded into an oval which she stuffed in her bag. “I don’t see Magisters Sieran or Whitestorm here.”
“Yes. Sieran and Whitestorm are going to stay at the main base – though I believe the former is there as a punishment for taking me on an unplanned tomb-raid, while the latter is continuing her research into an artifact which may be related to the Elder Dragon of Ice, Jormag.”
Klixx puffed up alongside them, tugging on the knot of brown hair at the back of his head to keep some loose strands in place. “So why would Zhaitan attack Overlake Haven? Aside from it being unusually high-risk, aren’t there other places where the dragon could harvest its minions?”
“Yes, but we’re still not sure what would drive it to seek out this area. Even if it doesn’t end up being terribly important in terms of land, there are enough humans or other races there to add to its army.”
“Excuse me,” Myrie piped up, jogging alongside and raising her hand. “Human here. I’ve heard of the Elder Dragons, but how do they go about adding to their ‘armies’?”
“They consume or alter the forms of the living and dead,” Nettle said simply. “Even sentient magic of the slightest kind adds to their power. Sylvari such as Elmfrond, myself, and Llumin are all immune to Zhaitan’s power. You fleshies, on the other hand,” she said, a wicked grin flashing on her face, “are rich in dragon-food potential.”
Myrie’s face paled, and she turned around, briskly walking to the other side of the clearing until she stood alongside Selana. “You didn’t tell me we were at risk of becoming possible dragon bait!” she hissed. The elementalist didn’t even give her a glance, pausing only briefly to inspect a canister of lavender tea which she placed delicately in her pack.
“It matters not that we are at risk of death. Everything has a risk, and if we do die fighting against the threat of the dragons, at least we will have commanded a worthy passing.”
Myrie snorted. “There’s no reason to be so dour. I know you’d put up a fight before getting corrupted, and me? Well, I’d go down kicking, screaming, and filling that slimy reptile’s throat with lead!”
The elementalist gave a quiet laugh. “True enough. You’re so short, though; you’d barely make a morsel in Zhaitan’s throat.”
The thief responded to this retort by lifting one of the flame-headed woman’s parcels of mushroom sandwich and proceeding to munch calmly on it while looking her directly in the eye. “At least I’d be well-seasoned.”
Llumin gave her pack one last tug to close its opening before clearing her throat lightly. “Due to the nature of this area and the fact that this will be only my second mission, Iowerth will explain the plan of attack.”
“Thank you,” the golden sylvari said, stepping forward. “In order to minimize the risk of lives lost, we are going to deploy self-destructive combative golems to fight off Risen. These will not only allow us to defend the fortress without risking as many lives, but it will allow us to use the golems’ heads to give us a view of the battlefield. Should it be proven that there is, indeed, a high risk of encountering a stronger-than-expected Risen foe, we will remove as many people from the outpost as we can in order to fall back and study it without incurring massive casualties.” He pulled out a staff and walked to the front of the group. “While I understand that we have members of other Orders among us, this is a Priory task; therefore, I would appreciate it if we could simply follow the greater sum of this party and follow according to my plan.”
Selana nodded. “We understand. Ready to move out when you are.”

Chapter 29a:

The Lionguard on duty at Fort Concordia were on edge. Over the past several days, an evil miasma had settled over the outpost. First came the ravens, which swarmed thick and black in the nearby trees and stared down at them with impatient hunger. Then the stampedes occurred, and all surrounding fauna, including those black birds, had flown away, screeching, hooting, and baying as they ran. The worst part, however, was the final silence – the strange, thick pallor of death that hung in the air, and the sickly green haze which hovered over the ground. Soldiers who breathed it in often became violently ill or unwell in the mind, muttering nervously about shadows in the water and staring over their shoulders as if the Orrian Dragon itself were lurking nearby. However, there were some who held hope; perhaps the signs were all wrong. The sea could be a fickle mistress, after all. For those who were cautious, though, there were some who had faith in the appearance of their reinforcements from the Priory.
“We’ve already informed the captain via messenger bird that our plan of attack will be more defensive than offensive,” Iowerth said. “We’re here to push the Risen out; not pursue them all the way to Orr and back.” Klixx, meanwhile, had hauled a large magitech cylinder from a cart and, with Khimma’s help, set it on the ground with a clunk. He stretched his fingers before tapping a set of oblong diamond buttons, starting the machine with a low whirr and hum. While the golem activation device slowly purred to life, the rest of the party took defensive positions. Nettle and Myrie were to help the golem make it into the fort’s doors; the rest were to stay back and protect the operator from any stray Risen who may have gotten the idea to shamble towards the controller of the machine instead of the device itself. The chances of that seemed unlikely, though – most of the undead were going to focus on the larger group of potential prey than the small gathering of adventurers. Klixx gave the machine one final set of commands and watched it launch a small golem out of its top like a cork from a bottle. He dusted off his hands and stepped back, giving an exaggerated bow to Llumin.
“The honor’s all yours, little leaf,” he declared. “The controls are fairly simple, but if you have any troubleshooting issues, the designers are right here.”
Khimma pointed to the glassy, flickering panel by the buttons. “This is the golem’s eye – if you keep your eyes on the screen, you’ll be able to see what it sees. Let us know if you spot something unusual.”
The sylvari pursed her lips. “And risen, walking corpses from the sea are considered usual in this case?”
“They are, unless they seem to move with an intelligence greater than can be expected of a semi-rotten fish-brain.”
Her brow furrowed as her fingers fluttered over the command input. “And how will I be able to tell that?”
Iowerth gave a humorless laugh. “Believe me, you’ll know.”

The Risen eagle soared low over the fort’s parapets, dead eyes seeking weaknesses, prey, and a point of entrance for the attack. Its scouting was abruptly interrupted by a single black arrow which cleanly severed its soft head from its neck. The Lionguard who had sniped it gave a grin. “Not so bad,” he chuckled, readying another. “Those eggheads at the Priory worry too much.”
The charr next to him gave a growl. “I wouldn’t be so confident. Eagles are scouts – and if you shot it down, there will be more on their way. And Priory members rarely overestimate things, so you’d best watch your tongue before some undead norn yanks it out of your head and uses it for a shoe.”
The first guard paused, unnocking his arrow. “Do undead even have shoes?”
The charr opened his mouth to retort, but his reply soured in his throat as his eyes latched onto the beachfront. “Enemies on the beach! All soldiers to your positions!”

Chapter 29b:

It would have been comical at how slowly they had first shambled from the sea if it weren’t for the fact that, despite how quickly the initial wave had risen and fallen, the undead kept coming. For each corpse the Lionguard returned to rest, three more gasped and clawed to take its place. And with ever-increasing speed, the undead drew their weapons; gave low, gurgling growls; and began to run towards the walls. The horrible sounds of wailing and wet, fleshy thumps and crunches filled the air as, with the slow, unending patience of the sea, the Orrians tore into the stone walls of the fortress.
“They’re coming through!” the first guard bellowed, feet pumping as he raced to the floor from his place on the wall. “They’re breaking it down!”
“Keep your head on, mouse!” the charr roared, golden armor stained with rotten blood as he shot another eagle from the sky. “The last thing we need is for you to lose your focus during an attack.”
A norn next to him raised her fingers to the sky and traced fire through the air, scorching more undead with the stomach-churning smells of rotten seaweed and putrid meat. “It would take hours for these puny rots to break through this wall; it’s been standing for over fifty years, and unless they have something truly monstrous, we’ll be able to weed them out by that time.”
Her confident swagger shriveled as, on the horizon, a hulking aberration of mangled, twisted corpses lurched from the sea, casting its enormous shadow on the suddenly-fragile looking embankments.
“You just had to say something, didn’t you?” the human growled.
The risen abomination raised its hammer, roared, and charged at the wall.
It broke like wet tissue paper.

Further up the hill, a hunched, black-cloaked figure hovered slightly above the ground, its robes wispy yet rotten, and its face the green-colored skull of death. Its hollow sockets glowed with power, and its pale-sinewed arms flexed with the magics it wielded. As it watched the battle below, a low hiss escaped its broken-toothed maw. Flexing its hand and concentrating, the figure directed its influence towards the front of the gate, where the guards were thinning and two persistent women refused to die. From deep within the sea, the dragon’s forces responded, slowly trailing reanimated corpses to the front of the building and crashing on the thin wooden gate like a hellish wave. In the full view of such a pitiable scene, the skeletal creature raised its face to the sky and let out a dry, hollow laugh that sounded like the throat of the world had been slit.

“There!” Klixx’s voice echoed and rang in Llumin’s ear; the asura had practically leapt upon the device and stabbed his finger at the screen. “Do you see that?”
The sylvari carefully detonated another golem, sending rotten chunks of flesh spewing high into the air. “I’m rather busy at the moment; whatever that was, I only caught a glimpse of it.”
“Well, send out another golem and go that way again.”
A distant cry gave the group pause. Selana drew her staff. “Nettle and Myrie are in trouble; Elmfrond, come with me. We need to make sure they survive. Klixx, Khimma?”
“Just go! We’ll protect the salads however we can.” Khimma waved the human off as she drew her hammer. Another golem shot high from the device, landing like a meteor in the center of combat between the Risen and the defenders.
“Now, go left!”
“I will go whichever direction is needed! At the moment, if I can lay down a few more traps….”
“There! It’s there!” Khimma’s excited shriek was like an icepick in Llumin’s ears. She gave a low growl as her mine sent several more of the flaccid corpses to the Mists. Thankfully, the attacks seemed to be lessening. She turned the golem in the direction the asura had pointed. Within seconds, a horrific being loomed in front of the viewing screen. Its skeletal face opened as if in a roar of fury, and its flayed arm pointed a clawed finger at the device. Shortly thereafter, there was a distant boom, and the group knew that the golem had been detonated. Tension zinged through her body, and her entire form seemed to be as rigid as a bowstring.
“They’re falling back! We’ve beat them!” came a triumphant cry. Elmfrond laughed as he helped support Myrie and as Nettle staggered back with Selana towards the party. “They’ve all retreated back into the sea,” he beamed. “We lost hardly anyone.”
Myrie stumbled over and gave Llumin a pat on the back. “Hey, g…good job there, Llumin. You should…you should celebrate.” The thief slid down until she sat upon the ground, her eyes glassy. The mesmer followed suit shortly, sitting next to her. Myrie arched an eyebrow.
“What’s that for? You weren’t even in the battle.”
“It’s not over,” Iowerth broke in, his tone grim. “We may have diverted this little sortie, but I believe that whatever led the attack will return elsewhere – this was merely a distraction.”
“Well, does that distraction have a classification?” Khimma asked.
“It was a lich,” the senior Priory stated dully. “A member of Zhaitan’s strongest sorcerers. If it was here, it stands to reason that it – or others under its command – will rise elsewhere. We’ve done well for today, but we must find out who that creature was before we face it in battle. The longer it lives, the more danger the world is in.”

Chapter 29c:

“So, where are we headed now?” Myrie was favoring her leg slightly, but aside from some minor injuries, she was relatively unharmed. After they had ensured that there were no lingering Risen within the fort’s walls, the group had moved back towards the Priory, where they were resting and recovering from the battle.
“Despite our centuries of research and knowledge, trying to find out which lich we encountered would take too long; in that time, who knows where it may head or how it may behave?” Khimma gnawed absently on the tip of her ponytail. “And I can’t think of anyone here who has had the time or devotion to study nothing but Orrian creatures. This could take forever – and forever’s something we don’t have!”
Llumin, who had been quietly thinking to herself for most of the journey back, suddenly perked up. “I just might know someone who could help us with our lich problem.” She glanced towards Khimma. “Did you manage to get a good view of it? Your memory is probably better than mine right now.”
The asura scrunched her nose. “Of course it is, bookah. And as much as I hate to have it that way, the rotting image of that thing isn’t getting out of my mind any time soon.”
Llumin smiled. “Then we can head to the Grove again to solve two problems: One shall be to see Sylfia, and the other will be to find Trahearne.”

Myrie was getting rather tired of all of the bugs in the jungle. While she did understand and appreciate the reason for many of their existences, it did not lessen her dislike for them. What always impressed her, though, was the lack of bloodsucking pests in the Grove; the only creatures within lived in peaceful harmony with its residents. She snuck a glance at Nettle. Well, maybe most of them did. That one she still had her concerns. Llumin brushed ahead of her, eyes gleaming with determination as she strode toward a large, teardrop-shaped seedpod-elevator. Myrie gave it a skeptical glance.
“Are we supposed to be carried somewhere in that thing?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. Llumin laughed.
“Despite its appearance,” she said, stepping in as the leaf-door opened downward, “they are extremely sturdy. And don’t worry about it becoming misdirected – they move as if with the will of the Pale Tree, and only on set paths.” She motioned for them to step inside. “There’s plenty of room.”
Klixx sneezed. “And you’re certain we won’t have to stand on each other’s heads?”
Nettle sighed, rolling her eyes as she joined Llumin in the elevator. “If you don’t fit, I’ll find a way for it to work.”
Myrie never thought she would see an elevator fill so quickly. Somehow, as Llumin had stated, they all managed to fit. There was a slight tug in the bottom of her gut, and as she squeezed over to the window to look outside, she saw that they were drifting upwards ever so gently. She raised her eyebrows and returned to her previous position. That wasn’t so bad after all. Within seconds, the party arrived at the top of the bower and were within the presence of the Pale Tree.

Chapter 30a:

To Myrie’s surprise, the Firstborn was already in the bower, talking quietly with the Pale Tree. However, as the party drew near, Trahearne seemed to notice them, and he simply stepped aside, bowing his head in acknowledgement.
“It is good to see you again, Mother Tree,” Llumin murmured, kneeling. “May your boughs grow ever-longer, and may your roots run still-deeper into nourishing soils.”
“And it is good to see you once again, my daughter,” the Tree smiled. She beckoned for her to rise. “What brings you here today?”
Llumin took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as she spoke. “Mother, while my friends and I were out in the world, we saw and battled against the undead dragon’s minions. Although most of them were of the usual sort, one in particular stood out among them. My friend, the asura, had a better view of it, so I will allow her to elaborate.”
The guardian stepped into the inner sanctum, bowing until the tips of her ears touched the ground.
“I am Khimma, a Statician from the asuran city of Rata Sum. We are here on a mission to see if the Firstborn, Trahearne, is able to assist us with identifying an undead creature we saw while defending Fort Concordia from the dragon’s minions.” She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. “Although to some, liches are merely another form of undead, we have knowledge from former experience that these categories of Risen are particularly nasty.”
“You have that right,” Trahearne muttered. His sunset-colored eyes glowed. “What did it look like?”
“I was getting there,” the asura said irately. Llumin sensed her frustration and gave a small mesmeric suggestion that she calm down. Thankfully, the asura took the idea as naturally as one of her own, and with a flex of her fingers, she continued. “Okay, so you have a general idea of how liches look, right? Nasty, skeletal creatures, usually wearing tattered, rotten robes and with a pretty awful stench of death magic around them? This one was worse than what I could have expected. The attack on Fort Concordia seemed to be more of a sortie than an actual fight, so I expected a minor undead with some power and average intellect. However, what I saw through the portable golem-bomb’s screen indicated that, whoever this was during its life, it is even more powerful in death. I had read that liches have a size-to-magic correspondence, and based on my calculations, this one was roughly twice the height of your ‘average’ lich. Not only are we dealing with an ancient draconic minion, we’re dealing with one which is extremely intelligent, powerful, and patient enough to test its army’s strength before determining a full-on attack. Does any of this help with identification?”

Chapter 30b:

The Pale Tree’s face was shadowed.
“Mother?” Llumin asked cautiously.
The Tree’s avatar shook her head, as if removing herself from a fog of memory. “I know of what you speak. Trahearne, do you remember the creature that first slew our kind?”
He nodded slowly. “Riannoc fell to a member of Zhaitain’s forces known as Mazdak the Accursed. You don’t think that this lich is the same one they saw, do you?”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
The green-skinned necromancer grimaced before turning to Llumin. “Riannoc was the most valiant Firstborn I have ever known; among our brothers and sisters, he was the most hopeful. He feared nothing; not death, not even the Elder Dragons. In his zeal to purge the world of the dragons’ spawn, he was slain by Mazdak’s horde of summoned dead. Although we were able to recover his body, one thing we have never found is the location of his sword, Caladbolg.”
Myrie huffed. “Great; we know what the lich is, so why not find that instead of wasting our time trying to locate some silly sword?”
“This is no simple steel.” Trahearne’s voice was icy. “Caladbolg is the first and only sword to be made from the Pale Tree’s thorns. It is this sword alone which can slay Mazdak – no blade wrought from the earth can harm him. So I will excuse your ignorance about ‘some silly sword’ in favor of having your aid in its finding.”
Her lips twitched into a line. “Point taken,” she muttered. “Sorry.”
“Riannoc has been dead for many years,” Nettle said flatly. “What matter is it if we find his sword? Surely you could make another.” The last part of her statement was directed at the Pale Tree. Her answer was firm.
“That sword contained the embodiment of my own power, child,” she said. “And while it still exists, whether in part or in whole, I will not make another. It is as much a matter of ability as it is caution, for in divesting my magic elsewhere, I run the risk of losing that sword to someone who might misuse it.”
A Warden who had stood guard gave the necromancer a pointed frown. “Someone like you.”
Nettle was briefly silent, and only the slight workings of her mouth betrayed her fury. She finally gave a low, hissing sigh and turned her heel. “I won’t stand for slander. I’ll be on the lower floor.”
Selana briefly opened her mouth to protest, then closed it, shook her head, and turned back to the Pale Tree. “I apologize for my companion’s prickly nature.”
The avatar shook her golden head. “You have no need. Nettle is not the first nor will she be the last of my children to be tempted with the excesses of power and knowledge. I only hope she will use her abilities for the greater good of Tyria.”
“Speaking of which,” Llumin said gently, “we were wondering if it would be possible to somehow re-enact Riannoc’s death; to find out what his last moments were, and where exactly his sword may have gone.”
“Well, we’re out a necromancer,” Myrie noted flatly, glancing at the descending elevator-pod. “So I’m not sure how that’s going to work.”
Trahearne cleared his throat. “If I may, I would be willing to help put the mystery of Riannoc’s sword to rest. I am versed in the necromantic arts, and should my power be necessary, I would be honored to help you.”
“Then it’s settled,” Llumin smiled. “We’ll find Riannoc’s grave and conduct a ritual to see what his final day was like, and then we will be able to hopefully find out what happened to Caladbolg.”
Myrie cast a glance toward the prone form of Sylfia, still bound in healing vines. “Maybe by the time we’re back, she’ll finally have healed and woken up. She’ll certainly be upset that she missed so much fun.”
Klixx’s wide mouth twisted into a sour look. “Oh, yes,” he muttered. “Fun.”

Chapter 31a:

The scene that appeared before her eyes was foggy, obscured by the Mists and the spectral essence of the man whose life she was seeing. Despite the warning that the transition could be shocking, Llumin still had to shake her head before making sense of it. When her mouth opened, a strong, male voice echoed into the night.
“Waine,” he said, stance faltering yet blade at the ready, “I know it looks frightening, but if you stay by me, we will be able to take them on. Stay by my side.” She felt her lips curve into a tired smile, and through the eyes of the departed Firstborn, Riannoc, she glanced down behind her and saw the pale, frightened face of a human boy. His squire, she knew – though whether the information was from her readings or the memories echoed by the ritual, she could not tell.
An anguished cry tore through the night’s susurrus like a jagged cut. The Firstborn’s gaze snapped back towards the horizon, eyes narrowing as he sought the forms of his foes in the hazy sunset. There – he saw the Risen horde grasp and stagger from the swamp, weapons at the ready and with eyes clouded in death. His heart thrilled. This was his call – this was his Wyld Hunt. He raised the pale, faintly-glowing greatsword high and charged in. The thorn of the Pale Tree cleft through rusted metal and toughened sinew alike, hewing a gleaming path through the undead horde. A grim smile was frozen upon his features.
“Waine!” he called, peering back at his squire. “Notice my stance! Remember when you’re fighting the Risen, they often lack coherent strategy, preferring to fight in swarms. Don’t just stand there – try taking a swipe!”
The human gulped nervously, and for a moment, Llumin saw doubt flash through Riannoc’s mind. He banished the thought. Although he was but a boy, the sylvari had full confidence in his skill; he had seen it before, and the strength with which he fought promised to make him a warrior of renown. The only possible obstacle would be his cowardice, though the Firstborn was certain that he would overcome it.
“Sir!” The warning echoed into his ears, a terrified cry which caused him to turn around. Riannoc’s smile faltered. From the deeper parts of the swamp, an undead of unusual size and power rose, erupting from a corruptive mark like a demon summoned from the blackest parts of the Underworld. A moment of paralyzing terror seized his mind; for half a second, he considered sheathing the sword and running, leaving the nearby town of Wytchmire undefended. They had their own Wardens; surely they could survive? He shook his head fiercely, steadying his stance and lifting the blade. No. He could not leave them like that.
The creature raised rotting arms and spoke in a terrible voice, summoning more Risen from beneath the swamps murky depths.
“Kill the sylvari and break the sword,” it groaned. “The Dragon cannot have that blade survive.”
The Firstborn whirled around, neatly severing dripping limbs from their bloated bodies. Liches. That’s what they were called. He grimaced. Trahearne had warned him of their power, saying that, though possible to kill, their strength and connection to the Elder Dragon, Zhaitan, was immense, allowing them unimaginable powers and intellect. He rolled his shoulders, riposting an undead norn’s crashing strike and decapitating its head. It didn’t matter to him; lich or not, undead was undead, and the sword Caladbolg would ensure that it remained in the ground when killed for its final time.
“Stay back, Waine – be prepared to fight only if necessary, and back me up with your arrows,” he ordered. He turned back to the lich, feeling the nicks and bruises on his exposed skin start to prickle with unease. This wasn’t the first time he had fought against impossible odds, so why only now did he feel that unfamiliar sensation of fear? He glanced back, and his eyes bulged. “Waine!”

Chapter 31b:

His squire stood frozen in place, surrounded by encroaching undead. Although his sword was drawn, even from where he stood, Riannoc saw his blade shaking in terror. “You cannot have him!” he cried, rushing to where the boy stood trembling. Pushing his squire aside, the knight struck wildly at his foes. It wasn’t just the bonds of mentorship that forced his hand; the squire was human, and that made him susceptible to becoming corrupted. He could never live with himself if that were to happen. But the lich still stood, and he could have sworn he heard a low, contented chuckle. More undead surrounded him, and for one stunning moment of clarity, the valiant Firstborn realized that this was how he was going to die.
“Waine! Take the sword and strike down the lich! If you can hit him, he will die! One solid blow!” He threw the weapon at his squire, which landed heavily in the muck by his feet. The boy stared, pale-faced, at the blade and took it in his shaking hands. A norn battered Riannoc’s exposed back, sending him to the ground on all fours. “Go now, boy!” he ordered hoarsely. “Before they kill me and break the blade!”
Waine’s eyes brimmed with tears as he looked from the sword to his mentor. “No,” he whispered. “No, I can’t do this!” Taking the sword in his arms, the boy turned and ran. “I’m sorry, Riannoc; I can’t do this!”
“Waine!” Betrayal seared his heart. It was the last emotion he felt before a sword pierced his breast, sending his last breath rattling to the Pale Tree and his soul into the Dream.

Chapter 31c:

Llumin returned to the living world abruptly, her breath coming in the same gasp as that with which Rinanoc had lost his life.
“Easy,” Trahearne’s voice anchored her back to reality, “you’re back now. What did you see?”
“We’ve never done that before,” Caithe interrupted, her low voice unreadable. “Surely we could give her a moment’s rest.”
“No, I’m fine,” Llumin replied. Her voice was shaky. She gulped. “Riannoc was slain by Mazdak, but the sword still exists. His squire, Waine, betrayed him and took the blade. Riannoc knew that his squire struggled with cowardice, but had confidence in his strength and fighting skill. By now, he is most likely an adult; but where would someone like him find employment? No non-sylvari had heard of the blade before today, but its powers would undoubtedly generate a stir.”
Myrie, who had been standing alongside Selana, perked up. “You know, the last time I was in Lion’s Arch, I had heard of some ‘Waine the Unbeatable.’ I’ve heard he fights with an indestructible blade. Could that be him?”
“Yes! Why didn’t you say anything before?” Elmfrond’s voice was incredulous.
“I’ve never been interested in the pit fights! And no one mentioned some crazy sword before you nutty sylvari came on rattling about it.” The thief frowned. “Although I don’t think he’ll be easy to beat. That thorn-sword – ”
“Caladbolg,” Trahearne corrected flatly.
“ — Salad Bowl or whatever, probably gives him some incredible power. I mean, it would have to; it was made for going against liches, so its magic is obviously pretty intense.” Myrie decided against saying anything further when she caught the unamused stares of the Firstborn. “Yeesh, you guys really can’t take a joke.”
“Myrie, to the sylvari, this is the equivalent of a holy relic – something like the sword of Balthazar or a vessel of Lyssa. You must understand, then, that to them, this is no joking matter.”
The young woman sighed. “All right. I’m sorry; I didn’t know it meant that much to you.”
Elmfrond’s eyes bulged. “You mean the trek through the undead-haunted swamp, the fights against evil hylek, and the enormous mosquitos we vanquished – not to mention that difficult necromantic ritual – didn’t give it away?”
“Hey, I’m only human. Sylvari culture is still pretty different to me.”
“Well, different or not, we can all appreciate the role of effectiveness that Caladbolg could play in the war against Zhaitan. So, how should we get it back?”
The group was briefly silent. Caithe cleared her throat. “If I recall properly, you are all members of some of Tyria’s higher orders. Figure it out among yourselves – as for me, I have a meeting I must attend with some old allies. I will contact you when necessary.”
With that, the pale-skinned sylvari stepped into the shadows, vanishing into the lush greens.
“As always, my sister steps out during the worst of times,” Trahearne muttered crossly, flicking an irritated glance into the shrubs. “Yet I, too, must leave for now; there have been reports of Risen mutations in some of the recent battles, and Steward Gixx of the Durmand Priory has enlisted my help.”
“Yeah, about that…” Khimma twisted her hair around a finger sheepishly. “Klixx and I have also been called back for that one.”
“We’re basically there to make sure the magitech doesn’t reverse its ambient enervation flow and electrocute and/or blow up the Priory,” Klixx explained. “And since we are two of the Priory’s top researchers on the subject…”
“Oh, don’t worry about us, then,” Llumin sighed, waving her hand dismissively. “We’ll be fine. And I’m sure we can figure out a way to get the sword. And if we can’t get it through all of our battles, we’ll just have to think of something else.”
The necromancer bowed his head apologetically. “I wish I could aid you – Caladbolg is the greatest weapon the Mother Tree has crafted, and will probably be the only one of its kind. May your mission be a success.”
“Yours as well,” the mesmer replied, taking a moment to bend down and shake the small hands of the asura. “I’ll write you if – no, when – we have the sword.”
Trahearne smiled. “I look forward to hearing of it.”

Chapter 32a:

Myrie coughed as the salt-spray air of Lion’s Arch stung her face and lungs.
“I’ll never get used to that atmosphere change,” she muttered, eyes watering.
“If you think that’s bad, just remember what it was like going from here to Hoelbrak,” Selana reminded her. Elmfrond shuddered.
“Don’t remind me,” he said, rubbing his arms briskly. “I still get chills thinking of it.”
“You know, this is the smallest our party has been for a while. Khimma and Klixx have gone to the Priory, Nettle’s off doing gods-know-what, Sylfia’s still healing from that battle with Renvari…”
“You’ve still got me,” Elmfrond interjected, grinning broadly. Myrie chuckled.
“That we do. But it still doesn’t change the fact that it has been several weeks since our crew was just four.”
Selana smiled, her long strides carrying her only slightly ahead of the thieves. Llumin had been silent, her wide eyes taking in the city around them.
“Is this your first time here?” The elementalist’s voice carried through the sea-spray air with surprising clarity. Llumin blinked in surprise.
“Yes – are human cities always this big?”
Selana gave a laugh. “Not always. But Divinity’s Reach, the capital of Kryta, is as large if not larger than Lion’s Arch. Granted, the seaport is naturally inclined towards drifters, but it still manages to be of an impressive size.”
“Lion’s Arch isn’t just a human city, either,” Myrie added. “There used to be a time when that was the case, but now all that’s left of that period are the name and the ruins beneath the sea. This area’s a pretty good melting-pot – you can meet nearly anyone or anything in here.”
“Which isn’t always a good thing,” Selana noted, ducking her head beneath a merchant’s swaying luggage-pole. “Not everyone who comes to the big city leaves it.”
“You mean they decide to stay?” Llumin’s innocent, hopeful question made the elementalist give a dry smile.
“In a way,” she replied. Myrie was not so subtle.
“They stay buried six feet deep – corpses can’t exactly move.”
“Unless they’re reanimated by necromancy!” Elmfrond interjected happily. The human thief gave him a look.
“You really shouldn’t sound so cheery when discussing that,” she said.
“Why not? It’s not like the bodies can complain – and they’re being used for good purposes.”
“All right, you gave me grief about my lack of sylvari cultural understanding, so I’ll go easy on you for your lack of human understanding. Those of us who are flesh generally are unnerved by the idea of someone reanimating and using our bodies after we’re dead – it’s considered a taboo subject in many of our subcultures. This is usually because we still see them as friends or family members. It doesn’t matter that the soul has already gone; because of how we view the world, to many, it is still unnerving.” She smiled wanly. “So if it’s anything to you, if I somehow die in this bilgewater-infused city, please burn my body before anyone can use it.”
“And speaking of bodies,” Llumin murmured, pointing to a poster. “We may have found the one who is responsible for Riannoc’s death.”
Myrie peered at it. It was as the mesmer had said – on it was an advertisement for pit fights, with the final round being against the champion, Waine the Unyielding – and his strange, white sword born of no steel.
She grinned. “All right, we’ve got our target. Now to make a plan.”

Chapter 32b:

“I suppose I’d best state right now that shortly after our meeting, I decided to join the Vigil,” Myrie stated. Selana’s eyebrows rose only fractionally. The thief held up a hand and continued. “Before you ask why, allow me to say that it arose largely out of a sense of frustration with the practices of the other orders. The Priory just sits around collecting knowledge while the world burns, and the Order of Whispers seemed content to hide in their headquarters while watching everyone else try fighting the dragons. Besides, how many thieves have gone, ‘Ooh, it’s the Order of Whispers! I’m going to be a super-assassin of the night now!’ Please. If I wanted some hoity-toity badge of slaying, I would have kept my honor in Quinn’s grave. I didn’t have to stop killing the Widowmakers after Pete was dead, and it was possible that despite her return to my gang’s original practices, Riot Alice could have found herself on the wrong side of my dagger as well. So I went with the Vigil – an order which follows its words with steel and holds honor among brothers as its standard. Sure, we may not have as many resources as the others, but we get stuff done.” She leaned back against a wooden pillar – they had stopped briefly in an enclosure to escape the noonday sun – and sighed. “So concerning the whole …Caladbolg incident… I recommend we do this in the most direct manner. We go into the pit, fight against Waine, and take the sword from his weepy, sad hands.”
“His hands would be weeping?” Elmfrond’s brow furrowed.
“No, he’ll be weeping,” Llumin held up a finger. “Especially after he’s beaten so soundly.”
Selana gave a wry smile. “If I were a more rash person, I may have given you a bit of a shock for your insults to my Order, Myrie. Though it’s not common knowledge, I decided to join the Order of Whispers.”
The thief took a moment to rearrange her face from its sudden position of shock to one which would be more socially-presentable, but by that time, the elementalist had already seen, and her eyes crinkled in amusement.
“Why, you wonder, did I join? You didn’t need to ask. The Priory is full of knowledge, true, but the Order of Whispers seemed more familiar to me. As a highborn, the political games we play are bred into us from the day we are born. There’s backstabbing, intrigue, and the occasional scandal. Very few are above using dirty means to get what they want, and often, if you look hard enough, you can find the trail of mud left from the deed committed. Naturally, in an order that specializes using underhanded techniques and behind-the-scenes manipulation of events, I thought the Whispers would be a perfect fit. However, I will admit that its ties to Elona – and thus, my paternal ancestor – certainly added to the attraction.”
Myrie shook her head, taking a sip from a glass of water. “Somehow, I can’t see you as manipulative or one who would stoop to foul play.”
“You’re perceptive, then – though I have used my connections to find out those who were not,” she replied. “But for this mission, we may need to use some sleight-of-hand. If we drug Waine’s drinking-tankard with a mild hallucinogen, we should be able to take off his fighting edge and press our advantage. When he loses to his opponent, he should place his sword in his tent while he recovers, leaving it ripe for the snatching. He’s predictable and a coward to boot, so there are very few reasons why he would deviate from the plan.” Her ice-blue gaze sought Llumin’s. “And what does our resident Magister of the Priory have to say concerning the ideas for Caladbolg’s reacquisition?”

Chapter 32c:

The fern-haired sylvari gave a sheepish smile. “Actually,” she murmured, “I was thinking that the Vigil’s plan sounded the best. What if Waine gets suspicious of his drink? Perhaps he would refuse to imbibe before a match starts. Certainly, he may take a drink once or twice before a round, but what if someone mixes the drug wrong, or what if the poisoner has to drink as well? There are too many risks with the Whispers’ plan, so I recommend Myrie’s.”
Elmfrond nodded. “I haven’t decided which one to join, but as a neutral party, I have to agree.”
“When’s the next match? And who should we send in?” Myrie set her empty cup on a rickety wooden table and leaned over it, glancing at her companions with curiosity. “I’m not bad in close-combat, but it still seems like a poor idea for me to carry a greatsword. They’re a bit large – and I’m really not.”
“True; it would be a pity to break the blade for sheer clumsiness,” Llumin murmured. She ignored Myrie’s cry of irritation and continued slowly, “I think that I may be more ready to fight him; after all, if I take the blade as a prize, I will already be familiar with it. When Trahearne cast the ritual on me, I not only saw as Riannoc saw, but I felt as he did as well. I feel as though, were I to hold Caladbolg, it would seem…fitting.” Her brows furrowed. “I’m not really sure if or how to explain it.”
Selana nodded slightly. “You make a good point – and unless anyone else has a different idea, I vote that Llumin go in the ring.”
“Hold on! What if she’s unready for it?” Elmfrond’s eyes shone with concern. “No offense, but Llumin’s a mesmer – she’s able to deal some damage, but what if she gets hit?”
“Elmfrond, really. You needn’t worry about me.” The mesmer smiled. “I’ve been in battle before. I know I’m not as physically strong as you, but I believe that I am more than capable of taking on a lowbrow coward of a pit fighter. It might be scary, to be certain, but I am willing to do whatever I can in order to return the sword to the Pale Mother.”
Elmfrond turned the combat poster over, running a green finger over its printed text. “Well, then, we’d best run to the Lion’s Circle by the Claw Island pier. The next set of fights is this evening, so if Llumin’s going to be ready, we’d best get going.”
Myrie grinned and gave the mesmer a good-natured slap on the back. “You hear that? You’re going into the pit fights! Get geared up, miss gladiator!”

Chapter 33a:

Llumin concentrated deeply, feeling the thick, supple leaves growing from her body toughen and lengthen in response. It had been a while since she had paid attention to her armor, and she figured that if she was going to be in close-combat with a brawler, she had best ensure that she was as protected as possible. Although she knew that her friends would be in the crowd, she wasn’t sure how well they would fare if they leapt into the ring in a show of solidarity. Such a scenario would more likely than not trigger a brawl among the audience as much as allow her to defeat Waine, so no matter how poorly the battle seemed to be going, she would need to fight him alone. Would she be able to defeat him? She, the pale, slender sylvari, so naïve and born only mere months ago, was to fight this battle-hardened, desperate gladiator who had defeated many before her, in an attempt to restore the honor of her home and the stolen sword he wielded. The task was certainly daunting. She took a deep breath, murmuring prayers to the Pale Tree, and bound her hair back with other strands growing from the back of her neck. A faint scuff in the sand alerted to Myrie’s presence behind her.
“Hey,” the human greeted casually. “I thought you were getting ready for the fight, so I figured I’d drop by and see if you needed a pep talk or something.”
For a moment, the mesmer was quiet, her mouth pursed in thought. “Some food would be nice,” she finally said. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
Myrie grinned. “Good thing I didn’t eat what Lyca sent, then – she somehow managed to buy an asuran space-warp package, and she used it to send us a veritable banquet. It’s much bigger on the inside. You might want to have something lighter in your stomach, though – are you okay with eating salad?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?” Llumin took the ceramic bowl of greens from her, arching an eyebrow curiously.
“Well, you’re a plant, right? You might look humanoid, but you’re not flesh and blood.”
“True,” the sylvari answered, taking a bite of the peppery-lemon leaves. “This is quite good! My compliments to Lyca – and her ingenuity considering the use of that pack.”
“I’ll let her know. But you don’t feel any connection to salad leaves, do you? I mean, I’ve heard that some sylvari can ‘hear’ plants or something…”
Suddenly realizing what the human was saying, Llumin’s eyes widened, and she gave a hearty laugh. “Do you really think that because I’m sylvari instead of mammalian that I have an…emotional connection to salads and fruits?”
Myrie’s ears reddened. “Well, I don’t know! I can’t feel anything with them, and it didn’t really come to mind until later, but – ”
Llumin managed to regain her composure and wiped at her eyes, still letting loose the occasional giggle. “No, Myrie, I am not one who empathizes with vegetables and fruits. I haven’t heard of anyone who does, really – even our farmers, though they sense the health of their crops, do not ‘speak’ with their seedlings.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t feel bad, though – you’re probably not the first to wonder, and I’m certain you won’t be the last. Besides, I needed that laugh. All of this pre-competition stress is really quite unnerving.”
“Glad to be of assistance,” the thief replied, grinning sheepishly. “And I’m sorry if I wasn’t being terribly nice – it was just one of those thoughts that wouldn’t go away.”
“As I’ve said, it’s water under the bridge. Who’s up next?” Llumin set her empty salad bowl on the dusty ground and gave a few practice thrusts with her sword.
Myrie craned her neck behind her shoulder, watching as the newest competitor entered and exited the ring in rapid fashion, leaving the bloodstained sand with more bruises than he had probably bargained. She squashed her growing unease, turned back to the mesmer, and said, “You.”

Chapter 33b:

The wooden, rickety stairs which descended into the sandy pit creaked in protest at even Llumin’s delicate tread. The insecurity of her footing certainly did nothing to help her nerves, but she made a deliberate effort to keeping all signs of her unsettlement tamped firmly behind her resolution. Exhaling slowly through pursed lips, she closed her eyes and slipped on her harlequin’s mask, which covered her face in its reassuring yet intimidating smile. When she returned her gaze to the opposite side of the arena, she saw her opponent descending with the cool confidence and swagger of an arrogant cat. Her stomach, despite its few contents, soured. How irreverently he held that glowing blade! What injustices he must have committed with it. No more would that be allowed to happen.
“Yeah, Llumin! Knock him straight to the Mists!” Her head whipped up, startled, as she sought to recognize her encourager. Myrie, who was sitting next to Selana and two across from Elmfrond, waved vigorously. The elementalist quickly whispered something in her ear, which caused the thief to sheepishly fan her hand in dismissal of her earlier comment.
“You’ve got this,” the noblewoman said confidently, her calm tone carrying over the crowd’s roar.
An asuran announcer waved her hands, summoning an enormous holographic projection of herself. The green spectacle clapped once, and the sound was amplified over the noise of the crowd, which only briefly lowered its volume.
“Joining our favorite champion, Waine the Unbeatable, the Undefeatable, the Bruiser and Cruiser is Llumin, sylvari from the Grove! Who will win? Place your bets – and keep your shovels ready for some new mulch, people!”
The human finally stood before her. She had to focus in order to keep her gaze on him instead of on the blade he bore.
“I’ve beaten dozens of your kind before,” he sneered. “And no matter how much you’re hiding behind that mask of yours, I can practically smell your fear from here.”
“You haven’t fought anything like me, Waine,” she murmured back, eyes narrowing. His face flickered briefly in confusion, but he shook his head and gave a tight frown. The announcer’s voice barely registered in her head as she turned from him and started walking.
“Remember the rules, people! No eye-gouging, permanent injuries, or deaths allowed! You fight until unable to do so – so let’s get this rumble started! Count your paces….ready…..and let the battle begin!”

Chapter 33c:

“You don’t really think she’ll lose, do you?” Myrie asked, her worried gaze on the slender sylvari below. “I mean, I’ve heard of this guy before. He’s pretty tough.”
“So is she.” Selana gave her a sidelong look. “Did you really ask her if she had a problem with eating salad?”
The thief’s face whipped towards her. “Who told you that?”
The elementalist shifted, crossing her arms; she did not take her gaze from the combatants in the arena. “You tend to forget that I can hear things from farther away than other non-elementalists. Remember that the winds are able to bring me their tidings unless concealed.”
“You were eavesdropping!”
A smile twitched onto the fiery woman’s face. “Perhaps.”
“Shh, shh! She’s going to need to concentrate,” Elmfrond hissed excitedly, bouncing ever so slightly in his seat.
“It looks like they’re just circling each other now,” Myrie murmured, brow furrowing. “Come on, when’s she going to strike?”
“She’s biding her time,” the elementalist said quietly. She gestured down at the sylvari. “Look; can’t you see that she’s watching him? I think she’s testing his mental stability somehow.”
Myrie gave her a sidelong look before returning her gaze fully to the two below.

“Come on,” Waine shouted loudly enough for the crowd to hear. He raised Caladbolg high and brandished it at Llumin. “You didn’t come here to just run in circles, did you? I don’t even need to be close to knock your pretty petals off.” He swung it forward, and it sent forth a blast of magical energy which the mesmer barely dodged. She steadied herself as she adjusted her position.
“Watch my stance,” she murmured, her voice carrying like a calm current over the crowd’s boos and taunts. Waine’s face twitched; confusion briefly flickered over his pale countenance.
“What did you say?” he said hoarsely. Llumin’s harlequin mask leered silently at him. With a burst of speed, the sylvari dashed forward, flicking her blade at his face. He flinched away from her strike. A few strands of his brown hair lazily fluttered to the ground. He returned his attention to her – except he was surprised to find that there were two of her standing in the arena.
“What is this?” he growled.
“You’re looking a bit unsteady. Hold your sword firmly,” she whispered. Her voice seemed layered with another one – a voice which was silenced years ago.
“No,” he murmured, eyes widening. He grit his teeth and charged recklessly at the woman, swinging Caladbolg fiercely. The blade shattered one of her illusions, and when he turned and struck with its hilt, he grinned as he felt it connect with something solid. She gave a low grunt of pain as she was knocked back onto the sand. With a ferocious roar, he leapt forward, sword raised high. Her eyes widened behind her mask, and her lips twisted. Waine’s strike bit deeply into nothing but earth and illusory butterflies which fluttered lazily away.
“Do you remember nothing?” The mesmer’s voice was surrounding him again, and his gaze blurred.
“Get out of my head!” he snarled, channeling magic through the sword. “I’ll kill you with your own blade!”
“It wasn’t mine,” she whispered. Switching to a staff, she blinked through the arena in flashes of blinding light, leaving illusory clones behind her. As one, they hurled orbs of chaos magic at him, confusing, chilling and poisoning him with their whirling energies. With a cry of frustration, he charged another strike and sent a wave of magic through the sword, knocking the clones back. They flickered unsteadily at him before standing and rushing at him, brandishing their blades. He grinned – how could that stupid woman think that those would fool him? His mouth dropped into an O of shock as the clones, mere millimeters from his skin, shattered, their psychic resonance biting into him like jagged glass.
“Did you bring your arrows, Waine?” Llumin’s voice broke through the ringing in his ears, but when he looked up at her, he saw someone else.

Chapter 33d:
“Riannoc?” he choked, his streaming eyes bulging with terror. “No, it can’t be. I saw you…I saw you die!” He hurled lightning from the blade, desperate to drive the specter back. It merely flashed elsewhere, continuing its unrelenting march toward him. He saw his mentor’s kind face tilted toward him, his eyes filled with bittersweet disappointment.
“Give it back, Waine. It never was yours,” his mentor intoned, the mesmer’s voice almost completely gone. The human’s hands trembled, and his knuckles, white against the blade, cracked in tension.
“No! I left you to die!” he hissed, gulping loudly. “I left you to die and I would do it again if I had to!” He raised the blade in a savage cut, bringing it down with the intention of cleaving his opponent in two – rules be cursed, this ghost would stay dead! To his horror, Riannoc had parried the strike, the swords ringing against each other with a strange, silvery peal.
“Your grip still needs work,” he said quietly.
Time seemed to slow as Waine watched the image of his mentor counter his every blow, the mesmer’s own spectral form flashing behind it like a shadow-puppet. As he shifted his stance, his foot slipped in the sand, and he collapsed on the ground. The form of Riannoc smiled sadly before disappearing, leaving only the mesmer’s harlequin mask in its place.
“He would have forgiven you,” she whispered. She readjusted the grip on her sword. “But this blade now must go back.” The pommel came crashing down hard on his forehead, sending his consciousness falling towards oblivion. The last thing he saw before his eyes fluttered shut was the sylvari reaching down and taking Caladbolg from his grasp before she quietly ascended the stairs and left him, unconscious, in the bloodied sand of the arena.

Chapter 33e:

Llumin had barely stepped back onto solid ground before Myrie had leapt over and given her a hearty pat on the back.
“Well done!” she crowed. “We knew you could do it!”
“Myrie, give her some space; she just finished a battle, and I’m sure that she doesn’t need any more whacks – friendly or not – just now.”
The sylvari coughed, blinking tears from her eyes. “I’ll be fine,” she said, clearing her throat slightly. “Ah, just a few bruises and bumps.”
“He did hit you rather hard, didn’t he?” Elmfrond mused, peering closely at her. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix,” she demurred, brushing his concerns aside. “For now, we’ve got to get this back home.”
“How does it feel?” Elmfrond’s wide eyes were fixed upon the glowing Caladbolg. “Holding it, that is. Does it feel like energy or hope or…?”
She nodded absently, running a hand down the smooth, warm side of the thorn. “Yes, it feels like all of those things. It feels like a new dawn,” she nodded. “As though my wounds are already healing.”
“The Pale Tree’s power really does flow through it, then, doesn’t it?”
“You saw how Waine used it, didn’t you?” Myrie arched an eyebrow at the other thief. “Even if I don’t understand it all, there’s no doubt that Caladbolg really is something.” She turned back to Llumin as they started walking towards the asura gates. “Do you plan on giving something that powerful back to the Pale Tree? Who knows who’ll have it next – or what they’ll do with it?”
“I have full faith in the Pale Mother’s wisdom. I’m sure that whoever she entrusts it to will use it with honor and integrity.”
“Speaking of that,” Selana said, casting the mesmer a sidelong glance, “I’m sure that I saw Waine try killing you more than once, despite the pit rules.”
Myrie snorted. “Highborn, if there’s one thing you need to know, it’s that pit rules are really more of a formality than something enforced. I can tell you right now that there’ve been fatalities in there which have gone unpunished; it’s all part of the sport.”
“So he really would have killed me,” Llumin murmured. Her eyes were wide, despite her calm tone.
“Hey, we would’ve stopped him. We’ve got your back,” Myrie grinned.
“I’m sure right now her back wants a nice rest and possibly a soak. Isn’t that right?”
The mesmer nodded wearily. Elmfrond smiled encouragingly. “Well, then, let’s head home and finish putting this ordeal to rest.”

Chapter 34a:

Nettle had watched them arrive back at the Grove with a small smile of satisfaction. The plan had gone off quite well; no one had suspected her involvement in the match – after all, who would have paid attention to her disguise as a shy bartender? The pale woman wiped her lips, removing the last traces of blood as she slipped behind the group. She tapped Selana on the shoulder.
“If you wanted to let me know you were there, you merely needed to whisper it,” the elementalist said evenly, pausing to let the rest of the group walk ahead of her. “What do you want?”
“So much for a warm welcome,” the necromancer sighed. She peered around the noblewoman’s shoulder, watching the rest of them wait patiently by the elevator for Selana’s return. “I merely wanted to congratulate Llumin on her victory over Waine and on her return of Caladbolg.”
The human’s lips thinned into a line. “No, you didn’t; otherwise you would have spoken to her directly.”
Nettle chuckled. “Perceptive as always. Let me ask you this – did Waine seem a bit off when he was battling her?”
“I wouldn’t know his regular fighting style, but he did seem distressed,” she noted. Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
The sylvari smiled as she patted the human’s shoulder. “Just let Llumin enjoy her victory; after all, she may be upset if she knew her opponent was not in top form.”
“I thought we were ordered to not interfere with the Vigil’s plan.” Selana’s voice was like an icy current.
”You were ordered to not interfere,” Nettle replied flatly. “I, on the other hand, was given express permission to ensure that your mission was a success by any means possible short of outright murder.”
“So you drugged him.”
Her smile was cold. “No one suspected a thing. It merely made him more responsive towards Llumin’s illusions and his own buried guilt.”
“What did you do after the match, then? Keeping him alive would have been a loose end for you.”
The necromancer’s eyes glowed in the dim light of the canopy. “What do you think?”
There was a terse pause.
“You still have blood on your fingers,” the elementalist sighed. Nettle looked down at her hands with a slight hint of surprise upon her features.
“So I do,” she said cheerily. She popped one into her mouth, cleaning it off. “Now, if what I’ve heard is true, Caladbolg is about to be carried to the upper bower with my dear mother. I will admit I’m curious to see how this whole reunion carries out.” She tilted her head towards the rest of the group with a smile. “Shall we continue?”

Chapter 34b:

The air inside the upper bower was filled with a reverent glow. Llumin stepped towards the Pale Tree’s avatar and knelt, holding forth Caladbolg. The golden woman bade her to rise, gently taking the sword as she did so.
“You have done well, my child,” she said, her low voice soothing the mesmer’s aching body as much as any rest. “Caladbolg is once more where it belongs, and my son’s spirit can finally be at peace.”
“It was an honor, Mother,” Llumin replied, standing with her head bowed. “I am glad that I could do my part.”
“The road ahead of you is still fraught with dangers and trials, though this will certainly help you in your Hunt. Caladbolg was made solely to purge the land of the dragons’ corruption; therefore, the one to wield it next must have the same goal in mind.” She turned her head towards another hole in the floor, from which another elevator had arisen. Trahearne stepped from the pod into the bower, his breathing slightly labored. Joining the group by the Pale Tree, he quickly bowed.
“Is it true, Mother? Has Caladbolg been returned?”
A strange look of clarity washed over the avatar’s face; but with a mere smile, it vanished. “It has, my son. Know now that Riannoc is truly at rest; no longer should we worry about his death.”
“He was a brave warrior.” The Firstborn’s voice was low, though with sorrow, relief, or repressed joy, no one could tell. “I am glad that his sword has been brought back.”
“Yes, but it still lacks one thing.” The golden woman’s eyes were kind as she gazed upon the Firstborn’s confused face. “It needs one who can wield it – one whose Hunt is to cleanse the land of its corruption.”
Trahearne stepped back, eyes wide. “You cannot mean me. That would take an army – and I am no warrior.”
“But you are knowledgeable,” Llumin said. “And I am called to kill the dragon, not cleanse its aftereffects. If I do kill it, what then? A ruined land is no good to anyone, not even sylvari. You wouldn’t need to command an army, but we would need someone to marshal it if it were to exist.”