Chapter 1
Naavah Ora
Naavah Ora jolted awake from her nightmare. Her heart was racing, the panic made worse by the hooting of an owl outside her window. She cast a tentative glance out into the night and breathed easier. The moon was still in the sky and the stars still accompanied her. She was still in her bed, inside her bedroom of her safe home.
The world wasn’t dying; everything was fine.
But this only meant that her world was safe enough for now. What about Dunhă? Was Ithrean’s home safe too, or had her nightmare revealed the dark truth?
She slid out of bed and caressed her staff for comfort. Her grandmother had made it just for her, and she loved it like other young elves loved their friends. She treasured the elegant family heirloom hanging around her neck, but it wasn’t the same. The blue-and-white calcite amulet was important and marked her as her grandmother’s successor, but it wasn’t thoughtful or made specifically for her. Every elven clan’s heir had one. Her staff, however, had been hers for as long as she’d lived. It had been gifted to her the day she was born, crafted and imbued with her grandmother’s magic. It knew her as she knew it. All she had from her parents were her mother’s ice-pale hair and her father’s winter-blue eyes. They didn’t compare to the beauty or the comforting familiarity of her staff.
Naavah Ora slid into slippers and went outside. The cold air traced her skin and nestled into her soul. She wished she’d brought something to keep her warm, but with the memory of the dream burning her veins, the cold temperatures had been the last thing on her mind. She felt foolish now that she was shivering; she didn’t have the gift for visions. There was only one way to see into Dunhă, and her dreams had nothing to do with it.
She entered the nearby forest and walked into the clearing, her steps lit by pale moonlight.
Her grandmother took her to the clearing three times a week to train her. The first time had been when Naavah Ora was a child, to show her what was expected of her once she came of age. The rare gift of the Suf’afir wasn't dangerous, but the magic involved was complicated and she was her clan’s first Suf’afir in two generations. Her grandmother watched her like she was the most valuable treasure in the world.
But not tonight. Tonight, Naavah Ora was alone.
Don't wander. Don't make contact. Observe, don’t interfere.
She’d already broken one of those rules. She had a feeling she’d break the others soon, too, whether she wanted to or not.
But it was too early to worry. For all she knew, her dream had been innocent like every other dream she’d ever had.
Gently, Naavah Ora reached out with one hand and parted the air before her. Nothing happened. She smiled. Only her grandmother could reach from their world into Dunhă, the death goddess Ithrean’s home, and allow her access. It wasn’t something she could learn from a book or by observation. It was something she had to feel intuitively, and Naavah Ora was grateful she still felt nothing.
The day she inherited the clan would come soon enough. She was in no rush to replace her grandmother.
If her dream had been something more, the disturbance would be visible. The air would shift around her, and slivers of fog would carry the silent cries of the dead into her world. A faint flicker of the city in the distance would entice her to come closer. But neither was the case, and Naavah Ora sighed in relief.
Her world wasn’t dying, and neither was Ithrean’s.
Naavah Ora gave one last appreciative smile to the spot where the fog usually curled itself around her ankles and wrists, and went back home. Perhaps she still felt unsettled after the nightmare, but she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that she’d missed something obvious.
Anger can alter our recollection, and I fear in this case the damage is irreparable.
Chapter 2
Doran
This forest was too dark for Doran’s liking. The trees stood so close together that only a small amount of sunlight made it to the moss-covered ground. Shadows lurked everywhere, watching him from beneath the thicket. No matter how fast he ran, that terrible heavy silence followed him.
Doran sank down against the nearest tree branch and prayed this unnatural monster hadn't spotted him. If—when—he got out of this alive, he’d have a serious talk with the people of this village. All he’d asked for was the location of this stupid artefact. Sending him into a forest full of demons seemed uncalled for. They were probably laughing at his idiocy for having listened to them while he could be bleeding out on this dark forest moss.
“Ancients, this isn't worth it.”
The artefact sat heavy in his bag, a leather pouch he’d bought long ago back in Ceidir. It was only a small thing—a little amulet made of gold, not that different to the one around his neck—but it was worth a fortune. He’d found a couple of smaller items too, but they wouldn’t fetch anywhere near the price the amulet would get him. Because those villagers didn’t know not to send guests to their deaths, his life was now attached to it. If he’d known how much trouble it’d be to retrieve it, he’d never—
He traced the amulet through the pouch around his waist. It was small and unassuming, unless you knew a genuine treasure from a fake. And this amulet would pay very nicely indeed.
“Ancients, of course you're worth it.”
That awful silence still echoed around him. The birds had stopped singing a while ago, and he hadn't spotted a rabbit in hours. Shortly after the natural sounds had stopped, it had appeared out of nowhere.
He would never doubt stories or rumours again. They had to come from somewhere, after all, and after today he was convinced most of them came from this forest.
The demon hunting him was still around. If he stayed where he was, he might as well set up camp, light a fire, and wait for it to find him. At least if he ran he could try to make it out alive—and then those villagers would get a lesson in manners.
Doran took a deep breath, and rose. The pouch was tied carefully around his waist and wouldn't go anywhere. The treasure was safe. It wasn’t the grand loot he’d envisioned, but this amulet would make up for that once he reached Alt Võina. Sometimes, treasure didn’t come in heavy crates overflowing with gold, but in trinkets that fit in his pocket.
His blood froze when he heard it; the ominous rustling of leaves, followed by that vicious silence.
It was close.
Doran ran. Its presence trailed behind him; evil, corrupted, and much too fast for his liking. If he stopped now it would have him, and he didn't want to know what it would do with him then. Nothing in this forest was natural. Hadn’t his brother Rhys always said his imagination was vivid? He cursed it now while trying not to trip and break his neck.
Doran let out a nervous laugh as he dodged rocks and branches on the ground; nothing like being chased by corrupted forest monsters to make you realise you weren’t ready to die. He’d probably change his mind in the morning, but right now he wanted to live. Rhys would have to wait a little while longer.
Something grazed his arm and drew blood. Razor-like claws reached for him, their edges thin as knives and their tips as poisonous as Z’rasie’s scorpions. They grew toward him.
“Ancients!”
Trust his luck. Only he could get lost in the fastest growing sentient forest. A straightforward treasure hunt where nothing tried to kill him, just once, would have been boring.