Chapter Text
20, Eleasias, 1373DR
West Harbor
It had been a couple of tendays since Midsummer, and Aelariel had begun to feel a dull pain in the scar on her chest. It pulsed with her heartbeat—a faint hum before dissolving into the muffled Weave that blanketed the Mere.
She had never fully understood why the Baelnorn's annual ritual in the Illefarn ruins was so vital, only that it stabilized the scar and kept it from flaring. This year the ritual had been missed. The Baelnorn had sealed the ruins a month ago, and the last message she'd received was brief and cold—typical of the undead guardian. But it was the brief apology at the end that chilled her most. No ancient Baelnorn should have spoken that way. No ancient Baelnorn could.
Something terrible was coming. Her instincts knew nothing else.
When she told Daeghun about the message, the silence around her foster father grew heavy and unreadable.
"What is going on?" she demanded.
Daeghun offered only a stoic look before turning away—dark as night, stern as stone. The silence itself spoke clearly: Harsh times are coming. Keep to your training. Be prepared.
After a month of relentless drills, the ranger had packed his gear and vanished into the swamp this morning, masking his departure as an early hunt. Aelariel watched him leave from her window, his steps steady as a verdict. To her, he looked no different than during the days when the Bone Lord's ashes fell from the sky, or when skeletons swarmed from the mud. His posture—slightly bent, never vanquished—proclaimed silently: That Baelnorn has kept watch over Merdelain for millennia. That is a lesson you are learning now. You are an elf. You know this.
She found comfort in his silence. Still, she wished he would share something with her in this peace before the storm. Did she still look like a child to him? The people of West Harbor treated her no differently than Bevil or Amie. Old Tarmas and even the Baelnorn had praised her incantations. She could see through the clumsy swings of the village militia. Even the undead guardian acknowledged she was no longer an infant. Yet Daeghun never changed, and his unyielding nature filled her with an eagerness tightly wound with dread.
Her thoughts drifted back to the scar. The Baelnorn and Daeghun always brushed her questions aside—vague explanations about ambient magic, or her childhood foolishness climbing too tall a tree. The narrative felt curated, as if they were shielding her from a deeper truth.
When the storm passed—if it passed—something must change, she resolved.
But not today. She sighed in the quiet house, resigned to the sudden, lonely freedom of an empty day.
The pain in her chest made focusing harder. Her spellbook and research log lay open beside an unfinished magical diagram, but the Weave's humming thinned into whispers about fragile reality. She couldn't force herself to work.
It was still morning. Having finished her dawn sword practice, she grabbed her bow and quiver. Nearby, her broom and bucket worked automatically, and an Unseen Servant held the door open. Farleen, her rabbit familiar, chewed grass near the threshold with the grave indifference rabbits reserve for larger creatures' chaotic concerns. If Daeghun could tolerate her magical modifications to their home, she hoped he would find patience for the questions she intended to ask him later.
She moved to the backyard near the village graveyard and loosed arrow after arrow at the target. Most hit true—until a phantom throb in her chest made her grip slip. The arrow sailed wide, splashing into the tidal river. The sun felt paler. Daeghun would scold her upon his return, unless she carved a replacement before he stepped through the door.
A delighted voice called from afar. Amie Fern—fellow apprentice, ward of Old Tarmas, a pretty blonde human of nineteen. Only two years younger in calendar years, worlds apart in heritage.
"Ael! I knew you'd be here!" Amie's bright energy seemed to vibrate through the Weave, lightening the oppressive density of the Mere for a moment.
Human years moved too quickly. Somewhere between two summers, Bevil and Amie had both grown taller than her.
"Is Old Tarmas grumbling again, or are you just in trouble?" Aelariel turned, the phantom ache finally easing. "I'm heading to his workshop this afternoon. Or—" she paused, lowering her bow, expression tightening— "he hasn't found out I borrowed his glass beakers for brewing salves, has he?"
"Not at all! Tarmas is too busy scolding the junior Lannons for their abysmal spelling. And since you're always absent this time of year—allow me to remind you: it's the monthly militia contest day!"
Aelariel used to watch the militia train when she was younger, until Daeghun dragged her away, claiming their clumsy forms would only get her killed.
"The winner will be Bevil or one of the Mossfelds," she noted. "Should we visit Brother Merring for a potion now, in case Bevil gets his ribs broken again?"
Amie rolled her eyes. "You're missing the point. Everyone knows you aren't off hunting with Daeghun. They've been waiting for you to show your face before he gets back. What better stage than the tournament grounds for the mysterious elven girl to finally condescend to join us?"
Aelariel laughed, warmth rising in her cheeks. "That's ridiculous. You know why I haven't been around."
"Yes, yes—the Baelnorn this, the Merdelain that." Amie dragged her out of the backyard. "But those fools don't care if a lich is another kind of crop or another type of elf. Is the Baelnorn alright, though? Tarmas keeps muttering about dark omens."
"I don't know." Aelariel's mood dipped. "The sealing was abrupt."
"That's unfortunate. And a little terrifying." Amie looped their arms together. "But it also means you're stuck with us until the Feast of the Moon. Come on. Rejoin the living."
Rejoin what—mud, bruises, and gossip? But Aelariel didn't resist. Bevil would be glad to see her, and dawn practice had left her no excuse to refuse.
They walked on, leaving the dark omens behind. Amie complained about Tarmas grumbling over spent ammunition, and Aelariel, half-listening, sketched a spell diagram in the dirt—a way to return arrows on their own. Worth finishing before Father gets back. Amie agreed to help that afternoon, and they crossed the bridge toward the noisy practice yard.
The contest was halfway through. The Lannon twins and several other militiamen nursed fresh bruises while the remaining duelists clashed wooden swords. Bevil Starling—broad-shouldered, chestnut-haired, with a farmhand's heavy muscles and a warrior's calloused hands—stood near the fence, adjusting his practice blade.
When he turned and saw them, his brown eyes lit up. Then, a split second later, his gaze darted behind her shoulder, checking the tree line for Daeghun's ghostly presence. Finding the path clear, his familiar nervous grin returned.
"Ael! Great to see you! Looks like Daeghun finally granted you a vacation. And Amie! We're in the middle of a martial competition. You can join, if you'd like. Of course."
"Nice to see you too, Bevil." She leaned against the wooden fence. "Amie and I came to cheer you on." She stepped closer and patted his shoulder, giving an encouraging squeeze.
"Ael! I—it—right." Bevil stammered, flushing crimson, though his posture straightened. Amie hid her mouth behind her hand.
The practice yard went dead silent. Every eye turned. Georg Redfell, the militia captain, opened his mouth as if holding back a laugh, while the other boys spat into the dirt or gripped their hilts until their knuckles whitened.
Aelariel didn't need the Weave to feel the hostility. She withdrew her hand at once."Told you so," Amie whispered. "You've chosen your champion. Poor Bevil's fighting for your honor now."
"Georg pats Bevil's shoulder all the time. Did I do something wrong?"
Georg's voice cut through before Amie could answer. "Now, now! Some of you are performing exceptionally." His bald head gleamed. "Finalists, forward!"
Bevil marched up, head notably higher.
"New agenda, lads," Georg announced. "Bevil's secured the sponsorship of the finest young ladies in the village." He pointed with a dramatic wink. Amie made a face; Aelariel groaned internally, already dreading Daeghun's glare. "So—one on one, no ambush. Winner takes the honor of the day and the prize."
She understood at once: a congratulatory pat from her. Harmless enough, except she'd sooner lose a hand than give one to a Mossfeld.
"And a round of ale on me!" Georg finished, to a roar of approval.
As the boys scrambled, Georg jogged over, grinning. "Wonderful theatrics, lasses. West Harbor's been starved for merriment." He turned to Aelariel. "Now I see why Daeghun keeps you close. Every lad in town would lose his mind otherwise."
"You're exaggerating. Surely it's not that bad—or Father will freeze me alive."
"Such a humble heart! But do me a favor." Georg lowered his voice, smirk firmly in place. "Fetch Brother Merring. I'm starting to worry about Bevil's well-being, with how fired up those other boys are."
"Then you shouldn't have stoked the fires in the first place!" Amie countered, nudging her.
"Fine. I'll get him." As Aelariel spoke, the ache in her chest flared again. The corner of her mouth twitched. Georg missed it. Amie didn't notice.
"Just please—don't let a Mossfeld win," she added darkly. "I'd rather sever my own hand and slap them with it than celebrate a Mossfeld victory."
"Ha! True Harborman spirit! How delightful if you entered the Harvest Cup this year. Persuade Daeghun—it's poor Bevil's last real chance to shine." Georg laughed. "Now, off to Brother Merring!"
The girls left without another word. Brother Merring's cabin stood near the wheat fields, not far from the Starling house, among the shabby cottages of the village's poorer farmers. They needed constant help—coin and spirit both—and Merring gave it freely. Inside, the Weave hummed with a crisp, clean resonance, like morning sun cutting through the Mere's stagnant fog.
An old peasant woman wept inside for a son lost to the swamp. Merring soothed her with his usual gentle words until she left, clutching a continual flame lamp in trembling hands.
He rose to greet the girls, already packing his medical supplies. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, but his voice held its familiar warmth.
"I suppose injuries have occurred, and Georg sent you." He smiled, tired. "A moment. I'll depart when my kits are full."
"Take your time," Amie said. "It's the usual silliness—broken noses, bruised legs. Georg either trains the militia or makes them look ridiculous."
"That does sound like his methodology. A fine leader, regardless."
"And a wise precaution," Aelariel added, "in case Bevil is entirely outmatched."
A twist beneath her scar. Violent. Faint.
The cabin was warm. The air was not.
Something pressed down—old, weighing, watching. Exposed. The instinct rose before she could name it: fade, go still, be nothing worth noticing.
Amie was fine. Cataloguing dried herbs by the fireplace. Untroubled. Human.
Perhaps my senses catch what humans have learned to ignore, Aelariel thought. The pressure reminded her of the Baelnorn's library, or the suffocating quiet around Daeghun. Why hadn't she noticed the clash of magical energies sooner?
Merring paused his packing. "Is something wrong, child? You look terribly pale."
Weakness invites correction. Daeghun's lesson, beaten in long ago.
"I'm fine." She forced a smile, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "The summer heat, I suppose. A dizzy spell. I've never stayed in the village this season—no constant breeze to keep cool."
The truth lay elsewhere: the libraries of Merdelain were always ice-cold, ancient syllables dancing to the clash of electrum. A different world entirely.
Merring studied her face, sighed, and returned to his work. "You push yourself too hard. There is no sin in resting. You treat leisure as though the sky might fall tomorrow."
His words circled toward her foster father. Humans mistook elven vigilance for cruelty—they lacked the span of centuries, spinning interpretations about things they couldn't comprehend. Some secrets were kept for the good of all. The Baelnorn and Daeghun always claimed as much.
"We live on the border of the Mere," she countered. "Danger is always expected."
"Danger comes and goes. Life continues—harder for those near the graves, but it continues." He studied her. "Yet you've been taught to believe the grave is inevitable everywhere."
Her heart drummed violently. His words cut too close. Without the Baelnorn's annual stabilization, something deep in her soul pushed back against the Morninglord's dawn magic in silent, violent rejection. And beneath that, something else stirred, an anomaly she had no name for. The scar flared with blinding heat.
"Perhaps it's our nature to prepare when something feels wrong," she managed, her voice strained. "Like the Mere, lately. That's why Father focuses so deeply on my survival."
A true pain erupted from her chest.
The world tilted. Her knees buckled. She slipped toward the floor, and through a blurring haze she saw Merring leap over his desk, face pale with terror. Amie caught her from behind, screaming: "Ael! Your chest is bleeding!"
Her consciousness split. Part of her writhed in the agony of her chest; another part—the detached mind of a wizard—drifted outside her body, hearing a weeping in the Weave that pulled a piercing harmony into silence. Is it asking for life, or something else? She couldn't tell.
A soft golden glow bathed her chest. The collar of her tunic had been pulled wide, exposing the old scar as it oozed dark blood. The Morninglord's light stitched the torn tissue back together. The blinding pain stopped. She felt the skin smooth over.
As the divine pressure faded, it was replaced by Merring's deeply troubled eyes.
"Retta once mentioned your scar to me. She claimed it was a birthmark, from an old accident." His voice was tight with dread. "It should never have burst open after all these years. You are not well. Set your studies aside. You need true rest."
"I'm sorry." Her voice shook. "We elves are sensitive to our environments. The Mere feels corrupted lately—perhaps the stagnation is affecting me."
"Does Daeghun know?" A deep frown. It deepened when she nodded weakly. "And he left you in this state? Alone?"
"Father believes I'm capable. He knows you are, too. He trusted I would find help, and you could mend whatever happens."
Merring's skepticism remained, but he let it lie. He finished the healing spell. As the divine warmth vanished, she pulled herself up with his help and cast a subtle prestidigitation. The bloodstains evaporated from her tunic.
"Thank you, Brother Merring. I'm sorry you spent a spell on me. The militia will need them more."
"I'll blame Georg. He sent you." He turned back to his desk, packing with new urgency. From a shelf he pulled three glass vials of emerald fluid and pressed them into her arms. "If what you say about the Mere is true, your suffering may only be beginning. The swamp is acting strangely. Take these. Rest. You are still mortal. I have seen elves die of hemorrhage. Take care of yourself."
He hesitated. "And if Daeghun pushes too hard—if anything is wrong—you can come to me. The Morninglord protects the young. West Harbor adores you, Aelariel. We are here."
She nodded, gratitude and sadness tangled in her chest. Most of the village feared Daeghun or treated him like a myth. To them, her father was a cold, distant outsider. They would never understand. They are not us. The Baelnorn was right to keep the ruins secret.
She and Amie followed Merring out. The heavy magical tension thinned, leaving only a hint of dawn magic. Once out of earshot, Amie leaned close.
"You're terrifying me. Is your scar connected to the Baelnorn? You couldn't visit him this year, and now you're bleeding—"
"I'll be fine." Aelariel slipped back into their familiar banter. "Father will return with enough herbs for the season. Unless the Mere dries up and unleashes a horde of undead. But then it won't just be our concern."
"I'll pray for your health and Bevil's victory. If a Mossfeld wins and you chop your hand off, I don't think even Brother Merring can fix that."
"Please." Aelariel groaned and rolled her eyes. "That would be a worse nightmare than this entire rotten swamp."
The tension broke. Their familiar giggles returned as they walked back toward the shouting of the training grounds.
Later, Bevil emerged the undisputed winner, sustaining only minor scratches quickly patched by Brother Merring before the priest moved on to the other battered challengers. Because Bevil had successfully defended her honor, Aelariel treated him and Amie to a celebratory meal at the market square. Afterward, she headed to Tarmas' workshop for apprentice duties alongside Amie. True to their promise, they spared an hour to finalize their dynamic proof.
By the time she returned to the lonely cabin, night had fallen, the air biting despite the season. She ate a simple supper, left fresh grass for Farleen, and let the Unseen Servant see to the rest. Merring's magic still lingered pleasantly in her chest. Before bed, she inscribed the day's completed spell into her book.
Afterward, she pulled out an old leather-bound tome borrowed from the Baelnorn the previous winter. She recited the ancient Illefarn hymns, her tongue practiced and smooth through the Elven the undead guardian had taught her. But when she transitioned to the classic Evermeet poetry, she caught a jarring inconsistency.
The rhythmic meters and vowel pronunciations didn't align with the rigid phonetic rules of the Elven she spoke, nor with the Wild Elven dialect Daeghun used on the rare occasions he spoke at all. Subtle inflections and melodic cadences existed here that simply never existed in the Baelnorn's voice. Yet her voice adapted to these alien modern accents without a single stumble, rolling off her tongue with a haunting, instinctual perfection.
It must be merely the universal purity of elven art, she told herself, though the linguistic anomaly lingered. Why did speaking the wrong form feel right? Dismissing the riddle, she cleansed herself and drifted into her trance.
For the past few years, the mental landscape of her reverie had stabilized: a vast night sky above a magnificent Illefarn hall mirroring the nearby ruins, with light snowfall blanketing the endless marsh plains in frost—cold, yet deeply comforting. Farleen curled near her, snorting, Amie’s giggle hidden in the workbench of Old Tarmas at the entrance of the hall, with a practice sword always leaning against the legs of the workbench.
Tonight, the vision shifted. The black void above blazed with countless brilliant stars, forming unfamiliar constellations that arched into a faint, radiant crescent. When she concentrated too long, a strange magnetic pull dragged her upward. The stars seemed to hum in harmony with the Weave, triggering a haunting déjà vu—as if an ancient and divine gaze looked back at her.
A dull, booming resonance echoed from the depths of the hall. Farleen startled in the reverie and leapt into Aelariel’s arms, her tiny nose twitching as she sniffed the air in alarm.
Ever since the Baelnorn sealed the physical ruins, the interior of her hall had sealed with them, severing the endless corridors that once led to its chambers of resonance. Tonight, one of those corridors lay pooled with dense, suffocating shadow. Aelariel instinctively took a step back.
Should an elf fear her own reverie?
Yet the shadows felt alive. They crawled slowly outward, as though searching, whispering without words that she absolutely should.
The Mere had felt strangled of late. Now the corruption had found a way into her own mind.
Slowly, inexorably, The shadow crept over the workbench. The little jars and beakers clouded black. The herbs hanging above withered into ash. The practice sword disappeared beneath the darkness.
Farleen pressed herself harder against Aelariel.
The laughter hidden somewhere inside the bench faltered…and never returned.
The workbench remained where it had always been. It was only empty now.
Her pulse quickened. A muffled, frantic female voice echoed from the creeping darkness, drawing nearer. When a tendril of living shadow slithered forward to touch her toes, a cold wave of goosebumps erupted across her skin. She leaped backward in sheer panic.
Run! Just run!
But where? The endless plain outside was a blinding expanse of white snow. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted vibrant green vines splitting through the frost, exhaling a fleeting scent of wild pine and damp earth—though they vanished whenever she tried to focus. Beside them lay a set of familiar footprints tracking into the wilderness. Daeghun's trail. She chose to follow. The mental air grew exponentially colder.
The shadows accelerated, chasing her through the snow.
Terrified, she forced herself to sprint faster, tracking her foster father's footprints as the air plummeted to a freezing so intense it burned her bare skin. Ahead loomed a massive mountain of solid ice, formed by centuries of accumulated frost. She began to tremble violently, her movements sluggish, as if the ice itself tried to halt her escape.
When she dared to look back, she realized the pursuing shadows were also being choked and slowed by the paralyzing freeze.
In that moment, she understood exactly what that absolute cold represented.
"Father!" she cried into the coldness. "Father, please help me!"
A violent pulse shattered the air. A suffocating, protective frost enveloped her just as the shadows snapping at her heels were crushed by a torrential hail of ice pellets, striking like a volley of arrows. Her heart seized in a sudden, breathless stop. Her breath froze into fine snow as her body sank deep into the icy drifts.
Brother Merring was wrong, her fading consciousness murmured before she surrendered to the dark. Humans mistake warmth for safety far too easily.
It was freezing. It hurt terribly.
But it was safe.