Farryn and the Child of Dreomere
Departure for Dreomere
Farryn set out before dawn, when the world still lingered in that quiet hour between night and morning and even the birds had not yet begun their song. A pale silver mist clung low over the fields beyond the Fauknir settlement, trailing in ribbons over the furrows and curling around the fences of the farmsteads. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, and somewhere in the distance the long, familiar call of a woodland bird drifted through the trees, announcing the coming day.
The last time the Vhalandir came to trade, they requested moonwillow timber, a rare pale wood prized for its strength and fine grain, used for carved beams, delicate instruments, and certain ceremonial furnishings among the Thaeryx. It did not grow in Thalorien proper. Farryn knew that well. To find it, he would have to cross into the gentler reaches of Dreomere, where the land softened into lakes and wet forests and the trees grew taller and stranger. For him, this was no burden. Where most of his people preferred the familiar rhythm of fields and hearths, Farryn welcomed the road and the hush of the wild. There was something in the solitude of the woods that called to him, something steady and wordless that no gathering in the village hall could ever offer.
He loaded the wagon carefully in the dim light: axe, rope, provisions for several days, his bedroll, sketchbook, charcoal sticks, and a small satchel for any unusual feathers, seeds, or stones he might find along the way. By the time the eastern horizon had begun to pale with rose and gold, his Fyr was already harnessed and stamping patiently in the yard. The beast, broad and powerfully built, with a thick shaggy neck and great curling horns, snorted clouds of steam into the cold morning air. Its bronze-gold coat gleamed faintly in the half-light.
Mirrin was already awake when Farryn passed his cottage. That came as no surprise. His oldest friend stood in the doorway with a mug still warming his hands, the firelight from within casting a soft amber glow behind him. “You’ll be gone a few days, then,” Mirrin said. Farryn adjusted the strap of the satchel on his shoulder and smiled. “Two nights, maybe three. Depends how quickly I find a good stand of moonwillow.” Mirrin’s gaze drifted to the dark line of trees in the distance. “Dreomere again.” “Only the friendly parts.” “That is what you always say.” A grin tugged at Farryn’s mouth. “And I always come back.” Mirrin exhaled through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh. “Try to keep that tradition.” “I’ll do my best.”
With that, Farryn climbed onto the wagon bench and clicked his tongue to the Fyr. The great beast leaned into its harness, and the wheels began to turn over the damp road. The first day passed in easy rhythm. Farryn stopped often, never driving the Fyr too hard. At every brook and grassy clearing he allowed the beast to rest and graze, using the pauses to wander the nearby trees in search of anything noteworthy. He cut and stacked several lengths of common woodland timber in places he knew well, marking them for later retrieval on the return journey.
Between the work, he watched. A pair of silver-winged woodland birds rose from the trees at midday, startling a small horned grazer from the undergrowth. Farryn paused long enough to sketch the unusual feather pattern he had glimpsed along one wing. Later he found the tracks of a small, swift-footed woodland creature he did not immediately recognize and spent nearly half an hour crouched in the mud, studying the shape of the prints with quiet delight. He was no scholar, that much was true, but the Vhalandir always welcomed his observations. More than once one of their scholars had sat by his fire with bright eyes, listening to him describe the movements of birds or the blooming patterns of rare wetland herbs.
By the second evening, the land had begun to change. The neat woodland paths of Thalorien softened into older, less certain trails. Moss thickened along the trunks, and the air grew heavier, rich with moisture and the green scent of water-fed earth. The ground yielded slightly beneath each footstep when he climbed down from the wagon, and the trees stood closer together, their branches weaving into darker canopies overhead. He made camp on the border of Dreomere.
The place was one he knew well enough: a small rise overlooking a clear stream that fed into one of the great lakes farther east. It was safe enough by Dreomere standards. As the fire crackled low and the Fyr settled nearby, Farryn sat with his mug of warm tea and let his eyes wander into the deepening dark. Dreomere fascinated him. It was a land of beautiful contradictions. In the places where the sun touched the water and the trees parted to reveal glass-bright lakes and silver streams, it was breathtaking. Waterfalls spilled in white ribbons from hidden heights, and the forests hummed with life. Strange creatures moved through the reeds and branches, elusive but rarely threatening.
But beyond those places lay the darker reaches. The moors. The dense forests where the canopy swallowed the light. The marshes where the ground itself could betray a traveler. Too many stories began there and ended nowhere at all. Most who ventured too deeply into Dreomere were never seen again. Farryn knew better than to stray from the friendly reaches, even if part of him had always wondered what truly lay beyond.
The third morning dawned cool and bright. After several more hours of travel through familiar woodland, the trees began to thin and the damp green scent of forest gave way to the fresh, mineral smell of clear water. Then he emerged from the trees. Before him stretched one of Dreomere’s great lakes, vast and serene beneath the pale morning sun, its still surface broken only by the gentle drift of reeds near the shore and the occasional faint ripple from unseen movement below.
Farryn slowed the wagon and let the Fyr move at an easy pace along the water’s edge, taking in the quiet beauty of the lake spread out before him. The morning light lay soft upon the surface, turning it to silver glass, and for a heartbeat everything felt still and peaceful. Then a faint disturbance reached him from farther along the shore — the sound of something splashing in the water. He glanced toward the reeds with a small smile, assuming it to be one of the many waterbirds that nested along the lake, but the next sound that followed made him straighten at once. It was unlike anything he had ever heard: a rapid clicking, sharp and rhythmic, threaded through with a strange vibrating trill that carried an unmistakable edge of panic. Every sense in him sharpened. Whatever it was, it was no bird.
Panic beneath the surface
The sound came again, clearer now that he had turned the wagon toward the lake. Farryn urged the Fyr onward along the water’s edge, his eyes moving over the reeds and the pale stones along the shore until, farther ahead, something caught the light in a burst of spray. At first, it was only movement — frantic, irregular, too violent to belong to any creature merely bathing in the shallows — but as he drew closer, the shape resolved into something small struggling desperately in the water.
For a brief moment he simply stared. A pale limb broke the surface, vanished again, then reappeared in a frantic attempt to stay afloat. Large ears flashed above the waterline, followed by the dark curve of two small horns before the figure sank lower once more. Whatever it was, it was no creature he knew, and certainly nothing he had ever seen in the woods of Thalorien, yet it was clearly in distress.
Farryn pulled the wagon to a halt and climbed down at once, unease tightening in his chest. The old warnings about Dreomere passed through his mind — the stories of lures and hidden dangers, of strange beings that drew the unwary close — but the sight before him left little room for hesitation. The figure was small, child-sized by the look of it, and every movement spoke of exhaustion. He shrugged off his coat as he hurried toward the shore and stepped into the cold water, wincing only slightly at the sudden bite against his legs.
The lake floor dropped away sooner than he expected, forcing him to push off into a swim, and he made his way toward the struggling figure as quickly as he could. Up close, the creature looked even younger. Its skin was pale and almost luminous beneath the water, its features delicate and unfamiliar, its wide dark eyes fixed on him with a mixture of terror and fading strength. He caught it with one arm, keeping its face above the surface, and immediately understood that the problem was not simply panic. Something was holding it.
The child’s body jerked downward with a stubborn pull from beneath the water. Farryn took a quick breath and ducked below the surface, following the small leg into the wavering green beneath him. At a glance it seemed no more than a thick strand of lakeweed, twisted tightly around the ankle and caught among the plants that swayed at the lakebed. He reached for it at once, fingers closing around the slick stem as he tried to peel it free. But the moment he tugged, the thing tightened. Hard. So suddenly that his breath caught in his chest. Another strand moved beside it, and then another, not drifting with the water but coiling with purpose around the child’s leg. A cold jolt of realization shot through him. This was no plant. The tendrils writhed beneath his hands, tightening like living cords, and from deeper in the weeds something dark moved, slow and hungry, pulling downward with quiet, relentless force.
His hand went instinctively to the small hatchet at his belt, the familiar tool every woodsman carried more out of habit than expectation of danger. Beneath the water there was no room for a proper swing, and his lungs were already beginning to protest, so he forced himself closer to the child’s trapped leg and pressed the sharp edge against the tendril wound around the ankle. Rather than striking, he drove the blade in with a hard, sawing motion, dragging the metal through the slick, living cord.
The creature reacted at once. The tendril convulsed violently beneath his hand, tightening in what felt disturbingly like pain before finally loosening just enough. Farryn seized the moment, wrenching the child’s leg free and pulling it toward him, but the dark mass below had already begun to move. Another slick limb lashed upward from the weeds, reaching for them with sudden speed. He twisted sharply in the water, kicked with all the strength he had into the creature’s body, and used that moment of recoil to force himself upward, the child clutched tightly against his chest as he tore them both free of the thing’s grasp and drove toward the surface.
They broke the surface in a rush of spray and ragged breath, Farryn dragging in air so sharply it burned his chest. The child clung weakly to him, trembling and half-submerged against his shoulder, its small body frighteningly light in his arms. He did not dare look back toward the dark patch of water where the creature had lurked beneath the reeds. Every instinct in him urged only one thing now: shore. He turned at once and struck out for the bank, each stroke heavy with wet clothes and the child’s weight. The lake that had seemed so calm only moments before now felt vast, every movement through it slower than it ought to be, the cold pressing into his limbs and stealing his strength. More than once, he felt a ripple pass behind them, something moving just beneath the surface, and each time his heart lurched so violently he nearly lost his rhythm.
At last, his feet found stone beneath the water. Relief hit him almost as hard as exhaustion. Half stumbling, half dragging them both forward, he made his way through the shallows until he could lift the child properly into his arms and carry it the final few steps onto the pebbled shore. He sank to one knee beside the waterline, breathless, soaked through, and for several breaths neither of them did anything but cough and breathe.
The child curled inward, shivering violently, one pale hand pressed against the injured ankle. Up close, in the softer light of the lakeshore, Farryn could finally see it properly, and what he saw only deepened the strangeness of the moment. Its skin was pale as river stone, almost luminous where droplets of water still clung to it, while delicate green speckles dusted its face and limbs like pollen or moss spores. Dark green horns curved elegantly from its head, framed by ears far larger than those of any being he had ever encountered, and the garments it wore seemed less sewn than woven from leaves, soft fibers, and tiny living flowers that somehow remained fresh despite the struggle in the lake. Something in the softness of its features and the delicate lines of its face made his mind settle instinctively on a girl. He could not have said why, nor whether he was right, but from that moment on the thought remained fixed in him.
The girl looked up at him then, wide dark eyes fixed on his face, and although fear still trembled through her small frame, he could already see that something had changed. The panic was fading, replaced by a cautious, almost hesitant curiosity. Farryn slowly raised both hands, palms open in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture, and spoke softly even though he knew the words would mean nothing. “You’re safe now.” The response that came was unlike any language he knew: a sequence of soft clicks threaded with a low vibrating trill that rose uncertainly at the end, as if it were both speaking and asking something at once. The sound was strange, almost alien, yet there was something musical in it that held his attention. He hesitated, then pointed lightly to his own chest.
“Farryn.” Her head tilted at once, large ears twitching sharply. She only stared. He tried again, slower this time, touching his chest once more. “Farryn.” Something in her expression softened. Understanding, perhaps. Slowly, she lifted one small hand and pointed to herself. A soft string of clicks and delicate trills followed, more fluid and melodic than before, clearly intentional. Farryn blinked. There was not the faintest chance he would be able to repeat that. “Right,” he muttered under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “That’s helpful.”
He rose, crossed back to the wagon, and returned with one of the thick travel blankets from his pack. Kneeling carefully so as not to startle her, he unfolded it and held it out first, then gently draped it around the small trembling frame when she made no move to take it herself. The girl stiffened for a moment beneath his touch, large ears twitching and her gaze fixed on him, but when the warmth settled around her shoulders, some of the tension seemed to leave her. The blanket hung around her in heavy folds, nearly swallowing her slight form, and the sight of her finally wrapped in something dry eased the tightness that had lingered in Farryn’s chest since he first heard that panicked sound over the lake.
Only then did his gaze drop once more to her ankle. The angry red mark had already begun to swell where the tendril had tightened around it, and after a brief check that nothing seemed broken, he rubbed a little of the soothing salve from his travel pouch over the bruised skin before wrapping it lightly with a strip of linen. He next offered a piece of bread from his pack, only to be met with clear suspicion. She sniffed it cautiously, eyes narrowing as though uncertain whether it was meant to be eaten at all. To reassure her, Farryn tore off a piece for himself and ate it first. Only then did she imitate him, nibbling with visible caution. Whatever taste met her was clearly not to her liking. After swallowing with what struck him as almost deliberate politeness, she slowly held the remaining piece back out to him. Despite the cold still clinging to his bones and the adrenaline not yet fully faded from his blood, Farryn found a small breath of laughter escaping him. “Well,” he murmured, taking it back, “not to your liking, then. Can’t say I blame you, I’m not much of a baker.”
Now that the immediate danger had passed, he found himself studying the girl as carefully as she studied him. With every passing moment, the more certain he became that this was no creature of Thalorien. And yet she did not strike him as dangerous. Lost, frightened, strange beyond measure, yes — but not dangerous. That certainty only deepened the mystery. Whatever this girl was, and wherever she had come from, she did not belong alone at the edge of this lake.
The Shadow Above
The longer he sat beside her, the more aware Farryn became that she was studying him just as intently. Her dark eyes moved slowly over his face, lingered on the damp strands of hair at his brow, then drifted down to his hands resting on his knees. There was no fear in her gaze now, only a quiet, searching curiosity that somehow made him sit a little stiller, as though he too had become something rare to be examined.
After a moment she crawled closer, still wrapped in the blanket, and reached out with careful fingers to touch the rough weave of his sleeve and the worn leather of the bracer at his wrist. The gesture was tentative at first, but when he made no move to pull away, some of her hesitation seemed to ease. She tilted her head, studying him for another long moment, and then, with a deliberateness that immediately made him tense, she slowly lifted both hands toward his face. Farryn frowned but remained where he was. Her palms came to rest lightly against his cheeks.
The sensation that followed was so sudden and so complete that his breath caught sharply in his throat. The lakeshore vanished around him, not fading but dropping away all at once, replaced by motion and sensation so immediate that for one disorienting heartbeat he could not separate himself from what he was seeing. He was high in the trees. No — she was.
The bark beneath small hands was rough and familiar to her in a way that made his own palms seem clumsy by comparison. Branches rushed past as she climbed with effortless speed, leaping from one limb to the next with the confidence of long practice. Around her, other children like her moved through the canopy, their clicking and trilling sounds bright and playful, carrying the clear sense of laughter.
A cry rang out below, sharp and sudden, and the world through which he was seeing turned instinctively upward. A vast shadow swept across the canopy, followed by a violent rush of displaced air that sent leaves spiraling and branches shuddering around them. Before there was even time to understand what was happening, pain tore through him — vivid, sharp, and utterly foreign — as massive claws closed around her body and wrenched her free of the branch.
The forest dropped away beneath them so abruptly that terror surged through him with suffocating force. He felt her panic as though it had become his own: the frantic twisting of small limbs, the desperate kicking, the sickening sensation of being carried higher and higher into the open air. Above, only fragments were visible through the fear and the motion — the dark sweep of a wing, scaled flesh, the hooked curve of monstrous talons. Instinct took over where thought could not. She bit down hard on the claw that held her, again and again, with the wild desperation of something fighting not to die. At first, it seemed to make no difference. Then the grip shifted. Loosened. A single moment, no more.
She threw every bit of strength she had into it, twisting violently and wrenching herself free just as the creature tried to seize her again. The world turned over itself in a blur of sky and branches, and then there was only the sickening rush of falling. The lake flashed up beneath her in a blinding sheet of silver, the impact driving the breath from her body as the water closed over her. Almost at once something below seized her ankle and began to drag her down, deeper into the dark green beneath the surface. What followed was a blur of cold water, panic, and exhaustion. She fought wildly to stay above the surface, lungs burning, every movement growing weaker as the thing below kept pulling her back. Time lost all shape in the struggle; it might have been moments, it might have been many long minutes. Just when the darkness at the edges of her vision began to close in, another figure appeared in the water, larger, broad-shouldered, moving urgently toward her.
She saw him swimming toward her through the wavering light of the lake, and that single moment of recognition tore through the vision so sharply that the world around Farryn lurched violently back into place. He drew in a ragged breath, the lakeshore spinning briefly before steadying beneath him. The girl had already lowered her hands and now sat back slightly, watching him with an expression that was almost uncertain, as though waiting to see whether he had understood. Farryn stared at her, his pulse still hammering in his chest. He understood enough.
For a moment he remained where he was, still catching his breath, the echo of the vision clinging to him with unnerving sharpness. He could still feel the dizzying height of the trees, the sickening lurch of the fall, the crushing terror that had not been his and yet had coursed through him as vividly as if it had been. When he finally looked back at her, something in his expression must have changed, because she tilted her head and gave a small, uncertain trill. “You were taken,” he said softly.
Her ears twitched. Then, slowly, she lifted one arm and pointed toward the deeper woods of Dreomere. Farryn followed the line of her hand into the dark green beyond the lake. The trees there stood taller and older, their trunks thick with moss, their branches woven so tightly together that the light barely touched the forest floor beneath. It was not the kind of place he would ever willingly enter alone, not even in daylight. Behind him, the Fyr let out a low, uneasy huff. He understood the beasts’s unease well enough. His eyes drifted back to the girl. She was watching him again with that same searching stillness, waiting. A slow breath left him. “You want me to bring you back to your kin.” The girl blinked.
He pushed himself to his feet and crossed back to the wagon, retrieving his satchel, hatchet, and a fresh coil of rope. If he was going into the deeper reaches of Dreomere, he was not going unprepared. When he returned, she was already trying to stand. The moment her injured foot touched the ground, she winced and nearly lost her balance. Farryn was beside her in an instant.
“No, no. None of that.” He crouched and, after a brief hesitation to give her the chance to object, carefully lifted her into his arms again, blanket and all, and set her on the wagon. He glanced once more toward the woods. “All right,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her. “Show me where you came from.”
Deeper into Dreomere
He guided the wagon slowly along the edge of the lake at first, letting the girl settle herself beneath the blanket while the Fyr found its footing on the narrow track that led away from the shore. The trees ahead loomed darker than the gentler borders of Dreomere he knew, their trunks rising thick with moss and their branches knitting together so tightly overhead that the light seemed to thin with every step they took beneath them. The air changed almost at once. It grew cooler, heavier, and rich with the scent of damp bark, wet earth, and the faint sweetness of unseen flowers somewhere high in the canopy.
For a time, the girl said nothing. She sat quietly on the wagon bench beside him, hands folded beneath the blanket, her large dark eyes fixed on the woods ahead. Then, just as the track began to split around an overgrown stand of roots and ferns, she shifted and lifted one hand. Farryn frowned. There was no path there. At least, none that he could see. Only a narrow break between trees, half-swallowed by hanging moss and creeping vines. Still, he trusted what she had shown him more than his own sense of direction in this part of Dreomere. He clicked his tongue to the Fyr and guided the wagon off the clearer trail. The beast hesitated only once before obeying, its heavy hooves sinking slightly into the damp ground. The wheels bumped over roots and soft earth, and Farryn found himself leaning forward, eyes searching constantly for anything that might threaten the wagon or the animal. More than once, he had to climb down to move a fallen branch or guide the wheels around a hollow patch of ground.
At one point she suddenly stirred beside him, threw off the blanket, and motioned for him to stop. Though she still favored her ankle a little, the swelling had gone down enough for her to slip carefully from the wagon and move a little way into the undergrowth. There she grew very still, closing her eyes as if to listen to something far beyond his hearing. A moment later, she turned and pointed with complete certainty. Several times after that she did the same. Sometimes she crouched and pressed her hand lightly against the earth; other times she lifted her face to the air as though scent alone could tell her what lay ahead. Once she stood with both hands slightly raised, fingers spread, as if feeling something moving through the forest that he could neither hear nor see, and each time she ended by choosing their way without hesitation.
Each time, the direction she chose led them onward without trouble, and by the third such pause Farryn had long since stopped questioning how she knew. Whether she was following memory, scent, or something stranger still, it guided them deeper into Dreomere with an assurance that made his own knowledge of these woods feel suddenly very small.
As the hours passed, the forest around them began to change. The gentler border woods gave way to older growth, where the trees rose impossibly high and stood so close together that their branches wove a shifting canopy overhead. Moss thickened on the trunks in heavy green folds, silver-green lichen draped from the higher limbs, and the air grew cooler and richer with the scent of wet earth and unseen water. Somewhere beyond the trees, hidden streams whispered over stone, and now and then the distant rush of a waterfall drifted through the forest like a half-heard voice. By the time the pale brightness of morning had softened into the gold of afternoon, Farryn noticed the girl stir beside him.
At first, it was only a subtle change in posture, but then she straightened fully, every line of her small frame suddenly alert with something that looked very much like anticipation. Hope, perhaps. Even excitement. She shifted forward on the bench, almost bouncing where she sat beneath the blanket, and let out a rapid trill unlike any sound he had yet heard from her — lighter, brighter, threaded with clear eagerness.
Before he could even ask what had changed, she slipped down from the wagon and turned to him with urgent gestures, beckoning him to follow. Farryn climbed down at once and took hold of the Fyr’s harness, guiding the great beast forward on foot. They had gone only a little farther when he heard it. At first, it was so soft he thought he had imagined it: a faint clicking sound somewhere among the trees. Then another answered it from farther off. Then a third, sharper, higher in pitch, followed by yet another from the opposite side. Within moments the sounds seemed to gather around him, layered in different tones and rhythms, coming from the branches overhead, from the shadows between the trunks, from somewhere deep in the undergrowth where no path should have existed. Farryn stopped at once, one hand instinctively settling on the haft of his hatchet.
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement where nothing ought to have moved at all — the brief flicker of a pale shape vanishing behind a trunk, the stir of branches far too high for any ordinary woodland creature, a sudden gust that brushed past him carrying the scent of crushed herbs and wildflowers.
Beyond the veil
The clicking continued above and around them, moving through the branches in tones Farryn could not begin to understand. Some came from high in the canopy, others from somewhere deeper among the trunks, and once he was almost certain he heard a softer answering trill from behind him as well. The girl stood a little ahead of him, head tilted upward, listening with such complete stillness that he found himself holding his own breath. Then one voice remained.
It answered her in a lower, steadier cadence, and what followed had all the clear rhythm of conversation. The girl responded at once, the sounds spilling from her quickly now, threaded with an urgency he had not heard before. Her hands moved as she spoke, small gestures toward him, toward the wagon, and then deeper into the woods behind the unseen speaker. Farryn could not understand a single sound, but the meaning felt clear enough. She was explaining him. Perhaps even defending him.
The forest remained hushed for some time afterward, save for the slow breathing of the Fyr and the faint creak of leather as it shifted in its harness. Then movement stirred among the trees. At first, it was only the briefest suggestion of pale shapes between the trunks, so fleeting that he might have mistaken them for filtered light if not for the soft rustle of branches above. But one by one they stepped into view, emerging from the forest with such quiet grace that it seemed less like they had approached and more as if the woods themselves had chosen to reveal them. They were of her kind. Adults, without question.
Taller and leaner than the girl, their pale skin marked with delicate speckles and patterns in every imaginable hue — deep blues, warm golds, soft pinks, vivid greens, rich violets and shades Farryn could not even name — each one carrying its own color as distinctly as a bird carries its plumage.
Farryn’s hand remained on the haft of his hatchet, though he did not tighten his grip. He saw no weapons and no immediate sign of threat, only the same cautious stillness with which they regarded him. The girl let out a bright trill and hurried forward, and immediately one of the figures — a woman, he thought, by the finer lines of her face and the more elaborate adornments woven through her shoulders and hair — dropped to one knee and gathered the child into her arms.
Even without understanding the sounds, the emotion in what followed was unmistakable: relief. The woman held the girl back just enough to examine her properly — the damp hair, the blanket around her shoulders, the reddened ankle — before her gaze lifted to Farryn, sharp and assessing.
The woman regarded him for a time, her dark eyes moving over the damp edges of his clothes, the scratches along his forearms, and the hatchet at his belt before settling briefly on the girl herself. The child was speaking quickly now, the clicking and trilling cadence spilling from her in a stream that sounded almost breathless with urgency. Several of the others had drawn nearer, though not so close as to crowd him, and Farryn became acutely aware of how silent the forest had gone around them, as though even Dreomere itself were listening.
For one uneasy moment he wondered whether he had made a very grave mistake. Then she rose and approached him with measured steps, stopping only when she stood a few paces away. Slowly, solemnly, she lowered her head in a gesture that could only be respect. After the briefest hesitation, Farryn returned the bow.
When she straightened, the tension among the gathered figures seemed to ease with her. A few stepped back into the trees, while others remained where they were, watching him now with open curiosity rather than suspicion. Then, with a small gesture of her hand, the woman beckoned for him to follow. He hesitated only a moment before taking hold of the Fyr’s harness and stepping after them.
He followed them deeper into the forest, the great Fyr moving with surprising patience at his side as they passed between the towering trunks. The way the creatures moved through the woods still unsettled him. Some remained visible, gliding silently over roots and moss as though the ground itself guided their steps, while others seemed to vanish upward into the branches, reappearing only as flickers of pale color and soft movement high above.
The walk itself was not long. The ground softened beneath his boots, thick with moss and roots, and the forest around them grew quieter, the trunks rising older and taller as the undergrowth thickened ahead into what looked like an impenetrable wall of green. Farryn frowned when the woman stopped before it, for he could see no path forward. Then she stepped closer and lifted one hand, her fingers brushing lightly through what should have been empty air. At once the world before him rippled like the disturbed surface of a lake. The trunks and branches wavered, bent, and seemed to peel apart in slow shimmering waves, revealing that what had appeared to be solid forest had been nothing more than a veil. Beyond it, hidden until that very moment, lay a village unlike any he had ever seen.
It did not seem built so much as grown. The trees themselves had become part of it, their massive trunks widening into hollowed dwellings and raised platforms that curled around the bark in gentle spirals. Walkways wound between them like living branches, formed from woven roots, pale wood, and flowering vines. Some dwellings sat close to the forest floor, while others rested high in the canopy, linked by narrow bridges and stairways that seemed almost too delicate to hold weight and yet looked as sturdy as the oldest roots.
A clear stream ran through the heart of it, splitting around smooth stones before gathering again beneath hanging moss and low arches of living wood. Around it, life moved in quiet harmony. Children of her kind darted through the branches overhead with impossible ease, their laughter carried in bright clicking trills. Others played along the stream, splashing clear water over smooth stones. Adults sat in small groups weaving flowers and fibers into garments and ornaments, while others prepared food from strange fruits, roots, and nuts spread over low woven tables. Farryn had seen Vhalandir settlements and the sturdy farmsteads of his own people, but this was unlike either of them; it felt as though the forest itself had shaped this place into a home.
As he stepped fully into the clearing, movement began to slow around him. By the stream, small hands stilled above the water and several children turned to stare openly, droplets running from their fingers onto the stones below. Higher up in the branches, others paused mid-climb and peered down through leaves and trailing vines, soft bursts of clicking excitement passing quickly between them. Though many continued what they had been doing, it was impossible not to feel their attention settling on him from every corner of the clearing. Some remained seated, hands pausing over woven fibers and flowers as they watched him without pretense. Others stood in doorways, on the winding stairways, or along the higher walkways in the trees, their many-colored forms half-framed by leaves and blossoms. He had never felt so thoroughly looked at in his life.
The girl, now visibly bright with excitement, hurried ahead toward the center of the clearing, looking back once to make certain he was still following. Several of the smaller ones had already drifted toward the wagon and the Fyr. For one uneasy heartbeat Farryn thought that might prove a mistake, but the great beast merely lowered its horned head and let out a soft huff as curious hands touched its thick fur. Small fingers ran along the leather harness, the wheels of the wagon, and the bundles tied to its sides. One of the younger creatures gave a delighted trill and the Fyr, to Farryn’s disbelief, leaned into the touch like some oversized house-beast. “Well,” he muttered under his breath, “glad one of us is relaxed.”
A few of the bolder children had begun edging closer to him as well, stopping only a few paces away before retreating again into little clusters, speaking quickly among themselves and glancing back at him with unabashed fascination. One made it close enough to brush tentative fingers against the fabric of his sleeve before darting back with a bright, startled trill. Only when the woman gave a low, firm sequence of clicks did they pull back a little, though not far. They remained nearby, still staring.
The woman glanced back at him, and though he could not read her expression fully, there was something in it that felt almost amused. She led him toward a woven seating place near the stream and gestured for him to sit. Farryn did so carefully, still unable to shake the feeling that he had stepped into something he was never meant to see.
Almost immediately, others approached carrying food and drink. The fruit was unlike anything he knew — jewel-bright skins, pale flesh, and a sweet fragrance that reminded him faintly of blossom and rain. Beside it came a small bowl of nuts and roots, along with a cup of crystal-clear water. Farryn hesitated only briefly before accepting the offering and took a cautious bite of the nearest fruit. The flesh gave easily beneath his teeth, soft and cool, and the taste was sweeter than anything he had expected, carrying a faint floral note that lingered pleasantly on his tongue. He drank next, the water startlingly clear and cold, and only then did some of the tension begin to leave his shoulders. Even so, he could still feel the weight of countless eyes on him.
The village had not returned to its former rhythm. Children still lingered in small groups near the stream and beneath the trees, whispering in quick bursts of clicks and trills, their eyes flicking to him whenever they thought he was not looking. A few of the adults continued their work, but even from the corner of his eye he could see them glancing up now and then, openly curious. He could hardly blame them. He imagined he must look every bit as strange to them as they did to him.
The woman lowered herself beside him with quiet grace, close enough that he could see the intricate weaving of flowers and fine fibers worked into her garments and the delicate speckling of color across her skin. For a few moments she simply watched him eat and drink, as if reassuring herself that he had accepted their welcome. Then, slowly, she lifted both hands. Farryn’s breath caught.
The Or’si
For a moment he thought she meant to touch his face as the girl had done by the lakeshore, and the memory of that dizzying vision flashed sharply through him. His whole body tensed before he could stop it. But instead of the suddenness of before, she lifted only one hand slowly, her cool fingertips coming to rest lightly against his forehead. Something in the air around them seemed to change, the sounds of the village drawing slightly farther away, as though the world itself had taken a small step back. Beneath that hush he thought he heard something else — a faint whispering undercurrent, almost like the distant clicking and soft trilling of voices layered beneath silence itself. It was so soft, so strange, that for one disorienting moment he wondered whether he was imagining it.
Then a woman’s voice, clear and almost musical, sounded directly in his mind.
Hello, Farryn.
He jerked slightly, his breath catching in his throat.
How does she know my name?
A flicker of amusement touched her eyes.
My daughter told me your name.
Farryn stared at her.
Wait. Can she read my mind?
This time the amusement in her expression was impossible to miss.
Yes, I can hear your thoughts, Farryn. You may speak to me, and I will hear it.
For one horrifying moment his mind went completely blank. Then, disastrously, it did not.
Do not think of anything strange. Do not think of anything strange.
Naturally, the first thing his mind did was betray him.
She’s pretty. In a strange way. No, that sounds wrong. They’re all strange. Do they think I’m strange? What if she can tell I’m not that clever? Stop thinking. Stop thinking right now.
A soft chuckle brushed through his thoughts, warm and unmistakably amused.
Calm down, Farryn. Just focus on my voice.
His eyes widened.
Calm down. Calm down, she says. Doesn’t she know how strange this is?
The woman gave only the faintest smile, choosing not to answer the thought that had flared so loudly through his mind. Her voice continued, smooth and low beneath the whispering undercurrent of distant clicks and trills that still seemed to echo somewhere at the edges of his awareness.
I know this is… a little invasive, but I wished to thank you for rescuing Ol’ya. My daughter was taken by a Vorá’kai, a sky-hunter, and carried from us. We believed her lost.
Before he could fully grasp the words, something sharp and terrible tore through him — the rush of air over treetops, a vast shadow sweeping across the canopy, the thunderous beat of enormous wings blotting out the light, and beneath it all the raw, suffocating terror of a child carried into the sky. Grief followed in its wake, not his own and yet so powerful it struck him like a physical blow, threaded with flashes of pale figures gathered beneath the trees and cries broken by aching sorrow. Farryn sucked in a breath as the vision vanished as suddenly as it had come.
Osy’ra’s expression changed at once.
My apologies, Farryn. I did not mean for you to see that. My emotions overcame me.
Her voice softened.
We possess the ability to commune with others, both of our kind and those who are not, in the way you are experiencing now. Our young can share only images and feelings. The elders are able to shape thought into words, as I do now. Passing images can be… overwhelming. Word-shaping is gentler on the mind of the one receiving it. But when our own emotions rise too strongly, such things can slip through.
She paused for a moment. Then, with quiet formality:
But where are my manners? I am called Osy’ra and I am Nal’tsi — She-who-guards-and-remembers. The keeper of our people, in your tongue.
The name seemed to linger in the air between them.
As far as we know, we are the last of our kind. We do not interfere in the lives of others, and we ask the same in return. Long before the world was named by the Vhalandir, we were here. When this land was still fire and stone, in ages long forgotten, we were its creators. Later, its shapers. Then, for countless lifetimes, its tenders.
Her gaze drifted beyond him, past the woven dwellings and the stream that wound through the heart of the village, as though she were looking not at the place as it stood now, but at something far older layered beneath it.
We felt its breath rustling through the leaves of the forests, its pulse deep in the earth, its blood in the currents of rivers and seas. The life of this world moved through us, and through it, we shaped what was needed.
For a moment something flickered at the edge of his thoughts — a forest growing in fast, impossible silence, branches unfurling toward light, stone rising from the earth, water carving new paths through ancient ground.
Then others came.
The warmth in her voice dimmed.
At first, they came in wonder. Later, in fear. And eventually, in hunger. They wanted what bound us to this world. Some believed our gift could be taken, wielded, made their own. So they hunted us.
Her eyes lifted to meet his and a cold unease moved through him.
To survive, we withdrew. We adapted. We learned to cloak ourselves, to shield ourselves from those who would wished us harm. In time, others took upon themselves the tending of the world, and we became content to simply remain.
A pause.
Now… we are little more than a memory of what we once were.
Osy’ra’s gaze lingered on him for a time, and when her voice returned it carried something heavier than grief: not sorrow alone, but the immense weariness of ages.
Our kind endures longer than you can imagine, Farryn. What you see as a child may already have known a hundred winters. What you see as an elder may have witnessed the passing of empires. Ol’ya is young among us, yet even she carries years that would seem a lifetime to many others.
His eyes flicked instinctively toward the girl, and the thought struck him with quiet force. Young — and yet not young, not in any way he truly understood.
New life comes to us rarely. Sometimes centuries pass in silence before another of our kind is born. There was a time when we were many, when the Or’si moved through forests, mountains, rivers, and open plains across all that is now called Vhalandar. We shaped valleys, called forests to rise, cooled fire, and turned ash to fertile earth.
At the edge of his thoughts something flickered again: black stone glowing with heat, rivers of fire running through cracked land, and then green spreading outward in impossible silence, life unfurling where there had been none.
But ages passed, and the hunt thinned us. Time thinned us further still. Now there are so few of us that every life is precious beyond measure, and every loss is felt for centuries.
The grief of Ol’ya’s near-loss brushed through him once more, sharp enough to tighten his chest.
Then Osy’ra looked back at him, and her voice lowered.
There have been times, Farryn, when the world itself cried out loudly enough that even we could not remain apart.
For a moment her voice seemed to drift, as though the thought had carried her far beyond the village, beyond the forest, beyond even the ages she had already spoken of.
But those moments grow fewer.
Her attention seemed to drift outward once more, toward the life of the village around them.
Our time here is drawing to its natural close. We have known this for longer than your people have kept records of their own histories.
There was no bitterness in her voice, only acceptance.
The world no longer needs our hands as it once did. Others now shape its future. They tend what we once tended.
A soft breath of something almost like a smile brushed through his thoughts.
That is as it should be.
Farryn did not know how to respond. The weight of it settled over him slowly — not death, not yet, but the quiet knowledge of an age passing.
We do not fear the ending. Every living thing must one day yield its place. Forests burn and grow anew. Rivers change their course. Mountains break and become earth.
Her eyes lifted to meet his.
Perhaps our path ends here. Perhaps it leads somewhere beyond this world. Even we do not know.
A pause. Then, softer still:
But Vhalandar will remain. And it will belong to those who come after us.
For a time Farryn could find no words. The weight of what she had told him pressed down on him until he felt almost absurdly small beneath it. Creators. Shapers. Beings who had walked this world before it even bore its name. And, somewhere in the middle of all that, his own traitorous thoughts surfaced again.
I called them strange.
The thought flashed through him with such perfect horror that he almost physically winced.
A soft laugh — warm, melodic, and unmistakably amused — brushed through his mind. Heat rushed to his face. To his immense relief, her amusement held no offense, only a kind of fondness that somehow made it worse.
I had not intended to tell you so much. We have lived apart from the others for so long that such things are rarely spoken aloud, even among ourselves. But it felt… right to tell you.
Something in that settled deeply in him. For the first time he reached for the connection deliberately, shaping the thought more carefully now.
Maybe that means something. Maybe it doesn’t have to end with you all just… fading away.
He frowned slightly, trying to put the feeling into words.
Maybe the world has changed since you went into hiding. Where I come from, in the Thalorien Forest, it is safe. My people, the Fauknir, would never harm you. Nor would the Vhalandir or the Nissri or the Aeluri. There are many races now, but we live in peace. You would have nothing to fear from any of us. You would never be hunted.
For a while Osy’ra said nothing. Her gaze rested on him, but he had the strange sense that her thoughts had gone far beyond him — beyond the village, beyond Dreomere itself, touching places and peoples she had not allowed herself to consider in a very long time. When she finally looked back at him, something in her expression had softened.
Perhaps the world has changed more than we believed.
A faint smile touched her face.
Perhaps… we have remained hidden for so long that we forgot the world beyond our veil continued to change without us.
The thought seemed to hang between them.
I will think on what you have said, Farryn.
Warmth brushed through the connection once more.
And now you must rest. Do not carry the weight of our story as a burden. You have done only good here. My daughter lives because of you. Let that be what remains with you.
He opened his mouth to say more — to ask questions, to tell her about Mirrin, about Thalorien, about the people who would never harm them — but before the thought could fully take shape, the world around him began to change. The sound of the stream seemed to draw farther away, stretching into distance, while the woven dwellings and living bridges softened at the edges as though seen through moving water. Light twisted between the branches above, spinning slowly at first and then all at once, until the whole village seemed to tilt beneath him. Farryn had only the briefest moment to think that he was not yet ready to leave before the world turned and vanished.
Return to Thalorien
Awareness returned to him slowly, as though he were rising through deep water toward the surface rather than waking from sleep. Warmth reached him first, soft and all-encompassing, followed by the scent of fresh earth, crushed leaves, and something sweet and green that carried the faint perfume of blossoms. For a few moments Farryn kept his eyes closed, reluctant to disturb the strange lightness in his body. Every ache from the journey had vanished. The soreness in his shoulders was gone, the scratches along his arms no longer stung, and even the weariness that had settled into his bones since entering Dreomere seemed to have melted away.
When he finally opened his eyes, pale morning light shimmered through the branches above him, and for one disorienting moment he lay perfectly still, caught between memory and waking. The village, Osy’ra’s voice, and the immense weight of everything she had told him still lingered at the edges of his mind like the fading remnants of a dream. Only when he shifted did he realize he was not lying on bare ground at all, but on a thick bed of moss, leaves, and flowering plants, woven so carefully beneath him that it felt softer than any sleeping pallet he had ever known.
Slowly he pushed himself upright. He was back by the lake. Mist drifted low over the water in thin white ribbons, and the surface lay smooth as silver glass beneath the pale morning light. For several minutes he simply sat there, one hand braced in the soft weave beside him, letting the world settle into focus. The memory of the hidden village still felt close enough to touch, yet even as he reached for it, he could feel it beginning to slip. Then he turned toward the wagon. It stood where he had left it, but it no longer looked as it had the night before. The bed of it was filled to the brim with timber — not rough-cut logs or branches gathered from fallen wood, but smooth, perfectly shaped trunks stacked in careful order. There were no axe marks, no saw lines, no splintered edges, only clean natural forms that looked as though the trees themselves had chosen to grow exactly that way. Farryn stared for a long moment before a slow, disbelieving breath escaped him. “Well,” he murmured hoarsely, “I suppose that solves the wood.”
Movement beside the wagon drew his attention. The Fyr looked magnificent. Its thick coat had been brushed until it gleamed in the morning light, every trace of mud and forest debris gone, the long hair along its neck carefully combed smooth. Tucked neatly between its horns was a pale blossom, delicate and unmistakably the same kind Ol’ya had worn in her hair. For a moment Farryn could only blink. “All right, then. Don’t you look lovely?” The beast turned its head toward him and let out a low, deeply contented huff that sounded almost smug.
He pushed himself slowly to his feet, half expecting the familiar stiffness of the past days to seize his shoulders and legs the moment he moved, but it never came. His body felt astonishingly light and deeply rested, as though he had slept for days and eaten more than enough besides. Yet even as that sense of renewal settled through him, the memories that had seemed so vivid only moments before were already beginning to blur. At first, he still held fragments. The lake. Ol’ya. A woman’s voice in his mind. A hidden village somewhere beyond the trees. But within minutes even those details began to soften, slipping away from him like mist in sunlight. The harder he tried to hold them, the faster they seemed to dissolve, until all that remained was the overwhelming sense that something extraordinary had happened here and that, somehow, he had done something profoundly good.
The feeling stayed with him — the certainty, the wonder — even though the memory itself was gone. Frowning slightly, Farryn looked once more at the timber in the wagon and the blossom nestled between the Fyr’s horns. Whatever had happened, it had not been a dream. That much he knew.
The journey back through Dreomere took two full days, yet it felt strangely different from the road that had brought him there. The forest no longer pressed in around him with the same quiet menace as before. The trees remained ancient and the shadows still ran deep and green, but the weight he had felt on the way in was gone, replaced by something quieter, almost watchful. More than once, he had the distinct and slightly unsettling sense that unseen eyes followed him from the branches above, though now the feeling carried no threat.
By the time the darker woods finally began to thin and the familiar edges of Thalorien came into view, the light had already begun to soften toward evening. It was the voices that reached him first. Several Fauknir stood gathered just beyond the village path, their attention fixed on something ahead, and as the wagon rolled closer Farryn followed their gaze and felt his breath catch. Where the ground had been empty when he left, three enormous trees now stood. Their trunks rose impossibly thick from the earth, the bark smooth and pale with that unmistakable silver-green sheen. For one disbelieving moment he simply stared. Moonwillow. The very timber he had spent three days traveling into Dreomere to find now stood towering at the edge of his own village. Their branches stretched high above the surrounding canopy, leaves catching the light with an almost luminous quality, and even from where he sat, he could smell the living sweetness of fresh sap and blossom.
At the sight of that bark — that pale silver-green sheen — something deep within him stirred, and all at once the memory came rushing back: the lake, Ol’ya, the hidden village, Osy’ra, her voice in his mind, and her promise to think on what he had said. Farryn’s breath caught as the realization settled over him with sudden, staggering clarity: she had thought on it. These trees had not simply appeared; she had chosen this. She wanted him to remember. A slow smile touched his mouth as the full meaning of it settled over him.
This was not the end, but the beginning of something new.
