Chapter 1 - The Scent of Cities
Selathryn rarely stirred before dawn. The trees of the Lythari sanctuary held their breath in the early hush, soft mist curling between silver-limbed branches like dreams reluctant to fade. But today, the quiet was a touch more solemn. The grove had risen early, not for ceremony or hunt, but because one of their own had fallen ill, and one of their scouts had offered to break tradition for her sake.
Few among the Lythari ever left Selathryn. Fewer still dared venture beyond the safe hush of the forest with a child in tow. Yet there stood Elarion Caithor, adjusting the clasp of a fur-lined cloak over the slight shoulders of a pale-haired girl, no older than seven. Her braids were uneven from the healer’s hasty work, her skin pallid where fever had kissed her cheeks. She shifted uncomfortably, hiding her hand beneath the folds of her cloak as though the act might stop the poison spreading further.
Ayda had snuck beyond the grove's heart the previous afternoon, lured by sweet forest scents and the forbidden thrill of foraging unsupervised. She’d pricked her hand on the thorn of a pale, poisonous blossom. For an adult, the venom might have caused little more than a day’s illness, but for one so young, it spread too quickly, too cruelly. Their only spellcasting healer had left with a scouting group that morning, and those who remained could offer nothing but poultices and hope.
Lythari rarely begged aid from the outside. But Elarion had seen enough loss to know when tradition must bend. When he’d volunteered to escort Ayda to Taltempla, there had been no argument. Only quiet nods and an unspoken trust placed in his hands.
Taltempla lay beyond the far ridge. Evermeet’s famed City of Magic. Built atop the convergence of ancient leylines, its alabaster spires rose through veils of mist, carved with starlight and spellwork. The streets shimmered faintly beneath moonlight even in midday, and enchantments hummed quietly beneath every stone. Temples and towers rose side by side, their windows gleaming with soft arcane glow. The city pulsed with old power, and among its halls, healers of every kind could be found.
It was a place of wonder to most, but to the Lythari, it is a place of quiet dread. Cities were loud. Exposed. Unfamiliar.
But for Ayda, Elarion would go.
“There,” he said softly. “Snug?”
She nodded. Her voice was a whisper. “Will we be gone long?”
“Only until you’re well.” His tone was quiet but certain. “Then we come straight home.”
She looked up at him now, brows furrowed in pale worry. “Will there be monsters?”
He crouched down, his fingers deftly fastening her cloak. “There might be,” he said, calm as a still lake. “But if there are, I’ll fight every last one to keep you safe.”
Her eyes widened. “Even the big ones?”
He smiled, quiet and sure. “Especially the big ones.”
Ayda nodded once and took his hand. Together, they stepped beyond the edge of Selathryn, silver hair and green eyes vanishing into the trees, bound for a city that gleamed with magic and unknowable fate.
Ayda had no blood family, but few in Selathryn would have thought to name her an orphan. Among the Lythari, kinship was not defined by birth, but by belonging. The pack raised its children as one, their care passed from hand to hand like sacred thread. She had been found as an infant curled in a hollow tree, no more than days old. Since then, she had grown among the grove’s laughter, guarded by warriors, fed by foragers, and taught by silver-haired storytellers who sang old songs by the moonlight.
Now, she walked quietly at Elarion’s side, her small feet padding over soft leaves and winding roots, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. But the silence did not last.
A sudden whimper broke from her lips.
Elarion turned at once, already crouching as her body tensed with pain. She held her hand to her chest, as though by hiding it she could make the ache disappear. He reached out gently, coaxing her arm forward. The thin scratches across her palm had darkened. Faint lines of red and grey crept along her forearm, weaving like ivy in slow, steady reach.
He did not let the concern show on his face. Calm would be her anchor, and he meant to be steady for her.
“It’s alright,” he said, quietly. “We’re close now.”
But Ayda’s face crumpled. Her breaths grew sharp and fast, and fat tears slid down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean to get into trouble. I just wanted to see it. The woods outside. I thought… I thought maybe it would be beautiful. Even if the elders say it’s dangerous. I just wanted to see.”
She choked on a hiccup. “But they were right, weren’t they? I shouldn’t have gone. I should’ve stayed. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Hush now, pup,” Elarion said gently, lifting her chin with one finger. “This wasn’t your fault.”
She looked at him with wide, tearful eyes.
“Accidents happen,” he said. “And curiosity is not something you should ever be ashamed of. Wanting to know more, wanting to see more… that’s not wrong. But you mustn’t go alone, not like that. If you ever want to explore the edge of the grove again, you come find me. I’ll take you. I’ll be your shadow, and you’ll be safe.”
Her tears slowed.
“And when you cannot leave the grove, you can borrow my books,” he added. “There are stories and maps and all sorts of wonders between their pages. You’ll see the whole world without ever setting foot outside.”
Ayda nodded slowly, sniffling. “You really mean it?”
“I do,” said Elarion, with a gentle smile on his face.
He brushed her braids gently back from her face. In truth, she reminded him of himself, far more than he cared to admit aloud. That same bright yearning, that ache for the world beyond the trees. It was why he had become a scout, why he trained with diligence to serve both the eyes and arms of the grove. Scouting gave him permission to leave, to stretch his legs beyond the familiar roots and rivers.
But he never went far. Never for long. His duties called him home, and something deep inside held him back from going too far. The pack was not large, and every pair of steady hands mattered. He was a scout, yes. But also a warden. One of the few protectors left who could raise arms if danger came creeping through the woods.
His dreams of seeing distant lands often ended with guilt sitting heavy on his chest. To leave would feel like betrayal. To go too far would be to abandon those he had sworn to protect. He would not tell Ayda that. He couldn’t.
Instead, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a worn little book, its leather cover etched with small lines and gentle wear.
“Here,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
She blinked, curious once more, and took the book carefully in her hands.
Inside, the pages were filled with sketches. Birds in mid-flight. Birds perched on branches. Birds with crests of flame, with tails like fans, with wings dappled in twilight shades. There was no text, only charcoal and ink and a quiet sort of reverence in the lines.
“They’re beautiful,” Ayda whispered.
“I like to draw them,” Elarion said. “They always seem so free. They go where they please. Sing when they want. And their feathers… so many colors, it almost makes your eyes ache.”
She turned each page slowly, mouth slightly open in awe. Her pain, for the moment, had quieted. With her clutching the sketchbook gently against her chest, the two continued through the forest, a little slower now, but no less certain in their steps. The trees above gave way to the promise of open sky beyond the ridge, and far in the distance, a glimmer of pale spires waited like a beacon through the haze. Taltempla was not far.
And for Ayda, Elarion would walk through the whole world if he had to.
They had stopped only once, deep in the hush of the woods, where the moonlight barely filtered through the canopy above. Elarion had fashioned a makeshift camp with his bedroll and cloak, nestling Ayda against the warmth of his side while the fire crackled low beside them. She had fallen asleep quickly, her little body worn from the day’s march, but sleep never once touched Elarion’s eyes.
He had sat with his back to a tree, one hand resting gently across Ayda’s shoulders, the other gripping his blade as he watched the slow spread of poison on her arm. The red veins pulsed faintly under her skin, the color deepening with each passing hour. He would have preferred to keep walking, to press on into the night no matter how dark the path, but Ayda was still a child. Her small legs had carried her far already, and he could not ask them to carry her further. So he stayed awake, ears keen for the snap of twigs or the hoot of owls, and eyes fixed on the little girl who had crept into his heart like a stubborn root.
When the morning light softened the sky to rose and pearl, they continued.
Ayda had been quiet for most of the walk, resting her cheek against Elarion’s arm, humming faintly under her breath as he guided her along the overgrown trail. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of stone and river, and Elarion knew they were close. Taltempla was just ahead.
Then came the sudden squeeze of her fingers around his. Her whimper was barely audible, but he heard it. He turned at once. Ayda's face had gone pale as milk, and a sheen of sweat clung to her brow. Her lips were colorless, and her eyes looked heavy and dim.
“My whole body hurts,” she whispered.
Panic stirred behind Elarion’s calm eyes. He crouched swiftly.
“Up you go, little star,” he said, lifting her with practiced ease. She clung to him weakly as he slung her over his back and tied his cloak snug around her, knotting it to hold her in place. “Hold tight.”
And then he ran.
His boots pounded against the forest floor, breath sharp in his throat, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. The trees parted at last, and beyond them stood the city of Taltempla, glinting in the sunlight like crystal and silver.
It was beautiful, yes. But overwhelming.
The noise struck first. Voices layered upon voices, carts rumbling across stone, the clatter of hooves and bells and shoes on wet pavement. The streets were alive with movement, a thousand bodies weaving past each other, each one in a rush, each one seemingly blind to the others. The air was thick with unfamiliar scents. Spices, oils, smoke, perfume. Everything was too loud, too bright, too fast.
Elarion stumbled as he entered, his stride faltering just for a moment. He looked left and right, scanning the buildings for anything that resembled a temple, anything with a symbol of healing, a banner of sanctuary. But the architecture here was strange, tall and sweeping, and none of it made sense to him.
He approached a man in fine robes, reaching out with a hoarse breath.
“Please. A healer. Where—”
The man glanced at him and kept walking.
He tried again. A woman with a bouquet of spell-inked scrolls in her arms passed without a glance. A cloaked figure turned their head, blinked once, and disappeared into the crowd. No one stopped. No one looked. The streets felt cold. Not in temperature, but in spirit. A thousand hearts beating, and none of them for him.
He was used to the gentle watchfulness of Selathryn, where every face was known and every stranger was seen. Here, he felt invisible. The child on his back whimpered again, and that sound grounded him more than any prayer.
His breathing grew ragged. He grit his teeth. Somewhere in this city, someone could help her. He would find them. Even if the world refused to see him, he would make them listen.
Ayda whimpered again, a soft sound muffled against the curve of Elarion’s shoulder. He could feel her grip faltering, her tiny fingers no longer clasped around the edge of his cloak.
“I’m tired,” she whispered.
The words struck him harder than a blade. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, a panic so sharp it turned his breath shallow. He glanced around wildly. Stone walls. Glimmering signs. Doorways and awnings and banners written in a dozen scripts he barely recognised. And then, just ahead, a building thrumming with sound and warmth. A tavern, perhaps. Or an inn. It did not matter.
He made for it at once.
The scent of ale and smoke hit him as he pushed through the doors, and his boots echoed across polished floors as every head turned toward him. Dozens of eyes stared at the wild-haired man with dirt-streaked cheeks and a child slung across his back. He did not care.
“Please!” he shouted, his voice shaking the very walls. “Is there a healer here?”
Silence fell like a blade.
The music stopped. Conversations stilled. Mugs were lowered. And in the weight of that quiet, as his heart thundered in his chest, Elarion could feel it. His own eyes stinging, his own thoughts spiralling.
Not again. Please, not again.
And then, from the crowd, she stepped forward.
A woman, tall and poised, with the grace of moonlight and fire woven together. Her auburn hair flowed behind her like silk in the wind. She wore a dress trimmed in soft gold and fabrics finer than any he had seen. And her eyes, though bright and commanding, softened as they met his.
“I am a cleric,” she said gently. “Let me see her.”
Elarion dropped to one knee with trembling hands, undoing the cloak that held Ayda to his back. The little girl gave a quiet cry, barely awake now, her brow slick with sweat.
“Please,” he said. “Help her. Please.”
The cleric knelt, already casting, her fingers aglow with a light so soft it could have been starlight. She touched Ayda’s hand first, then her forehead, whispering words in a tongue older than stone. A hush fell over the room as the light wrapped around the child like mist.
And then, slowly, Ayda’s skin began to warm.
Colour returned to her cheeks, faint but growing. Her breathing evened. Her lips no longer trembled. Her tiny body curled into rest instead of pain, and for the first time in hours, Elarion saw her face relax.
He looked up at the woman. Something cracked inside him. A single tear rolled down his cheek before he could stop it, and he turned his face away to wipe it quickly.
She smiled.
“She will be fine now. She was very lucky.”
He let out a breath, ragged and quiet. “Thank you. I mean it.”
“I’m Iris,” she said, a warm and welcoming smile blooming across her face. Her voice was gentle, unhurried, as if offering shelter from the storm of the moment. “And you are?”
He nodded, still kneeling beside Ayda, his voice steadier this time. “Elarion. Elarion Caithor.”
There was a stillness between them for a moment. Not of awkwardness, but of something unspoken. The kind of silence that settles only when two paths cross with purpose. Elarion looked down at the sleeping child, then back at the cleric.
And somewhere, quietly, the chapter began to close. Or perhaps it was only beginning.