Entry 68: The Warg King

Dear diary,
 
“Morning,” I guess—though it could have been midnight or midday. Alistan reported over breakfast that during the night he had watched a snowfront sweep across the landscape, dragging winter behind it like a curtain drawn shut. The season had changed in moments, without warning, as if the very idea of time was just another story the Feywild liked to revise at will.
 
When we stepped back into Hall, the entire village was covered in a pristine layer of snow. Roofs glistened, icicles hung like decorations, and every tree looked like something from a painted postcard. What surprised me most wasn’t the snow—but how little it seemed to surprise anyone else. The villagers were already dressed for the cold, drinking winter brews, and serving up hearty meat pies as though they’d been expecting this all along. The music had shifted too, trading its springtime jaunt for something slower and more melancholic. Appropriate.
 
This time, I accepted the warm drink. It helped.
 
We returned to our statues, now dusted with frost. I don’t know if the cold dulled our fingers or sharpened our focus, but either way, we worked. The memory of why we were doing this—why we even needed these feymounts—felt like a distant thread, barely held onto. Time kept slipping away from us, or perhaps we were slipping away from time.
 
Then the wolves came.
 
We were so engrossed in chiseling and shaping that none of us saw them until they were already tearing across the snow-covered square—great beasts with frosted pelts and glowing eyes. They came straight for Alistan and Luke, and even spread out as we were, we reacted quickly. Steel sang, spells lit up the gloom, and in a flurry of violence, the wolves were dealt with. Most were slain; the last two turned tail and vanished into the woods beyond.
 
And just like that, it was over.
 
Only then did we realize that the villagers had all disappeared during the attack—gone without a sound. No screams, no panic. They simply vanished like mist in the cold. Minutes after the wolves were gone, they began to reappear, calmly returning to their celebrations as if nothing had happened. Their faces gave no hint of concern or acknowledgment. The festival continued, unchanged. Unbothered.
 
It was unnerving, but we chose not to pry. Or rather, we knew there would be no answers. The Feywild doesn’t offer them freely.
 
So we worked on. Time passed—though how much, I can’t say. The unmoving sun, locked in its cold arc overhead, gave us no clues. Eventually, exhaustion reminded us of the need for rest. Once again we left the village square and made our way back to the edge of Hall to camp.
 
Another day—if it was a day—gone. And we were still no closer to understanding the rules of this place, let alone escaping it.
 
Second “night” in Neverhold
 
When we woke up the next “morning,” it was still dark—stars scattered faintly overhead—but the air had turned thick and warm. Summer had crept in while we slept. The snow was gone, replaced by dew-slick grass and the buzzing of unseen insects. We didn’t linger over breakfast—none of us trusted the rhythm of this place anymore—so we headed straight back into Hall.
 
The village had once again reshaped itself to suit the season. Smoke curled from barbecue stands, carrying the rich scent of grilled meat. Music had taken on a bold, celebratory tone, and villagers strolled about in sun-dyed linens with goblets of red wine in hand. I couldn’t help but wonder if they noticed the shift anymore. Or had they simply become part of the cycle, their lives tied to the will of the land?
 
Back at our statues, the stone was warm beneath our hands, and the tools moved more easily now, as if the summer sun had made even the rock more pliable. Crowds gathered again. This time they whispered openly, their faces bright with admiration. I could see their eyes following every motion of our hands, and for once, I let myself feel a flicker of pride. Whatever magic shaped this place, our work was real.
 
Then Gael tensed—his hand hovering near his weapon—and we followed his gaze. Once again, the villagers were quietly retreating, fading into alleys and doorways like shadows. No screams, no panic, just the practiced silence of those who’ve learned to disappear when danger comes.
 
We braced ourselves, and right on cue, the summer wolves came.
 
They burst into the square, all sleek muscle and golden fur, eyes glowing like embers. But this time we were ready. The fight was short, efficient. Alistan and Liliana drew them in, Gael and Dadroz flanked, I called down shadow and death, and Luke—Luke struggled. His spells, which normally roared like wildfire, fizzled and sparked against the wolves’ heat-hardened hides. I could see the frustration gnawing at him, but he didn’t stop. He adapted. Eventually, the wolves lay defeated, steaming in the heat of the square.
 
The villagers returned like tidewater. Their footsteps barely stirred the dust. Their laughter resumed. Their music played. When Alistan asked Selphine about the attacks, she offered only a shrug and a smile. “The Warg King sends them,” she said, as if explaining bad weather. “Spring is the only peace we get.”
 
It was so matter-of-fact, so practiced, that it chilled me more than the wolves ever had. They weren’t afraid of the attacks. They were accustomed to them. This was just life in Hall.
 
By the time we trudged back to camp, the sky had brightened. Not quite sunrise, but the golden haze of early morning. Our bodies screamed that it was evening, that we should have been winding down—not starting over. I voiced my discontent. This place, I said, was beautiful, yes—but utterly horrible in every other sense. The kind of madness you smile through until you forget what normal ever felt like.
 
Alistan agreed with a grim nod.
Gael, of course, just grinned and said, “I love it.”
Of course he does.
 
Third “night” in Neverhold
 
Morning came—though "morning" was always a loose term in the Feywild—and with it, a golden-orange hue lit the village as autumn took the stage. Leaves drifted lazily through the air like they had nowhere better to be, and the scent of spiced cider and roasted chestnuts wrapped around us like a warm blanket. As expected, the music had shifted too, mellow and wistful, and the food and drink had followed suit, embracing the heartiness of the season.
 
We had one goal for the day: finish the statues. I mixed a palette of earthy reds, soft greys, and creamy whites, and handed it over to Liliana. Her brush danced across the stony flanks of our sculpted goat, breathing a touch of life into its cold features.
 
Soon it would look ready to leap off the pedestal.
 
But of course, nothing in this place stayed peaceful for long. We were ready this time.
 
We felt the change before we saw it—an eerie stillness settling over the square, the way a storm quiets the world just before it strikes. And then the autumn wolves came. Snarling. Bounding. Frost-edged leaves kicked up behind them as they barreled toward us.
 
Luke was first, a fireball roaring to life in his hand and lighting up the dusky sky. I followed with a burst of sickening green light, crackling outward in a sphere of radiant decay. Gael’s voice dropped low, and thorny vines erupted from the ground, tangling around the wolves’ limbs, slowing their charge.
 
Liliana and Alistan, blades already drawn, stepped forward like twin sentinels—calm, unyielding, lethal. Steel rang. Fangs snapped. And one by one, the hounds fell.
 
Alistan managed to knock two of them out cold, hopeful we could get something useful out of them. But when we tried to question them, it was like trying to interrogate a gust of wind—no thoughts, no language, just raw instinct. Beasts, nothing more.
That was when we made the call: no more waiting for the next attack. We would find this Warg King and end it.
 
Following the wolves' trail was easy; they had carved a wild, careless path eastward. The tracks led us to a strange sight—an angry spiral of wind, caged between four towering menhirs. The air around it shimmered with old magic. Each stone bore a single Elven word, one for each season: Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter.
 
I placed my hand on the spring stone and reached out with my magic. Power pulsed beneath my fingertips—older than memory, patient and heavy. The stones were a mechanism, a seasonal lock. Each could shift the land around it to its chosen time of year, if offered something appropriate in return.
 
Spring. The only season without an attack. That was our answer.
 
We made the offering—a handful of fresh blossoms and the lingering joy from our goat statue’s creation—and as the gift vanished, the twister quieted. It collapsed in on itself with a final exhale of wind, revealing a dark, sloping burrow leading into the earth.
 
Alistan called out, sword in hand. For a long breath, there was only silence. Then a monstrous head emerged from the darkness—eyes glowing amber, teeth bared in a jagged smile.
 
“Well,” the Warg King rumbled, voice like gravel over bone, “how thoughtful of my prey to come to me.”
 
Liliana stepped forward, unbothered, and smirked. “Awfully bold for a puppy hiding underground.”
 
The Warg King snarled, and with a flick of his tail, disappeared back into the shadows.
 
We followed.
 
With no real choice but to chase the mutt down, we followed the Warg King into the burrow. Honestly, by this point I should’ve stopped being surprised by the weirdness of the Feywild—but still, I blinked when I saw the tunnel floor was carpeted with rose petals. Thick, soft, and fragrant, as if we were guests of honor at a wedding rather than uninvited enemies marching to battle.
 
Liliana knelt beside me and picked one up. She turned, gave me a quiet smile, and placed it in my hand. No words. Just the gesture. My heart thudded unexpectedly. Behind us, I caught Luke and Alistan exchanging an expression of mild confusion, which only made me smile wider. Let them wonder.
 
We pressed forward, deeper into the burrow, and entered the first side cavern. The air was thick with the scent of blooming roses, the walls tangled with thorny bushes in full bloom—and right in the middle of it all, a dire warg stood watch.
 
It locked eyes with us, lifted its snout, and howled. The sound echoed through the stone like a siren. A heartbeat later, it lunged, slamming into Alistan and sending him sprawling into the petals. Fiachna darted in at my command, her healing magic flickering through the gloom to get him back on his feet. Two more wolves joined the fray from behind, but the fight was short-lived. We cut them down before their howls could summon more.
 
The second cavern we checked was calmer—just tall grass swaying in an unseen breeze. No wolves. I figured the pair from before had come from here. We moved on quickly.
 
The third chamber was hushed and brittle. Dead leaves covered everything in dry, rustling layers, and two more dire wolves lounged lazily near the center. They raised their heads as we entered, but didn’t charge. Liliana stepped forward, palms open in peace. Her voice was calm, commanding.
 
To my surprise, they listened.
 
They told us the Warg King waited in the next chamber—the one crusted with snow and ice—and that they had no great love for violence. But still, they said, when the Warg King called, they would be bound to follow. Orders were orders.
I didn’t argue. Instead, I slipped a charm of dullness over their senses. Just a little nudge, enough to muffle a call should it come. They didn’t protest. Maybe they even welcomed it.
 
We stepped into the final cave, our breath fogging in the frigid air. Snow blanketed the floor in uneven drifts, and glittering icicles hung like daggers from the ceiling. At the far end, seated like some grotesque monarch on a ridge of packed snow, was the Warg King.
 
He grinned—too many teeth, too much pride. “My master will be pleased,” he growled, eyes gleaming. “He asked to delay you by two days. I gave him four.”
 
He laughed then, a deep, guttural sound that echoed off the ice like a curse.
 
I didn’t wait for more. We struck.
 
The battle was madness—raw and wild. Ice slicked the cavern floor, turning every step into a gamble. Wind shrieked through cracks in the rock, rattling icicles like distant bones. Steel hissed and clashed. Magic flared. The Warg King fought like something out of an old nightmare—vicious, primal, relentless. But he was too big, too bold, and the cave worked against him. With every lunge, we boxed him in tighter. With every spell and strike, his arrogance cracked, giving way to desperation.
And in the end, we brought him down. The self-proclaimed King of Wargs, broken beneath a ceiling of frozen stone.
 
But victory wasn’t enough.
 
I stood over his body, breathing hard. Snow melting on my cheeks. His tongue lolled between jagged teeth. I stared for a moment, then knelt. “In case King Ulther gets clever,” I muttered, and sliced it free. Let the mighty Warg King come back mute, if he came back at all. Some acts deserve spite.
 
We found the last two dire wolves and told them the truth. Their king was dead. Their leash was cut. They could leave, or do whatever it is wolves do when freedom suddenly stares them in the face. They didn’t argue.
 
With the threat ended, we made our way back to Hall. If the Warg King hadn’t been lying, we’d lost four days in this place, and time was no longer something we had to spare.
 
Fortunately, the villagers didn’t seem too concerned with calendars. They welcomed us like heroes, celebrating both our statues and the fall of their seasonal tormentor. One by one, they gathered around the stone sculptures—Eladrin of every hue, hands reaching out, faces alight with magic and awe. The more that joined, the more the air shimmered.
 
Then, without fanfare, our goat blinked.
 
Stone no longer. Flesh and fur. Alive.
 
I couldn’t help but laugh. The magic here never followed rules—it danced to its own rhythm.
 
With our new feymounts beneath us, we said our farewells. The villagers waved as if we were old friends, and maybe, in their way, they thought we were. But we had no time to linger. Our path led to Whitewail—straight into risk, straight into snow and danger. But it was also the fastest way to Nimmerhold, and we were out of time for safer options.
 
I clung tight to Liliana as our mount charged forward, her warmth steady against the wind. Behind us, the others fell into rhythm, and as the hooves thundered over grass and frost, the inevitable argument rose.
 
Gael again.
 
Questioning Whitewail. Questioning everything. I tilted my head back with a groan. “Seriously?”
 
But there wasn’t much to debate. Vivienne’s city held what we needed—a ship. And if we had to steal it to get out of this ever-shifting dreamscape, then so be it.
 
Quickest path forward was through the storm.
 
And we were already in motion.
 
“fourth” night in Neverhold.