From Keralon into the Feywild

Dear Diary,
 
I woke in my own bed at the Wolf’s Den for the first time in weeks, the familiar creak of the keep’s timbers a comfort after so many nights spent on the road. Dawn painted the room in pale gold as I dressed, my mind already turning toward the journey ahead. Today, we leave for Neverhold—not as heroes, not as knights on a noble quest, but as apologists, sent to grovel before King Ulther for our trespass in Immerglade.
 
The memory still stings. We’d fought a fey guard to gain entry, yes, but we hadn’t been the instigators of the entire mess, that had been the hobgoblins. Now, the King of Keralon commands us to make amends, lest our recklessness spark a war between realms. A simple apology, they say. A few words, a bowed head, and all will be forgiven.
 
I don’t believe it for a second.
 
Ulther is no fool. He’s a predator, and we are walking into his court with our throats bared. Two weeks to reach Nimmerburg, the capital of Neverhold in the Feywild—two weeks for him to weave traps, to twist time, to ensure we arrive just too late to satisfy his pride. Delay us, humiliate us, give himself an excuse to claim our lives as forfeit. That’s the game.
 
None of us want this. But none of us will shirk it, either.
 
We are knights of Keralon, sworn to serve. Even when the service tastes like ash.
 
Let Ulther play his games. We’ll play ours.
 
The scent of caramelized sugar and warm batter filled the Wolf’s Den this morning—Dynia had outdone herself. Stacks of golden pancakes, towers of crisp waffles drizzled in honey, platters of fruit so vibrant they looked stolen from a fey banquet. She flitted between the stove and the table, her cheeks flushed from the heat, insisting it was a thank you for letting her stay in the keep while we were away.
 
"Eat well," she said, pressing a cup of spiced tea into my hands. "You’ll need your strength."
 
Gael, of course, pretended not to notice the way her fingers lingered near his arm, or how she’d memorized exactly how he took his coffee. Hopeless, the both of them.
 
Then Liliana shattered the peace.
 
"Dynia," she said, setting down her fork with deliberate calm. "Who placed the glamour on you?"
 
Dynia blinked, her smile faltering. "I—what? I can’t do magic."
 
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Vivienne had warned Liliana yesterday that a powerful glamour spell existed on the elf. At very least, Dynia’s memories were veiled, her past obscured by fey trickery. And given Dynia’s history as Titania’s servant, sent by Ulther himself… well. The threads all led back to Neverhold.
 
We exchanged glances. Now was not the time to unravel this. Not when we were hours from walking into the lion’s den. Dynia, oblivious or willfully so, turned back to the dishes, humming as if the conversation had never happened.
 
Vivienne’s arrival nearly made me spill my tea. She slipped through the kitchen door like a shadow given form, her presence still setting my teeth on edge. Five years of Liliana’s life, stolen. Five years we’d never get back. And yet here she stood, asking if we were ready to leave as if she were just another member of the party.
 
"We have a few things to settle first," Alistan said, his voice carefully neutral. “But we have been planning our route and the map has many points that are unknown to us.”
 
Vivienne tilted her head, her smile all sharp edges. "Ask your questions, then. I will be truthful about what I can share."
 
Liar. But we needed her. The Feywild was her domain, and without a guide, we’d be lost before we crossed the threshold.
 
The map of Neverhold sprawled across our table, its edges curling like leaves in autumn. One marking in particular caught our eye—Kingscleft, a red scar across the parchment. Vivienne traced it with a slender finger, her expression unreadable.
 
"A wound on the land," she said. "A river of lava meeting the sea, a wall of steam that never fades. Even I do not know its true nature—Ulther keeps his secrets close."
 
We pressed for more—names of towns, customs, dangers—but her answers were honeyed thorns. "Everyone will be friendly," she assured us, her smile sharp. "But remember—their kindness may ask for your teeth in return. And they will adore you. Mortals are such rare delicacies in the Feywild."
 
The map’s lack of roads unnerved me. Vivienne laughed—a sound like icicles breaking. "Roads? Oh, they exist. They simply refuse to stay where you left them. Time and space are... suggestions in my homeland."
 
Then came the true blow. "Ulther controls the flow of time there," she said. "A day for you could be a year in Keralon. Or the reverse. Unless..." Her gaze slid to Liliana, then away. "I could shield you. Anchor you to your own time. For a price."
 
"A year of service," she offered.
 
The words hung like a noose. A year. Galienne’s curse would claim her in that time. And if Ulther stretched our stay beyond that...
 
Alistan’s knuckles whitened around his tankard. None of us could forget the five years Vivienne had stolen from Liliana. But could we risk the alternative?
 
We parted ways to prepare—Alistan and Liliana to bury their brother, finally freed from the Black Knight’s curse (only for it to claim Galienne in his stead). I went to the academy’s library, though the scholars still eye me like a stray dog let indoors.
 
The texts were clear: only a powerful fey could reliably shield mortals from the Feywild’s temporal whims. Non-detection spells might stop Ulther from targeting us if we weren’t right up on his nose—if I could cast them on all of us, or even any of us, which I can’t. Not without draining myself to the dregs.
 
So here we stand: a fey’s bargain, or a king’s mercy.
 
I left the academy with my head full of half-formed spells and dread, clutching the small silver locket I’d bought for Elsa. The walk to her manor was supposed to clear my thoughts—until I saw the two knights storming out, one red-faced and bellowing about unfinished business. My stomach twisted.
 
Elsa wrenched the door open before I could knock, her usually composed face flushed with anger. "I said I’m not—" She froze. "Luke." Her shoulders slumped, the fire dimming. "Forgive me. It’s been… a day."
 
A servant scurried past, hastily shoving scrolls into a cabinet. Elsa guided me to the parlor, her fingers tight around the locket I offered. "It’s lovely," she murmured, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Then, haltingly, she confessed that she had something that she needed to confide in a friend: she’d been swindled.
 
"Bromly Darkwater," she spat the name like poison. A merchant who’d charmed her into investing her fortune, then vanished—leaving behind an empty warehouse and a mountain of debt. The missing gaps in her home’s decor suddenly made sense. "I haven’t told my family in Tarn," she admitted, voice fraying. "But everything here may be sold. Even the manor."
 
Then the plea: "The Knights of the Longtable hold a loan coming due. Alistan and Hayley are members—could they… intervene?"
 
Friend, she’d called me. The word stung, but the desperation in her eyes burned worse. I raced back to the keep.
 
Hayley listened, then snapped her fingers. "Rachnar." The draconic ambassador owed us favors. We stormed the embassy, and after some persuasion, Rachnar agreed—first with a chest of gold, then (at our urging) with a direct meeting. Elsa deserved more than a handout; she deserved dignity.
 
By dusk, Elsa stood in our hall, the weight lifting from her shoulders as Rachnar’s envoy outlined the new terms. "Thank you," she whispered.
 
A small victory. But tonight, at least, her home is still hers.
 
Vivienne arrived just as the last of our preparations were made, her pale eyes glinting like frost under moonlight. "Have you decided?" she asked, her voice smooth as a frozen pond.
 
Dadroz had already refused her deal, and we stood united—no bargains, no debts. "We decline your protection," I said, the words heavy on my tongue. Galienne’s fate weighed on me, but the cost was too high. I’d seen what fey "favors" did to Liliana, her white hair reminds us every day. Some chains aren’t worth wearing, even at the risk of everything.
 
Vivienne inclined her head, her smile unreadable. "As you wish."
 
Dynia pressed a cloth-wrapped bundle into my hands—food for the journey, her fingers lingering just a moment too long on Gael’s. Her glamour still hung over her like a veil, but we had no time to unravel it now.
 
Vivienne led us deep into the Lorewood, to a pond so still it mirrored the sky. A single water lily floated at its center, pristine as a fey’s promise. "Drink," she instructed, "then circle the pond three times counterclockwise. The path will open."
 
As we obeyed, the air thickened with the scent of damp earth and something older—wild magic, the kind that prickled my skin. The third circuit complete, the trees ahead shivered, their trunks parting to reveal a mist-wrapped trail. The Feywild’s threshold.
 
Vivienne stepped back, her form already fading into the woods. "I return to Winterwail," she said. Then, softer: "Ulther has given me orders, too. Should our paths cross in the Feywild..."
 
An unspoken warning. A lingering threat. An ominous confession.
 
Then she was gone, and the trees sighed shut behind her.
 
We stood at the edge of two worlds, the weight of time and curses pressing down. Ahead lay Neverhold, Ulther’s games, and answers we might not survive to use.
 
But we stepped forward anyway, through the gap revealed by the trees.
 
Into the unknown.
 
The moment we stepped through the threshold, the world twisted. The sun plunged below an unseen horizon, painting the sky in twilight hues—though only a heartbeat ago, it had been midday. The Lorewood, vast and impenetrable mere steps behind us, now seemed to shrink into the distance as if politely stepping aside. Before us stretched a sea of tall grass, studded with wildflowers in colors that had no name in the mortal realm—petals that shimmered like crushed gemstones, blues too deep, reds too vivid.
 
As we walked, the grass parted obediently, weaving itself into a path beneath our feet. For a fleeting moment, I dared to hope the Feywild might favor us—until the trail led us to a wall of bushes, two meters high and thick with dark, wine-colored berries. They stretched endlessly to either side, an impassable thicket.
 
Gael crouched and addressed the bushes directly. "Might you let us pass?"
 
A snort answered him. From behind a tangle of vines hopped a hare—wearing a velvet waistcoat and a look of profound skepticism. "Expecting the bushes to answer?" he drawled, adjusting his cuffs. "I’m Rollam. The landlord of this particular inconvenience."
 
We gave our names—I offered "Thom" without thinking, a habit born of caution. True names are power here, and I’ve no desire to be any fey’s collateral.
 
Rollam’s ears twitched. "I’ve rented the place out for a wedding party. Middle of the thicket. Lovely affair, I’m told—not that I’m invited." His nose wrinkled. "But I’ll let you through. For a price."
 
"A tear of happiness from the bride," he said, as casually as one might ask for a copper.
 
The absurdity of it all nearly made me laugh. Here we were, racing against time to save Galiene, and now we’re haggling with a dapper hare over wedding gatecrashing.
 
But this is the Feywild.
 
The rules are written in smoke.
 
We tried to circumvent Rollam’s deal—foolish, in hindsight. The moment we stepped off the path, the grass swelled, stalks thickening into towering green walls taller than Alistan. Our blades and hatchets barely made a dent; for every handful of stalks we hacked down, twice as many sprang up behind us, sealing our retreat.
 
Hayley sent Fiachna skyward, the raven’s sharp eyes guiding us through the emerald labyrinth. Progress was agonizingly slow, but eventually, we stumbled past the berry-laden bushes and back toward the path—only to find ourselves at the doorstep of a lone hut, its door yawning open like a mouth.
 
Alistan knocked. Silence. Inside, a gaping hole in the floor led to a tunnel, its depths swallowing the light. I summoned Pim, my boggle familiar, who scampered into the darkness with his usual manic glee. He returned minutes later, bouncing on his toes. “Tiny tunnel! West to east! Smells like mushrooms and bad decisions!”
 
Exhausted, we opted to camp outside the hut rather than venture into whatever fey nonsense lurked below. I wove my wards around us, spells humming like a lullaby of paranoia.
 
The Feywild’s rules are fickle, but one truth holds: never trust a door left open.
 
Sleep was a fragile thing in the Feywild, shattered by the chime of my magical alarm. A small, mole-like creature—Nog—had poked its head from the tunnel, beady eyes blinking in the dim light. The moment the alarm sounded, it ducked back into the shadows, but Alistan and Liliana coaxed it out with the gentle persistence of seasoned diplomats.
 
"Why are you here?" Nog squeaked, dusting off his velvety fur.
 
Gael replied in fluent Sylvan, explaining our journey. Nog’s nose twitched. "Then why camp at my door?"
 
Liliana offered a shrug and a half-truth. "We are headed to Hall and needed rest."
 
Nog considered this, then brightened. "You can use my tunnels. But only at night—I sleep all day. And I’ll need a treat."
 
Hayley produced a honeyed nut from her pack, and the deal was struck.
 
We followed Nog into the earth, squeezing through narrow passages that smelled of damp soil and something faintly metallic. The walls pressed close, roots brushing our backs like skeletal fingers. Nog warned us not to stray into side tunnels—"Unless you like becoming lost forever."
 
Then, abruptly, he vanished.
 
We found ourselves beneath another hut, its trapdoor leading to a settlement of twig-and-leaf cottages, quaint as a child’s dream. Dawn had barely broken when we emerged—but the Feywild, ever capricious, hurled the sun across the sky in a blink. Noon light scorched our eyes before we could even adjust.
 
Time here is not a river, but a fickle trickster.
 
And we?
 
We’re its playthings.