Entry 44: A tale as old as time

Dear Diary,
 
The next morning, we woke to the gentle rustle of leaves and the faint hum of life in the Immerglade. The hammocks Yarnspinner had spun for us swayed slightly in the breeze, their silken threads glinting faintly in the light. But Yarnspinner itself was gone, vanished as if it had never been there.
 
I stretched, feeling more rested than I had in weeks, my mind oddly clear. The memory of Yarnspinner’s story lingered, vivid and haunting, the kind of tale that settles deep into your bones. It had been a gift, pulling us into a much-needed rest, a lullaby wrapped in legend. All except for Alistan, of course. He sat stiffly near the edge of the clearing, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. He’d refused to trust Yarnspinner, staying awake through the night to stand guard.
 
But I couldn’t shake the tale Yarnspinner had woven. It spoke of a small kingdom, unremarkable save for its ambitious prince. He had journeyed to the Immerglade, his heart set on winning the hand of the fabled queen. She was said to be more radiant than the dawn and more untamed than the wildest storm. But when he stood before her, all his charm and promises fell short. She turned him away, her refusal as unyielding as the ancient trees around her.
 
Humiliated but not deterred, the prince vowed to return. He threw himself into a relentless pursuit of power, expanding his kingdom’s reach until its shadow stretched over the lands. Wealth poured into his coffers, armies swelled under his command, and his name became a whispered legend.
 
When he finally returned to the Immerglade, he was no longer just a prince but a king whose might rivaled the very forces of nature. Once more, he stood before the queen, his power a weapon and his love a demand. Yet, once again, she refused him. Not for his lack of strength or wealth, but because she would not let the Immerglade—the wild, untamed heart of her realm—be consumed by his ambition.
 
The rejection struck like a blow, and this time, it shattered his pride. Furious and wounded, the king declared war on the Immerglade.
 
The war raged on for years, a brutal and relentless struggle that scarred the land of Immerglade. In the end, the queen, despite her strength and resolve, was forced to make a devastating choice. To save her realm from utter ruin, she accepted the ambitious king’s marriage proposal. The union ended the war, binding Immerglade and Neverhold together in an uneasy alliance, but it was clear from the beginning that it was a marriage forged in the flames of necessity, not love.
 
The alliance brought peace, but not harmony. The queen's heart, untamed and wild as the glades she ruled, found no solace in her union with the king. Her true affections lay elsewhere—with a young knight from Irminsul who had captured her heart. Their love, secret and forbidden, burned bright amidst the shadows of their deception.
 
When High King Ulther discovered their affair, his fury shook the realms. Betrayed and humiliated, he unleashed his wrath. The queen was imprisoned in a lonely tower on an island deep within Immerglade, its walls echoing her sorrow. As for the knight, the king’s vengeance was far crueler. He didn’t simply kill him. No, the king crushed the knight’s spirit, twisting him into an eternal guardian of the queen’s prison, a monstrous sentinel bound by duty and heartbreak.
 
It was a tale as tragic as it was fascinating. Whether it was a long-forgotten truth or simply a story spun to entertain, there was no way to know for certain. But as I sat by the campfire, mulling over Yarnspinner’s words and the weight of the legend, I couldn’t help but wonder how much of it might have shaped the world we found ourselves in now.
 
My thoughts were interrupted by Fiachna, my loyal raven companion. She returned from her morning scout, her sleek feathers glinting in the pale light of dawn. Her report sent a shiver down my spine—the tower we had seen in the distance the day before had vanished. In its place, a jagged mountain range now stretched across the horizon.
 
I stared into the distance, the image of the tower burned into my mind, now replaced by the impossible. Mountains where there had been none. The story of the queen, the knight, and High King Ulther echoed in my thoughts. Were the Immerglade’s secrets shifting around us, hiding truths we were never meant to uncover? Or were we caught in something far older and more dangerous than we could comprehend?
 
Whatever the answer, one thing was clear: the Immerglade was alive, its mysteries endless, and we were only just beginning to uncover them.
 
We packed up our belongings and followed the raven's report, heading toward the newly risen mountains. With no other leads to guide us, the mountains seemed our only path forward. The journey was uneasy, the air thick with a tension none of us could quite name. When we finally arrived at the feet of the mountains, we stumbled into the crumbling remains of an ancient city. Its ghostly silence hung heavy, broken only by the crunch of our boots on scattered debris.
 
In the distance, framed by the first two peaks, stood a magnificent tower—its spire cutting through the low-hanging mist like a beacon. It was as though the tower called to us, but before we could discuss heading toward it, Gael, ever cautious—or perhaps deliberately stalling—suggested we investigate the ruins for clues before venturing any closer.
 
Reluctantly, we agreed and ventured down what remained of the city's main road. The moment our feet touched the cracked cobblestones, an icy wind swept through the ruins, its unnatural chill seeping deep into my bones. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. Then, out of nowhere, Dadroz let out a startled cry. His prized magical crossbow had vanished.
 
The absurdity of the situation hit us all at once, but Luke—always resourceful—quickly cast a tracking spell to locate the missing weapon. The spell led us to what used to be an inn, or at least what was left of it. Only the back wall remained standing, a lonely silhouette against the backdrop of decay. In front of it stood something utterly out of place: a pristine stage, untouched by time or ruin. At its center was a table, and on that table, as if mocking us, lay Dadroz's crossbow.
 
The scene was surreal. The stage and the items atop it were immaculate, as though they had just been placed there, yet everything around them crumbled into decay. As we stared in bafflement, trying to make sense of the odd tableau, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Among the rubble, a goblin crouched low, its sharp eyes glinting with mischief. The instant I pointed it out, the creature’s face twisted in alarm, and it bolted into the shadows.
 
As my companions tore off after the goblin, I chose to stay behind, leaning casually against the remnants of a crumbling wall. Running through ruins had never been my strong suit, and besides, I had faith they’d return with the mischievous creature. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before they came back, Alistan dragging the squirming goblin by the scruff of its neck. The goblin, wild-eyed and muttering curses, provided us with scant information—just a single name: Whisperwind. That was all it could offer about the ruined town. With nothing gained and no harm done, we let the creature go. It scurried off into the rubble like a shadow fleeing the light.
 
We continued our exploration of Whisperwind, though the effort was ultimately fruitless. Time and decay had reduced most of the structures to their bare foundations. The eerie silence of the ruins only reinforced one thing: this place held no answers, only ghosts of the past.
 
"Well, that was a waste," Alistan grumbled, kicking a loose stone.
 
I shrugged. "Then we move on to the tower. It’s the only thing here that promises answers—or trouble."
 
Reluctantly, the group agreed. We packed up what little we’d gathered and set off toward the looming spire in the valley. The journey was long, the hours stretching beneath a sky heavy with pale clouds, but at last, we reached the valley's entrance. The tower now rose before us like a silent sentinel, its shadow stretching across the rocky landscape.
 
It was there, just as the air seemed to grow heavier, that Dadroz and Luke both halted.
 
"We’re being watched," Luke said quietly.
 
Gael, ever bold—or reckless—stepped forward, his voice carrying through the stillness. "Show yourself! We mean no harm but won't tolerate skulking cowards!"
 
For a moment, nothing stirred. Then, with a rustle of leaves, a small creature emerged from the underbrush—a faerie dragon, its iridescent scales shimmering in hues of violet and gold. It perched on a rock with an almost haughty air, tilting its head to study us.
 
"I am Waffles," it announced in a lilting, almost musical voice. "Former familiar of a great and powerful wizard. What brings you to this place?"
 
We exchanged glances, taken aback by the strange introduction, but Luke stepped forward to explain. "We’re seeking answers—about this valley, this tower, and the events that brought us here."
 
At the mention of the tower, Waffles' wings fluttered nervously, and it let out a small huff of what might have been concern. "The tower? Oh no, no, no. That’s a dreadful idea. The tower is guarded by a great predator—Dlardrageth. You’d do well to turn around now."
 
"Predator?" Alistan asked, his voice tense.
 
Waffles nodded gravely. "Yes, a dragon. A cunning, dangerous beast. And if you think yourselves prepared to face it, I assure you, you're not."
 
The name Dlardrageth hung in the air like a storm cloud. A dragon. The very thought sent an undeniable ripple of fear through the group. But we had come this far, and I, for one, had no intention of turning back.
 
Dragons, as the stories often said, were intelligent, and that was our gamble. After all, if Dlardrageth could be reasoned with, perhaps violence wasn’t inevitable. Waffles, however, remained unconvinced. Perched on Luke’s shoulder, the faerie dragon gave a doubtful flick of its tail.
 
“No one’s tried that before,” Waffles said. “Talking to Dlardrageth isn’t exactly a common pastime. It’s... bold, I’ll give you that.”
 
“Bold or foolish, it’s all we’ve got,” I replied, adjusting my robes as we pressed forward. The others followed, though with varying degrees of reluctance. Alistan kept a hand on his weapon, his gaze scanning the treetops and shadows as if expecting ambush.
 
Before long, we stepped into an open clearing, and there it stood: the tower. Majestic and ancient, its spiraling height seemed to scrape the sky, its stonework gleaming faintly even in the dim light of the valley. Beside it yawned a cavern entrance, a black maw cut into the earth, exuding an air of foreboding.
 
The moment we set foot in the clearing, a low, guttural growl rumbled out from the cavern, freezing us in our tracks. From the shadows, a pair of piercing light-blue eyes appeared, glowing like twin stars.
 
“Turn around,” a deep, booming voice commanded, vibrating through the air. “And go away.”
 
Alistan tightened his grip on his blade, his jaw set, but I held up a hand to stop him. “We just want to talk,” I called out, forcing as much calm into my voice as I could muster. “Are you Dlardrageth?”
 
The voice rumbled again, this time with a touch of pride. “I am,” it confirmed, but any hope of further conversation was dashed as it repeated, “Turn around and go away.”
 
“We mean no harm,” Luke interjected, stepping forward cautiously. “We only seek—”
 
The air crackled with sudden, blinding energy. From the depths of the cavern, Dlardrageth unleashed its breath weapon: a searing wave of radiant light. It tore through the clearing like a star exploding, striking our group with overwhelming force. I stumbled back, shielding my eyes from the brilliance. By sheer luck—or perhaps fate—I had been just out of range, the edge of the blast licking at my boots but leaving me unharmed.
 
When the light faded, the clearing was eerily silent, the air shimmering with residual heat. My companions were scattered, groaning as they picked themselves up from the ground. Dlardrageth’s voice echoed once more, a growl tinged with finality.
“I warned you,” it said. “Leave, or face your end.”
 
We retreated to the edge of the valley, putting distance between ourselves and Dlardrageth’s cavern. The dragon’s presence lingered in the air, an oppressive weight that made every breath feel heavy. As we regrouped, I couldn’t help but replay the encounter in my mind, dissecting every word, every movement. This wasn’t just any dragon—we were dealing with a Moonstone dragon, a creature as rare as it was formidable. Its radiant breath weapon and the calm authority in its voice confirmed my suspicion. And judging by its size, it wasn’t young. This was an ancient guardian, deeply rooted in its purpose.
 
Predictably, Gael was quick to renew his call for retreat. “We should go back to Keralon,” he insisted, his tone sharp with frustration. “Gather more information, prepare properly, and return when we’re ready.”
Alistan crossed his arms, his jaw tight with defiance. “Or we could stop running and face it head-on. Dragons bleed like anything else.”
 
“Not this one,” I countered, shaking my head. “It’s not just a beast to slay. It’s intelligent, purposeful, and ancient. If we fight it blindly, we’ll lose.”
 
To my surprise, Liliana backed me up. “She’s right,” she said softly, her gaze distant. “If we leave now, we may never get back here. The gate will be locked down, and this chance will be gone.”
 
After much debate, we settled on a compromise: explore every other option before even thinking about a direct confrontation. My first idea, one that in hindsight I should have considered earlier, was to send Fiachna to scout the tower from above.
Closing my eyes, I reached out to my familiar, switching my senses to hers. The world blurred and refocused as I soared on her wings, gliding over the clearing and toward the tower. The spire loomed closer, its stonework shimmering faintly under the ever-present silver drizzle. Fiachna perched on the edge of the glass dome at the top of the tower, her sharp eyes scanning the interior.
 
The room beneath the dome was breathtaking—a circular bedroom that looked untouched by time. A grand bed draped in silken sheets sat in the center, its occupant fast asleep. Whoever it was, their face remained obscured by the shadows of the canopy. Around the room, a balcony wrapped the space in an elegant curve, and at the heart of it all stood a pedestal. Upon it rested a silver sword, so finely crafted that it seemed to glow faintly, even in the dim light.
 
As Fiachna perched on the glass dome, I caught a flicker of movement from the shadows—a figure hiding behind the bed. My heart quickened. I shifted her position, trying to get a better angle, but the concealment of the canopy and the awkward vantage point made it impossible to see clearly. Determined, I guided Fiachna to a small opening in the glass and slipped her inside, gliding silently toward the bed.
 
As she neared the sleeping figure, my suspicion began to solidify into something more. But before I could confirm it, a sudden motion drew my attention. A serving girl, clearly startled, darted from her hiding spot and hurled a rock at Fiachna. The stone glanced off harmlessly, but the girl’s wide, fearful eyes betrayed her panic. Fiachna, ever the polite conversationalist, attempted to speak to her, but this only deepened her shock. Without hesitation, she bolted for the staircase and disappeared down the spiraling steps.
 
Left undisturbed, Fiachna turned her attention back to the bed. The sleeping figure radiated an air of majesty, even in her frail state. Long black hair fanned out across the silken pillows, framing a face both delicate and otherworldly. Her lips were a striking green, her pale skin luminous despite the shadow of weakness draped over her. Everything about her confirmed my instinct—this was the queen of Immerglade.
 
But she wasn’t well. Something, some unseen curse, was sapping her life force. It clung to her like a shadow, subtle yet insidious. I doubted I could rouse her even if I tried, and truthfully, I wasn’t eager to test that theory. Her slumber seemed unnatural, purposeful, and disturbing it might only make things worse.
 
Still curious, I considered exploring the lower levels of the tower, but Fiachna’s sharp eyes caught movement below—the girl was running down the staircase, and her destination was clear. She was going to alert the dragon.
 
The realization snapped me back to caution. Dlardrageth was already hostile enough; provoking it further could be catastrophic. I guided Fiachna back through the glass opening and into the safety of the skies, retreating to rejoin the others. When I returned to my own senses, I shared everything I’d learned.
 
The queen was here, alive but weakened by some ancient curse. The silver sword in the tower was likely no mere decoration, and the serving girl’s panicked flight to the dragon complicated matters. Now, as we stood on the edge of the valley once more, we faced a choice: confront Dlardrageth with this new knowledge, or find another way to free the queen and uncover the secrets of the Immerglade.
 
Gael’s incessant suggestion to retreat was testing my patience—again. If he mentioned going back to Keralon one more time, I was seriously considering giving him a firm smack on his delicate elven ears. However, this time, his reluctance sparked an idea in my mind: a witch’s brew. Perhaps we could concoct something potent enough to lift the curse from the queen. The plan seemed promising until Fiachna returned with troubling news.
 
She had flown back to the top of the tower to observe further, only to find that the servant girl was no longer alone. In her place now sat an older man, his weathered face stern as he kept vigil by the queen’s bedside. His presence exuded quiet authority, and when he noticed Fiachna hovering near the glass dome, her sharp instincts urged her to retreat before he took action.
 
On her way back, however, Fiachna spotted the servant girl sitting at the base of the tower, her hands nervously twisting the folds of her apron. This unexpected discovery birthed a new plan: we would approach her and attempt to glean more information.
 
As we advanced cautiously toward the girl, her uncertainty was palpable. Her eyes darted between the cavern and the tower, clearly torn between running to alert the dragon or retreating to the safety of the building. This moment of hesitation gave us just enough time to close the distance and address her directly.
 
“Greetings,” I said in Sylvan, hoping my tone conveyed more friendliness than desperation. Her gaze flicked to mine, and her lips parted as she answered in the same lilting tongue, her voice soft yet wary. No surprise there—Sylvan was, after all, the language of the fey.
 
Before I could continue, Liliana decided to play her trump card, stepping forward with the air of someone delivering a decree. “We were sent by High King Ulther,” she declared smoothly, much to my dismay. My heart sank at her words, wondering why she chose to take this path now, but hadn’t when we were facing the giant.
 
To my astonishment, the girl didn’t react with fear or reverence. Instead, she gave a small shrug, her expression tinged with melancholy. “The queen’s health has been steadily declining,” she said quietly, her words brimming with an undercurrent of sadness.
 
Seizing the opening, I leaned forward. “We want to help her,” I said earnestly. “If there’s a way to lift the curse—”
 
The girl’s brow furrowed, and for a moment, confusion clouded her features. “Help her?” she echoed, as if the concept was foreign. Then her expression shifted, a flicker of bitterness crossing her face. “Why would you help her? It was High King Ulther who cursed her in the first place.”
 
The girl gave us a brief, uncertain look before declaring, “I’ll ask Dlardrageth,” and darted back into the tower before any of us could respond. Our hearts raced as we stood there in the clearing, anticipating the dragon’s arrival. Tension hung heavy in the air, each second stretching into eternity.
 
Gael, ever the opportunist, used the distraction to slip around to the back of the tower. He moved quickly and silently, clutching one of my carefully prepared brews in his hands. His plan was audacious, borderline reckless: to climb up to the queen’s chamber and administer the potion directly. I silently prayed his nerves—and his footing—would hold.
 
Moments later, the old man appeared on the balcony above us, his form wreathed in an aura of power. Before we could so much as call out, he leaped into the air. In mid-descent, his body twisted and transformed, shimmering silver scales spreading across his form. The ancient moonstone dragon Dlardrageth landed before the tower gate with earth-shaking force, sending tremors rippling through the valley. Dust rose in spirals as the ground shuddered beneath his colossal weight.
 
This time, he didn’t immediately unleash a radiant torrent upon us, though the threat lingered in his glowing blue eyes. Instead, his gaze fell on Liliana. His voice was deep and resonant, a rolling thunderstorm in dragon form. “An emissary of High King Ulther,” he said with a touch of disdain. “Worthy of speaking, at least.”
 
Liliana held her ground, her tone steady and diplomatic as she reiterated our request. “We seek to help the queen. Let us enter the tower.”
 
A grin spread across Dlardrageth’s scaled face, his sharp teeth glinting in the sunlight. “Help the queen?” he repeated, his voice dripping with amusement. “It is I, and I alone, who decides who may enter this tower. Not even High King Ulther can dictate that.”
 
His words struck me like a lightning bolt. The disdain in his tone, the casual defiance—it all pointed to one thing: Dlardrageth was not loyal to the high king. If anything, he seemed to harbor a deep resentment toward him. My instincts flared to life, urging me to act.
 
I stepped forward, my heart pounding but my resolve steady. Dlardrageth’s piercing gaze shifted to me, and for a moment, I felt the weight of his ancient power bearing down. But sometimes, the best course of action is to simply lay your cards on the table.
 
“We have no allegiance to Ulther,” I said, my voice firm and unwavering. “We only wish to save the queen. If you truly hold the power here, if you are the one who decides, then hear me. The dragon’s eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. The tension thickened, the valley falling eerily silent save for the faint rustling of leaves in the breeze. Whether my words would sway him or seal our fate remained to be seen.
 
I took a deep breath and began explaining everything to Dlardrageth, sparing no detail. I told him who we were, how we had found the tarnstone, and the trials we endured to reach this realm. I didn’t hold back—every truth, every moment of defiance against the high king spilled from my lips. My words painted us not as allies of Ulther, but as outsiders, possibly even adversaries to his rule. I emphasized our intent: not power, not conquest, but the simple, genuine desire to help the queen.
 
Dlardrageth listened in silence, his massive form looming over us, the glowing blue of his eyes unreadable. When I finally finished, the tension hung heavy in the air. Then, with a slow nod, he rumbled, “Your honesty is rare... and intriguing. Very well. I will allow you to enter the tower. But know this—lifting the curse may not bring the salvation you seek. It is the curse itself that keeps her alive.”
 
His words sent a chill through me, but there was no time to waste. I hurried up the winding staircase and into the queen’s chamber, my companions close behind. The room was as I’d seen through Fiachna’s eyes: ethereal, pristine, yet shrouded in an air of melancholy. The queen lay on her bed, her beauty untouched by time, though there was a fragile, almost spectral quality to her appearance.
 
I stepped closer, studying her carefully. From the faint glow of the curse magic that enveloped her, I realized its nature—it wasn’t merely a punishment. It was a twisted preservation spell, holding her in a state of suspended animation, her life extended far beyond its natural span. But the truth was undeniable: beneath the magic, she was old and frail. The curse was both her prison and her lifeline.
 
Removing it would free her, yes, but it would also end her life.
 
I turned back to Dlardrageth, who had silently followed us into the room. His towering presence filled the space as I met his gaze. “If we lift the curse,” I said, my voice steady but somber, “it will end her suffering. She’s trapped in a slow death as it is. At least this way, she can pass with dignity, free of torment.”
 
The dragon’s expression softened, just slightly, as if the weight of centuries pressed down on him in that moment. He dipped his head in thought, the light in his eyes dimming ever so slightly.
 
“You speak wisely,” he said at last, his voice quieter, less commanding. “It is true—her suffering could end. But it is a choice not to be made lightly. I will think on this.
 
Alistan, ever the restless warrior, pointed at the silver sword glinting on the pedestal. His curiosity was palpable. “What’s the story behind this blade?” he asked, his voice steady but edged with intrigue. Dragdrageth turned his gleaming blue eyes toward the weapon, a shadow of reverence crossing his features.
 
“That,” the dragon rumbled, his voice like distant thunder, “is the queen’s legacy. She forged it herself. Pouring every ounce of her power, her essence, into its creation. It is more than a weapon—it is a promise. A promise that one day, it could bring Immerglade back from the ruin it has become.”
 
The weight of his words hung heavy in the room, the sword suddenly feeling less like a relic and more like a living, breathing piece of the queen’s soul.
 
The servant girl, who had been lingering quietly, was introduced as Dynia. Dragdrageth explained that she had been sent by High King Ulther himself to care for the queen—a curious irony, given the curse he had placed upon her.
 
Seeing that we all had much to consider, Dragdrageth retreated, leaving us with an offer to stay in the tower for the night. We accepted with gratitude, though the tower itself proved to hold little of practical value. We combed through the library, hoping for insight or hidden truths, but the bookshelves held only dusty works of fiction—stories, not answers.
 
The hours dragged on, the weight of the day pressing on us as we began to settle in for the night. The tower, despite its grandeur, felt eerily silent, the kind of quiet that made you question whether you were truly alone.
 
Then Dragdrageth returned, his massive form appearing in the doorway like a stormcloud made flesh. His expression was one of irritation, disdain curling his lip as he spoke. “You have a visitor,” he announced, each word dripping with contempt. “She insists on speaking with Liliana.”
 
We exchanged wary glances, tension sparking like fire in the air. Dragdrageth stepped aside, his massive claw gesturing toward the clearing beyond the tower. And there, framed by the pale glow of the moonlight, stood none other than Vivienne.
 
Her sharp features were illuminated in silvery light, her dark cloak billowing in the breeze as if she had emerged from the shadows themselves. Denied entry to the tower, she stood defiantly at the threshold, her eyes fixed on Liliana with a look that could pierce stone.
 
The shock of seeing her was immediate, but it quickly gave way to unease. Whatever Vivienne wanted, it was unlikely to be good news. And as her smirk curled with a dangerous edge, I couldn’t help but wonder if her arrival would mark the beginning of yet another storm in this already fragile land.
 
Vivienne’s voice was as smooth as silk but carried the sharpness of a blade as she delivered her warning. “High King Ulther has sent a raiding party to deal with you. They’ll arrive within a day, maybe less.” Her words hung in the air like a noose tightening around our throats. But she wasn’t done. Her lips curled into a sly smirk as she added, “Oh, and he destroyed the gate you used to enter Immerglade.”
 
The confirmation hit like a punch to the gut, though it also filled me with vindication. My instincts had been correct—refusing to retreat had been the right choice. Still, the situation left little room for celebration. The gate was gone, and now the high king’s forces were bearing down on us.
 
And, of course, Vivienne didn’t leave without dangling her baited hook. “I can help you leave Immerglade,” she offered with an exaggerated air of nonchalance, “but only if you ask nicely.”
 
It was such a trivial condition that we all complied—though Alistan’s polite request came through gritted teeth. But, just as things seemed to settle, Alistan complicated everything.
 
“I want to retrieve Tommel’s body,” he said firmly, his eyes blazing with resolve. “We buried him near the gate. I won’t leave him behind.”
 
Vivienne’s smirk faltered into a look of annoyance. “A detour?” she scoffed, tapping her fingers against the hilt of her dagger. “Fine. But it comes with a price.”
 
The air turned colder as her gaze locked onto Alistan. “In return, you’ll grant me one blow of your sword, at a time and place of my choosing.”
 
A heavy silence followed her words. Alistan hesitated, the weight of her demand pressing down on him like a mountain. But his loyalty to his fallen comrade was stronger than his caution. “I agree,” he said at last, though the words sounded hollow.
 
My heart sank. His gesture was noble, yes, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Vivienne’s favor would come back to haunt us. She was the kind of person who collected debts not to balance scales, but to tilt them in her favor.
 
With his agreement secured, Vivienne’s annoyance melted into a satisfied grin. She began crafting a teleportation circle, the runes glowing faintly in the dim light. “This will take you to the gate at first light,” she said smoothly. “I’ll meet you there in the morning.”
 
As the circle shimmered to life and Vivienne vanished into the night, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of an unseen storm gathering on the horizon. Trouble was brewing, and Vivienne was the kind of ally who came with barbed strings attached. One way or another, her favor would cost us dearly.