Chapter 8 #2
While most dismissed such tales as mere fables, the Druids revered them as sacred truths. Every Druid child, given up by their earthly mothers, knew no warmth but that of the three goddesses they prayed to—their only Mothers, as they’d been taught from birth.
This unwavering devotion only strengthened their bond to the ancient stories.
The silk sprites were like living remnants of those tales, silent witnesses to a time long past. No one quite knew if they stayed in the mortal realm of their own accord or if something bound them here against their will.
The stories said they were drawn by intense emotions, flitting between the blurred edges of joy and sorrow, captivated by the tangled passions of mortal lives.
But still… what on earth could have drawn them here, now? Surely, her own heartache wasn’t enough.
“I noticed you wearing the colors of mourning,” Avis noted softly. “Fenlin was dear to you, but it might not be wise to grieve him so openly.”
She blinked, following Avis’s gaze down to the gray folds of her dress. Oh. She nearly laughed. Beatrice had dressed her in mourning garb.
That crafty little wretch.
Elara scowled, feeling equal parts grudging respect and irritation, and leaned back against the cool grass with a tired sigh. “It wasn’t intentional. Beatrice was playing one of her games, and I walked straight into it. I didn’t realize the old bat had it in her to be so devious.”
Avis snorted. "Never underestimate her. She’s far nastier than she looks.
” The surrounding air filled with quiet contemplation, only broken by the fluttering of sprites and the soft whisper of the wind.
“How are you holding up?” Avis asked, her voice laced with understanding and a hint of already knowing the answer.
Elara's eyelids fluttered shut, memories pressing down heavily.
“I need to understand, Avis. If you know something, please.
.. don't keep it from me.” Her eyes snapped open, and she tensed, anticipating mind games, manipulation—everything she had come to expect from others.
But instead, Avis nodded, meeting her gaze squarely.
“I often come here to listen to the whispers of the stars and the tales of the moon,” Avis murmured softly. “They speak loudest when the night is deep.”
She extended her hand, offering a small stone. As Elara's fingers enclosed it, a surge of intense warmth shot through the stone, prompting her to jolt and toss it between her hands as if it were a glowing ember.
“This is…” Elara managed, her voice quivering from both the surprise and the temperature of the stone.
“A moonstone,” Avis said, her eyes never leaving Elara’s. “Though, not just any. This one likes to sing.”
Careful to shield her skin with the fabric of her sleeve, Elara examined the small gem.
It was a moonstone, its surface dancing with blues and purples, a luminescent entity echoing the celestial body it was named after.
She had read quite a bit about them in Celestial Alchemy: A Compendium of Astral Gemology.
But moonstones were supposed to be cold.
“What did you do to it?”
A flicker of uncertainty passed through Avis’s eyes. She looked away, the sprinkle of freckles on her nose scrunching. But as quickly as the doubt appeared, she seemed to push it aside, replacing it with a steely glint as she met Elara's gaze once more.
“There have been disturbances. The land, the sky, and even the stars whisper of unnatural forces at play. It's as if the very fabric of our realm is being twisted. Stretched thin…”
“Stretched thin?”
Avis's voice dropped to a murmur. “I’ve heard tales of shadows moving in the night, of stars blinking out of existence, only to return moments later, as if obscured by something unseen. It’s as if the boundaries between worlds are weakening, and something is trying to break through.”
A cold unease settled over Elara. Her gaze flickered to the sprites, their delicate dance painting golden whispers in the twilight.
“What does it all mean?”
Avis sighed heavily. “I don't know. But after hearing about Fenlin and Godfrey's mad attempt with your blood, I can't shake the feeling that he might've known something—seen something in Arinthel. Something that ties his desperation to this unrest.”
Elara's fingers brushed over the moonstone as if it might provide some clarity. She struggled to find the link between the two, but then, she wasn't the one who could decipher the language of the stars.
Avis, perceptive as always, caught the subtle crease of Elara's brow and the faint twitch of her lips, lifting her own brow in silent challenge. “Life, as you well know, isn’t always linear.” A sardonic smile played on her lips.
“Actions create echoes, and those echoes have been resonating louder. Many of us Druids sense it—those ripples.”
A particular Druid carved its way into Elara’s thoughts. “Branwen?” The name escaped her lips like a barbed whisper.
Avis smirked. “Exactly. Though trust him to muddle through in the most vexing way possible.”
“I just…” Weariness settled into her bones. “Why didn't Fen and Godfrey just come to me? If they had asked for my help, I would have given it freely.” The words spilled out, the ones that had been circling in her mind endlessly.
Avis captured Elara’s hand, her fingers giving a reassuring squeeze.
“They couldn't have asked you. In Ulrith, trust is a commodity more precious than gold. Even the bonds of blood are not sacrosanct; suspicions can turn brother against brother.” She exhaled, a weary sigh blending with the cold air around them.
“Your hands are clean. Fenlin chose his path. It was his doing, not yours.”
Elara clung to Avis’s hand, searching her face. “Any news of Godfrey?”
A flicker of pain crossed Avis's features. “They imprisoned him.”
In the Pit was what she wasn't saying out loud. The only place Osin threw traitors and sympathizers.
“Then he's as good as dead,” Elara whispered, her voice threading through the air like a wisp.
Avis stayed quiet, providing neither comfort nor contradiction. The silence that settled was thick and suffocating, making the sprites fluttering nearby seem even more fleeting, their delicate light flickering like the last whispers of a world slowly fading away.