Chapter Eight
Revryn sits cross-legged on the floor, maps of Dravara scattered around him in a chaotic constellation of parchment and ink.
The weathered prophecy lies beside him, its faded lines catching the faint lantern light.
Seren, ever the scholar, has barricaded herself behind a fortress of books, her fingers already tracing through pages in search of answers to what the Stars might demand of us next.
Revryn has lived in Virellin his entire life, but his time as a weaponsmith in the Royal Guard has taken him across the kingdom.
He sourced steel from the volcanic forges of Vyrhal and traded designs with the artisans of Galreth.
If anyone can decipher the locations of the keys or relics in the prophecy, it’s him.
For as long as history has been recorded, maps have been among the most valuable weapons of war. They hold the power to shape battles, conquer empires, and protect borders. And nowhere is this power more desperately guarded than in The Shadow Wastes.
Some say The Wastes are preparing for war. That the fragile trade agreement with Dravara has fractured, perhaps even cracked clean through. But here in the slums, war’s been at our door for years. This just makes it official.
No map of The Shadow Wastes exists in Dravara—not a single line of ink, not a whisper of terrain.
Their realm has been shrouded in secrecy for centuries, its boundaries marked only by rumors and fear.
All we know is that it’s a land cursed by the Stars themselves—a barren, burning wasteland left ravaged after The Endless War between their people.
The border where Dravara and The Shadow Wastes meet—The Joining—is a battleground without end.
For centuries, King Thalmyr has stationed Dravara’s most grotesque and beastly border lords along its expanse, creating an unyielding line of defense.
It’s the only shred of gratitude I hold for him; whatever else he’s done, he’s kept The Wastes at bay.
Between The Joining and Virellin, Dravara’s capital—home to The Lightborne Barrier and my own home in the slums—lies the Frael Forest. A mythical stretch of land filled with creatures, beasts, and nightmares, it is an unrelenting second line of defense against any Shadow mercenaries who breach The Joining.
I’ve never dared to enter the Frael Forest, only observed it from the edges.
For those of us born to the slums, the Frael Forest has always been more than a boundary.
It’s a legend, a living nightmare whispered about in the flickering glow of oil lamps.
Our parents, and their parents before them, tucked us into bed with stories of the forest’s perils—not to soothe us, but to scare us into obedience.
Don’t stray too far, they’d say, their voices low and trembling.
The shadows will take you. The roots will trap you.
The beasts will devour you before you can scream.
Those stories weren’t just warnings; they were laws, as binding as any royal decree. And we believed them. Better the peril you know than the horrors waiting in the Frael Forest. It kept us nestled in the slums, trapped in the predictable cage of poverty, but spared from the terrors beyond.
Even standing at its edge, the forest feels alive.
The air carries an unnatural stillness, a silence that isn’t empty but charged, as though the forest itself is watching.
The Frael Forest is as much a mystery to me as The Shadow Wastes beyond it, but one thing is certain—if the prophecy takes us there, survival will not come easily.
Kael’s words slice through my thoughts, sharp and inescapable.
If you’d like more answers, I’ll be at the old outpost at the edge of the Frael Forest at daybreak. Bring your weapons. Your questions. I’ll be there.
I look up from the maps to my family. “I know where to begin,” I announce.
Ronyn stretches lazily, his grin sharper than usual. “Do enlighten us, El,” he says, my real name rolling off his tongue with a casual ease that sends a flicker of warmth through my chest.
“The Frael Forest.” My voice lands firmer than I feel. Like I believe it—because I have to.
Revryn’s eyebrows shoot up in immediate protest. “The Frael Forest? Elyssara, I know you’re the Lightborne, but that feels like walking into certain death,” he scoffs.
I meet Revryn’s gaze, steady despite the storm churning in my gut.
Then I shift my focus to Ronyn, directing my next words at him.
“We need to meet Kael,” I say simply, though there’s nothing simple about him.
There’s something in him—a pull, a dance, intrigue.
Something that makes my magic stir. “He knew me. He felt me. If anyone can answer the questions we can’t, it’s him. ”
Ronyn’s grin falters, just for a moment, before it returns—softer this time, edged with curiosity. “So, we march into the forest of death to have a chat with Shadow Boy. Sounds about right.”
Revryn exhales heavily, dragging a hand down his face. “The Shadowweave from The Tannery?” His voice is sharp, tinged with the worry of a parent watching their child edge too close to danger. “Elyssara, please. Think this through. We’ll find another way.”
“I can feel it in my chest, Rev,” I reply, the words shaky but resolute.
I press a hand against the Lightborne mark, its faint heat a constant reminder of what I am, of what I can no longer ignore.
“The marking... it responds to me. It’s calling me.
” I take a breath, steadying myself. “This is as certain as I can be.”
The fire in my chest thrums quietly, but with an intensity that demands to be heard. “The Frael Forest is where it begins. And if we want to survive this prophecy, we need answers. From him. He said he’d be at the edge of the forest—at the old outpost. At daybreak. We have to go.”
Revryn’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing as if weighing every possible consequence. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken fears and reluctant acceptance.
Finally, he exhales, his voice low and steady. “Get some sleep, then. We leave at daybreak.”