Matabar Chapter 35 - Spider

"Hello, Mother.

I’m writing to you from my temporary quarters in the Palace of the Kings of the Past. Sounds like the start of one of Grandfather’s stories, doesn’t it?

In truth, it’s much grander in reputation than it is in reality. The place is so small that I doubt our own pantry would fit here — and by ’our,’ I an the one we built together with Grandfather and Father when I was a boy. I miss them.

I miss you, too...

Forgive . My thoughts are getting muddled.

I have a table, a chair, a bed where my feet dangle over the edge, and a wardrobe. Following the instructions of that stranger — the one I ntioned in my last letter — from the Second Chancery, I don’t leave the room.

I’m sorry for writing so infrequently before. Things have been a bit chaotic. I t Grand Princess Anastasia. Don’t worry, I didn’t get into any trouble. We simply ran into each other in the basent, and… Yes, it does sound odd. But she’s a good child. A little lonely, a little sad, but kind. She reminds of Erti in so ways.

How is he, by the way? How’s his health? What did Delpas’ doctors say? And tell , please, my dearest Mother, how are you settling in? Is everything all right? Are they regularly paying you your pension? Did you get decent neighbors? Has Kelly settled into his new work? I’d love to hear any news or stories from ho.

I miss you and my brother so much, Mother. I count the days until I can hold you both again.

As for , I find the tropolis tolerable. I know that sounds a bit snobbish, but forgive if my tongue has picked up a bit of the local manner of speech in these past few days. The city itself, though... All those tales we heard at the festivals, Mother — they actually downplayed what my eyes have seen here. But there’s one thing my heart still can’t accept.

Do you rember that line from Grandfather’s favorite poem, the one about the Knight, Marenir? It went, ’The sun paints the sky with the colors of fading sumr, kissing the stately autumn.’ Well, here in the tropolis, the only colors the sun finds are all shades of gray.

I never imagined there could be so many variations of one color. And maybe that’s why whoever originally built this city decided to challenge the sky, using the hues of sunsets and sunrises in the facades of buildings. You wouldn’t believe how many vibrant and beautiful structures there are here: waterfronts, bridges, countless monunts and palaces. Not even in Grandfather’s wildest tales of Ectassus could I have imagined such sights.

And yet, despite all the beauty, I find much of it hollow and soulless. Not just the buildings, but the people, too. Not all of them, of course, but a majority. And the strangest part, my precious Mother, is that the taller the building or the greater the person, the less real they seem.

Don’t worry about . I’m eating well, sleeping even more, and keeping out of trouble. For the most part, I’m just waiting for this journey of mine to co to an end so I can return to you.

Tomorrow morning is the ceremony where I’ll be admitted into the Imperial Magical University.

Delpas may be a large city, but it’s still far from the capital, so by the ti this letter reaches you, you might see my photo in the paper next to the Emperor. He seems like a decent man, though a bit odd — but that’s none of our business.

I’m looking forward to New Year’s, Mother, and I promise that before midnight, I’ll hold you tight, and we’ll share stories until the morning.

With love, hugs and kisses,

Your son, Ardi.

Until we et again."

Ardan signed the letter, sealed the inkwell, and set the pen aside. He slipped the letter into an envelope and tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket, which hung on the back of a simple chair.

He didn’t always tell Shaia the whole truth, but when it ca to his palace quarters, he hadn’t lied. It was indeed a small room, nowhere near the grandeur of the one the duchess had given him.

The only light ca from an oil lamp, cracks crawled along the walls in places, and the parquet floor creaked like an old man’s grumbling. But that was understandable, given how many rooms the palace had. If every guest chamber had looked like those of the Anorsky family, the treasury would have gone bankrupt within a few years.

Surely, sowhere in this seemingly endless residence of the Emperor, there were far grander rooms — likely ones that would put the entire Anorsky estate to sha — but Ardan had no business with such rooms.

Not that he would have wanted them.

The window in his small room overlooked the waterfront, and at night, Ardan could watch as the city ca alive with bright lights, blossoming like shining petals across the dark sky. But not above his head, as he was used to, no — the lights would spread out below, reflected upon the surface of the roaring, black river, which would sotis calmly caress the granite banks, and at other tis crash against them like a furious serpent. The foam of gentle waves and the thick depths of the river reflected the lights of lanterns, car headlights, and the windows of houses and palaces, forming constellations that were srizing, yet unfamiliar.

And sotis, amid these reflections, boats and ferries glided through like mythical creatures, and occasionally, even ships passed by. Ardan had even seen one. It had been a tal giant, without any sails, with massive, bulbous smokestacks belching black, acrid smoke. From his textbooks, he knew this was what civilian steamships looked like, but to see such a titan, a rival to the Wanderer itself, was an indescribable experience.

This was how Ardan spent his days, sitting by the window, watching the city, and occasionally opening the Stranger’s textbook. Four tis a day, a knock ca at his door, and the sa valet would enter with a tray of simple but filling food. He would leave it on the table and return an hour later to collect the dishes.

And throughout all of this, not once did they bring Ardi a dish made from poultry or livestock, which spoke volus.

"By now, the Alcade is probably buried under snow," Ardan whispered, fiddling with the pendant shaped like an oak tree in his hands.

Outside, the rain continued. It hadn’t stopped since yesterday morning. At tis, it was a drizzle, at others, a downpour, and sotis, it was just a sparse, slanted rain — the worst kind. The kind that always found its way under your collar or stung your eyes. Truly strange weather.

"I regret to inform you, my good sir, that there will be no snow in this city until the White Month."

Before the unfamiliar, slightly hissing voice finished speaking, Ardan grabbed a knife from the table and spun around. He was definitely shocked by what he saw.

At first, he’d even thought he had imagined the voice entirely.

"I’m down here, good sir. A little lower."

Ardi slowly lowered his gaze, and there, near the wardrobe, standing tall with impeccable military posture, was… a cat.

Ardan even rubbed his eyes, but nothing changed. In his room, in the heart of the Empire, within the Palace of the Kings of the Past, stood a cat in an amusing green uniform adorned with a few obviously handmade tin dals and belted with a wide strap, wearing flamboyant red boots decorated with olhma (an old Galessian pattern his mother had shown him as a child), and a slender, elegant saber at his waist.

"Allow to introduce myself," said the cat, clicking his heels together and flicking his long, fluffy tail in a graceful bow. "My na is Poplar, a drengr from the valiant Warband of Tail and Paws, at your service, my good sir."

A drengr from a warband... If Ardi rembered his history lessons correctly, "drengrs" were once warriors who served the kings and princes of Gales. His mother had sotis sung songs about them. They were also called dirges. But they’d never had a na for the warbands…

"Hello, Mr. Poplar," Ardi replied, realizing with sudden clarity that the strange cat was speaking not in the language of beasts, but in flawless Galessian, without the slightest trace of an accent.

And that was only possible if the cat had been born and raised in the tropolis or its imdiate surroundings.

The cat bowed again and began to pace around the room, studying it with great interest. Ardi, in turn, studied the cat.

At first glance, he looked like an ordinary forest cat. He had thick, gray fur with black stripes, clearly freshly shed, and now serving as a perfect coat. He also had long, white whiskers, perked up ears, a slightly pointed snout, and paws with tufts of stiff fur between the claws, which were ant to help him walk across the snow without getting cold.

A typical cat, one might say. Except for the fact that he was larger, heavier, and — by the Sleeping Spirits! — talking in the human language.

Ardi, as Skusty had taught him, allowed his eyes to see a little further, his nose to sll a little more. Imdiately, his mind was flooded with colors, shapes, and scents beyond human comprehension, but he endured it, and after a few monts, he saw a familiar shimr in the cat’s shadow, and his nose was hit by the scent of decaying pine needles and moss.

Shaking his head, Ardi dispelled the vision and returned his senses to their "normal" state.

"You’re the son of a Vila," he exhaled, instantly regretting that he didn’t have any silver dust or lovage on him. The scrolls of Atta’nha had said that these two things worked best against Vilas.

The cat spun sharply and regarded Ardi with slightly more curiosity than before.

"A Vila…" Poplar repeated. "It’s been a long ti since I’ve heard that word. But you, good sir, are quite right in your guess. My mother was indeed a Vila. My father, in his youth and foolishness, stole her wings and made her a mortal cat. She bore along with my brothers and sisters, but the hunters…" The cat hesitated and turned away, "of the entire litter, I’m the only one left."

Ardan pulled a chair over for the cat to sit beside him, and Poplar, amusingly enough, stretched out his front paws, grasped the backrest like a human, and climbed into the seat, his booted paws dangling over the edge.

Vilas were one of the peoples of the Fae. In different kingdoms and principalities, they were called different things: fairies, dryads, nymphs, but Ardi had always preferred the Galessian term — "Vilas." It sounded… nicer, sohow.

Overall, these beings, despite their rather capricious nature, weren’t known for cruelty or treachery, though they could certainly cause trouble. They usually lived within a ten-kiloter radius of any area where no mortal settlents existed — whether they were human, elf, dwarf, orc, or otherwise, it didn’t matter.

Vilas could reside in rivers, trees, flower buds, or even in the wind. And only a few tis a year did they take on a physical form, appearing to those who saw them in whatever form the observer most desired.

The Firstborn and humans saw them as beautiful n and won with wings, while animals saw them as their own kind, but also winged. On the days when Vilas took on flesh, if soone stole their wings (the scrolls hadn’t specified how, exactly, but it wasn’t hard to guess), the Vilas would beco mortal and marry their captor.

But such unions were dood to sorrowful ends, for once a Vila lost the ability to return to their kind, they lived solely for the purpose of regaining their wings and walking again on the paths invisible to mortals.

Atta’nha had always warned Ardi, when he was still young and unfamiliar with the spring rut, to not be like so many other young Speakers, thinking they could bind a Vila’s essence with the power of Words and then hunt for their wings, no matter how beautiful they might be.

"The hunters, may their nas be forgotten for their dishonor, brought here to the capital and planned to sell at an illegal auction," Poplar continued. "But I managed to escape. Mother, though she didn’t truly love us, shared a few secret songs with us before she stole back her wings. Mine didn’t work as well as my sister’s, but I managed sothing." The cat sniffed and twitched his ears, casting his green-eyed gaze out the window. "I wandered the streets, small and weak, and thought that I might end up treading the paths of the Sleeping Spirits, but then the Little Mistress found . She took into her house, hid from her family, nursed , fed , cared for , and even made a drengr."

At these words, the cat puffed out his chest, making his homade dals jingle.

"And now…" Poplar suddenly cut himself off, hissed, and leaped to his feet, drawing his saber. Astonishingly, he held it comfortably in his right paw, and his claws, after lengthening, began to resemble tiny fingers.

"Good sir, how dare you! The Witch’s Gaze?! You made pour out my soul to you like so witless fool! This is a disgrace and an insult! I am compelled to challenge you to a duel to the death!"

With a flourish of his saber, the cat pulled off one of his gloves from his belt and tossed it onto the table in front of Ardi. For a mont, Ardi struggled to keep from laughing, both from the absurdity of the whole situation and from the sight of the tiny, white glove made for cat paws sitting on the table. He slowly rose and bowed his head.

"Noble Poplar, drengr of the Warband of Tail and Paws, I beg your forgiveness for what happened. Unfortunately, I do not yet have control over my Witch’s Gaze, and sotis, those who speak with experience what just happened to you. I offer you my sincere and deepest apologies, but I cannot yet influence what has occurred."

The cat stared at him for a mont.

"At first, it felt to like you were trying to make excuses, biped who slls of a mountain cat," Poplar hissed, baring his fangs. "And I began to think that the Little Mistress had made a poor choice, but the instinct I inherited from my father tells that’s not the case… Will you swear on your honor and the nas of your ancestors that you had no intention of prying into my soul?"

"I swear it," Ardan replied calmly.

The cat scrutinized him a bit longer, then sheathed his saber and, hopping onto the table, picked up the glove with the tip of his boot, returning it to its twin. He then perched on the windowsill and… for a mont, licked his tail.

"Forgive , good sir," he said a little sheepishly after he finished cleaning himself. "I always do that when I get too worked up."

"No harm done," Ardi muttered, grateful to the Sleeping Spirits that he didn’t burst out laughing.

"And yet, my good sir," Poplar frowned, "the fact that you cannot control your power does not absolve you of responsibility. Such incidents are dishonorable and unworthy of a righteous man. One day, if you don’t learn to control your Witch’s Gaze, you may well be killed."

Ardan sighed. If only Poplar knew how many tis he had heard that exact warning in the past few months…

"My na is Ard Egobar," the young man introduced himself. "But I suspect you already knew that, noble Poplar. I suspect Anastasia sent you-"

"The Grand Princess Anastasia," the cat corrected, once again placing his paw on the hilt of his saber. "And yes, I knew your na, Ard, but since you hadn’t introduced yourself to personally yet, I had no right to address you directly. That would have been beneath and dishonorable!"

Ardan hadn’t heard so much talk about honor, nobility, and righteousness even in Grandfather’s stories of knights from the past.

"Now that we’ve been introduced, Poplar, might you tell why you’ve co here?"

"Certainly," the cat nodded, rising to his feet, licking his paw-hand a couple of tis, smoothing the fur between his ears, and finally clearing his throat. "The Grand Princess regrets that she cannot spend ti with you personally, but since you agreed to be her friend, she offers to correspond with you by letter."

Ardi glanced out the window, then back at the cat, and again out the window.

"Please don’t take this the wrong way, Poplar, but how will you deliver my letters to the palace and back again if I don’t even know…"

Ardi trailed off, but there was no need to finish that sentence. It was easy to understand that the young man had no idea where he might be in the next hour, let alone what potential fixed address he might acquire soon.

Yes, Mart had ntioned that letters could be sent to the dormitory, but sothing told Ardi that a talking cat in a military uniform and red boots would hardly go unnoticed by the dormitory’s inhabitants.

"Don’t worry about that," Poplar smiled, kicking his legs a little. "These boots… I made them myself. They hold the songs of my mother. So…"

The cat clicked his heels together, and in an instant, he disappeared. It was as if he had never been there at all.

"... I can always find you, Ard, no matter where you are," ca the voice behind him.

Ardi turned around and saw Poplar sitting atop the wardrobe, his tail swaying back and forth.

Of course. Fae magic. The Fae not only possessed remarkable skill in the art of the Aean’Hane, but also their inherent magic. It was like the wings on birds, the tails on fish, or the quills of porcupines — sothing intrinsic to the Fae, part of their very essence.

Vilas, for instance, could traverse vast distances along their paths in re monts. It was their Aean’Hane that had built those special roads, the ones that could cross the Alcade in just a few hours or days. But after the war between Ectassus and Gales, most of those paths had been destroyed, sealed, or forgotten.

Ardan suspected that when he’d encountered the mountain troll, he had unwittingly walked one of those forgotten paths.

"If you agree to the Little Mistress’ proposal," the cat said, jumping down from the wardrobe and landing silently, "I’ll visit you twice a month — on the tenth and the twenty-fifth."

He approached Ardi and extended his right paw-hand. And since Ardan had indeed promised to be the Princess’ friend, he had little choice in the matter.

All those who had raised him — his father, mother, great-grandfather, Ergar, Atta’nha, and his forest friends — had all agreed on one thing: a person’s word was their most valuable possession.

Ardi bent slightly and extended his hand to shake the paw, but instead, Poplar flicked his claw, scratching Ardi’s palm and instantly licking away the drop of blood.

"Now I can always find you," the cat said, bowing again and clicking his heels. "Until we et again, friend of the Little Mistress."

Those last words were spoken by seemingly empty air. The cat was gone.

Ardan shrugged, about to return to his desk in order to resu studying the Stranger’s work, when he caught a faint scent. It hovered on the edge of his awareness, sly and insidious, like a mosquito that buzzed around, waiting to feed on the blood of an exhausted traveler trying to sleep.

A familiar scent.

It was the sll of a swamp after rain and landslides, where the stench of decaying unfortunates trapped in the mire mingled with the blooms of lilies — a mixture of sothing repulsive to the point of nausea, yet equally alluring and captivating.

It was the sll of a Fae who had not sworn allegiance to either Sumr or Winter. Ardi had caught this scent a few tis while hunting in the forest swamps, but due to Atta’nha’s lessons, each ti he had slled sothing like this on the horizon, he had imdiately left the path and run as fast as his legs could carry him.

Holess Fae didn’t follow the "code of Sidhe honor," and their essence was ever-changing. Many eventually transford into beings that people referred to as demons.

And it was one thing for his sharp nose to pick up that scent in the Alcade, but another thing entirely for it to happen here. "I’m in the heart of the tropolis," Ardi whispered, turning once again toward the door.

Atta’nha had always taught him that when he beca a fully-fledged hunter, if he truly considered himself a Speaker walking the righteous paths, his duty upon encountering the Holess Fae would be to scare them away from his ho territory.

"I’ve been told several tis not to leave this room," Ardi reminded himself, adding after a pause, "and besides, this isn’t my ho territory."

Nodding at his own reasoning and wiping away the cold sweat that had ford on his brow, the young man returned to the table and…

"But then why did you grab your staff?" He asked himself after realizing that his right hand was gripping the warm, slightly rough surface of his oak staff.

He stood still for a few monts in confusion, then turned back toward the door. "You’re definitely going to regret this," he whispered quietly.

And of that, the young man was certain. But he was equally certain that if he left things as they were, he would spend at least the next few months, if not an entire year, recalling this mont and berating himself for his cowardice.

"Damn adventures," Ardi hissed. "Why can’t I just spend a few dozen evenings in a good library instead of this…?"

His mind made up, he approached… No, not the door. He approached the darkest corner of the room, where even the midday sun and lit oil lamps never cast any light.

There, the darkness lurked, undefeated and unquestioned in its reign since it had first settled on its now lawfully-claid territory.

In simpler terms: Ardi approached the wall and, bending down, pressed his cheek to the floor, peering into the space beneath the wardrobe.

He reached out with his hand, extending it as far as he could, and when he touched the spot that even the maids’ mops and brooms had never reached, he froze and, following Skusty’s teachings, opened his mind to the surrounding world.

He could feel a sticky, slightly cold, frightened substance, like a timid kitten trying to move away from the foreign warmth of his fingers. Ardi whispered words he had learned from the scrolls of the she-wolf.

In those words, there were no sounds — only images. Ones of calm, tranquility, and the promise of oblivion. This was exactly what the impartial darkness carried with it, the kind of thing that no one ever feared or longed for. It was a different kind of darkness, not the one used to scare children.

And the small, frightened streak of darkness responded to Ardi’s call, wrapping around his fingers like a cold, barely-perceptible silk veil.

Carefully, the young man lifted his hand, raised the darkness before him, and cloaked himself in it like a mantle. The world around him instantly dulled and dimd, and Ardi coughed, nearly losing focus.

He had never used the art of the Aean’Hane as often as he had in the past few months. He hadn’t needed it on the hunters’ trails, and in Evergale, there hadn’t been much opportunity for him to employ it.

"Calm down," he whispered to himself.

Breathing more steadily, Ardan stood tall, feeling the shroud of darkness draped over his shoulders, and approached the door. He couldn’t close his eyes, and he tried not to blink too often so as to avoid losing sight of the true world beneath the veil of what the untrained eye could perceive. Luckily, after the exercises he’d done in the Anorsky manor, he had learned how to separate the "crucial details" from the "big picture."

Back when he’d played those gas with Skusty, Ardi had only been able to hold this kind of vision for a few minutes. He could only hope that his training with Star Magic had indeed improved his Aean’Hane skills because if he lost focus and stopped seeing the world as it truly was, the Cloak of Darkness (or, as Star Mages called it, the "Eye-averting Cloak") would instantly dissipate.

Reaching the door, Ardi carefully pulled the handle down and, muttering a prayer to the Sleeping Spirits, stepped into the corridor. In its true form, it was no different from what others saw. But that was not surprising, given how often it was cleaned and how rarely anything out of the ordinary happened here.

Stepping carefully along the edge of the carpet and avoiding it with his shoes while also making sure not to step on the parquet with his heels, Ardi headed to where the scent of the Factionless Fae was beckoning him.

And every ti he saw people passing by — be they servants engaged in endless cleaning, polishing the suits of armor until they glead and scrubbing the gossar tapestries, or patrolling guards, the only ones in the palace carrying weapons — Ardan froze.

While the Cloak of Darkness diverted attention from him, that didn’t an that soone couldn’t notice footprints suddenly appearing on the carpet — which was why he avoided stepping on anything but the edges of the deep pile carpet — or hear the clacking of heels — hence his avoidance of the parquet with them — or even hear his breathing.

Unfortunately, not breathing was not an option, so he had to breathe very slowly and carefully.

Thus, weaving through the intricate corridors and hoping he could rember their twists and turns well enough not to get lost on the way back, Ardan spent nearly half an hour wandering the palace.

Sotis, he had to freeze in place and, out of boredom, he began listening to the conversations of the servants and guards.

He wasn’t eavesdropping — just listening! Or so he told himself.

"What do you think? If the Emperor ordered the construction of new military shipyards, does that an…" One of the maids glanced around nervously before whispering to her colleague, "…we’re preparing for war?"

"I don’t know, Maria," her colleague shrugged, continuing to wipe down an already spotless dresser. "But if that’s the case, now’s the ti to find yourself a handso officer. One who drinks less than most and doesn’t itch for every skirt."

Maria, the first maid, turned away and pursed her lips.

"My younger brother will soon reach conscription age."

"Is he planning to be an officer?"

"No."

"Then I’m not interested."

"Oh, go to hell..."

The maids drifted off, and Ardan continued on his way. Soon, guards ca into view, not straying far from the grand doors adorned with gold and the imperial crest. They seed to mark a boundary between different wings of the palace.

"He pardoned them," grumbled the older guard on the right — a tall, thin man in his forties, with a broken nose and a slightly crooked lower jaw. "But if you ask , he shouldn’t have even lifted the restrictions for non-humans. They used to live up north, out of sight, and everyone was better off for it."

"You shouldn’t use the term ’non-humans’ anymore, Velislav," the younger guard on the left said, shaking his head. He was much younger, but still bore the scars of war across his face: deep, jagged marks that crossed his cheeks and temple, ones that had clearly been stitched not with thread, but horsehair, if the stories of the Cloaks were to be believed.

"What do you an I shouldn’t use that term anymore?" Velislav asked.

"It’s ’Firstborn’ now," the younger man reminded him.

"My elder brother was first borned," Velislav snorted, "and he was trampled to death by the hooves of the Armondo cavalry. And I didn’t see any damn elves or bastard orcs there with him. And the dwarves sure weren’t smoking their cigars beside him. They were probably tossing coins at the cabaret stage while my first borned brother choked on his own blood with pierced lungs."

"Dwarves and their riches…" The younger man shook his head. "You sound just like the Tavsers."

"And so what if I find that their pamphlets have gotten so things right?" Velislav growled. "Our ancestors didn’t shed blood and sweat to shake off the yoke of Ectassus just so we could build… What do you call it again?"

"What do you an?"

"You know, by the Eternal Angels, that thing you young folk like to call it…"

"A just society?"

"That’s it!" Velislav snapped his fingers. "Exactly. A just, damn it all, society. That justice of yours slls like dung. There’s never been anything just in this world, except for maybe the fact that we’re all going to die."

"Except for the elves?" The younger man smirked. "They live for centuries."

"Ah, fuck them in their dainty throats," Velislav waved him off.

"Hey, I’ve always wanted to ask: where did you pick up that phrase, ’fuck them in the throat?’ And why do you use it for everything?"

"Have I not told you before? I had a sergeant in my company, and he…"

Realizing that their conversation might never end, Ardan carefully approached the cabinet and, trying not to make any unnecessary movents, knocked a candlestick off it.

"Damnation!"

"Face of Light’s shit!"

The guards, more out of surprise than fear, jumped where they stood and, exchanging a look, drew their sabers and moved toward the fallen silverware. Ardi, invisible to their eyes, slipped past them and, praying that the door hinges had been cared for as ticulously as everything else, cracked the door open.

There was no creak or squeak.

Praise the Sleeping Spirits...

Slipping inside, Ardan found himself in… another corridor. It was indistinguishable from the one he had just left and the ones he had been wandering through for the past while. Except here, there were no guards or servants, as evidenced by the absence of the characteristic sll of boot polish applied to military boots, and the powders and perfus the maids used on their necks.

Still maintaining his earlier caution and doing his best not to blink more than necessary, Ardan continued moving toward the source of the scent. With every step, it drew closer, tightening around him like deep, suffocating tendrils.

At so point, Ardi even felt as though he himself was the unfortunate one trapped in the mire, soone who was now futilely struggling and sinking deeper into it. And it was then that he realized that he’d found the right place.

Standing near a slightly ajar door, the young man froze for a mont.

"It’s too late to wonder if this was the right decision," he reminded himself and peeked inside.

As soon as he did so, he knew it had been a terrible idea, and from now on, he would do well to heed Yonatan’s advice and not get involved where he didn’t belong.

The walls of this room were covered in dark, crackling roots. They writhed and intertwined like a nest of snakes, rging and tangling like the matted hair of a drowned woman. But upon closer inspection, it beca clear that these weren’t roots — they were legs. Flexible and jointless, like earthworms or larvae, they covered everything they touched, converging sowhere near the ceiling in a haze of buzzing shadows, simultaneously resembling an owl, a spider, and a dead bush battered by winter hail.

The four bright eyes on the creature’s face glowed with an unnatural, golden light, staring down at a shriveled, small figure resembling a doll.

Ardi nearly squeezed his eyes shut at the sight, but he managed to maintain focus. The stench of swamp and rot struck his nose like a heavy fist. Ardi also felt a veil that prevented those unskilled in the art of Aean’Hane from getting close enough to hear or see anything.