Dark Moon Rising, Saga of Storm Book 1: Part 2

By Anthony LaRiva

Seven years after fleeing the collapse of their father's Lysian Empire, the surviving members of the Ehlrich family have each adjusted in their own unique ways to a new life in their mother's homeland of the Stormlands. The realm's war with foreign aggressors has drawn to a staunc

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eldarian Requiems Inc.
• Release date: Mar 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957838038

Anthony LaRiva

Anthony LaRiva is the aspiring author of Dark Moon Rising, the first novel in the Saga of Storm trilogy that he began writing in college. Having switched careers to focus fully on pursuing his passion of writing epic, high-fantasy literature, Anthony calls the Colorado front-range his place of work and home. History has served as a major source of his inspirations, and he does his best writing among the beatific landmarks of our world. Vikingdom dominates his fresh and intricate Stormborne world. The histories, myths, and legends of that violent time alongside those of late antiquity and early medieval Europe gift unequivocable life to his stark tale of the Ehrlich family and the many challenges they face.

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Table of Contents

Preface: The Stormlands

Map - Erunheim & Aidelgard

Map - Nordland & Soudland

Chapter Fourteen: Temple of Ruses

Chapter Fifteen: Battle-Hardened

Chapter Sixteen: Memory’s Assuage

Chapter Seventeen: Lord of Langreklif

Chapter Eighteen: Blood Pucks and Geimelgarr

Chapter Nineteen: The Deeper Vaults

Chapter Twenty: The Land’s Bind

Chapter Twenty-One: Treachery Beholden

Chapter Twenty-Two: Jaunt the Siege

Chapter Twenty-Three: Perfidious Chains

Chapter Twenty-Four: An Ember’s Ruin

Chapter Twenty-Five: Flood the Guard

Interlude: Drur’s Refuge

About the Author

Dark Moon Rising, Saga of Storm Book 1 (Part 2)

Copyright © 2022 by Anthony LaRiva, Eldarian Requiems Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

For permission requests, write to: [e-mail]

Editing by The Pro Book Editor

Interior Design by IAPS.rocks

Cover Design by Brad Fraunfelter

eBook ISBN: 978-1-957838-03-8

paperback ISBN: 978-1-957838-02-1

Main category—Fiction

Other category—Epic Fantasy

First Edition

This novel is dedicated to my confidante Jack, with whose enduring encouragement and honest advice I was able to transform a simple manuscript into an epic novel…

And also to my good cat Django, whose indifference toward all the passages I read to him over the years led to the many rewrites and self-edits this story needed.

Preface: The Stormlands

W

hen Torlv’s thunder shakes Eldaria

as though Valkyrie have descended from the Halls of Halvalkyra, the faint cower in fear. Yet, for those born by the timeless siege of storm, nothing is sweeter than the sight of white lightning igniting the kindling of fear. Stormborne do not waste what Torlv relents, for the Stormlands are forever brimming with his tinder and wrath.

Nestled like the Breidjal eagle’s perch in the north lies this antediluvian land. The Range of Tjorden lies to its west, encumbering sky’s remorseless wrath. Sprawled across its heart, the Range of Valdhaz endures the far north where rules Jüte, the runic god of frost. In the most difficult times, its beauty is shrouded beneath the bower of frozen pine, yet rain from winters ever receding renew the Stormlands time and again.

The Wrathgorne Wilderland coats its breadth like dust coats a hunter’s refuge, forever awaiting its primordial owner’s return. Forests of pine swathe fjord cliffs. They overlook the three seas that carve out the shape of Hælla Dwolv, runic god of the earth. At the impregnable temple of the runic god of war, Helti, sealed behind the Great Gates of Tjorden, endures the Stormborne, a runefolk` molded by the same moon-lit dust as the savage land which birthed them.

The Stormborne are a militant people who know war’s many faces, the faces of Helti, the runic god of war. Patience and wrath are a berserker’s only armor besides his furs. Treachery and trust, the jarl’s chief tomes. Siege and onslaught, the thatching on which the Stormborne slumber until peace trounces them both. Shining valor is the crown that rules above them all. Their iron grit leaves no room for the dread of Drur’s Abyss. In pursuit of glory, the Valkyrie claim all.

Where the Stormborne march, the ground is soon to be soaked in blood. Wise men are familiar with the abominable sting of runeforged steel that has been blessed by Helti’s seers. It is like a score that ices the veins the precise moment it splits flesh. Lesser men cringe at the mere thought of fighting Stormborne beneath the endless clash of Torlv’s resilient thunder and Jüte’s bitter chill. Eldrahg the Draconic Father drew forth a hardened folk, men who broke lesser men who could not withstand the wanderer’s stunning roar into subservient thralls.

Stout villages dust the fjords and the edges of the Wrathgorne Wilderland where most of the Stormborne dwell. Their domiciles are built with crested roofs that look to stab the sky in defiance while some shield themselves with sward. Firmly entrenched against the fjords, there is little which can break their steadfast hold over Hælla Dwolv.

Their mountain holds and fjord fortresses delve into the depths of Eldaria. They are all rooted like the pine, birch, and ash forests that envelop them. Stormborne fortresses exhibit the spirit of those who call them home, hard like the uncultivated monsters roaming the lands of Dwevland and the Broken Fjords, voracious like the Great Etin Kazbel himself, and as indomitable as Frosthammer dwarves.

Spread throughout these frost-stricken and storm sieged slopes lie groves untouched by the lands own scorn known as the Vales of the Eversong. They are timeless enclaves encroached upon by Frosthammer dwarves, mindless mountain trolls, and the ældrik of the Broken Fjords. They exhibit their brilliance like the runic goddess Freyja as she stands beside the passage of her Draconic Father’s hand. They are also the most perilous spread of land, for within the Vales of the Eversong dwell mischievous fae. Fae folk sleep peacefully to the envy of those who dwell in neighboring lands, so long as those peoples don’t disturb their domains. Yet, the fae are devious like Eldrahg’s second son who wears all names except for the name of Lok, the trickster god, blood brother to Eldrahg, and most beloved brother of Torlv.

The Vales of the Eversong lie scattered across the high country—extensive stretches of sub-alpine forests, montane glades, and Highland plains. The Nordland high country overlooks the Jüteheln, an arctic sea ever forbidding the advance of the runic god of frost’s icy fangs. The Soudland high country extends above the Thunder Falls—a series of massive waterfalls that spill over tall basalt cliffsides, split the Wrathgorne, and carve the realm’s greatest of fjords.

The Thunder Falls divide the high country from the Wrathgorne Wilderland. Stormborne claim the falls are like threads of leather that bind the Stormlands together, threads binding the true realms of men to those untamed portions of the world men could only dream to conquer. The falls feed massive rivers that weave through the land like snakes caressing the ground, and the land endures their percolating scorn. The rivers eventually widen to form sun-scorned firths and breathtaking coastal fjords from where the Stormborne row out to plunder the world.

In the southeastern Stormlands lies the aerie peak of Valheim, from which the Range of Valdhaz springs across the land. At the mountain’s peak high above the clouds there lies a portal to the Halls of Halvalkyra. Laid against Eilíft Vatn—the Eternal Falls—the Halls of Halvalkyra house the valorous dead in eternity beside Valvítr, her Valkyrie, and most of the runic gods. It is a city of ore-pine posts, wattle-walls, towering holds of timber, luminescent moonstone, granite pillars, gneiss foundations, sward-roofs, and longhouses both striking and eternal. It is a bastion ruled by the Draconic Father Eldrahg and a sprawling afterlife pulsing with valor at its heart.

The Stormborne, a people ever deserving of Halvalkyra, revere the audacious lord who first opened to them its doors. Erun Runeheim, whose line forever rules as the Storm King after he won the Stormborne’s eternal obedience and trust. His was the line that fought for the right to rule the most resilient folk. His fortress of Stormguarde was crafted in an age of antiquity by Dwarf Lord Harnik of the Frosthammer clan and the line of Folkenarr, who ruled Dwevland between the Nordland and the Broken Fjords, who became runic god of the forge.

Since Erun Runeheim abandoned blighted Stormurgall to claim his seat in Stormguarde, his line has ruled from the Tempest Throne. The throne is inscribed with rarefied runes in some ancient Frostheim Dwarvish tongue. A vestige to the grace of Monomua the Crescent Lady, the might of Eldrahg the Draconic Father, and the strength of his pantheon of lesser runic gods, the Tempest Throne sanctions the Storm King’s solidarity in rule. Every Storm King to find strength in war has reigned from its mantle true. The throne’s power is bound for all the world to rue, for a saga sings that within the Tempest Throne dwells Torlv, runic god of storm, who imparts the valor with which the progenies of Erun Runeheim rightfully rule.

Within these realms where tempests writhe

Lay a kingdom sieged by storm,

In which the blizzard’s frigid scythe

Leaves spring in darkened forlorn.

On bliss’s threshold where shadows lie

The mighty Stormborne make their home,

In one true service to their Storm King,

Upon his ageless Tempest Throne.

A fjords’ secrets, a seer doth unearth

Where thy mighty bastion Stormguarde stood.

The solemn crest of a king’s lost mirth

Which no Jarl, karlar, nor thrall withstood.

Darkness falls athwart those realms untold

As shadows claim enfeebled minds

Due forth into wars to still unfold

With the Dark Moon mourned and maligned.

Withdrawn the wolf to answer love’s call.

Unseemly the thrall to rise above the gall.

Honorable the heiress, her dominions since shattered.

Valorous the heir, his dominions to be battered.

In the heart of sundry kingdom, three chosen make yield,

But by hands of blaze and shadow, one chosen thus wields.

Map - Erunheim & Aidelgard

Map - Nordland & Soudland

Chapter Fourteen: Temple of Ruses

E

ach leaf fragmented light differently

beneath the cowl of the conquered sun. They divulged their inimitable penchants as if they only knew one way to grow. Thin and remarkably forgettable when the evergreen shaved them off, needles huddled together so not a single breadth of light was wasted upon the undeserving ground. The oak’s branches spread wide, its roots dug deep, and light trickled between its leaves to echo the shape of the leaves themselves. Hazels bounded skyward in thick, copious clumps, and their shadows were mirrored against the ground like soft billows of smoke.

The yew above him, however, was as eternal as the boredom Muiri suffered while waiting for Tanya to come. The yew spared no thought for the trees around it while soaking up the sun. It had seen generations be born and then die in but a fraction of its time. Its immortality radiated Freyja’s love for life, but those bonds came with a ghastly price. The wifely yew aged eternal aside her husbandly ash as all their children passed. Such was the dance of life of death, the majesty of Loretia’s gifts to Eldaria, and the beauty of Dranur’s insatiable need to embrace them so their eternities might commence.

Muiri approached the end of the second hour through which he languished beneath the yew. Hidden behind bramble, only a handful of tasty blueberries prevented him from losing his mind. Tanya was yet to arrive, so he pondered his situation like a fox forever bereft of its bride. He felt philosophical, like an ancient thinker from the Seas de Cielos before Julianus Romanus Castiel conquered city-states and empires alike across that antediluvian stretch of the world. He was apparently bored enough to compare himself to the two.

They were meant to enter the runic vaults today, where Muiri intended to discover what had become of his arm. Tanya’s recovery from her sudden frailty and fall surpassed a week this morning. It took some extensive convincing on Muiri’s part to commit her to the task—that and an abundance of chores.

Before Tanya finally agreed, Muiri spent most of his time mixing tonics, sweeping floors, and cleaning soiled sheets. He even repainted Freyja’s visage atop the floor at the entrance to the hospice. Well, they actually completed that task together, if only because Tanya believed neither of them could manage it by themselves. Luckily, Muiri was exceptionally steadyhanded, so even while Tanya spit her doubts, Muiri focused through to mostly complete it himself.

He was beginning to believe the priestesses were exploiting him for free labor off the premise of earlier saving his life. He groaned in frustration over the silliness of his situation and the stupidity of that passing thought. He could leave whenever desired. Tanya made that brutally clear. Muiri remained as much for the warm cot and free meals as for determining what Tanya accidentally embossed upon his skin. The runes were something he needed to understand, perhaps Tanya as much as him.

Muiri studied the lunular runes tattooed on his right arm. He understood all runic magic belonged to the Crescent Lady, whether aspected to the bright, riven, dark, or any sliver of moon in between, but he didn’t really understand how they worked. Muiri only knew their circles were derivative recreations of the lunar realm filled with runes, then cast upon to invoke runic magic.

Tanya had not explained it in further detail from her perspective as a seeress, a fledgling seeress, an educated priestess, or whatever she actually was. Regardless, he felt he was owed an explanation. He was owed a reason why he had been bestowed these tattoos.

Trickles of sunlight beset his eyes through the yew’s woven branches, and the breeze swept away his concern. Jaded of scrutinizing leaves and his place in the world, his eyes slowly closed of their own accord. His mind drifted to his mother, a face that became less distinct with each year forgone. He found himself riverside beside the bushes where they had hidden from the Stormborne. He recalled the indiscriminate face of the raiders who found them, of the one who drug him away, and of the gray-bearded man who stayed behind to rape his mother. He shivered before realizing it was only his most familiar nightmare. Nobody should find him here.

Muiri! whispered a familiar girl sharply as she startled him fast awake.

Shake him like he shook you after you nearly fainted. It’ll probably work well on him, harangued another voice as he cleared his eyes of their crust.

That makes no sense, Siv, Tanya rebuked.

Of course it does! challenged Siv. People abide by what works for them. It must have worked for him before, so it’ll work on him now...

I’m awake! he grumpily yelled, rising to sit before Tanya and her friend Siv, who both huddled down beside him.

Shush! And why were you sleeping anyway? You’re barely outside temple grounds, chastised Tanya.

Nettled, Muiri snapped back, You told me to meet you here, so I decided to pass the time by sleeping until the day you finally arrived. What is she doing here? Muiri demanded while tossing a sour glance toward Siv.

Siv is going to aid us in establishing what happened. She’ll also make certain it doesn’t happen again unless you’d prefer your arms to match? Tanya assailed, dousing his argument in a flood of snarky choler.

Fine, Muiri grumbled. But you took forever, and most of our day’s been spent! I’ve been asleep at least three hours already and waiting around for a few before that. What did you expect me to do? Just count the leaves on this yew?

Not sleep, especially when you’re not technically supposed to be here, and maybe keep an eye out or an ear open in case one of the seers was passing through, Tanya censured hotly.

What are they, senile? Do they amble through the brush whenever they tire of casting runes? Muiri scoffed, utterly incredulous at how preposterous her imagined concern was.

Faint grins spread across the girls’ cheeks when Siv dryly interjected, I am certain they would amble over if the bushes were snoring.

And find them filled with a few fae poking fun at a heavy sleeper, teased Tanya, shattering his self-esteem.

Muiri reconsidered why he chose to remain. He was already recovered, and his arm had yet to cause him problems, leaving him with little more than a forged tattoo. This novelty would most likely deceive the vast majority of the Stormborne into believing he was a Bjardja warrior. That faux position of power would take him far, so far that he might be able to forsake this place entirely—forsake these nettling priestesses most of all.

Most of the priestesses Muiri had acquainted were quirky doves fluttering about their days however their maven sisters directed them to. They also adored taunting him. Light-hearted jests toppled over one another like a crushing avalanche, but he chose to brush away the snow from his braies each day to scrub clean another dish for these girls. Perhaps, he was simply an oddity they felt the need to engage, but they were so damned annoying at times. Inexplicably, he preferred Durkil’s insults, if only because they were so unimaginative and familiar.

You look lucid enough, Tanya relented as she invited him to crouch beside her and Siv.

Muiri accepted, scraping twigs from his butt. Finding himself a half-foot taller than the two girls, he abandoned his crouch to sit on his heels instead. He noticed Tanya studying the path that returned to temple grounds. Nothing stirred along those fallow trails. Relieved, he exhaled most of his candied qualms. Nothing was left to hinder them from discovering the truth.

Well, let’s make use of one of those languages your mother taught you, Tanya insisted as she and Siv broke from the brush like little foxes scouting a den of shrews.

His life as a thrall had habituated him to distrust everyone’s intentions, no matter how decent their premises. He hardly recognized amity anymore, nor did he quite understand what it really was. When others dusted his shoulders with candid hands, he often snapped. He was deathly afraid of that savage reprisal, which learnedly came once his guard was let down.

Fear was quite powerful, but the fear of being chained by the rancorous memory of enslavement was even more frightening. Tanya had saved his life without the promise of reward. That was a kindness he had yet to return. It would take him considerable time to acclimate to this foreign sensation. Reliance upon goodwill frightened him, but he avowed he would discard this rotten fear and become whole once again.

Muiri followed the two girls. They stood beside the wood bracing that scaled the addendum to Torlv’s ritual hall. Muddled shrubbery and vibrant yellow flowers grew in the cobblestone seams. The sun vanished behind the clouds. The shade kept them all well-hidden as Tanya and Siv began to collaborate on how to open the door.

It boasts a riven cast, attuned to Eldrahg like the one at the main entrance, but it is also attuned to Drur, commented Tanya.

I don’t see it. There’s no blood, bones, or decrepit bodies as there are with most of his runes, and his runes are always, definitively drafted unto the Dark Moon.

No, I’m sure of it, Tanya reaffirmed. Eldrahg’s portion has been drafted to the bright half and Drur to the dark. See there along the dark crescent, that pale visage. Tanya pointed to a spectral, elven illustration drawn in faded black ink. The figure wore a hood like Dranur, but he was also wider and more masculine than the Goddess of Death and Despair. That is actually the Delas of Death. I’ve seen this exact same image on a few tablets before, she finished.

Siv revealed an ibis’s beak and two shards of bone from the sleeves of her robes. I only blessed a few die attuned to Drur. Will these be enough?

Maybe, Tanya apathetically admitted as Siv spiraled into an eccentric whirl of chagrin. But don’t worry, she consoled, continuing in a cheering tone. I have another idea! Muiri, how did you manage to open the main door to the runic vaults the night you snuck in?

Muiri studied the door. The runic inscriptions were similar to those on the one he had opened up front, but he did not understand their significance. That door had simply opened for him. He merely focused as much as his enervated mind allowed him before blearily willing the door to crack. The runes acceded his request somehow, but Muiri feigned no explanation as to why. They simply shone with the moon’s hue while the stone unhinged, whereupon he pulled himself beyond the threshold to topple within.

I don’t really know, Muiri confessed within a cloud of genuine regret. I just kept pushing against the door while trying to find Cadell, then the seal cracked after runes began to glow. Is that even possible?

It is difficult to cast a rune without an appropriate chant, Tanya admitted. But it is not entirely unheard of.

You hadn’t even…Bjardja’d my arm yet. How in a red alder’s nightmare could I have cast those runes without tossing out die or having ever done it before?

We’ll figure that out eventually, but let’s just handle one enigma at a time. Try willing it to open, Tanya instructed calmly, as if the task she laid before him was as simple as mixing a mind-numbing tonic.

How? Muiri demanded upon realizing the pressure of all their expectations combined.

Just focus, then attempt replicating your thoughts from that night.

Muiri sighed amid the confusion arisen from her negligible guidance, remembering the promise he made to himself just moments before. They needed to open this door, and his fussing only delayed them further. Muiri shuffled his hands against the cool stone, then inhaled to invent an effort, knowing not where to begin. He felt nothing, he knew nothing of what he was doing, and he vexed to recall anything useful from that blurry night.

Tanya gently tugged away his rune-soaked arm before proffering another suggestion. Try with your left arm only. No tattoos. No runic magic. It will open with lunar magic alone if that is something you can actually invoke without runes. You didn’t have these then, so don’t strain to use them now.

Casually, Siv expounded, They’re probably deranging whatever inexplicable power you mustered to break the seals the first time.

His eyes momentarily hardened against hers before he rubbed away the tension. Siv was brassy but candid, and he did not need to contend her aid.

Muiri sagged his right arm, and his left tensed against the runic inscriptions. He pushed forth every austere expectation riding upon his success. His fingers cramped, but he ignored the discomfort, digging them into the chipped stone. Deep inside his mind, he bade the asinine seals bust. They all craved answers lying hidden within these runic vaults. What were Tanya’s and Siv’s? He did not know, but he did not need to either. Muiri was their keystone, but even the keystone benefited from its position atop the arch. This door barred them from obtaining their answers. It would open for him. It must open for them all.

Mystical energies wafted over his neck. Muiri faithfully received them, consenting the ascetic dilution to seep beneath his nerve-ridden skin. Cool as night, yet tempered as the moon, the sensation felt different but was intimately the same. Tonight boasted a different moon, he supposed, but each moon was fundamentally the same aside from its glow.

Raw lunar magic, as austere as the will he exerted upon the runic seals, seeped into his bones. A rush of energy enveloped his chest and dove into his core. The sensation held warmth more indulgent than the moon’s touch, and it blossomed with resilient life. It sailed through his arm, escaping his body as quickly as it arose, and they glowed. The runes began to glow! Dust was shaken from the seam where stone was sealed against stone upon a roughly cut doorframe. The door cracked, scraping over the brush and long grass.

Muiri almost shouted, By Loretia’s bush, I’ve done it! Did you see that?

Tanya. He cast the rune without tossing out die blessed for the appropriate runic gods…without really casting the rune at all. Is that not what the troll did? Siv mumbled.

Her face was smeared with a terror so prevailing, Muiri almost stumbled while stepping back.

It’s more similar to how the Bjardja invoke runic magic, but I cannot explain it beyond that since he had no runic tattoos when he first cast it. One enigma at a time is all I think we can feasibly handle. Let’s see what we can find out! Tanya glanced them over, and she tore into the dim-lit hall descending into the runic vaults.

Muiri spread his hands for Siv after dwelling on Tanya’s startling admission. I swear my parents weren’t trolls. You would see it in my teeth otherwise, he casually joked before lending Siv a wide grin to reveal his mouth was free of tusks.

Siv rolled her eyes. Nobody said you were a troll, Muiri! Come on, and close the door behind you. Without another word, Siv barged into the unknown of the runic vaults.

Pulling the door shut, Muiri called out, I also have pink skin, and I’m also a foot or two too short! The stone fastened by its own volition. Muiri began his awestruck descent into a dim-lit world of scattered tablets and scrolls illuminated by the soft, variable glows of expertly carven runes. Quickly stepping over a misaligned foundation, Muiri joined Siv. What took you two so long anyway? he asked after she glared him over.

Scrutinizing him as if the answer were so evident he was either daft or mad, Siv coolly professed, Tanya. She barely has the energy to toil through her chores, much less stay awake at all after she…‘Bjardja’d’ your arm. For her sake, I hope we learn more about those runes and how it’s affecting you both.

Knowledge possesses limitless advantages over the throes which burden life. It fashions the armor those unguarded by the warrior’s might can use to preserve their lives. For so long, the majority of the runic temple’s knowledge had been sealed from Tanya’s sight. She had perused the depths before, but never to this extent. The profits of her prior visits relied on the goodwill of the Runic Faith, and its seers and seeresses were fickle creatures. They scarcely passed on their knowledge lest they needed to replace themselves upon their lives’ looming ends.

In a stunning stroke of luck, Muiri, a butcher’s thrall so savaged by life, tapped into the moon’s perplexing grace to break the seals at the vaults’ annex entrance and grant them an illicit entrance. Perhaps, Monomua tapped into Muiri for him to accomplish such a daunting task, but Tanya did not know for certain which direction Fate’s Weave was yet threaded. Regardless, the man she saved from Drur’s Abyss had unsealed the secrets of the runic vaults for them all—all because the Alterian held an innate power that took years for her to obtain for herself.

Even though her fortuity was not truly her own, Tanya’s quest for clandestine knowledge would know no limits now. If not today, then tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then in the days of a future forthcoming. They would each find what they were searching for, so long as Muiri retained these powers he had mysteriously mustered.

The account of Eldrahg’s Ascension was the story Tanya searched for. The truth behind Muiri’s ‘Bjardja’d’ arm, as he so tenderly began to describe it, would be hidden within that tale.

The origins of runic magic alongside every scratch of detail regarding the troll’s voodoo variant would conquer her days next. Should she shoulder those secrets until she saw her siblings again, Tanya might even save her brother from death during the realm’s next war.

What exactly should I be looking for? Muiri asked, fumbling over two tablets in vexed perplexity before he dropped one on the ground. A stress crack streaked the surface, exhuming a startled squeak from Siv, but the tablet looked otherwise unharmed. Half of these are recipes for rituals, and the other half read like skaldic accounts of the lives of long-dead Stormborne.

Tanya scarcely knew where to begin herself. Reading through every tablet which spoke of Eldrahg or Bjardja tattoos had been her only plan, so she shared that advice alone. Collect as much as you can and separate anything you think is relevant. We can decide what’s believable and what’s fictitious afterward, she augmented before his attention absolved.

Be sure to return everything exactly where you found it. We shouldn’t leave any traces we were here, instructed Siv in a curt, demanding fashion.

Muiri frowned in presumed disappointment. Siv received him blankly, and the young man’s face morphed into an irate glare. Siv reserved no qualms in reaffirming her suspicions of his heritage and his character, so she responded with her own shattering gaze. Siv judged Muiri, irrespective of the conflict it incurred. Tanya sighed when her fellow priestess inhaled to speak again.

Dragoln and Hosvir sporadically visit the vaults, and these are essentially Drurhelm’s second home. Put what we don’t need back from whence it came, Siv spurned.

Aiming to alleviate the tension abounding between them, Tanya placidly appended, Anything even remotely mentioning Eldrahg’s Ascension, Bjardja tattoos, and runic or voodoo magic are things we’ll want to read.

I’ll leave the useless tablets in a quaint little pile for Siv. My thick, Garathandi brain wouldn’t know where to begin with returning them to their proper places. Muiri shoved his face into the tablet he currently held, smirking, riling Siv, and amplifying their argument.

Tanya intervened, Nobody believes you’re a troll. It’s just peculiar that you’re only the second person the Stormlands has ever seen wield lunar magic without casting a rune. We only discovered the Garathandi’s Voodandum possessed that ability a few days ago. The fact you’ve successfully wielded those same powers without any training is simply astounding, and frankly, frightening for Siv, but it does not mean we think you’re a troll!

Your grandfather’s court discovered that, not you, Muiri sourly corrected.

Yes, Tanya drawled. My grandfather’s court, where he would compel my brother to extract information you do not have if he knew about the powers you have summoned with just your hands. Instead, our temple’s kept your secrets because Siv and I irascibly demand it. We’re here unbeknownst to the head seer who presumably keeps your existence a secret as well. All so that together, we might search for answers to exchange for ignorance we all currently bear.

Animate to a fault, Muiri’s visage warped as if he had dunked his head into a vinegary bath and swallowed twice his weight in pickle juice. He did not yield an answer but proffered an apology to Siv instead. Thank you for aiding the princess in precluding me from becoming her brother’s thrall. Obviously, he drawled, I’ll return the tablets to where they belong, but please just swallow your suspicions instead of blurting them out.

Tanya appealed to Siv to remain amicable, so her friend replied, I’m not suspicious of you, Muiri. I simply don’t understand why you have been gifted more lunar power in an instant than it has taken us years to acquire through practice and hard study for ourselves.

Neither do I! Muiri exclaimed. And I need to know what has happened to me. I need to learn how Tanya Bjardja’d up my arm and why it’s happened at all.

It’s called tattooing, you Alterian muskrat! Siv ridiculed afront a pinnacled expression of disgust. Bjardja is the name for the warriors who cast runic magic as both the summoner and the vessel by tattooing their skin with runes.

How can you expect me to know that? Muiri spat back. I’ve been a butcher’s thrall for half my life, and I was a fisherman’s son for the other! There’s no religious erudition in fishing or carving meat.

And you never once asked when you had questions. You were never curious, not once since arriving in Stormguarde city?

I never spoke with other thralls because my master forbade it. I was his only thrall—his prized possession, he often alleged—and if ever he caught me fraternizing with others, he would chain me down in the cellar like a slab of frozen meat.

Relentless, Siv decried, There are more than thralls in the Stormlands!

They are the reason why Cadell is dead! Muiri yelled, aching somewhere depthless amidst his admission. Look where trusting you savages has led me! I’ve traded one master for two because I owe you my lives. How is that fair?

Tanya did not speak soon enough, ambivalently watching Siv surpass her want for clarification to spew harshness instead until she incurred the same response. It isn’t, but we are not your masters, so do not ever claim that is how you have been treated while living in our home. You don’t have to stay, she continued amid his swollen morose. I honestly don’t know where you would go, but the choice is still yours. Don’t fear leaving if that is all you truly want because we won’t betray your confidence if you do choose to go.

I want to stay, Muiri shallowly admitted as if he had not intended to speak at all.

Then find reasons to! She had grown tired of the mystery he latched onto his motives. She had grown tired of being blamed as the sole source of his woe. If you plan to shame us for helping you without fixing all of your life’s problems, just leave and stop digging for sympathy from us.

I just want answers! It’s not as easy figuring them out for me as it might be for you.

Suspicious she already knew the answer, Tanya stringently demanded, How is it any easier for me than you?

Because you were born into wealth and power. Try as you might to deceive yourself, I can still see that you never let it go.

Why do you fear power? Because one man held it over your head? Ill minds dwell within the world as much as those who have pure intentions at its every tier. Why fear it will transform you into something venomous and grotesque as it has done for someone else? You’re not that person. You’ve survived its whip, so you know how to repulse its influence better than anyone else. Find reason to make your gift worthwhile, and you can instill a benevolent change unto the world instead of forever cowering in fear of people more powerful than you!

Tanya gasped amid her final breath, shocked by everything she harangued him with in the heat of the moment. She believed it herself. Every word of what she said was genuine, and she endeavored to wear those trappings each day as well, but a single lesson was never sufficient in inspiring a change in anyone’s heart. Did her sheer callousness make her no different than the butcher who once beat Muiri for simply speaking to other thralls? How cruel a world if this alone were how Muiri might learn to break the chains shackling him to his past.

Muiri swallowed hard. Maybe by staying and helping you here, I can learn how you inked my arm without stabbing it full of needles. Still, I was taught to hold on to what is dear, or everything else in my life would crumble away. Maybe this is where we start trying to figure this out together if you’re willing to forgive that I might be part Garathandi or touched by a runic god.

Muiri handed Siv a spare few tablets from the piles beside him. The priestess shakily accepted his offer of amnesty while receiving them one at a time. Tanya knew Siv as well as she knew herself. She understood Siv was merely suppressing her reservations. They had not at all been eradicated. Yet, as the girl read the tablets Muiri handed her, a wild surprise consumed her brows until they nearly touched the ceiling.

Tanya! Siv exclaimed. This is it! This is the story of Eldrahg’s Ascension without any seer’s perspective marring the truth of it. Eldrahg wrote these himself.

Skirting piles of runic tablets to draw between Muiri and Siv, Tanya received the tablet from Siv and began reading it for herself. The eve of my ascension, to that of Draconic Father, Delas of the Moon, and first of the runic gods—

If that’s real, Muiri ecstatically mentioned, then it seems runic magic isn’t entirely lunar! What do you think this means?

Tanya hushed Muiri so she could finish reading. A long moment passed, then several more disturbed by naught but her intermittent astonishment and the vault’s dank air. It means Eldrahg is the reason any of the runic gods besides Drur hold a semblance of magical prowess. Her mind was summarily bewildered by the concept Monomua was chained to the lunar realm and that each of the magical realms once held two deities—a husband and a wife.

If Monomua is imprisoned within the lunar realm and cannot leave without greatly expending her power, the arcane alone is why our runes are such a potent application of lunar magic. Siv thrust the tablets back into Muiri’s hands, toppling him off-balance. Sorry! the priestess apologized after realizing what she had done.

It’s fine, Muiri replied while rubbing the back of his head. Just explain to me how one variant of magic I don’t understand makes another I also don’t understand more effective.

Craving to say it aloud to even believe its authenticity, Tanya succinctly answered, Ithilia’s arcane pervades all of Eldaria and most of the other goddess’s realms. The stars shine over us all, and the Forlorn Star shines brightest. That means our runic circles are focal vessels. We draft them in the requisite image of the lunar realm and fill them with runes and blessed die to impart the aid of whichever runic gods we require. Through the arcane, they then guide lunar magic into Eldaria, where it is unleashed as drafted alongside a touch of the arcane.

And the bit about his actual ascension after all that lead-up… Does that have anything to do with how you…‘Bjardja’d’ my arm?

What? Siv shouted while leering over Tanya. You said you never touched, much less did anything like that!

I lied, Tanya confessed before nervously snapping. But only partially! It was cold and I wanted to return indoors, so I grabbed Muiri’s hand to lead him inside. That’s when it happened. I basically fainted once it was over, like my life force had been drained.

So you holding his hand was what painted his arm with all these tattoos attuned to the Dark Moon? Siv wryly questioned.

I don’t think so. I think it was when he loosened up that the ritual transpired. Damnit, Siv! Tanya exclaimed after realizing Siv was simply tickling her with judgment. It’s not about sleeping with the recipient. It’s about the receiver accepting the giver in any way befitting of that moment, which is all that happened.

How was it a runic ritual? Siv questioned, barely suppressing her smile. There were no runes or runic circles in the vicinity, and no die were cast for any runic god.

Tanya’s body grew cold. Because Monomua was imparting the runic magic herself, but somehow through me. It’s like when Bjardja invoke runic magic through their tattoos.

Monomua already has a Delas who’s far more powerful than me. Why replace an Elder Wyrm with a mortal, then only impart a third of her power? stuttered Muiri.

Because you’re not her Delas, you twiddle-brained fool, Siv softly insulted. There are two other positions in the lunar pantheon whose positions remain unfilled.

Or we may not know their wielders just yet, Tanya corrected.

What? Her Descendant? So I’ve been part ældrik a thousand generations removed all this time? I suppose that’s slightly better than being a half-blooded Garathandi troll.

Rolling her eyes in disapproval of his jokes that he was something other than human, Tanya corrected again, More likely her Champion than her Descendant.

Her Champion? Siv muttered in utter disbelief. That would mean we’re sitting on the verge of a calamity only the Crescent Lady has seen.

Tanya inhaled her answer, but the sharp grating of stones prevented her the opportunity to openly resign it. Quiet, both of you! Someone’s here.

Muiri scrambled to return tablets to their proper places, setting aside those telling of Eldrahg’s Ascension as if he meant to carry them with them. His efforts were brutally foolish. He mostly succeeded in clacking stone and alerting the unknown visitor of their presence. Flustered, Tanya motioned for Siv to help pull him away. Muiri did not make it easy, resisting until Siv felt there was no other option but to slap the back of his head.

We need to go now, Tanya whispered in earnest. At best, it’s Dragoln. At worst, it’s our favorite toad-faced seer.

Shouldn’t we take these with us? Muiri whispered as he retrieved another tablet from the piles beside them.

They’ll be here tomorrow, Tanya scolded. He hesitated, so she curtly instructed, We will only learn more if we’re not caught sneaking through the vaults. Now hurry. Whoever it is, they’re getting closer.

The boy’s face contorted in disagreement until the seer’s footfalls sparked the ultimate realization they needed to leave. He skirted the tablets to join with her and Siv. Tanya led their dash through the adjacent vault before reaching the tunnel that led to the annex entrance.

Tanya paused behind the corner, delaying their escape upon hearing Drurhelm’s familiar, impish voice. Drur’s seer muttered angrily with himself. He spoke so cross and glum, as though even he had grown tired of himself.

Recognizing it the same as she, Siv whispered, That’s Drurhelm. I’m absolutely certain. We need to leave before he draws too close and catches wind of our steps.

He’s just grumbling to himself, Tanya muttered while prying for a better view.

"We’ll only raise more questions if we’re caught and expelled. We have