The Drake's Gift

By TJ Freeman

About the Book
A tired old man lives alone in the ruined settlement of a splintered faction at the tallest peak in the Blood Mountains. Aided by the mysterious nature of the mountains, no creature ventures upward while he stands guard. That’s how it was for nearly fifty years. Then, someone new arrives at the mountains, and the nameless guardian decides that if he is to face what’s coming next and prevail, they must not leave. As the two prepare themselves, unseen threats formed by fear and regrets loom behind each of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: May 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887296784

Book preview

PART ONE

NAMELESS

One

The nameless stood in a silent forest. The trees were thick and tall, with branches he might’ve just barely been able to wrap his arms around. A paper-thin layer of tan-colored bark covered them like tight sheets. He looked upward. Dark green leaves cast cold shadows upon him, blocking his view of the shining sun.

With difficulty, he peeled his eyes away from the warm sun to gaze down at his right hand, where he found a large, sharpened steel axe. His fingers were wrapped around the wooden handle. He hefted the axe and eyed the trees, making an easy decision. These trees were in the way. They had to go if he wished to see the sun.

He approached one and ran his eyes up its surface, from its sturdy roots to the very tips of its swaying leaves. He carefully lined up his swing, holding his arm out. He pressed the sharpened end of the axe against the tree and pulled back.

He swung hard, his tool swishing through the air before embedding itself in the tree trunk. A loud thunk echoed throughout the forest. The axe sank considerably deep, much further than he had anticipated it would. With some effort, he yanked it out and examined the new gorge in the tree.

He observed the forest around him. All was quiet. Nothing seemed to be amiss.

He swung again, this time cutting clean through the trunk. The tree cracked, and there was a brief hesitation as the tree seemed to float in the air. A second later, with a mighty boom, it crashed to the ground. The impact sent a strong quake beneath his feet, startling him. He stood frozen in place, waiting. Nothing else happened. He looked at the axe in wonder.

A small circle of light surrounded him, illuminating the dirt. He raised his head and smiled. The sun was shining brilliantly through the new hole in the ceiling of branches and leaves. But it wasn’t enough. The sun needed to shine more. More trees had to fall. He moved on to the next one, tapping the axe’s handle against his palm.

The next tree came down with just as much ease, and just as much soaring racket, though the noise didn’t bother him as much as it had the first time. He laughed and continued, chopping down tree after tree, extending the influence of the pleasant sunlight and abolishing the shadows.

The axe cut through the trees with little effort, as if they were made of softened butter. It soon took only one swing before each tree toppled. He was lost in glee. Boom after boom sounded in the forest as tree after tree was taken down. Eventually, he had made a large clearing where the sun could shine as brightly as it wished. He sighed pleasantly, closing his eyes and basking himself in its glorious rays.

What have you done? a voice asked.

He opened his eyes and turned, puzzled. Behind him was a young woman with dark brown hair tied back into a long braid. She wore a spotless white tunic with beautiful gold embroidery around its sleeves and collar, complemented by stark white skirts. Her feet were bare; her toes curled in the earth. Pain, despair, and disbelief shown clearly on her face.

What have you done? she repeated. Tears formed in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

He tilted his head, then looked around. He drew a sharp breath as his chest suddenly tightened. The leaves of one of the trees he’d cut down had shifted from dark green to a dark red, the color of blood. His head swung from side to side to check the others and found that they had all experienced the same change. A mass of blood red leaves filled the clearing.

Growing increasingly more concerned, he gazed back upward to investigate the trees he had neglected to chop. He sighed in relief upon seeing their leaves. They were still green.

But then he gaped in horror as they all began to droop and bleed. The color shift spread like an infection, moving outward and plaguing the forest until there wasn’t a single green leaf in sight.

He stared back up at the sun. Before, it had seemed like a blessing that must be received, but now its light seemed like a curse. It was a horrible entity that had to be impeded. He cowered beneath it and retreated to the shade, where he could be protected again.

Please! he yelled at the woman. How can I fix this? How can I-

He trailed off as he saw the woman was no longer standing. She laid on her back, her eyes blankly staring up to the sky. Blood red leaves piled on her stomach and surrounded her. He rushed over, shouting for her to wake up. She did not. He fell to his knees and tried to shake her awake. He pleaded for her to wake so she could show him how to undo his mistakes.

She did not. He screamed.

He left the dream and opened his eyes, feeling the sheets of the bed and the cushioning of the pillow. He sat up slowly and pulled his knees to his chest, hanging his head between his legs and letting out a shaky sigh. His breath, barely visibly through the dark, rose before his eyes.

The sheets and quilts were moist from sweat. His bare chest, neck, and grayed hair were similarly soaked. The chill of the winter air, passing through the room from under the door, ran across his feverish body. If he hadn’t already been trembling, he would’ve shivered at the cool sensation.

He raised his head from between his knees and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the chamber. It seemed to take an eternity.

Several things came into view. The bed was snug, much more comfortable than those found in modest inns. At its foot was a tall coat hanger, covered by a large sheet. At the opposite wall, a furnace lay stone-cold and empty; he found that he could not sleep while even the slightest amount of light pierced its way into his pupils, even while he was drugged. It had made the dreadfully frigid winter nights almost impossible to withstand, but he had eventually become used to it.

In the corner adjacent to the bed sat a square, wooden table. Like the coat hanger, the table was also obscured by a dark sheet that acted as a tablecloth. On top of the table, next to some messily strewn clothes, was a small, transparent glass vial.

He sluggishly lifted his legs off the bed and planted his bare feet on the freezing marble floor. He gritted his teeth as he struggled to stand and placed a hand on the wall, leaning against the stones for support. He shuffled along the wall to the table and raised a calloused hand to grab the vial. He carefully took his other hand from the wall and removed the cork with two fingers. The vial shook as he brought it to his lips and took a single gulp of the black fluid inside.

The quivering of his body decreased considerably. His breathing and heart rate steadied. His headache faded. He gently set the vial back on the table before stumbling back to the bed, collapsing on top of the covers. They were still wet. He was too tired to care. He let sleep consume him and frolicked in the absence of dreams.

When he woke once more, he figured it was just about dawn. He had spent long enough there that, even after nights such as the last, he woke up at the same time every morning, with a few exceptions. Scratching his long and thick beard, he removed himself from the modest bed, which was now only damp, and stood. He stretched his muscles and cracked his old bones. A noise escaped his throat every time something popped unpleasantly, which was happening more and more lately.

He approached the table again and grabbed the clothes he wore every day. He pulled the beige trousers over his legs and looped the belt around his waist, buckling it and yanking the leather taut. He picked up the thin, long-sleeved shirt and threw it on. It had once been pristine white, but the years had made it more of a taupe, even after washing. He donned the unmarred chain shirt next, then pulled on the short-sleeved and silver-lined black tunic. He wasn’t fond of how the lining made the garment look expensive, but his other options weren’t any better. He fastened the thick, black leather boots over his feet.

The emptied vial was still on the table. A few ink-colored drops rested at the bottom. He picked it up and tipped it over his open mouth, letting the last few remaining drops out. He set the vial back down and reached for the black gloves next to it. He pulled them over his fingers and hands and turned toward the room’s exit.

Next to the wooden door, at the foot of his bed, was the coat hanger be had constructed from blood red bluten tree wood. It had only one peg, and the sheet laid over the coat hanger obscured what hung there.

He grabbed the cloth and tugged it away, revealing his cloak. It was sewn together from the tiny leaves of the bluten trees circling the valley. While the leaves of other species of tree withered upon separation, bluten leaves remained soft and flexible after nearly fifty years. They were also quite durable, allowing the garment to be used as light armor. It rustled only slightly as he swung it over his shoulders and secured it in place. The cloak itself came down to his heels, hanging no more than an inch above the floor. An experienced tailor would marvel at its beauty and functionality.

He did not. He hated it. The leaves of the bluten trees were all a disgusting, blood-like color. He’d made the cloak for camouflage purposes only. It came in handy when he was protecting the mountains, but he preferred not to see it while he was trying to rest. So he put a sheet over the cloak during the nights to sleep soundly. Or, in some cases, at all.

Next to the coat hanger, a long, straight object leaned against the wall. It had been wrapped in another cloth, like a baker might wrap bread. Removing the cloth revealed a blood red staff, constructed from more bluten tree wood. Those trees were the only source of strong wood around the valley, though he wouldn’t have made this staff out of anything else, even if the option was available.

As his eyes fixed on the staff, he felt as if he was jolted awake a second time. A strong sense of clarity washed over him, and he closed his eyes for a moment. A few memories resurfaced. He watched them like a play in his mind. He clenched his fist and took a deep breath, waiting for the sensation to pass.

Though it might only appear to be a mere staff, it was perhaps the most extraordinary staff anyone in Unon had ever made. The weapon was flawlessly symmetrical and aligned, as well as perfectly balanced on both ends. The wood was as smooth as the skin of an apple and never chipped.

The defining features of the staff, however, were the divots that ran around the circumference. There were twenty-three in all, leaving twenty-four open spaces. In each of these spaces, a name was inscribed in the wood.

He opened his eyes and lifted his staff from the wall. It was just as tall as he was; he had purposely made its height the same as his own. He forced himself to read every single one of the names before tearing his eyes away. He gripped the iron handle attached to the door that led outside the room.

He pushed the door open and stepped out into the hallway beyond. Identical doors lined the walls of the stone corridor. The only thing that set them apart was the name engraved on a steel plaque nailed to each door. It was a hallway full of bedrooms, one of the many in the Ruins.

Dust rested at the feet of the other doorways. After he had searched all of them, he had never bothered to look in any of the other rooms for the last forty years. They remained unoccupied to this day.

The room he borrowed once belonged to Verlas, as stated by the metal plate. He remembered Verlas well. Verlas hadn’t been his student, but he remembered everyone who’d lived here like he’d seen them yesterday.

His blood red staff caught his eye. He grunted and pressed his eyes shut again as he fought against another headache. He tightened his grip and read the names again.

It had already happened. He’d barely managed to leave the room. He was getting worse every day.

He had never known Verlas. Verlas had died a long time ago, likely before the nameless had even been born.

This hallway was a part of one of the residence halls in the Ruins—Vorah hall. He had searched and evaluated all of the residence halls before deciding on staying here. Vorah hall was the residence hall closest to the cooking hall and the garden, which was where he always went first thing in the morning and just before turning in for the night. If he had wanted better access to the smithing halt or arms hall, he would’ve slept in Kezis hall. But he didn’t need either, so he stayed in Vorah hall.

There was little light in the hallway, or in the entire building, for that matter. Torch stands that had been vacant for decades were mounted on the walls. The lack of visibility didn’t inconvenience him in any way. He didn’t need light to find the way outside.

He turned left outside of Verlas’s room, taking the empty glass vial with him. He immediately came across two large, wooden doors. The wood had been painted black, but the paint had begun to fade and peel long ago, revealing the dreaded blood red beneath.

He tucked his staff under one arm and placed a hand on one of the two giant brass handles. He pushed the door open and squinted as a small bit of light trickled its way into his eyes.

The sun hadn’t yet made its way high enough in the sky to be seen from inside the valley, though a few rays crept over the peaks to the east. It would be a few more hours before the sun rose to full view. For now, the sky would remain slightly more gray than blue.

He wasted no time admiring the beginning of the sunrise. Not only had he seen it plenty, but he had work to do. He walked a quarter-mile across the valley to the cooking hail, the bare, frosted dirt crunching beneath his boots as he went. The air was much colder outside than inside; he pulled the hood of his leaf-cloak over his head to block the harsh, icy wind.

The cooking hall shared a single building with the garden and the dining hall. Once he reached the building, he entered the dining hall through the large main doors. He crossed the dark, expansive, and abandoned room, his footsteps echoing as he went. Thin layers of dust lay over long bluten wood tables and comfortable chairs. He remembered when hundreds of people would gather here around this time in the morning, waiting for the cooks to prepare their food, laughing with one another as they told jokes and stories, and challenging each other to sparring matches.

He wanted to smile, but instead, he frowned and read the names on his staff again. He had never been there. That hadn’t been his life.

Once he had traversed the large dining hall, he went through another door in the back that led to the cooking hall. This section of the Ruins was significantly cleaner than the rest, as he came here quite often for his meals. Not only that, but he created his remedy for the days and nights here, too.

He set the empty vial on one of the counters and leaned his staff against the same counter. He reached for an empty glass lamp before heading into the gardens to find fuel for it.

A few rays of sunlight greeted him as he stepped into the garden. The garden of the Ruins was a large greenhouse constructed of thick storm-resistant glass. Various species of vegetation covered every square inch of the ground, save the pathways between rows. The heaters burning in each corner kept the glass room pleasantly warm. A set of large barrels distributed fresh water to all the plants.

He walked to a row of flowers at the far-left side of the garden, stopping when he found a species with petals the color of flames, called a foco flower. The average foco flower was only a bit shorter than his lamp when it was ready to be picked.

He scooped his hand underneath one and removed it from the ground before depositing it into the lamp’s glass case. He took some more soil and packed it around the flower, keeping it upright. He wiped the specks of dirt from his gloves, then, without plucking the petals of the flower away, he took two of them between his fingers and rubbed them together. They soon caught fire, burning brightly, yet softly. The flame would consume the petals and make a semi-circle in both directions before going out.

He picked handfuls of more foco flowers and deposited them into the greenhouse’s heaters to keep them going for the rest of the day before returning to the cooking hall, light in hand. He set the lamp on the counter. Now satisfied with his illuminated workstation, he went back to the garden.

He gathered more plants to use in his breakfast. He took some oats and picked a yellow apple from one of the fruit trees. He used a small jug to scoop some water from one of the barrels. He went back into the cooking hall and opened a compartment beneath one of the counters, revealing a small storage of bread, wrapped to preserve freshness. He took one small loaf and brought it out.

He chopped the oats and mixed them with water in a bowl he kept in another drawer beneath the counter. He didn’t bother with any utensils. Instead, he cupped the bowl in his hands and raised it to his lips, letting the water wash the oats down his throat. When he’d drained it all, he ate the cold, hard bread and the juicy apple to finish his meal.

He returned to the garden again, this time gathering specific herbs to make his remedy. The types of plants he used for this never changed; he’d experienced the same problem for a long time now. The only way his method changed as time went on was how much of each ingredient he used. The failure of last night’s dose meant that it was time to start taking a larger dose, which he would do every twelve hours or so. Therefore, he picked his herbs accordingly.

Back in the cooking hall, he deposited his gatherings on the counter and pulled open a cabinet door by his knees. It contained a mortar, a pestle, a knife, and a cutting board, all of which he took out and placed in front of him. He set the herbs on the board and cut the leaves, stalks, or roots he needed from each plant. He tossed these ingredients into the mortar before grinding them into powder. After adding some water to the mix, the result was a thick, pitch-black paste. He raised the brim of the mortar to his lips and took a large gulp.

His hands, which continuously shook when he went too long without this medicine, stilled, and his breathing became more even. He felt his stress and anxiety slip away, and he let out a small sigh of relief. He was grateful for how fast the remedy worked, relaxing him almost instantly.

He poured the remaining medicine into the empty vial he would keep on the table in Verlas’s chamber. It would be needed again when his new dose lost its potency and he was disturbed during the night.

He rinsed the mortar and pestle before putting them away in their drawer. He disposed of the leftovers from each plant, throwing them outside into the winter. He located a waterskin from another cabinet, filled it, and attached it to his belt.

One more thing. He opened a drawer filled with blood red leaves, the very same ones on the trees covering the mountains he lived in. The remedy stopped the headaches that would have come at the sight, had he not taken it.

He took one leaf and placed it in his mouth before shutting the drawer. The bitterness of the leaf spread itself over his tongue and throughout his mouth. The taste, along with the unpleasant texture and firmness, was meant to discourage people from eating them. It had taken time for him to grow accustomed to these things to the point where it bothered him only slightly. He brought himself to swallow the leaf whole and exhaled.

He picked up the lamp and opened its door to blow out the flame making its way around the foco flower. Darkness descended and left the cooking hall obscured. He left the lamp behind as he went outside, resting his staff over his shoulder.

He walked another quarter-mile across the valley, to the very edge of the Ruins. There, a large stone tower was erected, standing taller than the other buildings. Several identical towers circled the ancient structures making up the Ruins, but he had determined this particular tower to be best for keeping watch.

He ducked into the dark interior of the tower and climbed a few sets of stairs. He passed multiple floors, each one dusty and empty. After a few sets of stairs, he came upon the last indoor floor. In this room, a single chair waited patiently in the shadows. He gripped it by its top rail and lifted it, carrying it up the final set of stairs.

He emerged back outside at the top of the tower and looked out over the surrounding environment. The view was the same as always. It had hardly changed at all since he had arrived.

The Ruins stood in a bowl-shaped valley at the tallest peak of the Blood Mountains, the highest point in all of Unon. On all sides of the valley, just outside of the hemispherical shape, was a massive forest made entirely of blood red leaved trees. Bluten trees were commonly tall, about the same height as the tower, with thick branches one could easily stand on. The trees clung close to each other, leaving only a few feet of space between each one so that their branches overlapped near the top. The valley was perhaps the only place within the entire set of mountains where there weren’t any bluten trees at all. The forest blanketed every other part of the mountains.

The Ruins were as dull and quiet as ever. In the past, the buildings had brimmed with life and energy. People had excitedly bustled about to carry out their daily activities.

But he doubted he would ever be able to see that in person. In fact, he wasn’t sure if anyone in Unon would live to see that day, if it came at all.

The tower he stood on was meant to overlook the seaside of the mountains. While he was unable to see the foot of the mountain or the vast blue ocean that rested there, he would still know when someone docked a ship. It was imperative to pick up on this as soon as it happened, so he kept a closer eye on the seaside. It didn’t take as long to reach the valley from there. He would have very little time to prepare. When someone tried to approach from the landside, he would have a significantly greater number of days, so there was less punishment if he missed a trespasser’s initial arrival.

He set his chair down so that it faced the seaside and adjusted his cloak as he sat. It was the most comfortable chair he could find in the Ruins. Stiff blue cushions, worn with age and use, were strapped to the seat and back support. The blood red wood creaked under his weight. He leaned back and placed his arms on the supports.

And waited.

He passed the next few hours mostly by watching. He took a few brief breaks to practice combat forms and stances with his staff. Once he was bored with that, he practiced separate forms without the staff.

The sun was soon directly overhead, providing him with some extra warmth as he carried out his duty. Every now and then, he would take a glance behind to check the landside. Once he saw that everything was still as it should be, he turned his attention back to the seaside.

Eventually, when he turned in his chair to gaze at the landside for what seemed like the millionth time, the leaves caught his eye. He started upright and squinted, leaning over the back of his chair and twisting even further in his seat. He stood and swiftly walked to the edge of the tower, where he leaned out over the parapet.

He could see it clearly. Normally, the bluten trees swayed evenly with the wind. The leaves would rustle and shake in all directions. As he examined them now, however, the breeze was currently having no visible effect on them. The tips of the teardrop-shaped leaves were all instead firmly pointed in a single direction. They aimed themselves at the foot of the landside. Someone had entered the Blood Mountain’s forests.

The frequency of this type of occurrence varied. It happened once a month on average, though there had been times where travelers had come four times in one month, and there had once been a full two-year period in which nobody had entered the mountains. The last time someone had come had been two months ago.

It wasn’t something to cause worry, yet. There was a near-guaranteed chance that whoever had arrived would leave within a day. Such was the nature of the Blood Mountains. It made his duty easier to fulfill. He hadn’t been required to venture out to deal with a trespasser in years.

With no more reason to stay on the tower, he descended, taking the chair inside and leaving it where he had found it. He would check on the leaves at a later time, but for now, he would attend to other activities, of which there were very few to choose from. Reading, experimenting, training, smithing, and crafting were just about all he could do, as he was alone and possessed limited resources.

He walked steadily across the Ruins, passing by the expansive record hall, the largest building in the entire valley. It was where he spent most of his time; the number of books, informative and entertaining, was stellar. In all the years he’d spent in the mountains, he had not yet finished reading them all. It was certainly the largest store of information in Unon. The scholars and explorers who’d collected and written everything had been admirably dedicated.

Instead of going inside the record hall, as he usually did on an average day, he kept on past the building, aiming for the chemical hall. He’d been experimenting with a specific substance for quite a while and had nearly made a breakthrough.

The chemical hall was around the same size as the cooking hall, without the extra expanse the dining hall and the gardens added. It was organized similarly, as well, only there were various substances and beakers and containers in the cabinets instead of cooking pots and pans and utensils.

The compound he was trying to create had been thought of and started on by those who’d lived here before him. Unfortunately, they had not finished before their passing, and their project remained incomplete. He had recently found a book in the record hall detailing the concept of the chemical. So far, he’d made decent progress since the month he’d taken up the task. All he needed to do now was find a way to keep the chemical from exploding in his face.

The problem was that the chemical reacted immediately upon exposure to open air. No matter how hard he tried or what methods he came up with, every time he attempted to complete the final step, the chemical would react, sending a small blast of air in every direction, and he’d have to start over. It was incredibly frustrating, but he was stubborn and persistent.

He tried a new method today. He’d come up with it while browsing the record hall’s recounts of the various experiments conducted in the Ruins. These people had been phenomenal scientists, among other things.

Still, even with his novel approach, he was met with failure after failure. He prepared half of his chemical, then the other half. When he tried to form them into a single product, the concoction hissed and exploded, leaving his workstation in disarray and his eyes watery. After going through trials all afternoon, he finally gave up and decided he would continue the following day.

After cleaning up the mess made by his trials, he stepped back outside and headed back to the garden to eat another meal before he retired for the night. He thought hard about what he could do to have a successful experiment, but nothing came to mind. The record hall held shelves upon shelves of books, journals, and pamphlets containing almost everything humanity had discovered about chemistry, and the claims they made had been tested and proved. True, it had been nearly a century since the information had been updated, but the texts were still reliable, to say the least. With this in mind, he should have—in theory—be able to figure something out, yet he continued to fail.

As he walked and thought to himself, he noticed the leaves, far away at the edge of the bowl-shaped valley. They had changed from their prior position, but they had not reverted to being dormant. They were now pointing even more fiercely, as if an invisible thread tugged at them, a sign that whoever had entered the mountain had come closer.

Cursing quietly, he backtracked to the chemical hall. Upon entry, he located a specific cabinet and searched inside. The interior was separated into two parts: on the top were two small glass vials, each filled with an identical tan liquid, while the bottom consisted of several more identical but empty glass vials. Though the two may have been enough, he didn’t wish to take any modest risks. Wondering why he hadn’t prepared more ahead of time in the first place, he took out the two filled vials, along with three empty ones. From other nearby cabinets, he gathered the ingredients and equipment necessary to create more of the solution.

He wanted to work hastily, but he reminded himself that the trespassers were more than likely to be days away, and he slowed down to avoid making mistakes. One error could mean either the product wouldn’t be effective enough, or it would accidentally kill someone. His measurements and motions had to be carefully calculated in order to produce an elixir that quickly thrusts a person into unconsciousness—but only for about an hour. Fortunately, his experience in making this particular drug made the task fairly simple, his hands feeling the familiar weight of the ingredients and the repetitive grinding, stirring, pouring that he had performed so many times over the years. Soon, a batch deemed large enough for the task was successfully prepared.

He topped the finished drug off with the key ingredient to the true final product—powdered bark from the bluten trees. The liquid inside each vial turned tan to match the other two filled vials. Now complete, he put everything else away.

There was one last thing he needed to do before he prepared to turn in for the night. He left the chemical hall and made his way to the seaside. The terrain past the hill was treacherously steep, almost impossible to traverse. A thin, walkable path was laid out before the nameless, leading down. He moved carefully, using his staff to keep his balance. One slip and he could fall to his death.

Eventually, the ground leveled, and he came upon a plateau barely wider than Verlas’s sleeping chamber. In the center of the plateau, three blood red poles nearly as thick as the branches of the bluten trees jutted from the ground, arranged in a triangle.

He stepped between two of the poles and lowered himself clown, setting his staff beside him and resting on his knees. He straightened his back and bowed his head, resting his hands on his thighs and closing his eyes. He remained in abysmal silence for several minutes.

When he was complete, he stood and ascended his way back to the Ruins.

He received his dinner from the garden, made and took another dose of his remedy, then went to bed, leaving the five vials of sedative on the table in his room.

The night was uneventful, much to his pleasure. The added potency of the remedy seemed to be working, for the moment. The vial he’d refilled laid on the table in the chamber, waiting for the moment it would be needed. Hopefully, it would be a long time before then, but considering the way things were going for him, he didn’t have much confidence.

In the morning, he stepped outside of Vorah hall and checked the leaves once more. Unfortunately, they were only pointing even more intensely than the day prior, confirming his fears. There had been no reason to go out into the forest to deal with a trespasser in over three years. It seemed that time had arrived yet again.

While the mountains could drive people away, there were certain weaknesses to their power. How knowledge of these weaknesses found its way to the outside world, the nameless did not know, though he could guess.

For the next few days, his daily schedule didn’t change much from before. He would wake up, read the names on his staff, take his remedy, eat a leaf, check the trees, spend the day doing whatever activities he wished, then visit the three poles at the seaside. There wasn’t much more he could do until the trespassers came close enough. He didn’t want to venture out now and meet them so far from the Ruins.

With each passing day, the leaves of the bluten trees seemed to gravitate with greater intensity toward a single point.

Two

At last, five days since the leaves had initially begun to point, it was time. The leaves’ fervor expressed that the intruders were only a two-hour walk away from the Ruins. The nameless pulled the hood