Chapter 5: A Friend from an Unexpected Encounter

My first destination was the wizard city of Elarin, which typically required a two-day journey by ship. However, the route through the forest was faster and more discreet—though considerably more dangerous.

I reached the eastern edge of the forest at dawn. The place had no name, and on most maps it was simply marked as blank space.

I had noticed this three years ago while poring through the palace archives, reading with meticulous attention to detail. The western forests had names, the northern territories bore annotations, but this eastern stretch remained unmarked—nothing but a crude tree-shaped symbol at its border, and then emptiness.

I had asked the court cartographer about it once, and he'd said, "Some places don't need names."

I'd assumed he simply lacked interest in the area—after all, forests surrounded the capital in abundance. But once I stepped into this place, I understood why no one showed any curiosity about these woods.

There was an unsettling quality to the darkness here. Light filtered down from above, passing through layer upon layer of canopy until it reached the ground as scattered, mottled points that strained the eyes. Ferns grew chest-high everywhere, requiring extra caution to avoid being scratched while walking.

My boots were already wet. During the night, I'd crossed a small stream and slipped, my foot plunging into the water. That clammy discomfort temporarily pushed aside the other thoughts crowding my mind, and in a strange way, it made me feel lighter.

In the early morning, I stopped on a dry tree root to take inventory of my supplies: my cloth pack intact, notebook dry in the inner pocket; tinctures wrapped in oilcloth, safe and sound; four days' worth of dried rations, which, combined with whatever water and food I could find in the forest, should suffice; and my short knife—the one Rendell had given me two years ago, which I'd only ever used for cutting rope.

There was also an embarrassing fact: I was probably lost.

I had my compass, could roughly determine the sun's position, knew the general direction of the forest, and could orient myself. But I had deviated from my planned route and entered an area with no recorded information.

I opened my notebook and began sketching a rough topographical map. I added several landmarks to prevent getting lost again. Naturally, I didn't forget to record the vegetation types here, noting which were edible and which had medicinal properties.

As I was writing, an ethereal song drifted through the air.

I immediately stopped, thinking I might be hallucinating, and began listening carefully.

The forest continued its usual sounds. Wind rustled through the canopy with a soft shushing, and the distant murmur of water could be heard. But beneath these, another sound repeated in a regular pattern—one or several sources, intermittent, making it impossible to determine the direction.

I waited, holding my breath. This time the sound grew slightly louder, or perhaps my ears had adjusted. I stood, gripping my dagger, and followed it.

The terrain ahead opened up into a clearing formed where rock outcropped from the ground—granite, or something similar, its surface covered with a thick layer of gray-green lichen. The surrounding ferns grew shorter and denser, as if influenced by the underlying stone, which compressed their living space.

There were three small figures there. About waist-high to me, with very large eyes and movements carrying that particular caution characteristic of small creatures. Their skin was gray-brown, nearly blending with the lichen, genuinely difficult to spot without careful observation. They were gathering plants from the base of the rocks, their movements delicate, carefully placing each piece into woven bags slung across their chests.

They were singing, low and unhurried, in a language I had only seen in the most ancient books.

Fae.

Folk tales contained all sorts of strange claims about the Fae—some said encountering them brought financial fortune, others claimed seeing them meant your wife was having an affair, probably because their shadows had been mistaken for something else. These creatures, though timid, occasionally enjoyed observing human life, nothing more. The legends also spoke of winged varieties dwelling in the clouds, but those were entirely different from the beings before me. Those were elves, and they probably didn't have wings either.

But that wasn't what caught my attention now. Standing downwind where they couldn't detect me, I parsed their song word by word, managing to recognize perhaps one word in seven.

Beneath, or between. One who comes, or one who will come—I couldn't determine the tense. One word might have been blood, or possibly seed—the two shared the same root in ancient Elvish. Then, clearly and unambiguously, a word I knew better than any other:

Mireiya.

My name. The full name that only appeared in official records.

I shifted position, causing a branch to snap. All three turned their heads simultaneously, their eyes fixing on me in unison.

A moment of stillness.

The smallest dove headfirst into the ferns and disappeared. The second retreated behind the rocks, nearly stumbling. The third—carrying the largest bag and appearing the most experienced—made a deliberate decision, remaining in place with wide eyes fixed on me.

I quickly sheathed my dagger, then raised both hands slightly, showing them I held nothing and meant no harm.

"I didn't come to—" I attempted a phrase in ancient Elvish, immediately gave up, and switched back to Common. "I didn't come to disturb you. I heard singing and followed it."

The one who had remained in place said nothing, golden eyes tracking my every movement.

"I'm looking for food and herbs," I said. "I have things to trade, if you need them. If you're frightened, I'll leave right away." I gestured toward the direction I'd come from.

There was a faint rustling in the ferns—the one who had fled, though not far.

I crouched down, setting my cloth pack on the ground, showing them I was reaching for items, not weapons.

"What you're gathering here, from the rock base," I said, "is that Feneir?"

The third one glanced at his bag, looked at me, then looked at his bag again.

"Because about forty meters to the northeast, near the second stream junction," I said, extending something of an invitation, "there's a second patch. Larger than this one, more abundant. I noticed it when I passed by."

He remained silent, tilting his head in apparent confusion.

"I can take you there," I said.

To my surprise, they eventually followed me, their manner of walking resembling some small animal, producing soft rustling sounds against the ground. I stole glances occasionally—they were endearing. When they harvested, I stood nearby without moving, maintaining consistent, stable behavior—books said the Fae disliked sudden movements, and it appeared to be true.

The one with the largest bag—I called him "Elder" in my notes—gathered for a while, then placed a small bundle of Feneir on the ground near my feet, retreating two steps to watch me quietly.

"Thank you," I said, somewhat surprised, bending to pick up the bundle.

Elder said something in ancient Elvish, and this time I caught the tense—past continuous, similar to "the one who has always been awaited," rather than "the one who is coming."

"That song," I said. "Could you sing it again for me?"

Elder made a gesture I interpreted as noncommittal.

"There was a word in it—Mireiya," I said.

Elder's expression didn't change; those golden eyes were difficult to read. But I noticed a subtle movement, something I could only describe as a considered response.

Then Elder sang four lines, directly to me, at a slower pace, as if knowing I needed time to follow along.

I listened while clumsily translating in my mind, rough and incomplete:

Beneath the broken edge of the world—

The bloodline of the one the king protects—

Not his daughter, but—

That word I didn't understand—a compound I'd never encountered before.

—And the name the stone remembers.

I sat there, processing these lines.

The bloodline of the one the king protects.

Every prophecy version I'd heard stated: the king's daughter, the one born to close the rift. That was the wording, the version cited by the High Council, the one my mentors had cautiously told me when they deemed me old enough.

The king's daughter.

Not—the one he protects.

A protected thing and one's own flesh and blood were two different phrasings. Could there be someone else in the prophecy?

I didn't pursue that thought to its conclusion. I recorded it in my notes and closed the book.

Before I left, they carefully tugged at the hem of my clothing and gave me a potion.

Elder retrieved a small glass bottle from the largest bag, its mouth sealed with wax, the liquid inside resembling water but catching the light with a faint iridescence. He placed the potion on the ground, pointed at it, then made two gestures: an expanding motion, followed by covering his mouth with one hand. I interpreted this as enhancement, and not for consumption.

I nodded. "I understand."

I took a portion from my dried rations and added my spare oilcloth and two bandage strips. The one I'd named "Swift"—because he'd retreated fastest and returned fastest—affected an air of indifference while collecting these items. But the scent of food made his nose twitch, betraying his interest.

I tucked the potion into my inner pocket, alongside my notebook.

As I prepared to leave, Elder spoke another sentence, most of which I didn't catch, grasping only the final word: hidden, or kept safe.

"Thank you."

I walked back into the trees, returning this forest to its remarkable inhabitants.