For a while, he simply lay there, watching the dust motes drift through the air. His thoughts did not wander, did not stir restlessly as they so often did these days. Instead, there was only stillness - a rare, quiet certainty that settled over him like a thin veil.
Then, his gaze fell upon the wooden block resting on his desk, placed beside a small knife. He had left them there the night before, though he barely remembered doing so. A faint memory stirred - the vague notion of an idea, something unfinished, something waiting.
Without much thought, he pushed aside the covers and rose, his movements smooth, unhurried. The floor was cool beneath his feet, grounding him in the present as he crossed the room.
He pulled the chair back and sat. The weight of the wood felt unfamiliar in his hands - yet, at the same time, strangely natural, as if it had always belonged there. His fingers traced the rough grain, the imperfections in its surface. He did not think about what he was about to do, nor did he question why. His hands simply moved.
The first stroke was shallow, shaving off a thin curl that coiled away before floating to the desk. He angled the blade and carved again, the movement rhythmic, deliberate. A soft scrape, scrape, scrape filled the quiet air, blending with the distant chirping of birds outside his window. Lio had never done this before - never shaped something with his own hands, never felt the weight of a tool becoming an extension of his will. And yet, as the knife moved, it felt strangely natural, as though the knowledge had always been within him, waiting. Each stroke came without hesitation, as if some unseen force guided his hand, whispering through the grain of the wood, nudging his fingers toward the form hidden within.
The block, once rigid and unyielding, began to lose its harsh angles. The edges softened as he shaped them, his fingers guiding the blade with growing confidence. A rough outline emerged - a slender base, narrowing upward, then broadening near the top. He adjusted his hold, tilting his head slightly as he studied the form. The stance needed balance, a firmness that spoke of strength. He set the knife against the wood again, carving deeper into one side, evening out the proportions. A curve took shape beneath his fingers, the suggestion of fabric draped over a solid form. He traced the knife along the grain, allowing the wood’s natural lines to guide the folds. The strokes grew finer, more precise. He scraped away excess from the sides, refining the shape so it wouldn’t look stiff, so the flow of movement would be felt even in something still. He turned the figure in his hands, studying the lines he had carved. One arm remained too thick, lacking purpose. He shaved it down, then paused, considering. Something should be there. The hand should not be empty. With a careful cut, he began carving an extension - thin at the base, tapering as it stretched forward. A hilt? A handle? His knife worked methodically, stripping away slivers until the suggestion of a grip remained.
The other arm came next. It had to be different - angled inward, not reaching but holding, clutching at something unseen. He carved slowly, thinning out the wrist, curving the fingers just slightly so they would rest against the body. The scent of fresh wood filled the room, mingling with the morning air. Shavings piled on the desk, a scattered mess of discarded fragments. Lio barely noticed. His focus remained entirely on the task before him, his hands steady, his mind clear.
The details took the longest. He traced the blade’s edge lightly, marking faint ridges where plates of armor might rest, carving grooves to suggest overlapping metal. A faint line across the chest became a belt, another across the legs hinted at greaves. He narrowed the stance, chipping away small portions at the feet so they planted firmly, grounded.
Then came the face. He hesitated. It had to be right. He didn’t have the skill to carve features, but he could suggest them - an indent where the eyes should be, a ridge to form a nose, the faintest notch for a mouth. A helmet might have been easier, but that wasn’t what he wanted. The face had to be seen.
The last touch was the shield. He pressed the tip of his knife against the free arm, carving carefully, angling the wood so that the figure seemed to bear its weight. The shield was plain, undecorated. No crest, no sigil. Just something to hold, to defend.
Lio sat back slightly, rolling the wooden figure between his fingers, brushing away the last stray shavings. It wasn’t perfect. The cuts were rough in places, the proportions slightly uneven. But it stood as it was meant to stand - upright, unyielding, a silent guardian shaped by his hands. A knight.
Lio set the wooden figure down on his desk, brushing the last stray shavings from his hands. The knight stood firm, its presence small yet certain. He stared at it for a moment longer before exhaling softly, stretching his fingers.
The morning light had shifted slightly, growing stronger, golden hues giving way to clearer daylight. Only now did he feel the faint chill against his skin. The thin tunic he had slept in was no longer enough. Pushing back his chair, he rose from his desk and crossed the room to his wardrobe, pulling open the heavy wooden doors. Inside, neatly arranged, hung an array of fine garments - soft silks, embroidered coats, and tailored tunics, all suited for a boy of noble birth. His fingers traced over the fabrics, pausing on one in particular. Black silk, embroidered with red and gold - bold, yet elegant. He pulled it from the wardrobe, letting the smooth fabric unfold in his hands. The coat was finely tailored, its edges lined with delicate golden thread, swirling into intricate patterns at the cuffs and hem. It draped comfortably over his shoulders as he fastened it, the rich material resting light against his frame. His breeches, of the same deep black, fit snugly, ending just above his polished leather shoes. The finishing touch was a thin black belt, its golden buckle glinting in the morning light
Satisfied, he turned back to his desk, his gaze falling on the wooden knight once more. His fingers hovered over it for a moment before he reached down and picked it up, rolling it between his palms. The wood still held the faint warmth of his hands from earlier, as if the piece itself remembered its maker. Without another thought, he tucked the small figure into his palm and stepped out into the quiet halls of the house. The scent of warm bread and something faintly sweet drifted through the air, guiding him forwards.
The kitchen was already bustling with soft morning activity. A large pot simmered over the hearth, and the scent of roasted grains and honey filled the space. At the table, a woman stood with her back to him, slicing fruit with practiced ease. “Good morning, Lio,” she greeted without turning, her tone warm but distracted. Only when she glanced over her shoulder did she pause, her expression shifting into something less approving. Lio knew that look well - the faint, displeased press of lips, the slight narrowing of her eyes. Beatrice was a woman of solid build, with the firm posture of someone who had spent years managing a household with precision. Though past the bloom of youth, she carried herself with an air of quiet authority, the fine lines on her face speaking of both care and discipline. Her dark brown hair, streaked with early strands of silver, was neatly braided and pinned at the nape of her neck, a practical style that kept it from falling into her work.
Her sharp eyes, the color of deep chestnut, missed nothing - quick to narrow in disapproval yet just as swift to soften with warmth when the moment called for it. Though she was not unkind, there was a strictness to her, an expectation that things be done properly, whether it be the folding of linens or the way a young noble carried himself at the table. She had served House Vaelmont for years, longer than Lio could remember, and in many ways, she ran the estate with more authority than some nobles managed their own affairs.
Her apron, worn but well - kept, was tied snugly over a modest woolen dress, its sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, capable arms. She smelled faintly of flour and dried lavender, a scent that clung to her after long mornings of baking and household work. Though she had little patience for nonsense, she had always had a soft spot for Lio, in her own way.
It was this mix of sternness and familiarity that made her sigh now, eyeing him with faint disapproval.
“Black again?” she sighed, setting down the knife. “Honestly, young master, do you not have any brighter colors?”
Lio merely blinked at her, unimpressed. “It’s comfortable,” he replied simply, taking his seat.
The woman - Maiden Beatrice, as she had been called for as long as Lio could remember - crossed her arms, eyeing him as if he had just invited misfortune into the house.
“Black wards off the Light,” she muttered. “A dreadful color for everyday wear.”
Lio resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Superstitions. The idea that colors could control fate - could call down blessings or invite misfortune - was as absurd as believing that stars in the sky arranged themselves to predict one’s future. He had heard it all before, from countless villagers who whispered of omens and bad luck, but never had he seen proof that fate concerned itself with fabric.
“If the Light fears my coat,” he mused, resting his elbow on the table, “then perhaps it isn’t as powerful as they claim.”
Beatrice sucked in a sharp breath, “Lio!” she scolded, though her voice held more exasperation than true offense. “Don’t speak like that, your mother would have my head.”
He only shrugged. He wasn’t in the mood to argue over nonsense. With a sigh, Beatrice turned away and picked up a wooden plate from the counter. A moment later, she placed it In front of him. Lio glanced down at his breakfast - a thick slice of freshly baked bread, still warm from the oven, alongside a serving of soft cheese and sweet preserves made from summer berries. A cup of honeyed milk sat beside the plate, its steam curling faintly into the air. Simple, but filling.
As he reached for the bread, Beatrice spoke again. “And what is this?” she asked, nodding toward the small wooden figure still clutched in his other hand. Lio glanced down at the knight, momentarily caught off guard.
“It’s for Felix,” he answered after a brief pause.
Something softened in Beatrice’s expression. She placed a gentle hand atop his head, ruffling his curls ever so slightly.
“That’s a fine gift,” she said warmly. “I’m sure he’ll treasure it.”
Lio only nodded, focusing on his meal. Beatrice wiped her hands on her apron and leaned against the counter, watching him with mild amusement.
“Your mother was up early,” she said after a moment. “She left before sunrise. Said she’d return later today.”
Lio swallowed, setting down his cup. He had expected as much, but still, disappointment settled faintly in his chest. He had hoped for a moment with her, even if just a brief conversation before she left. But he understood - her time was no longer her own. She was searching. Searching for a new head for House Vaelmont, a leader to take his father’s place. It was necessary. He knew that. But even so…
He exhaled quietly and took another bite of bread. “She’s doing what she must,” he said finally. Beatrice tilted her head, watching him with knowing eyes.
“You miss her,” she stated, not as a question, but as something already understood.
Lio didn’t answer. Instead, he finished his meal in silence, the wooden knight resting beside his plate. He wiped the last crumbs from his lips and set his cup down, the warmth of the honeyed milk lingering in his chest. Pushing his chair back, he stood, rolling his shoulders slightly before tucking the small wooden knight securely into his pocket.
“I’m going to see Felix,” he said, turning toward Beatrice, who was wiping her hands on her apron.
She gave him a small nod of approval. “Give him my best, won’t you? And make sure he eats. That boy is stubborn, but he needs his strength.”
Lio nodded. “I will.”
She reached out, giving his curls one last affectionate ruffle before waving him off. “Go on then, before you waste the whole morning standing here.”
He stepped out of the kitchen, crossing the hall toward the front door. The house was quiet now, the lingering warmth of the hearth and the scent of breakfast settling into the walls. The stillness followed him as he pulled open the heavy wooden door and stepped outside.
The morning sun greeted him, stretching high above the rooftops, its golden light spilling over the village like molten honey. The air carried the scent of earth and fresh - cut grass, laced with the faint traces of woodsmoke curling from distant chimneys. Though summer had settled firmly over the land, the morning held onto a lingering coolness, a brief reprieve before the midday heat took hold.
To the side of the yard, a figure moved between the hedges. The gardener, an older man with a weathered face and strong, calloused hands, was tending to the trimmed shrubs lining the walkway. He straightened as he noticed Lio, resting his weight against a worn spade.
“Good morning, young master,” the gardener greeted, his voice steady and familiar. “Off somewhere important?”
Lio dipped his head politely. “I’m going to see Felix.”
The gardener nodded knowingly, his gaze flicking briefly toward the village beyond the estate’s walls. “A fine thing, that. A friend’s presence is often the best medicine.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Give the lad my regards.”
“I will,” Lio said before continuing down the stone path.
The gates creaked softly as he stepped beyond his family’s estate, the village unfolding before him in the glow of the midmorning sun.
Bayle’s Hollow was awake, alive with the steady rhythm of daily life. The cobbled streets stretched before him, winding between sturdy timber - framed houses, their thatched roofs dappled with golden light. Shopkeepers were already at their stalls, arranging baskets of ripe fruit and fresh bread, their calls mingling with the laughter of children darting between market stands. A cart laden with barrels trundled down the main road, its wheels clattering over the uneven stones as the driver urged his mule onward.
Women stood gathered at the well, their chatter rising in cheerful bursts as they hauled up buckets of fresh water, their skirts brushing the dusty ground. A blacksmith’s hammer rang from a nearby forge, the rhythmic clang of metal on metal filling the air with sharp, steady beats. The scent of baking bread and roasting meat drifted through the streets, mixing with the earthier smells of livestock and damp stone.
A pair of boys, younger than him, rushed past, chasing one another with wooden swords, their excited shouts echoing off the village walls. Further ahead, a shepherd guided a small flock of sheep down the path, their soft bleats blending with the hum of conversation and the occasional bark of a village dog weaving between passersby. A young girl perched on the edge of a fountain, swinging her legs absentmindedly, humming a song under her breath. Life went on, undisturbed.
The weight in Lio’s chest grew heavier. How could they all go on like this? How could they laugh, haggle, and chatter as though the witch had not been dragged to her death before them? As though Felix wasn’t lying in bed, feverish and broken, suffering while they smiled? His hands curled into fists at his sides. Their joy - no, their indifference - felt like an insult, like a dismissal of everything that had happened, everything he felt.
Did they not care? Did they not feel the same unease that clawed at his insides, the same rage at how cruelly the world had turned?
He felt worlds apart from them, as though a chasm had opened between him and the people of Bayle’s Hollow. He walked the same streets, breathed the same air, yet they seemed distant, untouchable, moving forward while he remained stuck in place. Their lives continued, unchanged, while his had been upended. Felix suffered. He suffered. And yet, the village did not care. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Without another glance at the villagers, he pressed on, his steps quickening. Felix was waiting. And right now, he was the only one who mattered.
His steps quickened as he neared Felix’s house, his irritation with the village fading into the background, replaced by the heavy weight of concern. The familiar cottage stood quiet, its ivy - covered walls almost untouched by the passing of time. Yet, today, it felt different - less like a home, more like a place swallowed by illness. Lio barely knocked before the door swung open. Felix’s mother stood there, weary as ever, her expression instantly softening at the sight of him. She didn’t say much - just a quiet nod and a gentle step aside, granting him passage without question.
He hurried past her, his boots barely making a sound against the wooden floor. The house was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the hearth downstairs and the distant rustling of leaves outside. The air inside was thick, heavy with the scent of dried herbs and something far less pleasant - something stale, like lingering sickness that refused to leave. He climbed the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding harder with every step. He reached Felix’s room and hesitated for only a fraction of a second before pushing the door open.
There he was.
Felix lay tangled in his sheets, his breathing labored, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms. His curls clung damply to his forehead, darkened with sweat, and his lips were pale, parted slightly as he exhaled shallow, ragged breaths. The fever had stolen the color from his face, leaving him looking almost weightless, like a ghost of himself.
Lio stepped forward, his fingers tightening around the wooden knight in his pocket. The room felt colder than he remembered. Or maybe it was just the unease creeping up his spine.
He reached out, pressing his palm lightly against Felix’s forehead. A thin layer of sweat met his touch, cool and clammy against his skin. The sensation sent a sharp pang through him - Felix had been warm before, burning with fever, but now? He felt drained, as if the sickness had leached the life from him little by little. Lio’s stomach twisted.
Felix stirred beneath his touch, a faint murmur escaping his lips before his eyelids fluttered open. His gaze was unfocused at first, glazed with exhaustion, but then his breath hitched - his eyes found his friend. A weak, lopsided smile broke across his face, soft and tired but genuine.
“Lio,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, barely more than a breath.
Despite the pain, despite the sickness clinging to him like a shadow, he smiled. And Lio - despite everything - felt something in his chest tighten, because even now, even like this, Felix still had the strength to smile for him.
Lio swallowed hard, pushing down the tightness in his chest. He had to stay strong. For Felix. Without a word, he reached into his pocket, his fingers curling around the small wooden figure he had carved that morning. The wood was still smooth, warm from his touch. Slowly, he pulled it out and held it in front of Felix.
“I made this for you,” Lio murmured.
Felix’s tired eyes flickered to the small figure in Lio’s palm. His brows furrowed slightly, his expression shifting from confusion to something softer, something warmer. He lifted a trembling hand, his fingers weak as they brushed against the wooden knight before carefully taking it into his grasp.
The knight was small, but it fit perfectly in Felix’s hand. He turned it slightly, his fingertips tracing the rough lines where Lio had carved the armor, the sword, the shield. His lips parted, but for a moment, no words came - just a breath, shaky yet full of something Lio couldn’t quite name.
Then, Felix chuckled - soft, barely audible, but real.
“A knight, huh?” he rasped, shifting slightly on his pillow. “Is he supposed to protect me?”
Lio hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s your guardian. He’ll keep you safe, even when I’m not here.”
Felix smiled again, small but genuine. His fingers tightened slightly around the figure, as if holding onto something precious.
“Then I guess I’ll have to take good care of him.”
And for the first time since Lio had stepped into the room, the weight pressing against his chest eased - just a little.
Felix rolled the wooden knight between his fingers, his grip loose but unwilling to let it go. “It’s really nice,” he murmured, giving Lio a tired smile. “Didn’t know you could carve.”
“I didn’t either,” Lio admitted, leaning back in his chair. “But I had time this morning, and I figured you needed a knight of your own.”
Felix smirked weakly. “A one-legged knight for a one-legged hero, huh?”
Lio frowned. “Don’t say that.”
“What? It’s true.” Felix chuckled, but the humor barely reached his eyes. He exhaled, shifting slightly against the pillow, his fingers still tracing the carved figure. “I think I like him.”
Lio let out a quiet breath, watching Felix closely. He looked so weak, so different from the boy who used to race him through the village streets without a care. A silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. It gave Lio time to gather his thoughts - to figure out how to say what had been gnawing at him since yesterday.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees. “Felix,” he started, voice careful, casual. “Can I ask you something?”
Felix hummed, eyes half-lidded. “You just did.”
Lio hesitated for a moment, then spoke carefully. “Felix… tell me everything.”
Felix blinked up at him. “Everything?”
“About that day,” Lio clarified. “In the forest. Start from the beginning.”
Felix sighed, shifting against his pillow, but he didn’t refuse. Slowly, he started recounting what had happened in the forest - the game, the ball, how he tripped on a root. Lio listened intently, letting him speak without interruption. But when Felix got to the part where the woman carried him to her house, Lio’s curiosity sharpened.
“What was it like?” Lio asked, cutting in.
Felix frowned slightly. “What?”
“The witch’s house,” Lio clarified. “What did it look like?”
Felix hesitated, thinking back. “Small. Cozy. There were shelves and… I don’t know, just things. Herbs, maybe books. I wasn’t really paying attention.”
Lio studied his face carefully. “No charms? No strange symbols?”
Felix gave him a look. “No. And stop calling her a witch.”
Lio held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. What about the medicine? Did you see exactly what she put in it?”
Felix sighed, shifting the knight in his grasp. “Some herbs. She crushed them up, mixed them together. It wasn’t poison, Lio.”
Lio nodded, but something still nagged at him.
Felix continued his story, his voice growing hoarser as he got to the part where he had been taken to the minister. Lio frowned.
“Wait,” he interrupted again. “Did Minister Aldric ask you anything about her?”
Felix furrowed his brows. “No. He didn’t ask me anything.”
“Not even where she lived?”
Felix shook his head, his expression uncertain now. “No. It was like… he already knew.”
Lio sat back, his fingers curling slightly against his knee.
That was all he needed to hear.
He exhaled, pushing aside the weight in his chest. “Thanks, Felix,” he said, forcing a small smirk. “That was a long story. You should rest.”
Felix gave him a half-hearted glare. “You just wanted to interrogate me, didn’t you?”
Lio smirked. “You’re still talking. You can’t be that sick.”
Felix huffed but smiled faintly.
Lio stood, glancing down at his friend one last time. “I’m going to find a way to fix this, Felix. No matter what it takes.”
Felix sighed but nodded. “I know.”
Lio nudged the wooden knight in Felix’s grasp. “Until then, let him keep watch over you.”
His friend clutched it a little tighter, closing his eyes.
With that, Lio turned and headed downstairs. Felix’s mother met him at the door, her face lined with worry and exhaustion.
“Thank you for visiting, Lio,” she said softly.
Lio dipped his head. “Of course. I’ll be back soon.”
She gave him a tired smile before he stepped outside.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
The sun shone bright, the village hummed with life, but Lio barely noticed. His mind was fixed on one thing. He had his suspicions. Now, he needed the truth. And it started with the witch’s house.
Lio moved quickly through the streets, barely acknowledging the people around him. He didn’t slow until he reached the orphanage.
The building loomed ahead, a stark, grey structure with small shuttered windows and walls of rough stone. It had none of the warmth of a home - only the rigid order of a place meant to contain rather than comfort. He knocked sharply on the heavy wooden door.
After a long pause, slow, deliberate footsteps echoed from inside. The door creaked open, revealing Mistress Hegga. She was as severe as ever, her sharp features set in an expression of perpetual displeasure. Her thin lips pressed into a tight line, and her dark eyes swept over Lio as if he were a mess she had to clean up. Her tightly wound bun pulled at her temples, emphasizing the deep-set wrinkles on her forehead.
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice clipped and impatient.
“I need to speak with Edric,” Lio said.
She raised an eyebrow. “He’s busy.”
“It’s important.”
Hegga exhaled sharply through her nose, clearly unimpressed. “Everything’s important with you boys.” She gave him a long look, then, with clear reluctance, turned slightly and called into the house, “Edric! You have a visitor!”
After a few moments, Edric emerged, his auburn hair slightly disheveled, his sharp green eyes flicking between Lio and Mistress Hegga. The way Lio stood, rigid and determined, made Edric frown. “What’s going on?” he asked, stepping past the threshold.
“Come outside,” Lio said simply.
Edric hesitated, then slipped past Mistress Hegga, who gave him a look that promised she’d be watching. As soon as the door shut behind them, Edric crossed his arms. “Alright, what’s so important?”
“I’m going to the witch’s house.”
Edric stared at him for a moment, then scoffed. “You’re what?”
“I need to see it for myself,” Lio said.
Edric let out a sharp breath. “Lio, that’s insane. She’s dead. What do you expect to find?”
“I don’t know yet,” Lio admitted. “But I have to go.”
Edric shook his head. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble. We’re going to get in trouble.”
Lio didn’t respond. He just stared at Edric, unwavering.
Edric groaned. “Light’s mercy, Lio. You always get these ideas in your head.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You’re really doing this, aren’t you?”
Lio nodded once.
Edric exhaled sharply. “Fine. But if we get caught, you’re the one explaining it.”
Lio smirked faintly. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Edric rolled his eyes, but there was no real fight left in him. “Let’s just go before I change my mind.”
The two boys moved swiftly through the village, their destination clear. When they reached Elysia’s house, Lio barely hesitated before knocking.
Her home stood near the quieter edges of Bayle’s Hollow, where the village met open fields. Though modest in size, it was well-kept, its wooden walls polished smooth, the windows framed by hanging flower pots filled with bright summer blooms. A small herb garden stretched along the side, its scent of lavender and rosemary carried on the warm breeze. Vines curled along the edges of the roof, carefully trimmed yet left to grow just enough to soften the rigid lines of the structure, a perfect balance of wild and refined - much like Elysia herself.
After a brief pause, the door creaked open, and Elysia stood in the doorway. Loose strands of chestnut hair framed her face, the rest pulled back, though a few curls had escaped and rested against her collarbone. Her hazel eyes swept over them, sharp and assessing, before settling on Lio. She held his gaze for just a second longer than necessary before arching an eyebrow. “Well, this is unexpected. If you were hoping to court me, Lio, this isn’t exactly the way I imagined it.”
Edric snorted, but Lio barely registered the comment, his thoughts already fixed on the forest. “We need you to come with us,” he said simply.
Elysia leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing over her chest. “Let me guess. This is about the witch?”
Lio nodded.
She exhaled slowly, as if already preparing for the headache he was about to give her. “Lio, tell me you’re joking.”
“I need to see her house.”
Elysia’s lips parted slightly before she shut her mouth, inhaling sharply through her nose. “Do you ever stop to think before doing something reckless?”
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Lio said, voice steady.
She studied him, searching his face for hesitation, for doubt - anything that would convince her he could be reasoned with. But there was nothing. Just quiet, stubborn resolve. Her fingers tightened slightly against her arms before she shook her head, though this time, there was something softer in her eyes. “You really are going to drive me mad one day,” she murmured, barely loud enough for him to hear.
Lio didn’t respond, his mind already set on the path ahead.
Elysia hesitated. “Lio, this is madness. What do you think you’ll find? And what if someone sees us?”
“We’ll be careful,” he answered simply.
She glanced at Edric, who only sighed and shrugged. “Tried talking him out of it. Didn’t work.”
Elysia let out a soft groan, rubbing her temple. “Light help me,” she muttered under her breath. Her gaze returned to Lio’s, holding for a moment too long, like she wanted to say something else - something more. But instead, she sighed, resigned, and turned back inside. “Wait here.” A moment later, she emerged with a light cloak draped over her shoulders and pulled the door shut behind her. And just like that, they were ready. Without another word, the three of them turned toward the forest.
Toward the witch’s house.
The village faded behind them as they slipped into the open field beyond, the sun hanging high in the sky. It was midday, and the heat had settled heavily over Bayle’s Hollow, pressing down on the earth and everything beneath it. The golden grass stretched wide across the meadow, swaying gently in the breeze. The buzz of insects drifted lazily in the warm air, and the distant hum of village life became little more than a background murmur.
They moved with quiet urgency, passing between wildflowers and tall stalks, the path unmarked but known to Lio. He didn’t speak as he led them toward the forest, his eyes fixed on the treeline ahead. Elysia and Edric followed without protest, though Edric occasionally cast uneasy glances over his shoulder.
As they neared the edge of the woods, Lio slowed. The forest rose before them like a wall - dense, dark, and cool beneath the canopy of leaves. When they crossed into its shadow, the air shifted immediately. The warmth of the sun gave way to a damp, shaded stillness. Light filtered through the foliage in fractured shafts, painting the undergrowth with soft golden patterns. The scent of moss, bark, and earth surrounded them. Lio moved with certainty through the trees until they reached it - the glade where the boys had played that day. It was a small, quiet opening nestled among the trunks, the grass trampled and bent in patches where children had once run. Though Lio hadn’t been there himself, he had heard enough from Felix to recognize the place. It felt still now, almost solemn, as if the memory of what had happened lingered in the air.
“This is where it started,” he said quietly.
Edric looked around uneasily. “So where do we go now?”
Lio pointed toward the opposite edge of the glade. “She carried Felix that way.”
And with that, they stepped deeper into the forest. The trees thickened around them, their roots twisting through the soil like veins. Branches arched overhead, filtering the sun into narrow beams. Ferns brushed against their legs, and the path became harder to follow. Time seemed to stretch as they searched. Sometimes they doubled back without realizing, passing the same gnarled tree or crooked stump. Other times they found themselves squeezing through dense underbrush or climbing over tangled roots. The forest was not kind to travelers - it offered no clear paths, no signs.
“Are we even close?” Elysia asked, brushing a leaf from her shoulder.
Lio didn’t answer at first. He scanned the trees ahead, his expression tight with focus. Then his eyes narrowed. Beyond a low-hanging branch, he spotted something out of place - a shape that didn’t belong to the natural order of the forest. He pushed through the underbrush, parting ferns and vines, and there it was.
Tucked into a hollow between the trees stood the house.
Small and weathered, the wooden cabin leaned slightly to one side, its moss-covered roof blending into the forest canopy. The shutters were closed, and the door sagged slightly open, crooked on its hinges. Ivy crept up the walls, trying to swallow the home back into the forest. They had found it.
Lio stepped closer, his heart pounding.
“This is it,” he said.
Lio stepped past the threshold as the old wooden door creaked open, leaving Edric and Elysia behind him.
“Keep watch,” he said over his shoulder. “Let me know if anyone comes.”
Edric gave a curt nod, and Elysia simply leaned against the outer wall, arms crossed, her eyes scanning the trees with quiet unease.
The air inside the cabin was cool and stale, touched by the faint scent of dried herbs and old wood. Dust floated in the shafts of light breaking through the shutters, and the silence was near complete, broken only by the quiet creaking of the floor beneath his feet.
The first room was small and simple, a space that served both as kitchen and bedroom. A single bed rested against the far wall, its blanket neatly folded, untouched. A small table stood in the middle, its surface marked with shallow cuts from years of use. Above it, bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling on strings - dried lavender, chamomile, mint, and a few Lio didn’t recognize by sight or scent. A cast-iron pot hung cold above the hearth, and a line of wooden cooking tools was arranged beside it with meticulous care. On the shelves, jars of dried roots, crushed leaves, and dark glass bottles sat carefully labeled in small, neat handwriting. A simple wardrobe stood in the corner, its doors open to reveal only two old cloaks and a pair of worn boots. Nothing about the room struck him as particularly strange - no sigils, no bones, no altars. It looked, more than anything, like the home of someone who lived alone and knew how to survive.
Still, Lio searched it thoroughly. He opened every jar, checked behind each book and under every piece of furniture. He lifted the mattress, felt along the cracks in the floorboards, even tapped the walls in case one was hollow. But there was nothing. Just herbs. Just tools. Just… life.
Frowning, he moved to the second room.
It was larger than the first, but darker - its single window shuttered tight. A heavy wooden desk stood near the back wall, flanked by two tall bookcases filled nearly to the brim. More herbs were hung here, but in smaller bunches, and several half-melted candles sat on shelves and corners, their wax pooled in thick, dried drips. The room felt colder somehow, not in temperature, but in atmosphere. Not threatening - just… quiet. Thoughtful. Lio turned to the shelves, running a finger along the spines. Each book was labeled with care. Most were handwritten, some quite old and frayed, their covers made from rough leather or thick cloth. He pulled a few down and flipped through them. Recipes. Notes. Diagrams of plants, of roots, of flowers. Descriptions of their uses - healing, soothing, numbing. One volume was filled entirely with drawings of local herbs and how to prepare them for different ailments, written in the same tidy script. He pulled more books down, faster now, hoping for something else - anything that would mark the woman as more than what she seemed. But it wasn’t there. No grimoires. No symbols. Just an unusual amount of knowledge, preserved and cataloged with care.
It made him pause. Yes, the books were impressive. A bit strange for a woman living alone in the forest - but not damning. If she truly lived in solitude, it made sense she would rely on herself for healing. That she would learn. He couldn't decide whether it made her more or less suspicious. He sighed and let one of the books fall shut in his hands. Maybe that was it. Maybe he had come all this way for -
Something caught his eye.
A faint glint, tucked between two volumes near the back of the shelf. He narrowed his gaze and leaned in, reaching carefully between the books. His fingers touched metal. He drew it out slowly. A small, golden key. It was simple in design, but polished, as if it had been handled recently. He turned it over in his hand, then looked around. The desk was the only thing in the room with a drawer, but when he examined it again, he found no keyhole - just a plain wooden handle and a shallow drawer, still as empty as before. Still, the key didn’t feel random. He stared at the drawer for a long moment, then tapped gently against the bottom with his fingers. Something sounded different. Thicker. Hollow. A false bottom. Lio’s pulse quickened. He slid the tip of his dagger beneath the thin layer of wood and pried upward. There was a soft click - and then the bottom gave way. Hidden beneath was a small wooden box with a delicate gold lock. Lio’s fingers trembled slightly as he took the key and pressed it into the lock. It turned with a smooth click. Inside were only two things: a folded piece of parchment that looked fairly new, and a very old, worn book with no title on its cover. Both were untouched by dust. Both had clearly been placed there recently. Lio’s brows drew together. Whatever this was… the woman hadn’t wanted anyone to find it.
And now, he had.
Lio carefully unfolded the parchment, its edges crisp and smooth compared to the worn textures surrounding it. The handwriting was elegant - sharp, flowing, and precise. Each letter had been written with great care, forming lines that curved like poetry and bled none of the panic or haste he expected from something so secret. He read:
“To any curious mind reading this,
If this note hath come into your hands, then I am most likely dead - perhaps for the mistake of revealing myself to the young boy, Felix. May the Light forgive me if my actions have brought him any misfortune, I meant him no harm. Only kindness.
If you have found this note, it means you have gone through some trouble to do so - and it also means you seek the truth. Perhaps you carry suspicion about Minister Aldric. Perhaps you seek to know what I knew.
If that is so, then turn your attention to the book within this box. In it, I have recorded all I dared uncover - truths too dangerous to speak aloud. Within those pages lie the proof of his deceptions, his ambitions, and the atrocities he has buried beneath the banner of faith.
But I urge you, read with care. The knowledge contained in that book may shatter the foundation of your beliefs and leave you with more questions than answers. It is not an easy truth to carry.
Read at your own risk.”
Lio’s eyes lingered on the final words, his grip tightening ever so slightly on the parchment. The silence around him deepened. He looked at the book again, suddenly aware of the weight it might carry - not just in knowledge, but in consequence.
With a steady breath, Lio reached for the old book, its cover dark and cracked with age. The leather was worn smooth at the edges, and when he opened it, the spine creaked faintly. On the very first page, elegantly written in ink that had only barely faded, was a date.
“Year of the First Bloom, 786th year of the Vale.”
Lio blinked. That couldn’t be right. The current year was 986.
His brow furrowed, and he read it again, but the numbers didn’t change. This book was two centuries old. Yet the paper was still intact, the ink still legible. And beneath the date, a name was signed in the same graceful handwriting as the note:
“This is the account of Serenna Dalewyn, daughter of Mayor Hendrick Dalewyn of Bayle’s Hollow.”
Lio’s fingers tightened slightly on the page as he turned it.
“To the one who holds this book in their hands - know that what you are about to read is not a tale told for comfort, nor one crafted for legend. It is memory. A truth buried and forgotten beneath the weight of obedience and time. And it begins not with horror or fire, but with peace.
Bayle’s Hollow was once a quiet village, far removed from the courts and wars of distant lords. We were neither rich nor important, and we were content with that. The village was small - just a handful of cottages nestled between gentle hills and the edge of the forest - but what we lacked in stone and gold, we made up for in kinship. Every villager knew every name. Doors remained unlocked. Firewood was shared freely. Laughter and quarrels came and went like seasons, but what endured was the sense that we all belonged to something whole.
We followed no great church, and feared no burning judgment. Our gods were older, gentler - spirits of the river, of the hearth, of the green things that sprouted in spring and withered in winter. We gave thanks to the River-Mother when the snows melted and the waters rose, offering her bread and flower petals to keep the floods mild. We honored the Flame-Wife at the start of each winter, lighting our hearths in her name so warmth might remain within our walls. And during the summer solstice, we danced for the Green Father beneath the old oak at the edge of the glade, singing songs that no parchment had ever captured. Even the Stone-Eyed Beast beneath the mountain, though feared, was not hated. He reminded us to walk carefully in the world, and not to grow arrogant in our comforts.
These gods asked for no temples. Only remembrance. And in return, they gave us a way to live - with humility, and with each other.
My father, Hendrick Dalewyn, was our mayor, though he bore the title with the same ease as one might wear a weathered coat. He was not a ruler, but a voice of reason, a patient listener, a man who preferred to speak last and weigh his words. The people trusted him, not because he claimed to speak for the gods, but because he never pretended to be more than what he was: one of them.
It was during the last golden weeks of summer that he came - the man who would undo it all.
He arrived alone, cloaked in deep crimson robes, embroidered with golden thread that caught the sunlight like fire. His hair was dark, his face smooth, his gaze sharp and unwavering. He bore no weapon, only a staff of polished wood marked with strange symbols. He introduced himself as Minister Aldric, a servant of the Light - a faith few of us had ever heard of. He spoke of a god of order and flame, of purity and salvation. His voice was calm, almost soothing, and his smile seemed carved from certainty.
At first, we treated him as a guest. A stranger, but not unwelcome. The village offered him a place to sleep, food to eat, ears to listen. And soon, he offered gifts in return.
With a touch, he cured Marella’s lingering illness. With a whispered word, he lit a fire with no spark. He opened his satchel and revealed spices we could not name, fruits we had never seen, bolts of cloth smoother than any our weavers had spun. He told stories of distant lands where cities shone like stars and the Light ruled all with justice and wisdom.
The people were dazzled.
Where once our rituals had been quiet and humble, now we found ourselves drawn to the certainty of his words. He told us that our old gods were shadows - forgotten spirits of a broken world - and that the Light offered clarity, unity, purpose. Some resisted, at first. But Aldric was never forceful. He simply waited, offering more kindness, more miracles, more comfort.
When the harvest was bountiful that year, they said it was the Light’s blessing. When the blacksmith’s wife conceived after years of sorrow, it was a sign of divine favor. The old oak was cut down to make room for a small altar. The sacred stones were removed from the riverbank. The prayers changed. The songs faded. And my father, though cautious, allowed it all - perhaps thinking it would pass, or perhaps hoping that Aldric’s presence might truly bring good.
But peace does not last when it is built upon illusion.
The first death was quiet. A young boy named Tomlin was found by the river, drowned. It was called an accident. Tragic, but not unheard of. The minister led the mourning, spoke words of comfort, and assured the parents their son had been welcomed into the Light’s embrace.
Then came Belric. Then Maylan. Then a boy named Orren, and another, and another.
Always boys. Always young. Always alone.
With each death, the minister grew more solemn, and his sermons more fervent. He claimed the village was being tested. That the remnants of our old ways had left behind curses, and that only deeper devotion would purify us. And the people - blinded by awe, silenced by grief - believed him.
But my father did not.
He watched, and he listened. He searched the woods for signs. He questioned the apothecary, the midwife, the stonemason. Quietly, he began keeping a ledger of what he found - strange markings on the bodies, inconsistencies in Aldric’s explanations, changes in the behavior of the minister’s followers. He confronted Aldric in private, demanding answers.
What was said between them that night, I will never know.
The next morning, Minister Aldric accused my father of heresy.
He stood in the square with his crimson robes shining like blood and declared that the mayor had plotted against the Light, that he had tried to sabotage the faith, to poison the people with doubt. The villagers stood still. Some cried. Some turned away. But no one spoke in my father’s defense - not even those who had once called him brother.
He was executed before sunset.
That night, Aldric’s golden-eyed soldiers came for us.
I remember the sound of their boots on the stones, the light of their torches through the shutters. My mother barred the door. My brother took up the poker. They screamed for me to run.
I ran.
I stumbled through the woods, blinded by tears and fear. I don’t remember falling. Only the cold when I awoke at the bottom of the ravine. The pain in my ribs. The blood on my face. I should have died there.
But my wounds were closed. My bones were whole. Something had changed in me.
I was like him.
I remained in the forest. I watched the village from afar as it grew quieter, more devout, more fearful. The old ways were forgotten. The people never questioned why Aldric did not age. They forgot what had been taken from them. They called it enlightenment.
And Aldric smiled.”
Lio stared at the open page, his eyes lingering on the final sentence like it might shift beneath his gaze. And Aldric smiled. The words echoed in his mind, hollow and heavy, as though they had been spoken aloud in a voice too old to belong to paper. For a moment, he didn’t move. He simply sat there, the old book resting in his lap, his hands still curled around its worn edges.
A strange numbness spread through his chest - not panic, not yet. But something colder, something that settled beneath the skin like snow just beginning to fall. Everything he had read fought against the version of the world he had grown up with. A village led by faith. A Minister revered as a living voice of the Light. A people bound not by terror, but by truth.
But truth, it seemed, had long since been buried.
He swallowed, the quiet creak of his throat the only sound in the room. Part of him wanted to reject it, to say that it couldn’t be true. That the woman had been mad. That grief had poisoned her thoughts. But deep down, something in him knew otherwise.
This wasn’t a tale meant to deceive. It wasn’t grand, or embellished, or designed for sympathy. It was quiet. Measured. And it felt… real.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and slowly turned the next page.
What followed, however, held little of the weight that had gripped him before. The tone changed - less personal, more reflective. Page after page, Serenna had recorded the methods by which she had survived across two centuries. How she built her cabin, how she learned the names of every plant in the woods, how she tracked the stars and weather to know the changing of seasons. The habits of deer. The bitterness of certain roots. The safest time to gather water from the stream.
Lio’s eyes skimmed the words without absorbing them. There was no malice here, no mystery. Just the account of a woman who had been forced to live a life of silence and isolation for two hundred years. A life filled not with vengeance, but survival.
It didn’t matter - not to him, not now.
He flipped ahead, the parchment crackling beneath his fingers, skipping past the careful diagrams and herbal entries, past the hand-drawn maps of the forest trails and moon cycles, until at last, he found the final section. It was shorter than he expected - only a single page.
At the top, in neat, firm handwriting, a final message had been penned. A warning.
“If you have come this far, then I can only assume that you are braver than most - or more desperate. I do not know your face, nor your name, nor whether your hands carry hatred or hope. But I ask you this: do not seek to challenge Minister Aldric unless you are prepared to lose everything.
You now know what he is, what he has done. That is enough to paint a target on your back. If he suspects that you have seen this book, he will not hesitate. He will not forgive. He will not stop.
You cannot fight him as you are. You must be silent. You must be patient. You must be clever. His grip on this village is absolute, and his faith is a veil no blade can cut through.
If you wish to survive - if you wish to make a difference - then wait. Learn. Watch. Let truth become your weapon. Not now. But when the time is right.
And when you finally see him for what he truly is, remember this: the Light that burns too brightly may still cast the darkest shadow.
- D.”
Lio closed the book slowly, the golden key still resting beside him on the desk. He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there. The house was silent. Outside, the forest breathed. And deep within his chest, something had shifted. Something quiet, but unshakable.
He would never see Bayle’s Hollow the same way again.
Lio sat frozen for a long while, the last words of the book echoing in his mind like whispers that refused to fade. His hands rested on the leather-bound cover, unmoving. The warmth from his fingers had long since left the pages, but the weight of what he had read pressed down on him like stone. He had come seeking answers. He had found more than truth - he had found betrayal, grief, and the unmaking of the world he thought he understood.
Everything in him felt hollow.
He thought of Minister Aldric, of the sermons he had heard since he was a child, of the people in the square cheering for the witch’s death - smiling, celebrating - as if justice had truly been served. He thought of the villagers who nodded at him with kind eyes and empty hearts, of their blind obedience, their silence. He thought of Felix. A deep, aching pain spread in his chest, unlike anything he had known before. He wasn’t just angry - he felt broken. As if the threads that had held his understanding of the world together had been quietly severed one by one. And in their place was nothing but a vast, dark silence. Humanity, he thought, was far crueler than he had dared to imagine.
With a careful, almost reverent touch, he placed the note back into the box, folded exactly as he had found it. He set the book beside it. Then, slowly, he slid the little golden key out from the lock, closed the lid, and returned it to the hidden compartment. The false bottom clicked softly into place beneath his fingers. He closed the drawer.
And then he noticed it.
The sun had begun to set. Its fading light spilled in faint orange streaks across the wooden floor, illuminating the dust hanging gently in the air. The room had changed in hue - once gold, now dusky red. How long had he been reading? It felt as though only minutes had passed, but the day was nearly gone. He rose from the chair, legs slightly stiff, and stepped to the door. As he pushed it open and stepped outside, the forest greeted him with cool air and deep shadows. The silver of the sun was fading behind the trees. But something was wrong.
The clearing was empty.
“Edric?” he called softly. “Ellysia?”
There was no answer. Just the rustling of the wind through the trees. His heart tightened. They wouldn’t have left him. Not like that. He knew them - they were his friends. They might have argued, might have grown restless, but they wouldn’t just disappear without a word. Something was wrong. He stepped off the porch and moved cautiously into the darkening trees, his voice lowered now to a whisper. “Edric? Ellysia?” Still nothing. He didn’t dare shout. If someone had taken them, his voice would only serve as a beacon. His footsteps grew quicker, but quieter, as he slipped between the trees, eyes scanning every shadow. The forest had grown unnaturally still. No wind stirred the trees. No birds sang from the branches. Even the insects seemed to have vanished into the silence. A heavy, pressing quiet fell over everything, as though the very air had gone still in anticipation of something unspoken. Lio stood motionless at the edge of the clearing, the weight of what he had just read pressing against his chest, and yet that wasn’t what made his heart thunder against his ribs. It was the silence. The stillness. The sense that he was no longer alone.
Then came a sound - a soft rustle behind him, almost too delicate to be real, but in the quiet it might as well have been a shout. He spun around, every nerve alight with tension, his body bracing for danger.
But what he saw was not danger. It was wonder.
A stag stood among the trees - tall, otherworldly, regal in a way no ordinary beast could ever be. Its fur shimmered like polished silver beneath the fading light, catching the last traces of dusk and turning them into soft, glowing strands across its muscular frame. Its antlers rose like the branches of an ancient tree, curling upward and outward in majestic spirals. Intricate markings glowed faintly along their length - runes or symbols of some forgotten language, and those same markings traced a path down the creature’s neck, its shoulders, and along its flanks, pulsing faintly with an inner light.
But its eyes held Lio fast.
They were not the blue of a summer sky, nor the warm blue of Felix’s laughter. These eyes were crystalline, ancient, and cold - like glacial ice that had never known warmth. They stared directly into him, not just at him, as if measuring every thought, every secret, every crack in his soul. Lio forgot how to breathe.
The stag did not move. It did not lower its gaze, did not flinch or bolt. It merely stood there, gazing into Lio as though it had been waiting for him for a very long time. Then, with slow, deliberate poise, the creature turned. It stepped forward into the shadow of the trees, then paused and looked back - not with urgency, but with certainty. It did not need to beckon. Lio already knew he was meant to follow. And so he did. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t call out. He didn’t look back at the witch’s house or wonder if his friends were nearby. Something deeper than thought - older than fear - stirred in his chest and guided his feet. The forest shifted around them as he walked, darker now, but not frightening. The trees leaned inward like silent guardians, their bark cool with evening dew. The world had narrowed to a single path, each step measured in breathless anticipation, his heartbeat quieter now, steadier - like he was moving closer to something important. They walked in silence for a long time. Lio had no sense of distance, only the soft rhythm of his own footsteps and the silver figure gliding silently ahead. The stag seemed to know exactly where it was going, and Lio trusted it without question. At last, they emerged into a glade.
It opened like a secret kept from the world. A perfect circle surrounded by tall trees whose leaves barely stirred. The grass was short and soft beneath his feet, glistening with a silver sheen as though touched by frost, though the air was warm. Moonlight poured down through a break in the canopy above, bathing the entire space in pale, ethereal glow. Lio’s breath caught again - not from fear this time, but from awe. The stag stepped to the side and vanished among the shadows of the trees, leaving Lio alone at the edge of the glade. But he was not truly alone. All around him stood creatures of the same impossible kind - foxes with gleaming silver fur, wolves with silent eyes, owls perched in the branches above, deer standing still in the brush. Each bore that same silvery glow, their eyes the same impossible blue. They did not move. They did not blink. They simply watched, their stillness more reverent than threatening. And in the center of the glade, perfectly framed by the watching circle of silver creatures, was a lake.
Its surface was flawless - still as obsidian glass, so dark it seemed to drink in the moonlight rather than reflect it. It was not black like shadow, but black like depth - like something that had no bottom, no end. Lio felt it before he understood it. A pull, deep and gentle, like a hand placed on his shoulder. It did not demand, it did not speak - but it called.
He forgot everything.
The witch’s house. The book. The note. The pain in his chest. The fear, the grief, even Felix’s pale face - all slipped quietly from his mind, like leaves carried down a silent stream. What remained was only the lake, and the strange sense that whatever waited there was meant for him. He stepped forward, the grass cool beneath his shoes. The silver animals did not move. They simply watched. Lio knelt at the water’s edge and leaned forward, the moonlight casting long shadows around him. Slowly, he gazed into the dark mirror of the lake.
At first, he saw only his reflection - his tousled black curls, his deep purple eyes, his smooth, youthful face. But as he looked closer, something shifted.
It was subtle at start. His eyes seemed lighter than before. The shadows beneath his cheekbones faded. The outline of his face softened. And then the color of his hair - once black as midnight - began to brighten, strand by strand, until it shimmered like the stag’s silver coat. His purple eyes grew paler, icy, until they matched the piercing blue of the creatures around him. His features sharpened - not harshly, but delicately - like an artist’s final brushstroke bringing impossible beauty into focus. What stared back at him was still himself, but not the boy he had always known. It was something more. He blinked, confusion growing, lips parting in a soft gasp. His fingers trembled as he leaned a little closer, compelled to understand what he was seeing.
Then the reflection moved.
Not subtly - deliberately. Its hand lifted, slow and graceful, while his own hands remained still at his sides. Lio froze, unable to look away. The reflection’s expression was calm, knowing, unblinking. Its hand rose to the surface of the water… and passed through. There was no splash. No ripple. The water accepted it like mist, and then the hand emerged - pale and cold and perfectly shaped. Real. Lio could not speak. His throat had closed. His legs were frozen in place. He wanted to scream, to run, to understand - but nothing moved. The hand reached him. Fingers brushed his wrist, gently at first, then tightened. And with a single, sudden pull, he was dragged forward. The lake accepted him without resistance. There was no sound, no violence, just the swift, final motion of being claimed.
And then - nothing.
The water swallowed him whole, and the glade returned to stillness. The moonlight shone as it always had. The silver creatures stood unmoved. The lake remained untouched.
And Lio was gone.