[Third Era – Year 803 of the Divinity War, Sirithae (formerly known as Hopron), mountains of mist]

  Gwyff strode somberly through the eternal mist, glancing up at the huge trees that formed a cathedral roof over the forest. He leaned on his crook staff, cast a simple light, and stared down over the edge of the village, down the old stone walls, searching for any morthel that might have wandered too close to the town. The roots of the trees covered the walls, boulders, and the forest floor like one great spiderweb.

  But all was as lifeless and gray as his thoughts. He still struggled to process how everything had gone sideways so quickly. How he'd failed and lost everything he'd fought for in a single moment. How, in his other life, his brother had been taken under false charges and false debts. If only he’d had the strength to face the accusers. Why was he so weak?

  He would stare out into the mist and see them there, the man with his guards using his key glove to bind his brother with sensory clamps. To lock his wrists and blind him. He needed to find a way to move forward. He needed to break free of this endless cycle of rumination.

  Sparring always seemed to calm his troubled thoughts, give him direction. He would leap at his sparring partner, striking away his frustrations. But none of the others on patrol were around. Where had they gone?

  He didn't want to be alone in the mist anymore. The cold light of the lighthouse swept over him, but it did nothing to cure his isolation. He went in search of the others.

  Along the edge of the large roof where they’d built their village, he searched, scrambling over the massive roots of the trees that caged the huge stone building below their feet. He checked the walled-over entrances that led down into the haunted building, long since abandoned to the morthel. Perhaps everyone had returned to the village. Flashes of illusion light broke through the mist, beckoning toward the houses, which they had cut out of these trees that were growing over the grand building that became their home.

  Gwyff cast a searching illusion ahead of him, but it revealed nothing more than a rooftop covered in a lacework of roots that had long since melded together. They should have been walking the perimeter.

  He nearly called out for them, but no one here would understand speech. In his other life, there were no illusions, they told tales with words, and the only illusions they could conjure were those that lived in the imagination.

  There his words were his illusions, here his illusions were his words.

  He stumbled upon them all knotted together, chatting, illusions flashing between them.

  He would go up and join them, but for some reason his presence always made them leave and return to their rounds.

  He stole up behind them and chose his target. Hobb always enjoyed sparring, far more than the rest.

  With his back turned, Gwyff couldn't just jump in attacking the way he normally did. Hobb always seemed to enjoy the surprise attacks. It helped him to hone his own skills.

  Gwyff’s lips curled into a mystic grin as he considered the best way to ground an opponent from behind. He had an idea.

  He crept up behind him, put a knee in his back, and wrenched back on his arms.

  The boy screamed in surprise. But the others saw that it was just him and began to laugh. Then Hobb saw Gwyff and joined in the laughter.

  Gwyff dropped him to the ground and readied his crook staff.

  The boy laughed as he reached for his own crook staff.

  The others all excused themselves to return to their rounds.

  Then Hobb stood, laughing, and at that moment Gwyff saw right into his eyes.

  They were not laughing eyes. They were the eyes of his brother under the sensory clamps. The eyes of a man terrified. And yet he still laughed.

  In that moment Gwyff truly heard it. It was not a mirthful laugh, but nervous laughter. The same laughter, he realized, that he'd heard from the others, not just once, but time and time again. Every time he conscripted one of them into a sparring match. How had he never noticed it before?

  He lowered his staff and cast a shaky apology in the air before him, guilt burning through his soul.

  Hobb only looked more terrified.

  “I didn't realize,” Gwyff cast the unfinished words, uncertain how to explain that he’d thought their laughter meant they were enjoying his sparring sessions.

  The boy looked more terrified still.

  Nothing he said seemed to be working. Gwyff dropped his staff, turned, and walked away.

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  He felt horrified at himself. He wanted to hide, to let the mist enshroud him, and run away.

  Why had he laughed? Gwyff couldn't understand it. But those eyes, those haunting eyes. In his zeal for training, to gain the strength to save his brother, he had terrorized that boy, terrorized them all.

  But still, the boy had laughed.

  All those times they'd sparred, he'd thought Hobb had enjoyed it. He'd thought they had become friends.

  That nervous laughter echoed in his mind. Why had he laughed?

  But try as he might Gwyff couldn't understand what it meant.

  Gwyff wandered the mist for a time. He sat on the edge of the roof, staring out into the mist.

  It was said that sometimes if you stared long enough you would see things in the mist, words, prophecies. But no words formed. As he looked, the mist thinned enough that he saw deep into the woods. There, in the distance, out through the forest, he could discern the faint outline of the old lighthouse.

  It was a rare sight, but one they all knew.

  The lighthouse was much like the one that shined over their village, protecting the village from morthel. Something about its light drove away morthel.

  They all knew that story, that once those lighthouses had formed pathways to other villages. Such pathways had connected the entire kingdom together. But in a time of rebellion, the crystals had been withdrawn from the lighthouses and lost.

  Then he had a thought.

  He rushed to the village, to the tree where his ancestors had carved out their home, up to his room where he had stashed a few mist crystals.

  These were not like the lighthouse crystals, and yet, legend said the lighthouse crystals had been made from ordinary mist crystals such as these.

  He took out the crystal and began testing it against what he remembered of their lighthouse crystal.

  The lighthouse crystal of the village was a massive thing, something he could never hope to replicate without such a mountain of wealth as he had never even imagined, but if he could figure out the secret of the lighthouse crystals, perhaps he could make a crystal to place atop a staff.

  And with such staves they could travel the old roads, reestablish connection with the other villages. Then perhaps they could work to restore the lighthouses and rebuild the lost kingdom.

  Ultorak came to him and saw him working on his lighthouse crystals.

  He examined his work and frowned. “You know people your age, the young, want to change the world. They want to fix all the problems the last generations caused the world. Do you think we didn’t want to do the same?”

  “Then how did everything fall apart? Everything got so much worse.”

  “We all wanted to fix things, but no one could agree on what actually needed to be fixed. Some said we needed harsher punishments, but they would blame anyone, and punish their enemies out of spite. Others called for more freedom. But they only wanted to escape the consequences of their actions. The powers that be don’t easily relinquish power, and those that want change don’t usually have your best interest at heart, despite all their clever promises.”

  “I’m not trying to repeat your mistakes.”

  “Just make new ones?”

  “You think it’s a mistake to break down the walls of morthel that surround us and connect with the rest of the world?”

  “No. I’m talking about you.” Ultorak rested a hand on his shoulder. “Are you trying to open up the old pathways again, so you can save this village, or so you can leave it?”

  Gwyff couldn’t answer. He did want to save the village, but he wasn’t sure he could bear to stay here another day of his life, not if he could help it.

  “Instead of trying to leave this village, perhaps it’s time you became a part of it.” Ultorak turned to leave, then turned back and added, “They look up to you, you know.”

  He shook his head. “They envy me, or so I thought.”

  “Perhaps, but they look up to you because you lead them. You helped raise half of those children with your own hands, even if they don’t remember it. You are an example to them in ways that I think even they don’t comprehend.”

  Ultorak beckoned to Gwyff. “I think you need to come see something with me.”

  The mist was thick as Ultorak led Gwyff through the streets of the village, the air damp and cool against their skin. The eerie silence was broken only by the soft thud of their footsteps. Shadows shifted behind the shrouded houses that they'd bored into the trees, and the scent of the deep woods lingered as if the mist itself cast secrets to those who would listen.

  As they neared the Hall of Enthrallment, a low light cut through the mist, sharp and bitter.

  A boy—Lume—towered over a smaller figure, a girl named Rinn. His hands were clenched in fists, his face twisted with an intensity that sent a ripple of unease through Gwyff.

  Ultorak halted, his eyes narrowing as he spotted a confrontation ahead. “What's going on here?”

  “I was just giving her the punishment she deserves,” Lume cast, glaring down at Rinn.

  Ultorak took a slow, deliberate step forward, his illusions calm, but commanding. “Punishment for what?”

  Lume's eyes flashed with the fire of someone convinced they were in the right. “She’s spreading lies about me.”

  Rinn, her head bowed, her long dark hair falling over her face like a veil, looked up with a mix of pleading and indignation. “It wasn’t me.”

  Ultorak's gaze flickered between them, his jaw tightening as he assessed the situation. “What did these lies say?”

  Lume waved a dismissive hand, his illusions scornful. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “If it doesn’t matter,” Ultorak cast, stepping closer, his eyes hardening, “then there should be no need to punish her.”

  He took another step, his presence towering over Lume like a shadow made flesh. “We both know she did not spread these lies. Leave her be.”

  Lume's defiance wavered, but he held his ground. His fists clenched tighter, his jaw set in stubborn defiance.

  Ultorak’s illusions glimmered, low and dangerous. “And if I see you attempting another rogue blistering again, I’ll have you taken before the magistrate. Now off with you.”

  For a long moment, Lume hesitated. Then, with a venomous glare, he spat on the ground and stormed off, his retreating figure swallowed by the mist.

  Gwyff turned to Rinn, watching her closely. She stood there, trembling but unharmed, her wide eyes filled with a mixture of relief and confusion.

  “Are you all right?” Ultorak asked, his illusions softening.

  Rinn merely nodded.

  “People like Lume,” Ultorak cast, shaking his head as if to dismiss the matter, “often create their own truths to justify their cruelty. You’ll be safe now.”

  Ultorak placed a firm hand on Gwyff’s shoulder. Together, they turned toward the Hall of Enthrallment. “I want you to see the way they look at you, truly see it.”

  But when Gwyff went in, all he could see in their eyes was fear. Perhaps once they had looked up to him, but what he’d done in his zeal to grow stronger, to save his brother in his other life … He hadn’t focused on the people right in front of him. The people he might have actually been able to save.