This takes place prior to the encounter with Inza Kulchevich in Sithicus.

The winds howled across the moors of Kartakass, rattling loose shutters and whispering through the cracks of the abandoned farmhouse. Inside, firelight flickered in the hearth, casting dancing shadows over warped floorboards and rusted tools hung beside faded tapestries. Mistendol sat hunched over a map spread across a crooked table, his long fingers tracing the contours of a forgotten valley. Across the room, Renvarin leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a raiper hung on his hip—its hilt wrapped in worn leather, its edge cared for with almost sacred devotion.

“You still think everything can be solved with spells and scrolls,” Renvarin muttered.

Mistendol chuckled softly. “And you think everything can be solved with steel and stubbornness.”

Renvarin stepped into the room, the floor creaking beneath his boots. “You weren’t there when I needed magic. I had to learn to stand without it. Without you.”

Mistendol looked up slowly. “I know. And I won’t ask for forgiveness. There was a pause, tense but not hostile. Mistendol continued, “I need your help to free our people in Sithicus from the will of Inza Kulchevich. Her shadow spreads like rot beneath the soil. The elves—our kin—are withering under it. I came here for maps, for lore, for relics that might give us an edge. But I also came for you.”

Renvarin turned toward the fire, the shadows sharpening the angles of his face. “Sithicus,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “I’ve never set foot there.” His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. “But I’ve heard the stories. Elves who speak in riddles. Forests that remember pain. And a land ruled by a ghost queen who drinks hope like wine.” He looked back at Mistendol, expression unreadable. “I never owed that place anything. And what I owe anyone else is… debatable. However, maybe… maybe I owe our people a chance.” He stepped forward, eyes dropping to the map. “Show me where the rot runs deepest.” Renvarin leaned over the map, tracing the jagged lines leading toward the heart of Sithicus. “Misttop,” he said, brow furrowed. “That’s where she waits?”

Mistendol nodded, his expression grim. “She carved her dominion into the mountain itself. A fissure in the stone—deep and black as her heart. The wind there whispers with the voices of the dead.”

Renvarin’s eyes narrowed. “That peak leans like it’s trying to fall. You’re telling me we climb it?”

“Not straight up,” Mistendol replied. “But nearly. The main road skirts the base—barely more than a game trail in places. Treacherous footing, loose rock, and narrow switchbacks. And the snow never stops. It doesn’t rage—it just… falls. Always.”

Renvarin scoffed, though without mirth. “So, cold, cursed, and crawling. Sounds like we’ll be leading our horses more than riding them.”

Mistendol gave a small nod. “No horses. It’s too treacherous.  We’ll move at three-quarters speed, if we’re lucky. And that’s assuming no patrols. No traps. No illusions.”

Renvarin straightened, his voice low. “Then we move like shadows. Just like her. But unlike her… we bring fire.”

Mistendol’s eyes lingered on the hearth for a moment, the flames reflecting in the glassy sheen of his irises. “Speaking of fire,” he said softly, “were you ever taught spellcraft?”

Renvarin’s mouth twitched—half smile, half something darker. “No.”

He crossed the room, kneeling to add a splinter of wood to the coals. “My mother didn’t speak your name much. But she made sure I could wield a blade before I could read. I think she believed magic made people vanish. Made them leave.”

Mistendol flinched, almost imperceptibly. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Renvarin stood, dusting ash from his hands. “She said the sword wouldn’t abandon me.”

Mistendol didn’t answer right away. Then, softly: “And yet here you are. Following a mage into the dark.”

Renvarin gave a wry grunt. “I never said I’d follow. But I’ll walk beside you. That’s different.”

Mistendol gave a tired smile, more regret than relief. “I left chasing something I couldn’t name. I saw signs—omens, scraps of prophecy. Whispers that the elves weren’t just scattered, but shackled. That something bound us, even if we couldn’t see the chains.”

He looked at Renvarin then, something brittle in his gaze. “I thought I was freeing us. But I left her to raise you alone. And maybe I was chasing shadows.”

Renvarin didn’t speak for a moment. The wind moaned through the shutters again, and the fire cracked like it was answering some distant call.

Then: “You might’ve been right. About the chains. But even a good cause can turn bad when it leaves the ones who matter behind.”

Mistendol gave a slow nod. “That’s why I came back.”

Mistendol was quiet for a time, the silence between them stretching—not uncomfortable now, but fragile. Then he reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a small, polished stone. It shimmered faintly, catching the firelight. “I could teach you something,” he said gently. “Just a cantrip. Nothing world-shaking. But… it’s a place to start.”

Renvarin arched a brow. “After all these years, you want to teach me tricks?”

Mistendol smiled faintly. “No tricks. Just a spark. Light, in the darkness.”

Renvarin hesitated—then shrugged off the stiffness in his shoulders. “All right, old man. Show me.”

Mistendol stepped beside him, guiding his son’s fingers with long, careful hands. “It’s not the motion that matters most,” he murmured. “It’s the will. The intention. Magic listens when you speak clearly.”

Renvarin muttered the incantation, his voice awkward, tongue unsure. The first attempt fizzled in a puff of harmless static. The second sparked a tiny flare that leapt from his fingertip and vanished in the air like a firefly.

He blinked, then laughed—a short, surprised sound, almost boyish. “Did you see that?”

“I did,” Mistendol said, pride warming his voice. “You made the flame answer. Not bad… for a warrior.”

They shared a rare look—unburdened, for once. The fire crackled gently, and for a fleeting moment, the storm outside felt far away.