“You should’ve known better.” 

Mistendol turned away from the pavilions that lined the treetops to cast a scowl Norica’s way. “This was by design.”

She shrugged and shook her head, her thick mass of hair throwing wicked shadows in the light of the lantern she held aloft. 

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Mistendol finished, turning back towards the trees silhouetted against the moonlight. 

“I don’t suspect I ever will,” she agreed. “Come on.” She climbed into the wagon seat, hanging the lantern on the hook above her head. “No point lamenting. There’s work to be done, beasties to kill.”

With obvious reluctance, Mistendol climbed onto the wagon and took a seat beside her. But he couldn’t take his eyes from the trees.

“Didn’t think I’d ever actually see the mighty Mistendol mope.” She snapped the reins.

He tried to think of something witty or mildly combative with which to respond, but gave up. His thoughts were elsewhere, despite his best efforts. The child had not even been born, yet the void was growing with each turn of the wagon’s wheels. 

“I… will likely never see them.”

“Huh?”

“Norica,” he began, and paused, searching for how best to proceed. “I’ve explained to you that I hail from distant lands. Perhaps I owe you the truth.”

 Norica snorted. “What’s gotten into you? We’ve been travelin’ together for the past six months now—I’ve never seen you like this. You catch something?”

“I hail from a world beyond. A different plane.”

“Misty, I know how the Domains work,” Norica cut in, clearly growing irritable. “We’re separated by boundaries; we perceive the boundaries as barriers of mist. The mist—”

“Norica, please,” Mistendol pleaded, fixing her with a stare. She relented with a toss of her hair. “My home—my true home—is lost to me now. I was taken to the Shadowfell by a higher power, not unlike those we are now tasked to destroy.” Norica shifted uncomfortably, unsure of where this surprise confession was going. “I’ve come to the Domains once before, many centuries ago, back when the elves of this plane faced extinction. This power tasked me with preserving them. I succeeded in this mission. My reward was a new plane, and a new civilization of elves with which to save.” 

Norica said nothing, watching the trot of the horses and instinctively keeping her eyes on the shadows in the treeline. Wolfweres could strike from anywhere. She was listening, though, attentively. Mistendol could see it in her posture and in the way her eyes moved, wanting to venture past her peripheral to appraise her wizard companion. He granted her a moment to digest his words, as he sought the best approach forward with his tale. 

“This has been my duty for centuries. I have lived lifetimes as the same individual within different worlds, different timelines; protecting my kin throughout the planes, that they might offer something in return to the power that grants me this privilege. That is my goal.”

A thick silence sat between them. Somewhere in the night, an owl made itself known, as if to ask a question in Norica’s stead. The lantern light above their heads was just strong enough to prevent Mistendol from using his darkvision comfortably, but he caught a glimpse of Norica’s hand through the lowlight, and her grip on the reins spoke volumes—whiteknuckle and fierce. 

“Why haven’t you told me this sooner?” was all she could get out. 

“My goals are just,” Mistendol declared, injecting confidence into his tone despite his mood this night. “Truthfully… I understand your skepticism and fear with the powers of this place. I knew that ultimately our goals aligned. I needed you to trust me.”

“And what now?” she snapped back. “Am I to trust you now? Or is this where you declare your allegiance to my nemeses? To some—some werewolf or other such creature?” She was bitter, but continued to drive the carriage in spite of herself. 

“I am not an enemy,” Mistendol chuckled grimly, aware that Norica understood this truth. “You need to understand, the magnitude of my station is beyond simple explanation. When we first met, had I tried to explain any of this to you…”

“I wouldn’t have believed you, that’s true,” she admitted. “And I don’t know how you can expect me to believe any of this now.” She scoffed. “Dropping all of this on me out of nowhere.”

“It is indeed a great burden.”

“That would explain your connection with the Weave,” Norica mused. “And your disconnect with social queues.” She snickered but Mistendol did not react immediately.  

“Yes,” he admitted a moment later. He braced his arms on his knees and bowed his head solemnly. “The laws dictating normalcy vary greatly. Carrying on the way the gods intended is a challenge.”

“I can imagine,” Norica murmured somewhat tenderly. Mistendol couldn’t decipher whether she was mocking him. “So that’s why you did what you did, huh? Up in Lyridel?”

“It is my hope that perhaps the Raven Queen will select my own, the way I was chosen.”

“The Raven Queen. You’re beholden to her?” Norica stated more than asked. 

“Yes.”

Norica sucked in a deep breath of cool night air, trying to steady herself. Then she chuckled again, her good humor getting the better of her. 

“You’re one screwed up elf, y’know that?”

Mistendol looked up to peer at the empty road ahead, twisting into the night. The moon was obscured, and only the black stood to welcome the small cart meandering in its throes. 

“It’s likely I will never meet them; will never be offered even a glimpse into their being.”

“Dramatic as sin, too,” Norica muttered too low for Mistendol to hear. “Misty, I’ve no doubt your kid will be like nothing the planes have ever seen.”

Renvarin Edelblack stood before his mother and a council of four other women—warriors all to some degree, adorning robes, pelts or some combination of the two, casting the young elf scathing looks of discontent. Renvarin stood, breathing heavily, partially from adrenaline and partially in an attempt to keep his temper under control. Arrogance would not be tolerated by the Matriarchs. Blood trickled from a wound at his hairline and barely skirted around his eye. The sensation was infuriating, but wiping the stream away would do nothing given how deep the wound was. 

“You have already been warned twice. And more, beyond the eyes of us four, no doubt.” Lady Seddai spoke, dangerously calm.  

“Yes,” Renvarin admitted through grit teeth, “yet no warning seems to be spared for any of—”

“Hold your tongue, boy!” Torunn, Honored Huntress, screeched. “We have been more than accommodating of your antics.” She straightened the silver mantle of wolfwere skin.

“You were granted that blade in the name of the True Huntress,” his mother spoke, now. “Your lack of discipline would make her ashamed.” Twin lines of pale blue makeup ran from her eyes, down her face and disappeared at her jawline. Tears, Renvarin thought, not unlike those she would probably shed, were her peers not at her side this very moment. 

Unconsciously, the thin sword slipped from his grip and clattered to the stone floor of the temple. Torunn clearly thought the display to be intentional and unbridled fury flashed across her painted face. She moved to react but was cut short by Lady Seddai who took two measured steps forward, looking down her nose at the young bloodied elf before her. 

“You must remember,” she started, still calm and cool, “that your place among us is not a given, regardless of your heritage. Lady Artemis is not unkind, given the hand dealt to us by the Domain. But you are still a male, and a young one at that. One such as yourself has many a trial yet to be endured. Now, you have maimed another.”

“Savagely,” Torunn chimed in.

Lady Seddai nodded in agreement. “It is unlikely your kindred will recover satisfactorily. His wounds are in the process of being evaluated, but already there are clear signs of a dead arm.” 

Renvarin stared at his boots. The conflict had grown quite violent indeed, if his head wound and blood-spattered shirt were any indication. But he could not deny the guilt he felt. His face flushed with shame, and even if the Matriarchs couldn’t see it, he felt it, and that was enough. His intention was never to permanently injure Eichlyn, but the snide remarks had grown stale, and Renvarin would admit even now that the other boy deserved to be put in his place. 

And he had been. Renvarin was still standing, and because of that there was a devilish pride that swelled within him. 

“Renvarin.” His name pulled him from his contemplation. Something else had been said by the Matriarchs that he had missed, and now they all looked on behind their painted facades; masks of dedication to a goddess Renvarin loved unconditionally, but that looked upon him in turn with contempt. That contempt translated now onto the faces of those women before him, perfect representations of Artemis’s will. 

His mother was one of them. 

Pity seeped through the cracks, visible in her glinting, blue eyes. Duty was stronger, though, and the rest of her frown was not unlike that of Lady Seddai’s, which looked on expectantly. “You are permitted to speak,” she breathed with a tone that said it would not make a difference—his fate had already been decided. “What have you to say for yourself?” 

“Mothers and Matriarchs,” Renvarin started, nearly choking on the words in a vain attempt to maintain composure. “Your anger is warranted. I acted rashly and with minimal regard for my peer. There is nothing I can say to erase my guilt from the harm I caused Eichlyn.” He looked directly at Torunn as he spoke that last part, just as another stream of blood trickled into his eye. Renvarin was forced to break away, and wiped the blood from his eye, flicking it from his hand to the stone tiles. 

“No, there is nothing you could say,” Lady Seddai agreed, and Renvarin bit his tongue. There was more he’d wanted to say, much more, but would it make any difference? Not in the end. Even if Eichlyn were to make a full recovery, the previous two conflicts were enough to doom him to the same sentence. 

“You will be punished in accordance to the will and law of Lady Artemis. Your sentence will be established by your mother, Priestess Yen’Zidel.”

A pit formed in Renvarin’s stomach, then. Traditionally, the Matriarchs might collaborate or discuss a sentence—that ample punishment might be exacted in the name of Artemis. Yet this time, no such precedent was set. Renvarin’s mother, Yen’Zidel, was a high priestess, and as such, would make certain her execution of Artemis’s will was even and just. A pit formed in his stomach because he knew a challenge greater than anything he’d ever faced in his thirty years of life was about to be leveled on his head. 

Lady Seddai took two steps back and fell in line with the other Matriarchs, just as Yen’Zidel stepped forward. Icy resignation was splayed across her visage, and she wore it as precisely as the very lines she painted below her eyes every day. 

“My son, Renvarin Edelblack,” she spoke in a powerful, measured voice—one used to speaking the commandments of a deity. “For your most recent transgression, in accordance with the will of Artemis, The Huntress, Lady of the Moon, you are hereby exiled with the rising of the forthcoming new moon; upon which, you will be forsaken by the women and gentlekin of Lyridel forevermore. Lest redemption should find you in the Lady’s eyes.”

A lump formed in Renvarin’s throat, and he ground his teeth again trying desperately to not break down. Clenching his fists, he continued to lock eyes with his mother. Yen’Zidel opened her mouth to continue, but the words were caught in her throat. Only for a moment. 

“You will be marked, as per the will of The Huntress. So long as you remain in these woods, you will be considered no more than wild game, to be slain and presented in high honor to the Lady Artemis.” One of the painted blue lines began to distort. “Is this understood by the convicted?”

A single tear, like a star burning out in the sky, fell from grace and disappeared from sight before it could reach the floor. 

“Yes.” Renvarin forced the word from between his lips. 

His own star dropped down his cheek and mixed with the blood on the floor. 

Two days was all Renvarin had before his exile. It seemed like so little time, but in the evening of the second day, he began to weigh his predicament in an attempt to find any measure of levity. Elves were fickle creatures, and their culture was one none too keen of camaraderie. Of course, this was dependent upon one’s discipline; the bards and artists were exceptionally social with one another—sharing verse, bouncing ideas and tales off one another. One such as Renvarin, though, met with peers only to spar, when little was to be said and grievances were to be settled with action and sweat. 

It dawned on him then that his rivalry with Eichlyn had been born out of little more than performance alone. Exceptionally few words were ever shared between either of them, even during their few celebrations when laughter and jovial familiarity were welcome and not perceived as weakness. Their bouts would always elevate to a concerning intensity, perhaps, but Renvarin always made it a point to outperform his peers; he wanted to be the best, and put his everything into his swordsmanship. This was often the way of the elves. One honed their discipline to a razor edge, whatever it might be. Some ventured into multiple disciplines, but rarely ever more than could be counted on one hand. Renvarin had felt his sword call to him the day it was gifted to him with Artemis’s blessing, the night of his tenth birthday, when the moon was whole. This drew Eichlyn’s jealousy and ire. 

Now Renvarin considered what would become of himself. The wilds of Kartakass were dangerous indeed. Wolfweres prowled in the shadows, and his kind was not readily accepted—not like the half-bloods that the tutors would speak of with disdain. Renvarin’s thoughts circled back around to his isolation in exile, this pervading sense of loneliness. The previous day was spent in recovery, but none save the community healer spared him even a thought. 

And so today, he spent his time with a writing stick and piece of parchment, searching for something good to glean from this wreckage he’d forced upon himself. It took hours, truthfully. The turmoil of Renvarin’s emotions was strong, and at this moment he could find no comfort in his goddess. Then, as he evaluated the list, something changed. 

This was, perhaps, an opportunity—to use those skills which had brought him to this point constructively. And of course, it was quite appealing to fantasize about what those on the outside might be like. He knew of a world beyond the trees, but had yet to see it outside of lessons or tomes. The mists, too. What wonders might lay beyond the boundaries of Kartakass? Focus came naturally to him, an acute attention to detail and precision. That’s what made him so adept with a blade. But the thought of release, a shift—that he might indulge in behaviors outside his dexterity training was quite compelling indeed. 

Renvarin lay on the mat in his room for what he knew would be the last time. The candle was snuffed, but sleep eluded him. The anticipation of his departure was too great. Far too great. And as he continued to consider the circumstances, a single question pervaded his thoughts, replaying like an echo: why wait?

His mother wouldn’t have come anyway, he told himself as he marched towards the lift that would lead to the forest floor. She would be too embarrassed, and he couldn’t blame her. Yen’Zidel was a high priestess of Artemis, afterall, and her duty to the goddess came before any duty to her son. This was simply the way, and he was at peace with that.

Renvarin bounced across one of the rope bridges that connected his residential pavilion to the nearest gate pavilion, clinging to an immense evergreen; the only type of evergreen Renvarin  had ever known. 

A guard in a bycocket cap and short cloak spotted him moving in his direction and raised a hand at his approach. “By what business do you seek to depart?”

“You don’t recognize me? I’d thought everyone knew of the outcast.”

Recognition dawned across the guard’s face, swiftly replaced by confusion. “But you’re not to be exil– er, released until noon tomorrow.”

“Yes. I’ve decided to spare myself the ridicule. I will bow out gracefully and you all can forget I ever existed.”

The guard’s mouth shrank into a tight line as he considered the logic. Renvarin made a gesture as if to say well?, and the guard stepped aside. 

As Renvarin moved to step onto the lift, the guard placed a hand on his shoulder. “What am I to say should Matriarch Torunn ask of your whereabouts?”

Renvarin’s first instinct was to make a snide remark, but the look in the guard’s eye spoke of some level of respect for the younger elf’s decision to leave quietly with the night. He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. “Tell her she’ll not have this one.” He shrugged. “I’m not so foolish as to tempt the huntresses of Artemis, but I’ll not grant her the slightest satisfaction, either—no matter how small. I sincerely hope the blood of past-day’s wound is enough to satiate that one’s bloodlust.”

Whether the guard agreed with Renvarin’s sentiment was unclear, but they nodded and stepped away to the pulley system that controlled the lift. Renvarin dropped his bag to the floor of the lift and stared through the branches to the glass bell that hung in the temple to Artemis. It framed the moon and drank its light, transforming its edges into small rainbows. As the lift began to sink down to the forest floor, the light ebbed, eclipsed by the treetops and the pavilions of Lyridel.

Renvarin stepped out from the Wolfwood and was greeted with a large dirt highway. The hill upon which he stood was not very high, but even still he could see rivers and twinkling lights of some civilization beneath the clefts of a cliff face. 

He’d not encountered a single wolfwere, which likely meant the huntresses were out tonight. Likewise, he’d not seen a single huntress, but with his departure going unannounced, they likely did not think to keep an eye out for a stray elf. And now he was here, beyond the boundaries of the forest. In his thirty years of life, he’d never once crossed the threshold of the Wolfwood, and a sensation like a spring breeze swelled within him. 

He hoisted his meager drawstring pack over his shoulder, casually placed a hand on the hilt of his rapier, and took to the road. 

By the time he’d made it to Skald—(this was written in a crude, dripping crimson font on a large wooden slat less than a mile from the city’s western gate)—the world was turning gray by the faintest touches of sunlight. Renvarin had been exceedingly lucky, encountering minimal danger during his first nightly journey in the greater Domain of Kartakass. Now, he stood at the entrance to the Domain’s capitol, a place spoken of with mixed reverence and fear by his tutors. 

He approached the imposing gate with confidence, eager to see beyond the walls. A group of four guards were huddled around a small fire, chatting idly and dozing. One perked up, seeing the elf approach, and hurriedly grabbed a spear before taking several steps forward to engage the traveler. 

“Halt,” he stuttered slovenly. “Not another step. State yer business.”

Renvarin gave a slight bow, as per elven custom. “Renvarin Edelblack of Lyridel. I’ve come to, er, partake in your culture.” 

“Lyridel?” the guard repeated, placing a thoughtful finger to his chin. Suddenly he turned to the guards behind him. “Oi! You lot ever heard of Lyridel?”

“Never heard of it!”

“My cousin lives there!”

“‘Twas destroyed!” They all shouted back in unison.

“Yes, Lyridel,” Renvarin confirmed, pointing a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the road he’d taken. “It’s not far—”

“Oh, Lyridel,” the guard drawled, his face brightening in mock remembrance. “Right, come with me, then.” He led the way to the gate, and one of the other guards sitting around the fire stood up absentmindedly. Both seemed to move through a series of overly familiar motions, moving towards a small guardhouse and operating a series of large wheels inside. 

Renvarin stood for a moment, unsure of what to make of these humans, the first he’d ever met. He looked over at the other two guards who were still in view and cringed inwardly. Their boots were unoiled and caked in mud, their padded uniforms stained and generally unkempt. One picked their nose in that moment, inspected the findings, and wiped it along the front of their uniform. 

The guard that had approached Renvarin poked a head out of the guardhouse and shouted over, “Welcome to Skald, m’lord!” 

Renvarin looked up as the wooden gate began to creak and shift outward, sparing a small crack through which he could step through. 

Even in the early hours of the morning, the sight of the city was overwhelming. The streets nearby this entrance were relatively empty, but the unpaved roads were narrow, their alleys shrinking to impassible points. A dog afflicted with mange strode too close and Renvarin dodged to keep his pants from brushing against the sickly creature. The buildings were half-timbered with roofs of thatch, exactly as he had heard them described in the tomes back home. Someone above him threw open the shutters and a stream of filth splattered into a nearby alley. 

Renvarin shouldered his bag, holding it slightly closer, and stayed to the main avenues for a place where he might rest his head and collect his thoughts. 

***

“You’re in the wrong gods-damned city, elf.” 

Renvarin had quite enjoyed the last week, taking in the sights and sounds of the foreign human civilization of Skald. Music and art were celebrated here, and Renvarin was eager to consume as much of both as possible. When he wasn’t engaging with the local artisans, who were open-minded enough to accept him in spite of his heritage, he would frequent the Nettle and Bee, the only tavern that appeared at all hospitable to one of Renvarin’s ilk while allowing him to avoid the more unsavory corners of the city. No matter how hard he tried, however, the looks followed him. In this city of squalor, he looked the part of a lord in his fur-trimmed leathers and with his earring dedicated to his goddess. 

Yet, strangely, he did not entirely mind. In fact, the attention had grown on him quite a bit, and he even heard one patron comment on the ominous nature of his dark, opaque eyes. He took it as a compliment by the tone, and it stuck with him. His assumed wealth and sharp demeanor made him more than a couple of acquaintances already.

Except for this fellow. 

A burly man with long, curly hair reeking of onions and alcohol snarled at Renvarin from less than a foot away. He was easily a head taller and decorated in no shortage of crooked, fading tattoos. 

Renvarin did not even flinch at the threat.

“Perhaps you’d do better to torment the children outside, friend,” Renvarin replied with a wicked smirk. 

Without hesitation, the man threw a punch and Renvarin ducked. The fist collided with another patron, and thus, Renvarin’s second bar fight ensued. He’d managed to escape the first unscathed, but the sheer cacophony of the event had rattled him, and he’d made sure to stay as clear out the way as possible. Now, however, with a week’s-worth of city living under his belt, the elf felt emboldened—at the top of his game. 

The bearded, barrel-shaped man who’d eaten the punch leapt to tackle the tattooed brute. Renvarin used the opportunity to hop the bar, landing next to a waifish woman of elderly age who was crouching for cover. “Drinks on me, for whoever’s conscious when this bout ends,” he said with a wink before he’d even realized the words were escaping his mouth. He thought quickly, flashed more coins than the woman had teeth in her mouth and proceeded to leap upon the bar proper. “Another round on me!”

A cheer resounded through the room, from patrons who either didn’t know an elf had offered to buy their next drink, or who were simply too drunk and bloodied to care. 

When the fight had diminished to naught more than a hugging match between two lugs too exhausted to maintain their bravado, it was a woman that approached Renvarin, pencil-thin and tan skinned. She appeared to be human, with a mane of graying curled hair about her shoulders and an eyepatch over her right eye. “The man may have been right,” she initiated with a grin. 

“Oh?” was all Renvarin could get out, taken off guard by this woman who carried herself with the dangerous posture of one accustomed to a fight.

“The Crimson Road to the North. Perhaps you’d do better to search there,” she said with a sly smile. 

Renvarin returned the gesture, “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” He dropped the smile at once, menacingly. “I’m not searching for anything.”

The woman eyed him through a gaze sharp as knives. “Suit yourself.” She spun, cloak fluttering, and Renvarin caught the poignant gesture. The ax on her hip was large enough to sever the head from a wolfwere in a single swipe. 

“Hold.”

“Hold? What, am I a dog?” she hissed, turning her head to face him. 

“Er, my apologies. I’m just, um…” he gestured to the room about him, the broken furniture, bottles and collapsed bodies. 

“Yet you’re an elf,” she replied snidely. “Which tells me you’ve traveled quite the distance. To think a bar fight would shake such a well-traveled individual as yourself.”

Renvarin shrugged, “I’ve still much to learn about certain cultures.”

The woman hummed appraisingly. “Humble. You’re nothing like your father.”

Renvarin paled, now taken aback entirely. 

“Yes,” she chuckled in acknowledgement of his expression. “There’s no mistaking it. We spent enough time together through the deepest reaches of the Domains. And I’m quite perceptive.” She made her way over to the bar and grabbed a bottle of liquor that’d tipped over but hadn’t spilled out the entirety of its contents. She took a deep swig, wiped her mouth on her coat and leaned back against the bar. “I’ll be honest with you, though. I wasn’t looking for you.”

Renvarin had grown more relaxed in front of the obviously-professional fighter when she’d decided to imbibe. Now he picked his way through the wreckage, over to a half-smashed table and took a seat himself. “So it was luck, then?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Hell of a day.”

“Aye. I’ve not hung up my ax just yet, and Skald’s good a place for action as any. Just so happens nearly thirty years to the day you came along.”

“Pfft. So you were there when he left.”

“I was. I’m not much for being honest,” she swished the liquor around her bottle, “but this helps and I’m feeling generous.” She took a moment, another deep swig. “He missed you before he was even within three miles of Lyridel. It wasn’t exactly his choice.”

“I don’t begrudge him,” Renvarin replied solemnly, training his eyes on the floor. “The Matriarchs are—”

“Demented?”

“I was going to say fickle. But I’m not exactly here of my own volition, either.”

“About that.” She gestured for Renvarin to speak.

“I caused one too many problems.”

The woman looked around the room candidly. “That makes sense.”

“So, if I may—”

The bottle tipped back, “Mhm?”

“Who are you, exactly.”

“Norica Le Strain, monster hunter.”