Anshalyn - The return of the demons E-Book

Elias J. Connor

• Herausgeber: FINN Books Edition FireFly
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

For several years, Queen Anshalyn has lived far from the splendor of the throne, hidden away in the peaceful village of Rosenheim in the distant land of Sudland. Together with her companion Askandar, she has left the battles of the past behind—until the day the mysterious stranger Ydecto appears. With his terrifying power, he seizes control of the village, plunges the land into chaos, and forces Anshalyn into exile. Fleeing through ancient forests and crumbling kingdoms, Anshalyn and Askandar encounter magical gods who bestow upon them weapons of unimaginable power. But time is running out. Ydecto's thirst for power has unleashed demons that Anshalyn once defeated at great cost, and they now return, more cruel and stronger than ever. There is only one way to stop them—the legendary head of Medusa, whose gaze turns all living things to stone. To obtain it, Anshalyn and Askandar must enter the Grotto of the Gorgons, from which no one has ever returned alive... This is the second volume in the ANSHALYN fantasy series. An epic tale of magic, betrayal, and unforgettable characters—perfect for fans of high fantasy.

Leseprobe

Elias J. Connor

Anshalyn - The return of the demons

This is the second volume in the ANSHALYN fantasy series. An epic tale of magic, betrayal, and unforgettable characters—perfect for fans of high fantasy.

Dedication

For my girlfriend.

My muse, my ally.

Your dreams breathe life into my books.

Thank you for taking me into your world.

Chapter 1 - The oracle

Morning breaks golden over Sudland. Mist lies heavy on the terraced fields that cling to the hills like green scales. In the distance, the rumble of a waterfall sounds, dull and steady, like the pulse of the land itself. Monkeys tumbling in the treetops, screaming into the day, while the sun slowly climbs the horizon, bathing the thicket in haze and radiance.

On the riverbank, a boy, perhaps twelve years old, stands barefoot in the damp sand. A water buffalo waits beside him, patiently, as if it were part of the morning. The boy looks across to the opposite side, where smoke rises from a thatched hut. His grandmother brews the first tea there every day, using leaves that may only be harvested at sunrise—as required by the ancient Kima rule.

Sudland knows no hurry. Time flows here like the great Tuar River—wide, tranquil, impenetrable. People speak softly, as if the land could absorb and retain every word. The markets smell of ripe dragon fruit, tamarind, and the spicy pastes of street food. Vendors offer handwoven fabrics with colors as vibrant as the light between the palm trees.

In the south, red rocks tower like folded stories. There live the Yarra nomads, who only come when the wind blows from the west. Their songs echo through the gorges and tell of a sky that once fell to earth and spewed the first salt into the sea. No one knows if the stories are true, but in Sudland, truth counts less than depth, and legends are what the land draws its truth from.

In the capital city of Lamera, people paint the walls of their houses with golden clay. On festival days, they dance on the rooftops, painting their faces with symbols drawn from dreams. In the center of the city towers the ancient Sun Tree—a gnarled giant whose leaves never fall. The elders say its roots reach to the bones of the earth.

Sudland is alive. Not like a land, but like a being—awake, breathing, full of memories. Every step across its soil is an encounter. And those who stay long enough begin to understand: Sudland doesn't change anyone by force. It waits. And while it waits, it silently shapes the soul.

Blendor sits on his throne of polished ebony, his hands gripped tightly on the wooden armrests. His gaze wanders over the halls of Sudland, where flickering torches cast ghostly shadows on the walls. Every stone, every pillar seems to pose the question that haunts him: Who will inherit his inheritance? He has no son. Only Lluva, his only daughter, whose gentle voice often brings a smile to his face, but who today still fills him with fear.

He rises with difficulty, his purple robe rustling like petrified silk. Court officials step back in awe as his horn-swallower hands him a pitcher of cool wine. He sips, but the wine leaves only a bitter aftertaste. Blendor drops the last grape into his mouth before leaving the hall and leaning over the stone balcony on the east side of the palace. The city's rooftops spread like the scales of a giant dragon; to the north, the Sudara River glitters, as if to comfort him. But his heart remains heavy.

"Your Majesty," whispers Count Elmar, his loyal chancellor, from the shadows. "You seem worried."

Blendor lowers his gaze.

"It is my inheritance, Elmar. Without male heirs, the future of my kingdom dwindles."

Elmar nods in understanding.

“ The oracle in the grottos at the foot of Dragon Mountain can bring certainty.” A spark of hope flickers in Blendor’s eyes.

“Then I’ll ride there today.”

The sun is slowly setting behind Dragon Mountain as Blendor arrives at the sanctuary in a small caravan. The grottos of Sudland are bathed in emerald green by the evening light. Moss-covered pillars and weathered stone carvings bear witness to a venerable past. Along the narrow path, guards whisper prayers, while Blendor leads his men. The air is cool, and a light mist clings to the earth.

They stop before a stone gate above which is written in ancient runes: “Enter, whoever seeks guidance, but know: the gods guard dark truths.”

Blendor nods silently, and the heavy stone doors open silently. Inside, water drips from the ceiling, and the smell of incense fills the room.

At the end of the grotto stands the oracle: an old woman whose skin is wrinkled like parchment and whose eyes blaze a clear blue. Candles sway in windless niches. Blendor bows deeply. He hardly dares to look the oracle in the eyes, but his desire is stronger than his fear.

"High Priestess," he begins, "King Blendor of Sudland seeks your advice. My fire is in danger of going out, for I have no heir of male blood. Tell me: How can I secure my inheritance?"

The High Priestess rises slowly, her voice sounding hollow.

"Blendor, you call for knowledge—so hear the answer of the gods." A silence falls, as if time itself were holding its breath. Then, in a bright, echoing tone, she speaks: "Your legacy ends at the hand of your grandson."

Blendor's heart stops.

"My grandson's hand?" he stammers, staggering back a step. "I don't have a son!"

The priestess bows her head.

“Not your son, but your daughter’s son will fulfill the destiny prophesied here.”

Blendor feels his stomach tighten. He struggles for words.

“But that can’t be!”

A flickering light appears in the candles, as if the gods themselves are underlining the word.

“But it is the word that has fallen: your destruction is bound in his breath,” says the oracle.

Blendor gathers all his strength. "Is there no way to avert this providence?"

The priestess places a gnarled hand on the stone altar. Her long hair trickles to the floor like a waterfall.

"There is only one path, and it leads you to the brink of despair," she says, looking sternly into his eyes. "Guard your daughter Lluva, that no man touches her. Thus may fate be averted."

A cold shiver runs down Blendor's spine. He struggles to regain his composure, thanks him without a word—and hurries out of the grotto as if he detests every moment of silence.

Back in his palace, Blendor can barely get into bed. The oracle's words gnaw at his soul. In the morning, he seeks Lluva in the inner garden. Silver-green willows frame a small pond, its clear water filled with water lilies. Lluva collects petals, which she gently drops into the water.

"Father?" She looks up, her eyes shining like dew on rose petals. "You look like you haven't been able to sleep."

Blendor takes a deep breath. He sits down on a stone seat next to her.

"Lluva, my beloved daughter..." His voice trembles. "A dark prophecy reaches me."

Her face darkens.

"What happened?"

He runs his hand through his silver hair.

“The oracle said your son would seal my fate.”

Lluva blinks, then leans forward.

“But I don’t have a son yet,” she breathes, confused.

"That's precisely the danger." Blendor stands up, his figure appearing taller, more stern. "You will not leave the palace again."

Lluva stands up, the petals slipping from her fingers.

“Father, you can’t do that.”

"I can—and I must." His voice is now as hard as wrought iron. "I'll have you locked in the bronze tower. There you'll be safe, and no one can get to you."

Despair flashes in Lluva's eyes.

“A tower? A bronze tower?”

He nods.

“Starting tomorrow, I’ll take you there.”

The next day, the sun rises over the rooftops of Sudland, while Lluva is led by two guards in velvet robes to the bronze tower. The tower rises behind the palace, its metallic sheen dazzling in the morning sun. A single wrought-iron gate blocks the entrance, and above it, no windows are visible—only narrow, upward-facing slits, like eyes peering out from a smooth metal skin.

Lluva puts her hand on the gate.

"Father..." She turns, and for a moment, she meets his gaze. But Blendor remains unmoved. With a dull creak, the gate closes, and Lluva's world shrinks to this bronze room.

The tower is sparsely furnished: a wooden bed, a chest, a small, round table. "That's all you need," says Blendor as he locks the door. Lluva sinks onto the bed, the chains of her panic rattling as the guards leave.

Inside, she remains alone with her thoughts. Days pass, the walls of loneliness seal in her heart. She imagines the birds flying beneath the willows in the garden, the wind playing on the curtains of her bedroom – but she no longer hears any of it. Her only consolation is leafing through old books she has secretly had brought with her. But stories of freedom hardly help her when she herself is imprisoned.

High above, in the realm of the skies, Zhys, the ruler of the sky, observes the fate of mortals from his golden palace. He sees Blendor, the king imprisoning his daughter, and he sees Lluva, the flower fading in solitude. With each passing hour, a warm stream of affection grows in Zhys's heart.

One night, he rises, invisible to all eyes. The heavens open, and a shower of gold falls, sparkling like a thousand suns. The rain dances through the air and collects before the bronze tower. Every drop sings a soft song of freedom and love.

Inside, Lluva lies awake. A mysterious light glitters on the walls. Cautiously, she stands up and steps to the narrow window. Golden rain falls through the crack and covers her wrists. A warm crackling sensation runs through her fingers. In amazement, she touches the shimmer, and an invisible hand gently wraps itself around her heart.

"Lluva," whispers a voice, soft as dawn. "Do not be afraid."

Lluva hesitates.

“Who are you?” her words echo through the room.

"I am Zhys," the voice whispers. "Ruler of the Sky. I saw your loneliness and fell in love with you."

Her heart beats faster.

"How...? You are light and wind, yet as familiar as my own soul."

A shower of golden drops envelops her as Zhys manifests himself in each drop. While his essence remains hidden, his breath caresses her face, and she feels a tenderness greater than anything she has ever known.

“I will free you,” he promises.

And so it happens: The golden rain forms a fine veil that touches the gate from outside. With a soft sound, the lock opens, and the bronze door slides silently back. Lluva steps through into the cool night breeze, where the rain gently caresses her. But instead of fleeing, she stands still and lets the rain wash over her.

"Stay with me," whispers Zhys, and at that moment, Lluva melts into the golden rain. Her form glows as if she herself were made of liquid light. The walls dissolve, and the heart of the tower falls silent for good.

Months pass, while Lluva and Zhys secretly hide in a small clearing, bathed in golden darkness only at night. There, sheltered by silver-leafed trees, a spring gushes, its water like liquid moonlight. Lluva wears a simple gown of fine linen; her baby is already forming in her womb—a promise of new life.

One morning, as the first rays of sunlight warm the world, Lluva sits at the edge of the spring. Zhys descends over her, as gentle as the world's breathing.

"Soon you will be a mother," he whispers. "Our son will be called Askandar."

Lluva places her hand on her belly, feeling the gentle throb of new life. Tears of emotion fill her eyes.

“He will embody the love between gods and mortals,” she says quietly.

Zhys nods and lifts her in his arms.

"He will be strong and kind. And he will love you as I love you."

The light around them shimmers, birds sing soft melodies, and for a brief moment the world is perfect, despite the fact that love between a deity and a mortal is strictly forbidden by the rules of the land.

In Sudland, Blendor's wrath has already been forgotten. The king sits once again on his throne, tired and betrayed by sorrow, but a void in his heart remains unfilled. He sends scouts, but they never return with news of Lluva. Only the golden rain remains a legend.

Years pass. Blendor ages, his hair turns gray. The prophecy haunts him like a shadow, but he carries it within his chest like a final, bitter burden. Then word reaches him: the scent of flowers that bloom only in the light of pure bliss reaches his ear. A wanderer brings word of a child born of the golden rain, whose eyes are the color of morning—Askandar, son of Lluva and the Lord of the Sky.

Blendor feels a strange coolness in his chest, as if he heard the ticking of an invisible clock. He knows that destiny will finally be fulfilled. And so his story continues, as Askandar grows up—strong, kind, unaware of the power that rests within him and of the providence that still weaves the final silver stitch of fate.

Chapter 2 - With the help of the gods

Blendor sits in his audience chamber as twilight slowly creeps into the halls. Torches flicker on the walls, casting long, leaping shadows on the polished ebony of his throne. Every breath echoes loudly in the silence. His heart pounds so hard it throbes in his temples. The news of Askandar's birth has bitten into his flesh like a dark beast: a demigod, born of a mortal and a deity of the sky. The image shimmers before his mind's eye, and he feels cold fear spreading through his chest.

His chancellor, Elmar, approaches the throne respectfully, bows deeply, and glances at the king's trembling hand.

"My king," Elmar breathes, "ambassadors from the borderlands report that Askandar's birth is being talked about in all four corners of the realm. They say his eyes shine like liquid amber in the first light of morning."

Blendor contorts his face in pain, as if he'd been torn open. He runs his hand through the silver veil of his hair and presses his lips together.

"A demigod," he finally gasps, his voice thin with horror. "A being that doesn't belong in my world!"

He clenches his fist, his knuckles turning white. For a moment, he seems lost, his eyes fixed on an imaginary point. Then he lowers his gaze to Elmar, feeling anger rising within him.

"I could secretly task one of our bravest warriors with locating Askandar..."

Elmar lowers his head. He senses Blendor's despair mingling with dark determination.

"Your Majesty," he whispers softly, "such an assassination attempt would invoke the wrath of the gods. The oracle has spoken clearly."

At these words, Blendor flinches as if under an invisible whip. He has seen the High Priestess, her burning eyes in the gloom of the grotto, her soft, ominous whisper echoing in his mind. And yet... He sets out in secret.

The next night, Blendor sneaks through the dark corridors of the palace in a simple traveling robe. No one dares to stop him. He leaves the walls and rides through the silver moonlight toward Dragon Mountain. The air is cool, and dew glitters like diamonds on the spruce leaves. Every beat of the horse's hooves sounds like a heartbeat in the silence.

He lays his head in humility before the stone portal of the grottoes, while the guards reverently step aside. Inside, water drips incessantly from the ceiling, and the smell of old incense hangs heavy in the air. He makes his way through the corridor until he stands before the High Priestess, who crouches amidst flickering candles. Her hands rest on a stone altar inscribed with ancient runes.

Blendor's voice sounds rough and brittle.

"High Priestess, I cannot sleep for fear. My grandson lives, and his breath is my death warrant."

The priestess rises leisurely, a bony hand gliding gently over the rough stone relief on the wall. Her eyes glow deep and unfathomable. "Blendor," she answers in a tone that is both wise and merciless, "you seek the path of sacrifice. The gods have shown you your destiny."

Blendor bends his knee imploringly, as if his life were in her hands.

“Tell me what I have to do.”

The High Priestess places her hand on his shoulder. Her voice softens, but it still holds an icy echo.

"Exile is your only salvation. Lluva and Askandar must leave these lands, to the end of all maps, where no mortal or god can find them."

He gasps for breath, his chest rising and falling irregularly.

"But where to? There's no place where a half-divine child and his mother could survive."

The priestess smiles almost mysteriously, refusing to respond to any further words—she simply points silently toward the winding path leading out of the grotto. A silent sign that he must find the way himself.

Back in the palace, the nights creep heavily over Blendor. He sits incessantly at a copper cauldron, stirring a bitter mixture every night, poisoned by his own despair. He tests the liquid with trembling fingers, tastes a trace on his tongue—but he cannot. The suspicion that he is responsible for the strangled laughter of his grandson makes him recoil.

Despair gnaws at his mind until a cruel idea germinates: If he cannot kill the mother and child, he can at least snatch them from the world. He secretly orders the blacksmiths to craft a heavy chest—painted on the outside with black ebony, reinforced with bronze fittings, and lined with velvety softness on the inside so that no one will assume it is a box of horrors.

The moment the box is finished, the unexpected happens: Lluva and Askandar return home after several years in exile, hoping to reconcile with their father and grandfather.

"I have given birth to a son," Lluva says confidently. "Look at him, Father. You don't have to be afraid of him. He could never harm you. The prophecy the oracle made to you will never come true."

With wide open eyes, Blendor looks at his daughter and grandson.

"I know, my child," he says in an almost toneless voice. "I know."

One evening, as the blood-red sun sinks behind the palace towers and long shadows creep through the corridors, Blendor has the chest brought into the courtyard. The cart stands beneath the silver glow of the moon, and Lluva steps out, holding Askandar in her arms—his small face relaxed in sleep, a gentle smile on his lips.

Lluva hesitates when she sees the box. Her voice sounds toneless and strange in the night.

“What’s happening here?”

Blendor's features are frozen to stone. He speaks softly, as if afraid the sound might destroy everything.

"You and Askandar will travel far away," he says without hesitation. "In this box you will be safe from all who seek you. Then I will set you out to sea, where the waves will carry you—and the depths will protect and judge you."

“No, father...”

Lluva's eyes widen in horror, her heart seems to shatter into a thousand pieces. She sinks to her knees and tenderly strokes her son's head, who gurgles softly in his sleep and makes a small, happy noise. Askandar still knows nothing of death and betrayal—his laughter sounds like a promise of innocence.

“Father,” whispers Lluva, her voice barely more than a breath, “you are sending us to our deaths.”

Blendor straightens, his gaze hardening. In the pale light, the bronze fittings of the chest glow like witnesses to his decision. "I'm saving my life. I'm saving Sudland."

As the first paleness of morning rises on the horizon, the chest is carefully loaded onto a cart and pulled through the palace's mighty gate to the harbor. Lluva wraps Askandar in a blanket and tenderly strokes his dark, curly hair. He looks at her with large, curious eyes, as if sensing something unusual is happening.

"Where to, child?" Lluva asks, trembling, but only the soft rattle of the closed lid answers. A cold pain constricts her throat.

Blendor looks up, his purple robe fluttering in the wind, and there is no gentleness in his eyes, only an iron, determined light.

Strong sailors lift the chest onto a small boat. Lluva feels the coolness of the wood against her face. It's dark inside the chest, and Lluva doesn't know what's happening to her. Only the distorted voices of the people outside can be heard.

Then the sailors call, and the boat lifts away from the dock. The pier guards bow their heads in awe as the boat glides into the breaking sea.

Blendor remains behind on the quay, his hand raised in silent salute. He watches the boat dance on the dark water until it diminishes, becoming a dot on the endless horizon, until the blue of the sea and sky merge. A cold breeze brushes his cheeks, and for a moment he thinks the farewell could never have happened.

But deep in his chest beats the certainty that he has saved his life. The fear that has tormented him for so long gives way to a grim calm: he believes the chain of prophecy has been cut. And as he turns and returns to the shadows, the rattling of the lid echoes in his mind—the lonely pounding of a heart that he himself imprisoned, and that haunts him from now on.

The chest rocks on the endless expanse of water, while Lluva and Askandar remain inside, exhausted and dazed. The journey lasts for days: storms whip the waves, spray seeps through every crack, salt burns their eyes. But every time the sea threatens to swallow them, a magical glow glides around the chest like an invisible shield, and Lluva feels a gentle warmth soothing her heart. Zhys watches her every move, listens to his son, the little demigod—and his heart melts with love and worry at the same time.

As the sun breaks on the horizon, Zhys casts magic once again across the endless sea. Tiny sparks shimmer like golden rain, weaving a protective cloak around the chest and its occupants. Suddenly, the water beneath them recedes, as if invisible hands were clearing a narrow path. The chest glides silently toward the shore until it crashes into high surf and lands on the soft sand.

Lluva wakes up as grains of sand trickle through the crack. She struggles out of the chest and gently squeezes her son's chest, who is still asleep. Askandar yawns, rubs his eyes, and looks up at the protective pine forests stretching high above them.

“Mother…” he whispers, “I think we’ve arrived.”

Lluva nods silently, her knees weak with relief. Tears stream down her face as she hugs Askandar tightly.

"We're alive, my son. We're alive."

Slowly, a figure rises from the trees. A middle-aged man in a weather-beaten linen shirt and tooled leather boots steps onto the beach. He carries a net over his shoulder and only stops when he sees the torn-open chest—and two pale figures trying to free themselves from it.

"By the gods..." he murmurs, surprised and yet pitying. "Are you hurt, my love?"

Lluva stands up, holding Askandar protectively in front of her.

"Who... are you? And where... are we?"

The stranger smiles gently and kneels down so as not to appear intimidating. He extends a hand toward her.

"My name is Desmond. I'm a fisherman in this area. You're stranded in the Maui woods—far from any busy trail."

Askandar stirs restlessly in Lluva's arms.

“I’m so scared, Mother.”

Desmond leans toward them. He helps them up and leads them to a flat wall, where he and Lluva sit down with Askandar in her arms.

"Don't be afraid. I saw you when you washed ashore. No one else is around. Come with me to the village, and I will heal and feed you."

Lluva looks first at Askandar, who is curiously peering at Desmond, then she nods.

"Okay. We trust you."

Desmond leads them through a dense pine forest, accompanied only by the rustling of needles and the clatter of their footsteps. After a while, they reach a small clearing where a village of shingled houses and thatched huts sits. Swirls of smoke rise from simple chimneys, and scattered children's laughter echoes softly through the trees.

In the hut that Desmond shows them, he lights a lamp and hands Lluva a bowl of hot vegetable stew.

"Eat to gain strength. Your son needs a strong mother." He turns to Askandar: "And you, young man, will surely want to try the best fish bread here."

Askandar beams as Desmond hands him a piece of warm bread. Lluva tastes the stew and feels the warmth penetrating every fiber of her exhausted body.

After Desmond prepares a straw mattress for them, they sit around the flickering hearth. Askandar chews contentedly, Lluva wipes away tears and gazes at the fisherman with gratitude.

Desmond takes a sip of water from a wooden cup.

"You can stay here as long as you wish. No one in the kingdom has ever seen a woman with such a child, and here in the woods of Maui, they don't keep strangers for long."

Lluva nods, her voice firm. "We thank you, Desmond. Hopefully, it's forever."

Askandar places his small hand in Desmond's large one.

“My name is Askandar.”

Desmond smiles and squeezes the boy's hand.

"I know. But here you are... Askandar, son of a mother I call my friend. And no one but the three of us ever knows anything else."

Lluva and Askandar look at each other and nod. Together they raise their right hands—a silent vow.

"We swear to keep the secret in our hearts," Lluva says quietly. "Askandar, you are my son and my treasure. But no one will know about Zhys or the king."

Askandar presses her hand together to swear an oath.

"I swear it."

Desmond adds, "Your secret is safe with me. As long as blood flows in my veins, you will protect this village. No one will disturb you."

And so the night of the shipwreck ends with a vow of silence, as the Maui forests cast their protective blanket over mother, son, and savior. A new, hidden story begins—far from thrones, oracles, and divine wrath, embedded in the unswerving loyalty of three hearts.

Chapter 3 - Ydecto

Sudland lies beyond the known routes, hidden between two seas and three times. The map shows only a silhouette—a half-forgotten leaf in the winds of world history. But the land itself is not silent. It hums, breathes, grows.

The air carries the taste of copper and vanilla. A dense primeval forest covers the north, so deep and ancient that even the light hesitates to venture into it. Roots wind like sleeping snakes around the remnants of bygone empires: crumbling stone arches, half-overgrown with moss, tell of a people who spoke with birds and read the winds like open books.

Further south stretches a dry savannah, golden under the sun's glare. Herds of antelope migrate there, slowly, leisurely, following ancient routes unmarked on maps. Their hooves write stories in the dust. On the horizon, the heat shimmers, forming phantom images of amber cities.

In the villages bordering the lake, the days awaken with song. Women carry jugs on their heads, painted with symbols that only the elders can interpret. Children run through the shallow water, chasing dragonflies with the colors of iridescent gemstones. An old man carves masks from pale wood. His hands are slow but sure—like the land itself.

Sudland knows no hustle and bustle. It rejects the rhythm of the outside world. No chimes dictate the course of the day, only the cries of rainbirds and the flickering of the wind in the grass. In the capital, Kevala, where houses of black glass and red clay blend into one another, trees grow through the roofs.

People there celebrate every time it rains – not out of need, but out of gratitude.

At night, the sky over Sudland shimmers like broken ore. The stars seem to draw closer, as if listening. Storytellers sit around fires, talking of the time before time, when the mountains could run and the rivers spoke. No one interrupts them.

Sudland isn't a place you visit. It's a place that welcomes you—if you're willing to be silent, to marvel, to linger.

Anshalyn opens the old oak door of her half-timbered house, and a cool morning breeze greets her. Her long, blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, lightly weighted with dew, catching the first light of day. The sky above Rosenheim is blue, flecked with delicate clouds. She breathes deeply the scent of moist earth and blooming roses growing at the edge of her small vegetable garden.

Behind her, the gentle cawing of a raven and an old owl sounds in the branches, familiar since they first moved in. Then she hears a distant whistle: Askandar is already at work in the fields. Her companion's amber eyes shine, even though the morning sun has barely crested the hills. He waves to her as he guides the plow back to the tool shed.

Anshalyn closes the door and gets to work in the garden. Between row after row of juicy carrots, crunchy peas, and black currants, she keeps an eye out for unwanted weeds. Her nimble hands separate nettles from the beds, and occasionally she strokes the thorns of a rosebush, whispering a quiet prayer of thanks for its beauty and fragrance.

As she turns around, Askandar comes descending the narrow gravel path. He's wearing his leather cap on the back of his neck, his sleeves rolled up. Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead.

“Good morning, my light elf,” he calls, a mischievous smile on his lips.

Anshalyn laughs and pats him on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

"Good morning, my field keeper. Have you hugged enough earth yet?"

He shakes his head, reaches for a basket she holds out to him, and fills it with ripe tomatoes.

"Better here than any throne. But your breakfast awaits."

They return to the house together. Inside, the cookware is already clattering: bacon strips sizzle in butter on the stove, and the scent of leeks mingles with the smoke Askandar is currently letting out through the open window. Anshalyn puts on an apron, ties Askandar's loose fringe on his cap ribbon, and gets to work. She dices the vegetables, scrambles eggs into a frothy mixture, and pours them into the cast-iron skillet.

“Will you tell me one of your songs today?” asks Askandar as he toasts two slices of crusty bread on the fire.

Anshalyn smiles and pulls the lid off the pan.

"Of course. I wrote one today when I saw the moon over the woods at night." She arranges the scrambled eggs on plates and takes a small flute from the kitchen drawer. "Sit down and I'll sing to you while we eat."

He sits down, folds his hands, and looks at her expectantly. She raises her flute, takes a deep breath, and plays the introduction – a gentle whistle like wind chimes.

Then she begins to sing softly. Her clear voice resounds in the dawn.

" In a peaceful hour, in the breath of night, love grows like a flower from ancient splendor. Where swords have fallen silent, our song resounds, and peace takes root where misfortune once bloomed."

Askandar closes his eyes and savors every note, his smile widening. As the song fades, he rises and kisses Anshalyn gently.

“Your voice heals even old wounds.”

After breakfast, they set off together to begin the day in the fields. Askandar guides the plow, while Anshalyn walks beside him, a hand on his strong shoulder. They barely speak, for the silence here is precious—only the rattle of the plow, the chirping of the cicadas, and the rustling of the grass in the light breeze. Occasionally, she points out brown patches in the field or picks up a fallen tomato.

Around midday, they take a break under an old oak tree. Askandar takes bread and cheese from his backpack, while Anshalyn rummages in her bag for dried mushrooms and fresh quark. They share their meal, laughing over childhood memories and quietly dreaming of the next garden expansions.

In the afternoon, they visit the village. Anshalyn hands a handful of medicinal herbs to a sick little girl in bed, while Askandar repairs a rusty plow wheel with the blacksmith. The villagers greet them with genuine respect, not out of fear, but out of pure gratitude.

As the sun sets, they return home. A fire crackles in the forge next door, and Toran, the blacksmith, hands them freshly crafted tools as thanks for their help.

Askandar places a hand on Anshalyn's back, and she feels the warmth of his presence.

In the evening, they sit on the veranda. A light rain begins to fall, and the patter of the drops on the roof sounds like a soothing song. Anshalyn leans against Askandar, and he puts his arm around her. Fireflies rise, dancing in the flickering light of the lantern.

"I could live like this forever," whispers Askandar. "I've experienced many things, but happiness has never been so easy."

Anshalyn nods, brushing a curl from his chin.

"The simple life is often the greatest gift. Here we are not rulers, but guardians—of the land, of peace, of each other."

They watch as the village grows quieter in the rain, as the lights in the windows go out one by one. And as the wind carries a final song through the rose bushes, they know: This is their kingdom, far greater than any royal throne.

As the sun sinks behind the hills of Rosenheim and evening gently settles over the rooftops, a special stillness descends upon the village. The children are long gone to bed, and the lanterns cast a dim light on the narrow streets. Only Anshalyn remains awake as she returns home from her nightly strolls: With quiet steps, she opens the veranda door, steps onto the damp gravel, and listens to the distant rustling of the woods.

Then it rings out: a deep, almost melodious drone vibrating through the cool air. Like a distant echo of ancient times, the sound drifts across the rooftops, and those few still awake suspect there's more to it. In Rosenheim, no one talks about it, but in the silence, everyone who should know knows: a dragon is circling above the village.

Anshalyn raises her gaze to the sky. There, a mighty silhouette emerges in the last red of the sky: wings as wide as the Sudara River sweep silently through the air. A golden-green shimmer surrounds them in the twilight. Slowly, with the serenity of a king in his realm, the mythical creature descends its circles and finally glides to land in Anshalyn's garden.

Barely a rustle in the bushes, not a creak from a branch—and then he stands there: Skilasson. His body is powerful, yet graceful, elf-like lines embrace him; his skin shimmers in all the greens of the forest, and sparkling amber eyes gaze wisely and familiarly. He lowers his head in a reverential gesture, and Anshalyn steps forward as if greeting an old friend.

" Skilasson," she whispers, a smile lifting her lips. "You're back." With a deep hum, Skilasson glides closer, sniffs her hand, and lets out a soft purring sound—his greeting.

Anshalyn sits down on the low wall separating the garden from the fields. Askandar, just returning from his nightly patrol, stops at the gate and raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“A dragon?” he asks quietly, as if he hardly believes his senses.

She waves to him.

"Not just any dragon. Skilasson. He's guarding us."

Askandar steps closer and examines the mighty back, clinging to it with moss and ivy like jewelry. Then he cautiously extends his hand.

"Reminds me of..." He stops, searching for words. "Something I know."

Anshalyn nods sadly.

“You know the legend of Skilas – my first dragon,” she says in a low voice.

Many years ago, in the midst of the war against Norkamp, Anshalyn found a young dragon, barely larger than a dog. She named him Skilas and raised him, teaching him to fly and understand his faintest murmurs. But in a fateful battle, Skilas strayed onto a battlefield, where he was mistaken for a hostile beast.

"We met in the dragon's lair—mother and son searching for the enemy's weapon," she begins. "In a duel, I slew him, unaware that it was him, convinced I was facing a monster. Only when I was about to heal his wound did I recognize his familiar heartbeat. Too late. But I found his cub, which I could only save by taking it with me to Rosenheim. This dragon is him: Skilasson."

Askandar puts his hand on Anshalyn's shoulder.

"You did what you had to do in that war. But Skilasson knows you're his mother."

Skilasson lowers his head, and with a low growl, his snout touches Anshalyn's knee. His eyes hold forgiveness—and the joy of being with her again.

Askandar and Anshalyn sit down in the soft grass, while Skilasson rests in front of them, his enormous wings wrapped around him. The village lanterns blink behind the trees, and the first stars twinkle above.

"I'm never afraid of dragons anymore," Askandar says quietly. "No one who protects you can be a monster."

She smiles weakly.

“But I was afraid of myself back then.”

Askandar takes her hand and squeezes it comfortingly and with understanding.

"You are a physician of souls, Anshalyn. You heal wounds no sword has inflicted."

Anshalyn sighs and turns to the dragon.

“ Skilasson…” He raises his head, and her voice trembles barely audibly: “I should never have lost you.”

Skilasson responds only with a deep growl. Then he slowly rises and spreads his wings. In the shadow of his wings, moonlight glitters like a thousand diamonds.

“Come,” says Anshalyn, “give me your claw.”

Slowly, Skilasson places his paw in her hand. A tingling sensation runs through her veins—the ancient magic of her childhood awakens, and she feels the connection between elf and dragon, stronger than ever before.

Askandar moves toward them, gently places a hand on Skilasson's shoulder, and together they stand there—woman, man, and dragon, united in a silence that is stronger than any words.

"Rosenheim has found its protection," whispers Anshalyn. "As long as Skilasson flies, no harm is near."

The dragon responds with a deep, resonant cry—the call that few outside the village ever hear. Then he folds his wings, bows, and with a final glance at his home in Rosenheim, he takes off, gliding silently over the rooftops.

At dawn, however, no mortal will discover the imprint of his claws in the dew. Only Anshalyn and Askandar know of the ancient alliance: a secret as old as war, as new as peace, and guarded by a dragon living in freedom.

One evening, as the sun sets over the village, a stranger suddenly appears. He is a middle-aged man, tall and imposing, his hair shimmering white-blond in the last light of the sun, and his eyes carry the coolness of a north wind. A cloak of fine, dark blue cloth rests on his shoulders, and from his belt dangles the symbol of a Draconic kingdom unknown here.

The villagers gather suspiciously around the well. Old Mrs. Bieler raises a warning finger, while Toran, the blacksmith, frowns. But when the stranger gradually reveals his sincere smile and asks for shelter in a calm, polite voice, they back away. They grant him a night's lodging at the "Rosy Bud" inn and promise to discuss his future at daybreak.

The next morning, Anshalyn and Askandar gather at the village inn to meet the stranger. He sits on a wooden chair, his hands resting loosely in his lap, the shutters half-open, casting light on his aged but well-groomed face.

He bows slightly.

"My name is Ydecto of Darmanor," he introduces himself, his voice tinged with authority. "I travel through these lands to bring peace and aid where power and order are wavering."

The villagers exchange glances. Rosenheim, however, knows no major strife, only rural tranquility. Askandar clears his throat.

"We have found peace here. The fields are planted, and our houses are standing firm. What brings you to us?" he asks the stranger with a skeptical look.

Ydecto's gaze wanders to Anshalyn, who is standing next to Askandar. A barely perceptible twinkle in his eyes arouses her first unease.

"I've heard of an extraordinary healer," he replies, leaning toward Anshalyn. "And I believe that Rosenheim's magic could flourish under the leadership of such a... radiant personality."

Anshalyn feels her heart racing. She remembers Askandar's loyalty and the quiet security they found in Rosenheim.

"I thank you for your kind words," she says coolly. "But I serve this village as a guardian, not as a ruler."

In the following days, Ydecto stays in the village, occasionally helping out at the inn, talking with the farmers, and offering advice that is initially welcome. But it soon becomes apparent that every word he says also contains a demand. He asks for advice from the elders, but uses it to explore his own plans; he gives small gifts to children, just to gain their trust.

One evening, as Anshalyn is closing the shutters, Ydecto steps behind her into the dim lamplight. His gaze remains fixed on her, a strange smile playing on his lips.

"Anshalyn," he says softly, placing a hand on her arm, "your beauty and your power fascinate me. Let me rule by your side."

She pulls her hand back and takes a step aside.

"Ydecto, I appreciate your company, but I am happy with Askandar. My loyalty is to him."

A shadow passes over Ydecto's face. He releases his hand, straightens up, and his smile reveals a cold hardness.

"Then you stand in the way of my leadership." His voice rises to a somber command. "I, Ydecto of Darmanor, hereby declare myself the local colonel of Rosenheim." He makes a gesture that brooks no objection.

A murmur runs through the narrow alley as Ydecto places a new seal on the village gate: a white-blond dragon above two crossed swords. He summons the few guards Rosenheim has as military police and forces them to swear direct loyalty to him. The old councilmen are intimidated by his followers, and announcements soon hang in the "Rosy Bud" inn: Ydecto ascends the throne of the village's chief and issues the first rule: Any gathering of more than three people is henceforth subject to his approval.

Anshalyn and Askandar stand aside, their faces pale. They have neither army nor weapons, only the silent magic and the loyalty of the dragon, which now circles over the village. But they feel powerless against Ydectos's swift seizure of power.

In their house, they discuss the situation in whispers. Askandar clenches his fists, while Anshalyn lowers her gaze, trembling.

"He has intimidated the villagers," she whispers. "If we oppose him, the people will suffer."

Askandar gently places a hand on her cheek.

"I don't know what to do. But I will protect you."

She nods, and the state of limbo between resistance and submission settles over Rosenheim.

In the silence of that first evening, while Ydecto resides in his new office, both sense: the peace they had painstakingly won is fragile – and the villagers are on the brink of a game whose rules Ydecto alone determines. Thus, the evening ends in silent dread, while Rosenheim holds his breath and an ominous silence envelops the square in front of the inn, whispering the foreboding of dark times.

The morning dawns gray, and Ydecto walks through the narrow streets with his eyes lowered. His thoughts revolve around Anshalyn—her utter rejection of his advances has pierced his proud heart. He plots revenge and casts a glance up at the half-timbered house where the elf lives.

The morning mist still lies like a fine veil over Rosenheim when Ydecto quietly stops in front of Anshalyn and Askandar's low half-timbered house. The house is still slumbering: pale golden light spills from a narrow window, and somewhere an owl beats its wing. No one sees Ydecto linger in the shadow of an old elm tree, his hands clasped behind his back, his coat collar turned up.

"Anshalyn," he whispers softly. "Come what may, I will have you and become your master by your side, even if it means forming an alliance with the darkest figures in the world."

He breathes in the moist morning air and feels his heart beat faster. Just a few days ago, Askandar mocked him—he seemed to be looking at an empty, faceless man. Askandar, the farmer with the amber eyes who had made himself popular in Rosenheim. And Anshalyn, the elf-like healer who unwaveringly defied him. This pair must be separated, and soon.

Ydecto slowly strokes the rough wood of the house wall, his gaze fixed on the tiny bed where Anshalyn always grows her medicinal herbs in the evenings. He knows every blade of grass here, every faint creak of the beam. And he also knows the longing gleam in her eyes when she looks at Askandar. He bites his lip: This bond must not last.

A shadow passes over his face as he forms an idea. He removes his hands from his coat, smooths his white-blond hair, and lets the words mature in his mind. Malyssa. The quiet maiden who works in the village school, who is barely noticed—and who, precisely for that reason, is perfectly suited. If he lets it be known that he intends to woo Malyssa's hand, Askandar will be forced to test himself against this alliance. The men of Rosenheim will boast, calling Malyssa the crown jewel of the village. And Askandar, poor in material gifts, will be embarrassed—or forced to leave.

Ydecto smiles coldly and touches the wood of the door with his index finger. In his mind, he already holds the sealed document that will be his proposal. He turns around and disappears silently into the fog—leaving behind a hint of a coming storm: Soon, he will approach Malyssa as a suitor, forge an alliance of honor and cunning, and reorganize Rosenheim as he sees fit. And Askandar? Askandar will have to watch or disappear.

In the late afternoon, an oppressive silence hangs over Rosenheim. The last rays of sunlight reflect in the shutters, while Ydecto, in his dark cloak and with the bearing of a prince, calls the men of the village to the large table by the fountain. There, he has already set up three empty pedestals—one for himself, one for Malyssa, and the third for the villagers' gifts. Ydecto steps onto the middle pedestal and raises his hand.

"Citizens of Rosenheim!" he calls out energetically. His voice echoes loudly. "Soon I will ask for the hand of this fair maiden."

He points to Malyssa, who stands pale and hesitant beside him. The young men nod eagerly, the older ones exchange questioning glances.

"What does he want?" a faint murmur is heard. "Who is he that he dares to do this?"

But Ydecto continues unfazed. The whispers of the humans pass him by like an echo from nowhere.

"But before we celebrate this alliance," he continues pointedly, "I demand signs of your loyalty." He gestures toward the podiums. "Bring me a gift of great value by dawn—only then will I know who is worthy to witness my bond with Malyssa!"

A murmur runs through the rows. Old Mrs. Bieler whispers fearfully: "He demands that we hand over everything valuable..."

Toran the blacksmith grinds his teeth.

"And Askandar? He has nothing..."

As the evening progresses, the villagers rush about. Konrad the Baker calls to his wife: "Get the gold coin from the chest! We have something to show Ydecto!"

Mrs. Bieler leans toward her grandson and whispers, "Take my silver serving utensils. They've been in our family for generations."

In his forge, Toran heavy-heartedly places his master sword on the anvil and murmurs: "If there is mercy, may he honor it and not turn it into anger."

The Ziegler family artfully stacks bricks into a flower shape—their last supply for the winter.

Askandar, however, stands aside, his hands empty, his heart heavy. Anshalyn approaches him and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. "My love, you will find a solution."

"I have no gold, no craftsmanship," says Askandar in a deep voice. "Yet I dare to offer you a gift that even the gods fear: the head of Medusa."

A murmur runs through the men; Ydecto flashes like a bird of prey, moves slowly toward Askandar, and asks with cold mockery: "The Medusa? Do you think I'm into hunting mythical creatures?"

Askandar raises his chin.

" My word is my life. Should I lie? Or do you dare to doubt it?" Ydecto laughs abruptly, so sharply that the birds flutter in the trees. His eyes narrow.

"You foolish fool!" he hisses. "Your promise is nothing but vain mockery. I hereby declare war on you!"

He pulls out a document sealed in blood-red wax and dramatically fires it onto the ground.

“Leave Rosenheim by dawn, or you will meet the blades of my soldiers!”

The villagers retreat in horror. One man groans: "He's bringing us to ruin!"

Anshalyn steps forward, her blond hair barely visible in the torchlight. Her voice is clear and demanding.

“Ydecto, you are abusing your power!”

Ydecto whirls around and hisses: "Shut up, elf! This village belongs to me!"

Askandar stands protectively in front of her.

“You can kill me, but you can never break my love!”

And as dusk falls, the village assembly breaks up. Fearfully, the residents return to their homes, fearing a new war that will soon break out inexorably upon them.

Chapter 4 - The beginning of the search

The early mists creep between the gnarled trunks of the forest as Anshalyn and Askandar enter the inconspicuous path, unknown to anyone but them. Leaves rustle beneath their feet, and the air smells of damp moss and old wood. Askandar leads the way, his shoulders hunched, while Anshalyn follows close behind, her hands tightly gripping the staff she brought with her from Rosenheim.

They're on the run – from Ydecto, the new ruler of Rosenheim, who has condemned Askandar and rules the village with an iron fist. Brave and full of resources, Askandar manages to hide their camp for the first few nights. They pitch their tent deep in the thicket, hunt game for supplies, and drink water from clear forest springs. But the constant tension leaves them barely able to catch their breath: Behind every root, behind every shadow, a spy from Ydecto could be lurking.

On the fourth day—after hours of wading through ferns and climbing over mossy tree trunks—they reach a small clearing. A hollow tree stump serves as a natural hiding place, and ivy vines grow thickly above it, using it as camouflage. Anshalyn wipes her brow and takes a deep breath, while Askandar circles the tree stump, checking it out.

“Here,” she whispers, “we can stay for a while without being discovered.”

Askandar nods, his eyes still searching. He puts down his backpack, pulls out a loaf of bread, and breaks it in two.

“Bread and water,” he says gently.

“We are enjoying the peace, however short it may be,” adds Anshalyn.

They sit down on a fallen branch, sharing their meal in a heavy silence. The forest around them is alive: birds chirp, a deer cautiously steps in the distance. But there is no peace in their hearts.

After they've eaten, Anshalyn looks questioningly at Askandar. The twilight softens his features.

“Tell me, Askandar,” she begins cautiously, “do you really think we should look for Medusa’s head?”

He puts his hands in his lap and looks at her seriously.

"I've been thinking about it ever since Ydecto punished me. If I bring the head of Medusa—one of the three Gorgons—then it will prove to everyone: I am strong enough to protect Sudland. Perhaps I can reverse the tide of events. Perhaps I can overthrow Ydecto."

Anshalyn swallows hard. "You know what Gorgons are—scaly creatures with snake hair whose gaze instantly petrifies anyone. There are three of them in the world: Stheno, Euryale, and the terrible Medusa herself. And their head is a den of deadly snakes. No one who looks her in the eye escapes unscathed. You will die if you raise your sword."

Askandar lowers his gaze. His voice sounds firm, but also tired.

"I know, elf. But if not me, who then? Who can save Sudland? The realm of a king who, in his hatred of me, plunges the land into disaster? I cannot remain inactive while the cities on the horizon fall into turmoil."

She puts her hand on his arm.

"There are other ways to end the war. Diplomacy, alliances, perhaps my magical powers..."

He shakes his head and stands up.

"The years of peace talks are over. A new war threatens Sudland. I see troops in the valleys, hungry for new lands. If I bring the head of Medusa, I will conquer the princes of Sudland..." he pauses, raising his fist, "...then they will tremble before me, and no one will dare to stand against me."

She gives him a piercing look, her blonde strands falling into her face.

“And if you don’t come back?”

Askandar takes a deep breath and searches her eyes.

“Then you hold my last hope in your hands, my love.”

Anshalyn feels a shudder, but stands up.

"So be it. But you won't go alone. I'll stay by your side—whether you want it or not."

He puts an arm around her and gently pulls her towards him.

"I love you, Anshalyn. When we return, there will be peace."

Night falls deeper. They find another hiding place under the dense canopy of leaves, light a small, hidden ember, and snuggle together. But in Askandar's eyes, there is already the ember of the possessed—the will to tempt his fate.

On the fifth day after their escape, they leave the thicket of the clearing and follow a narrow path leading into the mountains of Sudland. The cliffs tower threateningly into the sky, and the air turns cold.

An eerie echo reverberates from the walls, as if the stones themselves were whispering. This gorge is called the Sound of Screams because a simple gust of wind through the steep eastern gullies produces deadly whistle-like sounds.

Anshalyn hesitates as she reaches the entrance area.

Askandar steps forward and shakes her hand. "We have to move on."

She places her hands on the staff, breathes in the nightmarish silence, and follows him. Each step echoes metallically as they press deeper into the rock. They pause occasionally when the whispering swells, touching their bodies like a cold hand. Then Anshalyn clasps Askandar's arm, tilts her head to the side, and listens to the ghostly sounds.

She murmurs quietly, "These voices... they don't sound like our dead. It's as if they're trying to warn us."

Askandar answers quietly: “Or they show us the way.”

At the end of the gorge, they reach a steep rock face where crystal-clear springs form rivulets that run over smooth slabs. An ancient altar made of weathered stone stands half-hidden in the cave. Engravings depict a woman with snake-like hair, whose eyes ooze like drops of the finest gold.

"Here," whispers Askandar. He dips his hand into the cold water, tasting it. "This place is as sharp as a sanctuary."

Anshalyn leans forward and reads the runes. "'He who dares to see his reflection, dares death,'" she translates. "We need a list of precautions—we can't look directly into it."

Askandar nods.

“But we have to go back.”

They return to the hideout, cross the forest again, and Anshalyn begins gathering supplies for the journey: dried meat, berries, and herbs that relieve nausea.

Nights pass, days pass, and quietly, Askandar grows convinced that only the head of a Medusa holds the key to peace. He sits by the fire he has lit in a crevice, gazing into the flames, while Anshalyn weaves beside him: setting snares for game, tying elastic cords to secure herself and Askandar.

She hands him a bowl of steaming stew and speaks quietly: "You really think this head will stop the war?"

He smiles weakly and blows away the sharp steam.

"It's a symbol." He places his hand on hers. "And symbols have power. When the princes see Medusa's offering, they will hesitate. For whoever dares to challenge a Medusa dares to challenge themselves."

Anshalyn tilts her head and whispers, “I don’t want you to die.”

He kisses her forehead.

"Then stay by my side. If anyone has to share this path with me, it's you."

The longer they linger in the seclusion of the forest, the clearer it becomes to Askandar that his life will not end with the gentle days of hiding. His gaze wanders up to the blue sky and across to the distant mountain ranges beyond which the world is ablaze.

"Anshalyn," he says, standing up, "we must move on. We are ready."

She puts the staff aside and pulls her cloak tighter around herself.

“Then let’s go.”

Askandar takes one last look at their reunited camp, the two silhouettes before the flickering fire, and nods.

“For Sudland. For peace.”

And so they set out for the third time, certain that the path to the Gorgon's lair will take them further away from the world - and closer to the fate they challenge with a bold heart.

The moon stands high above the rugged cliffs as Anshalyn and Askandar venture into the gorges once more. The rock walls stand close together, cold and impenetrable, as if swallowing strangers. They creep forward on weary legs, supporting each other, while the cold wind whistles hollowly through the ridges. Each step echoes, as if the cliffs were calling for them to give up.

They walk for hours without discovering a hint of life: no bird, no rustling of game, no shimmering glow in the darkness. Only they, the gravel beneath their feet, and the unyielding rocks that act as sentinels.

Anshalyn, her blond hair now windblown and dusty, pauses briefly. She wipes the sweat from her brow and looks at Askandar, whose amber eyes glow in the gloom.

“I don’t know how much longer we can endure this,” she whispers hoarsely.

Askandar places a calming hand on her back.

"Just a little longer," he murmurs. "Somewhere around here must be the wayside the legend speaks of."

But the further they advance, the more barren the land becomes. In places, only sparse branches cling to the rocks, appearing in the darkness like skeletons of gray wood. Twice they rush past steep cliffs where the ground plunges into the abyss as if great mouths were pulling them down. Askandar slips several times, and only thanks to Anshalyn's swift grasp does he avoid getting stuck.

Around midnight, when they can barely take a step, dark clouds gather over the rocky peaks. A storm is brewing, and rain suddenly pours down on them in heavy drops. The stones become slimy, and any grip could mean their end.

Anshalyn stops, shivering from cold and exhaustion.

"Askandar... I can't go on," she stammers. Her knees almost give out.

Gratefully, he supports her as best he can. "We have to move on."