In those days, the people of the Hwarnij wandered through a terrifying storm, seeking salvation. The noble warrior clan Vinair, accompanied by birds of prey; the hunter clan Kvanari with their dogs; the clan Gavain with their cattle; and the clan Santra, who followed behind—all of them marched through the darkness. Yet they carried hope with them: the light of the Great Aderan hidden within a hollow staff. When they stepped onto the island in the midst of the lake, they opened the staff. Then, strengthened by the first Great Song, the Great Aderan emerged, and from its glowing vapors rose the sun, which drove away the moon and the wolf and serpent demons. And along with the Great Aderan, Machuznatar, the highest of gods, emerged from the staff. Some of the demons, when they beheld the great light, cast away the darkness and joined the Hwarnij—these are known today as the Darins.

Legend of the Arrival of the Hwarnij

The autumn night peered through the open window into the room. A single pair of human eyes returned the gaze of the countless sparkling eyes of the stars. Vathila Melittar lay on her back, staring into the dark. She tried not to think of the oppressive dream that had awakened her. She could not remember exactly what she had dreamed. But long ago, she had stopped screaming and talking in her sleep; long ago, she had stopped tossing and turning. She hid her dreams within herself, though they never left her.

Gently, she embraced her husband, who slept by her side, his head resting on her shoulder. Vathila studied Khóruin’s face in the moonlight. Sleep had softened his hard, sharp features and lent him a certain strange beauty. Vathila turned her thoughts away from the terrifying trembling of the earth that had occurred shortly after dusk—restless ripples had run across the lake, and smaller objects had fallen to the ground… The woman shuddered and suppressed a sting of fear.

She looked out the window again. It was as if she were mentally counting the stars, the sparks of the Great Aderan that burned in the temple at the center of the Inner City, protecting them from being consumed by the nightly darkness full of demons. Vathila thought of the joy of dancing among the fireflies of sparks from many ceremonial fires. And of the strange, vague, longingly sad dream that sometimes visited her when she was alone, and which she kept secret from everyone, including her two brothers and her husband.

“Khóruin… I love you. You can rely on me. I am here… for you,” she whispered. With small, delicate hands, she ruffled his hair without waking him. Then Vathila Melittar of the Vinairs closed her eyes again and sent a silent prayer to Machuznatar, that the sun would rise in the morning—so that the night would not last an eternity.

The voice of a bell rang through the darkness. The Inner City of Arka came to life. The Hwarnij were waking, rising, and preparing for the temple. They were preparing to summon the sun.

While in the Outer City, in Darika, everyone was still deep in sleep, the inhabitants of Arka flowed into the temple. The bell rang again. The bell-ringer was, of course, the Master Smith—Ghar Varkias. The pure tone rang for the third time.

Khóruin and Vathila entered the temple along with the others. In the center of the vast amphitheater, which was rapidly filling, the Great Aderan blazed under the open sky within a stone ring. A tall pillar of bright fire, nourished by the Song and loyalty, lashed toward the dark sky. Around it stood the priests, the magoi, and Hagias, the ruler of the city. Further out stood the heads of the clans Vinair, Kvanari, Gavain, and Santra, followed by the heads of individual families with their offspring. The Great Song began.

First, deep voices, resonating through the entire space, shaking the listeners to their bones. Deep, strong, powerful voices. And slowly, others joined them—higher, clearer. The melody of the Great Song, which had perhaps flowed in the veins of the Hwarnij for all generations. Vathila opened her mouth, and her voice merged with the others. Khóruin sang among the deeper voices, but she could not hear him—she heard only the single Song. Their singing grew through the voices of the others; the individual motifs of the song wove together firmly and inseparably to create a whole.

The priests turned their faces to the east and reached out their hands. The Song intensified, sounding with incredible power and majesty. A bright strip of dawn appeared in the sky. And from the glowing vapors of the Great Aderan and the mighty Song of the Hwarnij, a new sun arose.

      Khóruin Melittar was heading to his work. He was somewhat surprised when he was stopped by the wizard Hiranya, his teacher of magic. The usually smiling, friendly old man now appeared grave and worried.

“Hail, Master. Has something happened?” Khóruin asked.

“Summon your friends. After the midday meal, all of you stop by my house,” the wizard replied. He turned away immediately and walked off. Khóruin turned on his heel and set out to find his wife’s older brother—Taihun. With his help, he hoped to gather the others in time. Hiranya was likely meant to relay a task from Hagias Whitehead. Hagias occasionally used the skills of Khóruin and his friends and relatives, among whom were both warriors and wizards. Khóruin shook his head and quickened his pace.

Taihun was systematically making rounds through Arka to ensure that the earth’s tremors had not damaged any houses. He greeted Khóruin with a grave nod and fixed his attentive eyes on him.

“After lunch, we are all to meet at Hiranya’s. It seems he will have something for us,” Khóruin said without preamble.

“Could it be related to the trembling of the earth?” Taihun asked, also very matter-of-factly.

“Perhaps. The Master didn’t tell me anything specific, but he looked worried. I wanted to ask you to find Ivain.”

“Fine. Should I get anyone else?”

“I think if you get Ivain and I get everyone else, we’ll have the work split half and half.”

      Taihun took his heavy wooden staff and set out joylessly for Darika. At one of the gates connecting the Inner and Outer City, he asked a guard if he had seen Ivain.

“You mean your ‘accomplished’ brother?” the man smiled.

“Yes, unfortunately, I mean my unaccomplished brother,” Taihun replied gloomily.

“I saw him,” the guard said. “After the morning Song, he staggered through here. He didn’t look very happy and headed toward the Outer City with an uncertain step.” Taihun frowned even more and set off in the roughly indicated direction.

Inquiring after Ivain was not difficult. The children of the Darins, playing in the streets, knew him well. They loved listening to him when he sang various street songs to the accompaniment of his lute, and they loved even more throwing stones at the nightingales that accompanied Ivain in great numbers.

Ivain was sleeping off his night in a hayloft, which had been kindly offered as a refuge by one of the Darins, who was an enthusiastic admirer of Ivain’s music. Taihun pounded on the door with his staff.

“Get out here, you drunkard!” he called out, none too kindly. No answer. Taihun went inside and unceremoniously poked the hay several times with the end of his staff.

“Looking for someone, little brother?” Ivain’s sweet voice came from above him. The bard sat in relative safety on the loft of the haybarn, looking down at his older brother. “What brings you to the Lower City? You hardly ever come here…”

“Your debauchery dragged me here,” Taihun growled.

“Debauchery? What is debauchery? I don’t know that word…” Ivain looked innocent, and had Taihun not known him for eighteen years, he might have believed him. But under the circumstances, Taihun was not accepting innocent looks.

“Be sure to come home for lunch. After the meal, we are all to meet at Hiranya’s. And you will be there too!” he shouted up and headed back to Arka.

      Alphia Karian, dressed in hunting trousers and a tunic with a torn sleeve, stood on the shore of the lake, throwing stones at fish. This method of fishing certainly had no significant effect, but the huntress didn’t intend for it to. Askra sat beside her, her coppery-brown hair falling loosely over her shoulders. The wizardess from the Atharvan family only occasionally slapped the surface with her palm, which mostly just splashed Alphia.

“They say the Chief Hunter’s favorite dog ran off three days ago. Has it returned yet?” Askra asked. Alphia shook her head sadly.

“No. Master Tilukas has already performed the funeral rites for him. He misses his dog dearly…”

“Look! Someone is coming!” the young wizardess pointed out. Alphia shaded her eyes against the brightness of the autumn sun. She squinted her extraordinarily sharp eyes.

“It’s Khóruin. I wonder what’s going on now…” Both girls waited until the young man reached them.

He greeted both Askra and his half-sister Alphia with a friendly embrace. He was glad to see her again—especially since, after moving to the Melittar family following his marriage to Vathila, he did not see his siblings as often as before.

“Hiranya came to see me; he looked worried,” Khóruin began. Askra raised an eyebrow and clicked her tongue in dissatisfaction. Like Khóruin and his brother Riva, she was also Hiranya’s apprentice. A grave expression was indeed not something seen on his face very often. Khóruin nodded in agreement with Askra’s concern.

“After lunch, we are all to appear at his place. Let Saimún know as well.” The girl smiled.

“I’ll tell him. Give my regards to Vathila.”

Khóruin headed toward the smithy. On the way, he was drawn to a cluster of people on one of the streets of Arka. Riva had apparently provoked a practice duel with Chardan, one of his cousins. And Riva was now getting a real beating, as Chardan was a very good swordsman.

Khóruin waited calmly until the duel ended. Then he helped Riva up. Riva, whose face was still delicate and graceful despite the sweat and dust, smiled at his older brother.

“Why don’t you choose an equal opponent, can you tell me that?” Khóruin asked, feigning sternness. “From someone like that, you could at least learn something and improve gradually.”

“We each have our own way,” Riva replied carelessly, dusting himself off.

“Come to Hiranya’s after lunch; something is going on,” the older of the brothers said quietly. He nodded farewell and continued on his way. He had barely taken a few steps away when Riva was already jumping about lively again, shouting at Chardan:

“So, how about a rematch?!”

In the smithy, hammers rang rhythmically. Around the anvil stood Ghar the Elder—the Master Smith—and his apprentices: the hulking Muhur and Ghar Karian of the Kvanari. Khóruin stood by the door and waited patiently. It took a long time before the sound of the hammers ceased, though Ghar the Elder could not have missed Khóruin.

Finally, the master—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a gray beard braided into small plaits—turned to Khóruin.

“Do you need something?”

“Hail, Master. I would like to speak with Ghar the Younger,” the young man replied politely.

Ghar Karian came closer, his face bearing its usual, strangely thoughtful expression. Khóruin, however, had no illusions that anything significant was happening in Ghar’s head. Although the blacksmith’s apprentice was among the strongest men in Arka, he was not blessed with much intellect, and explaining things to him was sometimes utter torment.

“Ghar, after lunch we are to go to the wizard Hiranya. You must be there too, alright?” Khóruin said. He wasn’t entirely sure what was happening behind his brother’s eyes—sometimes Ghar’s mind worked quite quickly, other times one couldn’t even get a response to a greeting.

The strongman slowly, calmly nodded. “I will tell the master and I will come,” he replied slowly.

Khóruin, Vathila, her brothers Taihun and Ivain, Khóruin’s siblings Riva, Alphia, and Ghar, and their friend Askra—whose brother Saimún was the only one missing—stood before the wizard’s house. Finally, the master appeared.

“Together with other magoi, I have discovered that something unusual is happening in the forests to the northeast of here, near the road to Lerna. It seems a certain power is awakening there, which has affected the perception of the wizards so that we now know of it. It is necessary for someone to go there while that power is still in its infancy and weak. It will suffice if, in the center of that area, upon an unblemished spot, you kindle a fire that will be a descendant of the Great Aderan and guard it for one night. Alphia and Riva surely know the place; it is a shallow little valley about five hours’ walk from here. To ensure the fire you build is the purest descendant of the Great Aderan, the fire-bearer Chardan will go with you,” the mage said with unusual brevity.

“Master, do you know what could have caused the tremors of the earth? Could it have anything to do with our task?” Khóruin asked.

“Regarding those tremors, we have argued much in the Circle. No one here remembers a time when something similar happened. They say that in the times when our ancestors arrived, the earth shook several times until the waters of the lake grew turbulent. It seems it is caused by lightning trapped in the ground. As you surely know, there are two kinds of lightning—those that come from the sky, and those that come from the earth. Perhaps through our behavior, we have caused the lightning from the earth to be temporarily unable to escape, and it thrashes about, imprisoned. But if the tremors do not recur, there is no need for concern.”

“So it couldn’t be some massive monster crawling out of the ground?”

“I believe not. Prepare for the journey; Chardan will be waiting for you here.”

Taihun was ready first. He wore chainmail with a sword at his waist, a backpack with essentials on his back, and a spear in his hand. A raven settled on his shoulder with a dark croak. Chardan was also already waiting at the spot, dressed in scale armor decorated with gold and a black hooded cloak stitched with gold thread—the ceremonial attire of the fire-bearers. In his right hand, he held a burning torch wrapped in gold strips, which had been ignited in the Great Aderan.

Soon after, Khóruin appeared in leather armor, also with a sword and a machete, his long dark-brown hair carefully tied with a thong. At his side walked Vathila gravely, dressed in trousers, a tunic, and sturdy boots, a dagger and a sling at her waist; over her shoulder, she carried a bag with food and healing herbs. A kestrel sat on her arm.

Askra, also properly dressed, was rearranging various small semi-precious stones and mysterious objects used by wizards with a cheerful smile. “Saimún can’t come with us. He went somewhere into the forest with other Druvids to meditate. I left him a message,” she mentioned casually. Her tone revealed that she refused to take Druvid meditations particularly seriously.

“That’s a pity. But what can be done. Either he returns early and joins us then, or we must manage without him,” Vathila replied.

Alphia arrived as usual in her hunting gear, a bow over her shoulder and a knife at her waist; her long braid of bright ginger hair looked like living fire in the sun. She turned to Khóruin:

“I went to apologize to Master Tilukas that I would be away today and overnight. But he wasn’t home. When I saw him before, he was very sad about his dog. He said he would take revenge on those who caused it—those who have no name. His dog disappeared somewhere in the eastern part of the forest. Perhaps it is somehow connected to the place we are going…” Khóruin nodded. He never took Alphia’s words lightly.

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Riva and Ghar. Now that Riva stood beside Khóruin, the difference between the two brothers was even more striking. Khóruin’s sharp-featured face seemed like a sketch that someone had only finished with Riva—the younger brother had a delicate and beautiful face, with something feminine about it. Unlike Khóruin’s attentive and concentrated expression, Riva seemed somehow constantly elsewhere, distracted, with thoughts that wandered down very strange paths. Vathila, however, often felt that Riva carried something tragic with him, a sensed omen… His shadow seemed much darker to her than anyone else’s.

At Riva’s feet sat the hound Vása; around Ghar ran his dog Anila. Ghar carried an axe and a machete, and something thin and long, carefully wrapped in cloth, protruded from his backpack. The strongman looked somewhat foolishly mysterious, occasionally mindlessly running his hand through his short ginger hair, the color of which he shared with Alphia.

Besides his sword, Riva also had a simple lyre. Last to arrive was Ivain, sauntering carelessly, wearing a padded doublet and his indispensable lute over his shoulder. The surroundings immediately rang with the enthusiastic singing of nightingales, and Vathila’s kestrel shifted restlessly on its mistress’s arm. The company was ready to set out.

“When I was here several months ago, nothing taller than moss grew here. Let no one tell me this sprouted here on its own in that time,” Alphia said slowly, looking at the lush tangle of bushes and young trees that completely filled the shallow valley, forming an impenetrable wall. The fox Phia, who accompanied the huntress on her forest expeditions, pressed anxiously against her mistress’s leg.

“Couldn’t the Druvids have caused it?” Ghar asked.

“I think not,” Khóruin muttered gloomily and drew his machete. Ghar followed suit, and the two half-brothers began hacking through the wall of vegetation. The others followed through the cut passage. The shadows lengthened with the quietly but inevitably approaching night.

In the center of the overgrown area was a clearing. Ivain’s nightingales, perched on nearby branches, fell silent as if cut off. Both Vása and Phia bristled slightly. In the center of the clearing was a stone—scorched, blackened, and cracked, ruined by some immense force. Around it, in a regular circle, grew unnaturally large and strangely shaped purple mushrooms.

“Anila! No!” Ghar scolded his dog, who ran into the open space and began sniffing the mushrooms as if trying to find out what was so interesting about them that everyone was staring and not moving. At the call, Anila reluctantly returned to his master and fixed him with a reproachful look.

“Lightning must have struck this place,” Riva breathed. Askra looked at him curiously, so the young wizard apprentice continued. “There are two kinds of lightning—those that come from the sky, and those that come from the earth. Those from the sky belong to Machuznatar; those from the earth belong to… the Other One. I don’t know which of them struck here…”

Vathila closed her eyes and raised her hands slightly. Slowly and cautiously, she opened her consciousness. She examined the clearing with a feeling that had little to do with the usual senses. If something happened here, it’s already over… This place is…

“A grave,” the healer said aloud. She exhaled and opened her eyes. “I feel a sense of ending. What we see is likely… a grave of lightning,” she added quietly, realizing that the others had looked her way. Khóruin, knowing his wife’s abilities and aware that exploring certain things could be dangerous, breathed a sigh of relief. Vathila always drifted away along the unpredictable paths of the mind, which were no more certain than the paths of the sword or magic.

Askra was examining the stone with concentration, from an almost unwisely close distance. It seemed to her that the cracks upon it formed some rune; however, it was not one the wizardess knew. She looked questioningly at Riva to see if he saw anything more.

“Only King Hagias can solve this, probably. He alone masters the rune of lightning,” Riva said.

“Fine. Night is approaching quickly; we’ll have to build a fire. Without the light of Aderan, it is very difficult to survive in the nothingness of the night, so there’s no point in heading back to Arka. In the morning, we’ll send someone to bring Hagias,” Khóruin decided practically.

“Where shall we prepare the hearth?” Chardan asked. “We can’t be sure what forces are acting on this clearing. If some supernatural error or influence from the surroundings got into the flames that are descendants of Aderan, it could end badly.”

“We’ll cut a semicircle into those thickets, so we’ll have a view of the lightning grave, but at the same time our fire won’t burn directly on the clearing,” Khóruin replied after a moment’s thought. “We must hurry,” he added.

Ghar and Khóruin set to cutting the stubborn woody plants; everyone else cleared the branches and prepared wood for kindling. Everyone, except Ivain, who sat nearby, strumming his lute and pretending that he wasn’t needed at all and that any work didn’t concern him in the least. He kept this up until Taihun found a moment to give the bard a few unkind words and a promise of several kicks if he didn’t get up immediately. So Ivain, with the expression of a misunderstood artist, moved and reluctantly joined the ongoing activity.

The sun set. The group sat around the fire, prepared to stay awake through the night. Ivain tuned his lute and Riva his lyre. The sacred flames, ignited from Chardan’s torch, danced kindly in the hearth created by the proper ritual, which Khóruin alone in the company could perform.

The moon appeared above the treetops. Its light silvered the forest and lent it a strange, unearthly appearance. The world beyond the reach of the firelight lost its colors. Everything touched by the moonlight shone with a bright snowy whiteness. But where the moon did not reach, absolute darkness reigned—unnaturally deep shadows, such as the Hwarnij never saw by day. The night passed.

“Our father’s cousin is expecting a child soon—in just a few weeks,” Alphia shared news from the Kvanari clan.

“I completely forgot to count the time to that joyful event,” Vathila admitted and smiled. But the smile froze on her lips. Something was moving in the undergrowth around them; she heard it. The healer squeezed the arm of Alphia, who sat beside her:

“Listen! Could it be an animal or a night bird?” The Hwarnij immediately fell silent. And again, that tiny snapping of twigs…

“That is no animal or bird,” the huntress whispered. But she didn’t say “human,” because whoever wandered through the darkness in such a place without the protection of fire surely was not human. She strained her sight and tried to peer through the night darkness. But she saw nothing.

“Try this, sister,” Ghar said. He unwrapped a slender metal arrow from a strip of cloth, its tip forged in the shape of a symbolic flame. The huntress raised an eyebrow questioningly. The smith just silently pointed up.

His sister understood. With lightning speed, she drew her bow and shot the arrow toward the sky. The projectile flew toward the dark sky. It rose higher and higher, spreading a bright fiery glow around itself. The light of the fire and the moon mixed and clashed as if in a struggle for dominance. Shadows danced wildly; the mixed light stabbed at the eyes. No matter how Alphia strained her sight, she could not catch a glimpse of a motionless figure in the frantic confusion of light and dark.

The arrow faded, and darkness and moonlight reigned again in the surroundings. Khóruin carefully added wood to the fire; the company sat closer to the hearth, the warriors’ hands remaining on their weapons. The snapping was no longer heard. Fog began to rise. Thin whitish tongues crawled from the clearing where the lightning grave lay. They carefully avoided the circle of firelight.

Khóruin stood up. Taihun put the tip of his spear into the hearth and rose as well. Both lit their own improvised torches from Chardan’s torch. They stepped to the edge of the light. Khóruin swung his torch into the fog. The fog retreated quickly from the fire, as if it were a living being that feared injury. But immediately it thickened and moved closer.

“By Machuznatar!” Askra hissed and pointed to the clearing. In the white swirls of fog and silver light, a male silhouette was outlined. It was impossible to tell whether it was very tall and standing further away, or of normal size and standing closer. The fog thickened.

A quiet snapping in the bushes assured the company that they might have to face an attack from more than one direction… Whoever had been watching them since dusk was still moving around… Ghar took a torch in one hand and his axe in the other, its edge forged in the flame that was a descendant of the Great Aderan. The massive blacksmith’s apprentice moved to the side opposite where Khóruin and Taihun stood.

“Now we could use another fire arrow,” Alphia murmured. But Ghar just helplessly shrugged his shoulders—he had no second Aderan arrow.

“Alphia… a fire arrow…” Vathila said quietly and showed the huntress an arrow whose tip she was currently wrapping with cloth soaked in who knows what—an incendiary arrow. As soon as she finished the first, she took another in her hand.

The circle of light seemed to be shrinking. Anila, Vása, and Phia huddled by the hearth. The birds somewhere high in the branches preferred not to make themselves known. The moon set. Chardan brandished his sacred torch. Riva moved around the perimeter of the campsite and struck vigorously at the fog with his sword. The effect was very similar to what the torches could do. Riva had forged his sword himself in Ghar the Elder’s workshop. He valued his weapon and never set it aside.

The fog rolled on. The power of the fire weakened; the white wall almost stopped retreating. And it kept thickening… In places, it began to take the shape of monstrous, blurred faces, hands, and bodies… Taihun hurriedly stepped to the hearth and pulled out his spear. Khóruin quickly struck at the fog with his torch and jumped out of Taihun’s way. Vathila’s brother hurled the spear into the fog, directly at the indistinct figure.

Alphia saw the misty vapor flinch before the tip of the weapon and avoid it in flight… A hiss was heard, as if something red-hot had landed in water. The spear disappeared. Taihun and Khóruin cursed in unison. The menacing silhouette on the clearing moved slowly forward.

Extinguish that fire… A firm, commanding voice. Extinguish that fire! A command that did not reach the Hwarnij’s heads through their ears.

“No!” Vathila shrieked and slammed down the latch of her will on the gate of her mind. She felt the blows of the psychic attack echoing in her head. Extinguish it! Now! Extinguish that fire, woman! Open to me!

Ivain firmly gripped his lute in his hands. He immediately began to play and sing beautifully. He sang the song they all knew so well, the song that summons the sun… And at that moment, the sky paled with a strip of dawn. Vathila added her voice to Ivain’s to drown out the echoes in her head.

Riva and Askra sat down in concentration by the fire. The commands coming from the darkness shattered against the steel shells of the will of Hiranya’s apprentices. Flames shot up high. In the center of the hearth, Riva’s rune of Heat writhed and blazed. The sorceress raised her face, tense with concentration. Alphia placed the three incendiary arrows Vathila had prepared for her into the fire. The huntress sensed what Askra was about to do; she had known her long enough for that…

“Now!” the wizardess cried out and abruptly threw out her hands. Khóruin and Taihun jumped out of the way in synchronization, each to a different side. An air vortex, summoned by the Aderan runes the girl mastered, shot out from Askra. The fog flew apart, scattered in all directions.

And exactly at that moment, Alphia shot. The first arrow went straight through the passage in the fog. The second was shot high to fall in an arc. Before the previous two landed, she shot a third—again straight. A terrifying scream rang out, throwing everyone to the ground. And at that moment, the sun rose.

“My spear simply disappeared,” Taihun declared after searching the entire clearing and the surrounding wild growth in vain. “Does anyone have any idea what could have caused it?” he asked, looking directly at Askra.

“We don’t know,” the wizardess replied with a shrug, shading her lovely face from the persistent sun, which had already moved past noon on its journey. The snapping of twigs accompanied the returning Alphia.

“Did you find anything?” Khóruin asked his half-sister.

“The one who was creeping around our campsite during the night left tracks, unlike that monster from the lightning grave. It was likely a man of medium height. No abnormalities in his stride. He came here from the road that connects Arka with Lerna, and from here he headed toward Lerna—but I lost the track, and even Phia couldn’t find it anymore,” Alphia replied.

“That is not good,” Vathila said quietly, sitting tiredly on her cloak.

“Where on earth are Riva and Ghar? They should have been back by now—with Hagias,” Khóruin noted. As if in answer to his words, a massive cracking of crushed branches was heard, as if at least a bear, for whom the cleared space was too narrow, was pushing its way through the partially cut path. Soon after, Ghar Karian emerged from the tangle of plants with a broad smile.

The company visibly sighed with relief. Behind the blacksmith’s apprentice, the slender Riva squeezed onto the clearing. And behind him appeared Hagias Whitehead. The Hwarnij rose and greeted their king.

“Riva has already told me what happened here,” Hagias said and stepped toward the cracked stone with a few limping strides. His black hood slipped from his head, revealing short-cropped white hair and the golden Hwarnij crown.

“My Lord, Alphia discovered that the one who was moving around during the entire fight came from the same road as we did. And was heading toward Lerna,” Vathila said politely. The king did not even turn:

“Fine. Now all of you go back to Arka. I will follow you.”