Klaven sat in the shade of an ancient tree, its wide, gnarled branches stretching high above him, a testament to centuries of life. Nearby, Iredoll’s horse, Bracken, stood grazing lazily on patches of moss and wild grass, his dark coat gleaming faintly in the sunlight. The horse moved with an almost deliberate calm, as if aware of the importance of his master’s journey.

 

Klaven found himself watching the animal, its steady demeanor a stark contrast to his own restless thoughts.He tightened his grip on the sword. Was he a prisoner? The soulbinding mark was gone—he’d realized that days ago—but the question of why he stayed lingered like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Was it loyalty to Iredoll? Fear of Gaia’s wrath? Or something else entirely?

 

His thoughts tangled and twisted, much like the sword's own intricate designs, as the soft hum of the forest lulled him toward sleep. Just as his eyes began to flutter shut, Iredoll’s voice shattered the calm.

 

"Pay attention, boy!" the druid barked suddenly.

 

Klaven jolted, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of the sword across his lap. Iredoll stood beneath the old tree, his hands raised as he performed the spell. Behind him, Bracken nickered softly, as if encouraging his master.

 

Klaven glanced at the horse and muttered under his breath, ‘Even the beast has more patience than me.’Klaven stared, wide-eyed. The branches didn’t creak or resist—they responded like loyal servants, bending and twisting in harmonious rhythm. For a brief moment, he felt it again: the hum, faint and soothing, resonating in his chest like a distant heartbeat. It wasn’t the tree. It was something deeper. Gaia.

 

“I see that you are indeed a powerful mage,” Klaven said, his voice tinged with awe. “Why show me how to do things beyond my power?”

 

Iredoll turned to him sharply, his expression stern. “I am no mage. Do not insult me with that title again.”

 

Klaven blinked. “But… then what would you call this?” He gestured toward the canopy above. “You stopped the rain with a gesture.”

 

“It is not I who stopped it,” Iredoll replied, his tone softening. “It is Gaia’s will. Should she wish otherwise, the branches would remain still—or funnel the rain onto your head, if it suited her humor.”

 

Klaven smirked in spite of himself. “She sounds like she has a sense of humor.”

 

“She does,” Iredoll said, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles. “And you would do well not to test it.”

 

He stepped aside, motioning toward the tree. “Now, release it.”

 

Klaven frowned. “Release it?”

 

“Yes. The branches obey Gaia, not me. And certainly not you. Set them free.”

 

Klaven hesitated. How could he possibly undo what Iredoll had done? He wasn’t a druid. He wasn’t even sure what he was anymore. But as he looked up at the tree, he felt a strange pull. Tentatively, he stood and mimicked the druid’s earlier motion—hugging himself, then flinging his arms outward.

 

Nothing happened.

 

Iredoll sighed, rubbing his temples. “Boy, do not mimic me like a fool. Feel Gaia’s will. Call to her. She is the one who moves the branches, not you.”

 

Klaven scowled but closed his eyes. The hum returned, faint and distant, like a whisper carried on the wind. He reached for it, hesitant. At first, it slipped through his grasp like water, and frustration bubbled within him. But then, he let go—of his anger, his doubt, his pride—and the hum grew louder, surging through him. The branches above sprang outward with a sudden rush, sending leaves scattering in all directions. Sunlight spilled through the canopy, illuminating the forest floor.

 

Klaven opened his eyes, stunned. For a moment, he forgot himself and laughed, spinning in the sunlight like a child. Iredoll watched quietly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

 

“Well done,” Iredoll said. “For now.”

 

Days later, they were still traveling south. The journey had been long and meandering, with Iredoll leading them through dense forests, rocky hills, and open plains. Klaven’s frustration grew with each passing day. He had no idea where they were going—or why.

 

“Do you even know where we’re headed?” Klaven finally asked, his voice edged with irritation.

 

“All paths lead where they are meant to,” Iredoll replied cryptically.

 

Klaven groaned. “That’s not an answer, old man.”

 

Before Iredoll could respond, a high-pitched voice broke through the trees.

 

"Release him, you fiend! Or I’ll call upon powers you can’t possibly imagine!”

 

Thom’s shrill cry startled Klaven, pulling him from his thoughts. He instinctively glanced at Iredoll, who remained calm, and then at Bracken, who merely flicked an ear at the noise, unbothered and grazing as if the chaos around him were an everyday occurrence.

 

Klaven froze as a small figure burst from the underbrush, waving a stick adorned with hawk feathers. Barely taller than Klaven’s waist, the figure’s wiry frame was wrapped in patchwork leather that had clearly seen better days. His wild, unkempt hair and frantic, wide eyes only added to the absurdity as he brandished the stick like a weapon, his stance a curious mix of bravery and sheer madness.

 

Thom stood defiantly, his voice rising. "Don’t worry, Klaven! I’ll save you from this wizard!"

 

Iredoll raised a brow but remained unimpressed. With a subtle motion of his hand, the surrounding briars came to life, curling and twisting until they ensnared Thom, lifting him off the ground.

 

“Do you know this little mongrel?” Iredoll asked dryly.

Klaven stifled a laugh. “Yes, Master. He’s... a friend. Of sorts.”

 

The druid sighed. “Release him.”

 

Klaven mimicked Iredoll’s earlier motion, but instead of freeing Thom, the briars tightened. Thom’s face turned red as he flailed.

 

“Not like that, boy,” Iredoll said, exasperated. With a wave of his hand, the briars unraveled, dropping Thom to the ground with a thud.

 

Thom scrambled to his feet, glaring at Iredoll. “You’re a black wizard! Release Klaven from your spell!”

 

“There is no spell,” Klaven said, rolling his eyes. “I’m here because I choose to be.”

 

Thom crossed his arms, his expression incredulous. “Choose? You’re mad.”

 

“Perhaps,” Klaven said with a smirk. “But I’m learning things, Thom. Important things. You should come along. Who knows? You might even learn something.”

 

Thom narrowed his eyes, muttering under his breath as he dusted himself off. Finally, he looked at Iredoll and pointed his stick. “Fine. But if you so much as twitch funny, wizard, I’ll—”

 

“Druid,” Iredoll interrupted coldly. “Call me a wizard again, and you’ll find yourself dangling from the briars once more.”

 

Thom gulped but nodded. “Right. Druid. Whatever you say.”

 

Klaven chuckled, slapping Thom on the back. “Welcome to the journey, old friend.”

 

Thom eyed the druid warily. “Journey to where?”

 

Klaven shrugged. “Still figuring that part out.”

 

“Perhaps our journey will lead us to the mountains of Dogredguard, where you can rejoin your clansmen. I’ve been meaning to visit the little people for some time now,” the druid suggested.

 

 

“Dogredguard?” Thom asked incredulously, “Are you calling me a Dwarf? I’m not a damn Dwarf, I’m just small.”