As they glided above the skies of Mytharia, the world a tapestry beneath their incorporeal forms, a shared instinct stirred in both their spirits.

  The hour had come to return.

  With nothing but a thought, they slipped back into their bodies—seated once more upon the summit of the Sunkeep.

  Baronsworth drew a sharp breath as sensation flooded back into him.

  “That was… exhilarating!” he laughed, wonder bright upon his face.

  Alma’s smile answered him. “Now you know the secret of Rimlan. And I am glad you learned it—for now, no distance can stand between us.”

  They embraced there upon that high place, the wind circling gently around them.

  After the freedom of the spirit, the warmth of her body against his felt grounding, precious—reminding him that joy belonged to flesh as well as soul.

  Hand in hand, they descended the spiraling ways of the Sunkeep, a deep calm settling over them like a blessing.

  Below, the halls stirred with quiet purpose; lamps were lit, tables laid, and the promise of feasting gathered in the air.

  Soon Baronsworth and Alma were seated at the grand table, the hall filling with the murmur of arriving guests.

  One by one the companions entered—Karl already sniffing toward the platters, Siegfried and Alexander still discussing tactics, Gil’Galion drifting in with the unhurried grace of starlight, Fredrick blessing the meal with quiet reverence.

  The feast began.

  Food and wine flowed generously, music rose, laughter warmed the stone, and for a time—just a time—peace reigned beneath the vaulted, crystal-lit ceiling of the Sunkeep.

  It was the quiet before the storm.

  None there could yet imagine how soon fate would call upon them again.

  Baronsworth spoke long with Aenarion as the hall’s merriment rose around them.

  At last, he gathered the courage to give voice to what lay heavy—and bright—upon his heart.

  He told the Elf-lord openly that he loved Alma, deeply and without doubt, and that when all the coming trials were done, he wished to make her his wife.

  Aenarion listened in silence, his ageless face warmed by a gentle smile… though sorrow flickered quietly behind his eyes.

  “I had already perceived the bond blossoming between you,” he said. “A union between Man and Elf is rare indeed… yet not forbidden by fate. If such is your will—and hers—I shall not stand in its way.”

  Baronsworth bowed his head in gratitude and embraced him.

  The Elf-lord chuckled softly and returned the embrace, the affection between them as natural as that of old kin.

  Then Baronsworth told him of his experience in Rimlan—of leaving his body, of soaring through the realms with Alma—and revealed that he himself had been conceived in that same state by his parents.

  Aenarion’s eyes widened, wonder stirring within them.

  “So,” he murmured, “that explains much. Many things about you, lad, now fall neatly into place.”

  They spoke further of many matters, wandering through memories and mysteries, until Baronsworth at last gave voice to the question that had lingered at the back of his mind.

  “The portal,” he said. “How did it awaken? What caused it to open now?”

  Aenarion folded his hands before him, his expression turning thoughtful.

  “When you uncovered and opened the Library of Berethor, you did more than reveal ancient stone. By wielding the power granted to the Protector, you rekindled the Heart of the Sunkeep.”

  His gaze swept upward, toward the vaulted ceiling as though seeing beyond it.

  “This fortress—and indeed, the whole of Caras Athalor—was designed in symbiosis with it. To what purpose… and to what extent… even I cannot yet say.”

  He tapped his fingers lightly against the table.

  “But I felt the awakening. Even from Ellaria. The surge was unmistakable—the same pulse I sensed when you activated the Crystal Shard in the ancient temple of the Felwood.”

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  Baronsworth stilled. “You can feel such things because you are a sorcerer?”

  Aenarion laughed—a warm, ringing sound, like silver bells stirring in some hidden grove.

  “Yes, lad. Because I am a sorcerer, as you Men call it.” His eyes shone with quiet amusement. “Magic is rare in this age, yet the Varanir still grant their gifts to a chosen few. I am one such soul, and the currents of power have flowed through my veins since the very hour of my making.”

  Baronsworth leaned in, wonder written openly across his face.

  “Can you tell me more?” he asked softly. “About magic itself?”

  Aenarion regarded him for a heartbeat—fond, contemplative, as though weighing how much truth a mortal heart could bear—before speaking again.

  His expression sobered.

  The nearby laughter seemed to dim, as if the hall itself sensed the weight of what was to follow.

  “Magic,” he said, “is no trifling matter. It was never meant for cheap theatrics, like the charlatans who shake coins from crowds with tricks and colored powders. Nor was it ever meant to be a tool of terror and dominion, as the minions of the Dark One would have the world believe.”

  His voice deepened, the timbre of ages drifting through it.

  “And yet… it is not meant to be hidden or denied. The gods grant their gifts with purpose. We must learn to master them—or they will master us.”

  He set a gentle hand upon Baronsworth’s shoulder.

  “Magic is dangerous, young man. A single surge of emotion—grief, fury, even love—can awaken it. And if the wielder does not yet know the shape of their own power… great harm may follow. To themselves. And to those they hold dear.”

  Aenarion leaned back, his gaze lifting toward the vaulted arches above, where soft radiance shimmered like captured starlight.

  “There are many paths through which magic moves,” he continued. “First, there is Elemental magic—the shaping of Air, Fire, Earth, and Water. It is wrought through will, yes, but also through communion with the spirits that thread these forces through the world. Those who walk that path must listen to the breath of the wind, the pulse beneath the stone, the song whispered by flame, the memory carried in flowing waters.”

  Baronsworth drank in every word.

  “Then,” Aenarion went on, his voice lowering, “there is Death magic—or Blood magic. The servants of the Dark One wield it. I will not dwell upon it here; even naming such arts can cast a shadow over joy, and this hall deserves no such stain.”

  He let the subject pass like a cloud crossing the sun.

  “There are gentler crafts as well: Illusion, which shapes perception; Restoration, which mends flesh and spirit through melody and resonance; and Warding—an ancient discipline of runes and seals that bind or protect.”

  “Some few even walk the path of Spirit, touching dreams and the hidden realms of thought… and there are others besides, practiced quietly in forgotten corners of the world.”

  A quiet breath escaped him, and his gaze grew reverent as he spoke.

  “But there is a deeper art still, one that demands wisdom, patience, and harmony with the very rhythms of the world.”

  “For after one has walked many paths of magic, and bent their workings to one’s will, there comes a knowing—soft, unmistakable—felt in the marrow of the spirit.”

  His voice dropped to a hush, as though sharing a secret seldom spoken.

  “One begins to perceive the truth beneath all arts: that every form of magic, whether flame or wind, restoration or illusion, is but the shaping of energy through the vessel of one’s will. And all energy flows from a single wellspring.”

  He lifted a hand slightly, palm tilted upward, as if sensing an unseen tide moving across it.

  “Aetheris—the astral Light that permeates and upholds all things.”

  Silence settled as he lowered his hand once more.

  “Few souls ever glimpse such depths… and fewer still are permitted to dwell there. It is a mystery that unveils itself only to those whom fate has prepared.”

  Baronsworth nodded slowly.

  “Yes… I remember the little you told me in Nim Londar. How you live without food or drink, drawing instead upon the life of the world. I only half-understood it then. I’m not sure I grasp it even now.”

  He paused a moment, leaning nearer.

  “But… that is what you are, then? A master of Aetheris?”

  Aenarion inclined his head.

  “Yes. Across many centuries I have learned to guide my gifts. I feel the spirit of the earth beneath my feet—she is no inert stone, but a living soul with a will of her own.”

  “I sense the life of trees and beasts, the tides, the turning of the stars. Once such truths are perceived… they cannot be forgotten.”

  A faint smile touched his lips, tinged with something like sorrow.

  “That is why I do not use my power lightly. Magic—true magic—is a hymn to life. I would wield it for healing, for growth, for the celebration of creation, rather than for the needless sundering of it.”

  His eyes met Baronsworth’s then, keen and ancient, and the young man felt as though in them the very fabric of the world were laid bare.

  “The whole of creation is alive, Baronsworth—mountain and river, star and soul alike. Life and magic are woven together in one vast design, and the wise may learn to follow the deeper current that unites all things.”

  Baronsworth nodded slowly, the weight of Aenarion’s words settling into him like a truth rising from the depths of his being.

  “That explains much,” he said at last. “So that is how you sensed the awakening of the Heart of the Sunkeep?”

  Aenarion nodded with a deep smile.

  “Indeed. The gift you wield—the power of the Crystal, the Light of the Protectors—it is unlike any other form of magic… yet akin to all life’s energies.”

  “When you opened Berethor’s library and rekindled the heart of this fortress, it sang across the world. I heard it—just as I felt your awakening of the Crystal Shard in the Felwood.”

  His gaze turned distant, as if peering through memory.

  “I taught Berethor the art of crafting portals long ago. Ancient gates, gifted to us in a time before even the Great War. He built many, scattered across Mytharia.”

  “They have slumbered for an age… until now. Your awakening of the Sunkeep has stirred several of them to life. They will be needed in the days to come.”

  Baronsworth sat in quiet wonder, unable for a moment to speak.

  Aenarion watched him with gentle pride.

  “You have the heart of a scholar,” the Elf-lord said softly. “And a soul attuned to discernment. Truly, the name Son of Wisdom was well chosen.”

  The hall had grown calmer around them, the festivities winding down.

  Aenarion rose with the ease of one long-accustomed to the passage of years.

  “But the night grows late, and even one such as I must seek rest.”

  “Before I leave you—know this.” His eyes brightened, almost mischievous. “More of my people will arrive tomorrow through the portal. They come bearing gifts… and with them comes an old friend of yours.”

  Baronsworth smiled, already knowing whom he meant.

  And so, with hearts warm and peace settling upon the Sunkeep, they each withdrew to their chambers.

  Baronsworth remained awake for a long while, thoughts turning over the mysteries of magic and all he had learned.

  A quiet part of him longed—fiercely—to wield such power himself.

  At last, sleep found him.

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