Aster knew it was certain death to enter the Endless Glades, but he had no choice.
As he stumbled his way through jagged roots and soaked leaves, the canopy above barely providing any light, his once elegant robe tattered and torn, and his sandals were worn from days of running on end, he knew this was not the future he had envisioned for himself. And the forest was definitely not the place he would have ever thought he dared enter.
But desperation and despair moved people toward certain choices, and Aster was definitely one of them. Feeling like his whole life was forcibly ripped away from him, Aster couldn't prevent the surge of hate that coursed through him against those who had robbed him of his world—those who were once close to him, those he had once thought of as family.
With the sun setting across the sky, the forest once again stirred awake. Croaks and groanings resounded through the still trees, once again reminding Aster of something he had come to learn very recently: any breathing thing that dared walk these woods without their wits about them would most definitely end up as food for something else. If it wasn't the creatures prowling through the heavy greenery, then the deadly ponds, the deep swamps, and the voracious tendrils and roots would do the work themselves. They would patiently wait for the unwilling victim to fall into their grasp before plunging them into their treasured depths or snagging them up into the air, only to slowly drain them of life.
Something he had come to witness for himself not too long ago.
His breath came in short gasps as he struggled to stifle his noise. There was nothing more dangerous than making an unwitting sound in the midst of the forest about to wake up from slumber. Night is when the Endless Glades truly showed its claws, a lesson his pursuers had learned the hard way, no thanks to him.
Further on, he trudged, not even daring to take a much-needed rest. No matter how much he wanted to lie down, close his eyes, and pretend the past few days were nothing but a dream—a nightmare his overly excited mind had cooked up—deep inside he knew it would not work. He had hardly escaped with his life at the sacrifice of everyone else, forced to flee across the lower strata to where he was now, hunted down for something in his possession. A treasure that had apparently existed within his family for many years; a treasure that had shattered the walls of the place he once called home. Now the same treasure his father had left to him for safekeeping, away from the same enemies who seek it.
Protect our legacy at all costs.
Tears threatened to spill over his gaunt face.
Shaking his head, he ruthlessly crushed such feelings almost immediately. It wouldn't do him well if he let himself linger over the pain. If he survived, he would have enough time to grieve, he told himself each time. But now all he had to do was get through another night in the forest and live long enough to see the light of another day.
His pursuers, though, had other ideas.
"You should have listened to us, child." A familiar, beguiling voice whispered in his ear. "All of this wouldn't have had to happen if you had just left the stone behind. This time, we grant you our word. Give us the void stone, and your life will be yours. Not a single one of us would dare lay their hands on you." The insistent voice kept trying but failing to find purchase in his mind.
Perhaps it was due to his strange gifts or the terrible event that day, but Aster had come to know that he was somewhat immune to mind-altering effects. It was one thing he wished he had told his father. Maybe it would have been helpful then, or perhaps his father would have been proud of it and told him something along the lines of this being an aftereffect of his powerful yet unreliable gift. He would have given everything in the world to hear his voice again. His pursuers, however, were less fond of it, as he once again shook off the creeping sensation that sought to shroud his senses and focused on making his way quickly through the forest.
When it finally became clear that he could no longer be mesmerized or even riled up to respond, the previous voice transformed into a deeper baritone that barely hid its frustration, a voice Aster was also very familiar with—the voice of their leader, Raz.
"Pray we do not catch you, boy," he threatened, dropping all pretenses. "No matter where you go or where you escape, we will find you. Your corpse will be fed to the beasts, and your skull will decorate our halls. You shall repay for each life you took from us in blood." The spell was immediately lifted, leaving Aster with more than enough reasons why he shouldn't dawdle in the forest.
Once there were eight of them, but now only five remain, three dead because of his machinations. A combination of his spells and shrewdness, driven by utmost desperation, had made him take unimaginable risks to bring some of his pursuers to their demise. The hunters behind him might be formidable, but even they could not foresee the countless dangers lurking within the glades, not like he could.
Still, he had quickly wised up after he nearly died to one of his own ploys. Gifted or not, people smarter and stronger than him had lost their lives in the belly of some beasts prowling within these forbidden woods. He knew he had to make sure he didn't end up the same, even if he had to rely on his 'greater' gift, a gift that had been his source of pain and hope every step along the way.
As he stumbled through torn barks and rising mists, Aster threw his senses wide for what would have been the umpteenth time. The ceaseless threats to his life had forced him to practically horn what would have still been a hint of his senses into something of a survival instinct. His senses let him know the path forward was devoid of anything that could endanger him, and so he urgently pushed himself onwards, wanting to put some distance between him and the hunters.
On the map, the Endless Glades had filled only a quarter of the scroll, which in turn had made Aster really underestimate the true scope of the forest. He felt like a leaf in the wind as the endless canopy above seemingly stretched for miles on end. Tales of unique treasures and adventures might have once filled his innocent mind back when he was in the company of books and scrolls, but now he would have given a limb and a half to return to the time when his life was simple and safe. Lost in the midst of the woods, it was taking everything he had not to give up. Not until he got vengeance on the ones who destroyed his home; not until he made sure every last soul of the traitorous moon was dead.
His simmering rage threatened to overtake his conscious mind until, with some effort, he finally held it in. He channeled the residual strength into his escape—the forest, deathly silent and cold, a perfect illusion of what lay beneath. They might have used a spell to carry their voices into his ear, but he and the hunters had both grasped just how dangerous this place can be. More than a few beasts were known to be sensitive to mana, as they discovered the first time they had tried when a monstrosity of wings and chitin ambushed them exactly a few minutes later.
Luckily, he only survived because of the few seconds of warning thanks to his strange gift and was able to make his escape, but the same cannot be said for the ones after him. A disaster unfolded where the strange beast was the direct cause of death for one of them while leaving another severely injured. Since then, they have sparingly used their spells, unless it was an attempt to break his spirit or confuse his senses long enough for them to catch up. Throughout the ordeal, Aster learned to keep his mouth shut, his presence small, and his senses wide open if he ever hoped to go through another night within the depths of these glades.
By this point, the small heating enchantment on his robe was barely working but it was all he had to keep him warm through the rising chill. It was rumored that ever since the descent of the Forefather all those years ago, the lower and upper strata had never again tasted the bitter winter. Still, it didn't stop the pervading cold from settling during the rainy season. His fingers and toes blistered, and his breath came out in condensed vapors that trailed behind him. He had to quickly find shelter lest he risk dying from the night's cold, or worse, weakened enough for the hunters and any of the cursed creatures that took home to the forest to devour him whole.
Despite his desire to put miles between him and his foes, the decision was soon taken from him. The night fell early, and along with it were heavy clouds and echoing thunder. Rain soon began to fall in earnest, and the lingering mists got so heavy that he could barely see a few meters ahead. Despite the dreary change, a part of him sighed in relief. The sound of rain and thunder served well to mask his presence. Pulling his drenched robes tighter, he pushed against the crouching cold and the falling drops while casting a spell that had now become as familiar to him as his breath.
"Let the night hide what is meant to be hidden, so none shall perceive its grasp."
His throat was cracked and dry, yet his will still carried the echoing familiarity of a spell well done. Drawing deep from his reserves, he felt strands of his mana swell up inside until they coalesced, pulling from the night around him to cloak him in darkness. Once he would have relished with wonder and glee at his magic, but now he only felt a heave of emotions threatening to rise as he unintentionally recalled all the times he had witnessed his father casting this very spell. But this was not the time to reminisce; he repeatedly had to remind himself. For now, he could only distance himself from such memories and focus on buying himself some time to rest.
Weaving through the forest like a shade, the spell 'Night's Grasp' was from his family's branch of magic, the School of Night. Barely more than a cantrip, the spell was meant to summon a fragment of the night to conceal the caster's presence in the dark. Though it was one of the staple spells of his family and dreadfully useful, it carried its own limitations. Obvious from its name, the very first one was that the spell could only be cast when the sun had truly and well set. Its second limit was conditional, as it could only conceal one's presence depending on the caster's mastery.
Incidentally, weeks of running had made Aster very proficient, though he still struggled to completely hide himself in the shadows. He could only supplement the spell by adapting quickly, making sure his steps were as soundless as possible and his breath was shallow. Just one of the many things he had been forced to learn as he ran for his dear life.
Nearly cloaked in a coat of darkness, his steps muffled and his body light, he moved through the rainy forest like a twilight cloud, his senses always stretched out to make sure he didn't run into a sudden death. The spell surprisingly kept him warm despite the deluge, and once he felt he had truly pushed enough of a distance between him and the pursuers, he searched for a place to rest.
Soon he came across an impossibly tall tree, its girth large enough to cover the size of his old room. Above, the copse of leaves and branches intertwined to provide some shade, while at the base, its trunk had split in the middle, forming a natural alcove that promised shelter from the sweltering rain. Trusting his senses that the crack was safe, he sneaked inside, surprised to find the space was more than enough to hold him. Curling up within, he took out the void stone from underneath his robe, an obsidian crystal with sharp pointed edges on both sides hanging from a chain of swirling metal. He still couldn't help but marvel at how such a small stone could contain things more than tenfold its size. It wasn't until his father bequeathed him the stone at the last minute that he truly understood what was in his possession. Which was all the more reason to make sure his enemies never lay their hands upon it.
Summoning a small vial from its depth, he sparingly lathered himself in an odorless musk meant to scare away the little bites but not strong enough to attract the dangerous creatures. Done, he could only take a few sips from his dwindling source of water, a leather-bound flask, along with some small bites of dried, seasoned meat he had stored within the stone. As he fed upon his meager rations, a moment of regret passed through his heart for all the times his father had admonished his tardiness. It was a habit that now found him woefully underprepared in his foray into the endless glades, with not enough food to tide him over and not enough spells to protect himself.
Not that he would ever hear such words again.
Desolate, bleak, and homesick, only his silent sobs echoed inside the crack that now hid him, along with the earsplitting sounds of thunder in the skies and the relentless rain mercilessly beating the ground. He couldn't help it. He had been running for days on end, but what had happened then still hit him with the same strength as if it had only happened yesterday. A few weeks ago, he was a treasured descendant of a long line of astrologers, a small family of nobles, the House of Arius. He never would have believed it if someone had told him of his family's eventual demise. From what he had gathered, it was surprisingly hard to kill a mage who could read the stars, the moon, and other celestial bodies in the cosmos. But that was another lesson the world taught him. Nothing was infallible under the stars.
He stared at the angry clouds concealing the mother moon and its three children. His mother used to tell him stories of how the moon came to birth its three wayward offspring's. His father instead used to sit him on the scaffolding and teach him how to glimpse the truth behind the movement of stars and heavenly bodies. He consciously made an effort not to recall the vivid, flowing blood and the terrible screams that marked the day his life was forever changed. Instead, he let himself remember the last words his father had uttered to him before he was whisked away in a tunnel of light.
"Protect our legacy at all costs." He instructed him.
But how could he, a boy of barely 14 years, accomplish that? How could he survive in the face of a man—an enemy who wielded such power that it was enough to lay his family in ruin? Was it even possible? Could it even be done? Those questions haunted him endlessly.
Anger, indignation, and helplessness burned in his chest as he gazed beyond the heavy shower. How he desired to scour the souls of all who had shed his family's blood; how he wanted to make them feel what he felt—the hopelessness and despair of knowing he was the only one left to his name. He fervently wished he had wielded his gift with purpose back then. Maybe his senses would have picked up their threat early on; maybe he would have been able to warn his family before it even began.
Except how could he, with what strength? On paper, he should qualify as a Mage of First Order, but his own frolicking had stuttered his growth in ways he could now only anguish over. As tears smeared down his face, the only true wish he had was for everything to go as it was. He would wake up, and his father and mother would still be there, and all of the cousins and nieces would still be around to joke and cajole him for his laziness.
He must have fallen asleep in exhaustion because his eyes snapped wide open upon the intrusion of a melody. His heart beat rapidly as he strained his ears, just in case he had misheard it. He picked it up again, a fading note of lilting music echoing throughout the trees. Getting out of his small cave, he found that at some point the sky had cleared and the mother moon and the three asteroids were still circling above. Checking the layout of the stars, he could infer that there were probably only a few hours before the sunrise where he would be vulnerable again, the night no longer protecting him.
That was when he heard a sharp crack.
Abruptly, like a snake disturbed from its rest, Aster got low to the ground and then cast the same spell again. Once the familiar cloak shrouded him, he quickly made his way deeper into the inner skirts of the glades. By this point, it was a gamble. He would either make it across safely or cross paths with a deadly beast and die; or he would get caught by his pursuers, who were now surely close by, and still lose his life in what he could only imagine would be a long and tortured death.
He knew which choice he preferred.
Even as he made his way quickly through the shrubbery and vines, the lilting tone of music still reached his ears. The musical notes were both so bizarre and strange yet he couldn't help but find them familiar. At first, he was busy escaping whatever kind of creature had made that noise but he soon found himself drawn to the strange lullaby. On this deadly night, he felt like the notes were somehow burrowing into his head, confusing his senses. His makeshift immunity was unable to shake off the ringing tenor in his ears until he finally remembered where he heard it and why he found the tune so familiar. The notes and the musical cadence rebounding in the forest had the same rhythm as a dreary lullaby his mother had loved to sing to him when he was still a child.
'My little night crows,
My little dark crows
From where, hence, do you hunt?
From where, hence, do you fly?
Should I sing for you, my little dark crows?
Of nights full of blood and malice
Can I call for you, my little night crows?
To bestow your savagery
Upon my blighted foes
His mother once let it slip that it was one of the olden songs left behind by her long-lost family. A family he had asked of several times before he quickly learned just how painful the question was for her. So over the years, he had learned to never bother his mother with such queries, even though a part of him still wondered if he had grandfathers and grandmothers somewhere in a faraway place.
Yet, against all odds, the same song filled the endless woods. With his strength galvanized by almost an inviolable hope, Aster would brush off every single one of his inner warnings and instead follow the doleful music back to the source. Once or twice, he was dimly aware his pursuers were almost on his tail, but he didn't care. All he could think of and all he could hope for was something—anything that could prove that this nightmare had ended. Gaining a burst of strength, he pushed on, against the grooves and the brushes, against his common sense and trepidation, not letting even the returning clouds obscuring the once clear skies stop him.
He didn't care for any of it as his chest hammered while the notes of the song got clearer and clearer. Forced to run for hours, he finally burst through the boundary separating the pervading forest and the abrupt clearing. Stumbling through what appeared to be a groove, the first thing that caught his eye was a towering tree that rose high into the skies, wreathed in golden leaves. Impossibly captivating, its leaves emanated a glorious haze, their brilliance reflected on a still lake a short distance away to the right. A few meters around the golden tree and the lake was a garden of dazzling and beautiful flowers, a kaleidoscope of colors dotting the nearby landscape.
But it wasn't the golden tree and the still waters that ultimately caught his attention. At the roots of the large tree sat a man so still that he seemed perfectly melded to the surroundings. In fact, if it weren't for the ancient singing harp in his grasp, Aster was sure his eyes would have glazed over him. With only his fingers dancing along the strings, he was dressed in long, flowing white robes trimmed with gold. Strange motifs of a radiant sun patterned the cloth, the decorations reflecting well the glow of the tree above. Although his young archaic face spoke of unnatural beauty and grace, Aster was sure he was in the company of someone otherworldly, someone who had lived a long life despite his seemingly deceptive youth—someone powerful and ancient who held a large faded harp on his lap, still thrumming the impossible lullaby under the spread of stars.