Location: Arbola Forest
Timeline: Sixth Age, 52nd Year, Fall
The laws of the Amorosi are written in the grain of the weir-trees; they do not bend for the frantic beating of a human heart. As the shadows of the Great Green Hall stretched long and thin across the village floor, a dark finger pointed toward the inevitable.
In the mortal world, “No” is often a beginning—a reason to fight, to scream, to bargain. But in Arbola, when the Council speaks, the word carries the weight of five thousand years of worldly wisdom. Emcorae stood ready to bridge two worlds, never realizing that the chasm between them was not a distance of length, but of essence. The Council did not see a girl in danger; they saw a potential breach in their peaceful fortress, a crack in the Moi-Ra. And so, they chose the forest over the flames.
The Verdict of the Boughs
The heavy thud of the kaza’s front door announced Rian’s return. It was a sound that seemed to bruise the very air of the room. He did not come in with the stately, fluid stride of a Regent who had spent the afternoon weaving the destiny of a forest; instead, he walked like a commoner carrying a heavy stone, his shoulders hunched under an invisible weight. The amber light of the hearth, usually so warm and welcoming, cast long, sickly shadows across his face. His eyes, in ages past as bright as forest pools, were clouded and fixed on the floor, pointedly avoiding the two figures waiting in the center of the room.
Emcorae was on his feet instantly. The chair he had been pacing around clicked against the floorboards as he surged forward, his face a frantic, shifting map of hope and terror. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of his tunic. “Well? Sir Rian? What did your friends say? When can I leave for Monthaven to get Lynsy and the others? The wagon is ready, I’ve checked the harness twice, I just need the word—”
Rian stopped at the edge of the divan, his hands clasped so tightly behind his back that the old muscles of his forearms stood out like gnarled roots. He did not speak immediately. The silence in the room became a physical presence, thick with the scent of pine resin and the damp cloth Fara held in her hands as she emerged from the kitchen. She stopped dead, her emerald eyes darting from her husband’s grim mouth to her daughter’s trembling form.
Finally, Rian’s gaze flickered to the corner where Nathily sat. She was huddled in the deep shadows of the high-backed settle, her knees pulled to her chest, her breath held so tight that Rian could feel the radiating pulse of her physical pain—a jagged, dissonant discord against his home’s normally peaceful accord.
“Emcorae Azop, the Council has deliberated,” Rian began. His voice was a low, formal vibration that seemed to come from his chest rather than his throat. “We have weighed your petition with more gravity than any human request in the history of The Forest. We have considered the potential of your blade and the sincerity of your service. We even opened ourselves to the yearnings of your heart, seeking a path of harmony.”
The color began to drain from Emcorae’s face, leaving his tan skin looking like sallow parchment. “What does that mean? Why do you sound like a judge instead of… instead of a friend?”
The Regent looked long at the boy, his face a mask of emotionless marble, the duty of his office overriding the affection of the man. Finally, he spoke with a finality that echoed through the kaza like the tolling of a somber bell.
“It means the answer is no. We will not grant sanctuary to Lynsy Finch, nor her companions. To do so would be to invite the wrath of King Diked to our very gates. It would be to draw a line in the flat earth—a line written in blood—that the Amorosi are not prepared to defend for the sake of a merchant’s daughter. We are a forest of peace, Emcorae. If we provoke Fubar, we jeopardize the safety of every hidden glade. We put Regalis at risk too, and potentially even the silent southern borders of Meridia. We cannot burn the world to meddle in human politics.”
Emcorae opened his mouth to protest, a desperate sound dying in his throat, but Rian raised a hand and continued. “And there is one thing more. The Way of the Azora is a sacred path. Adarius and El-Janus were unyielding. They will not modify the ancient strictures. They will not permit an Azora to marry. To be the Arrow is to be released from all tethers. To be a husband is to be rooted. You cannot be both the wind and the hearthstone, Emcorae. Your future is in your own hands, but you must choose between the two paths today. There is no middle road through the weir-trees.”
“They can’t do that!” Emcorae’s voice finally broke, rising in a desperate, jagged crescendo that made the animal skins on the wall seem to shiver. “Don’t you understand? If I leave her there, Lynsy will be a prisoner in a gilded cage! Diked will break her! He’ll crush her spirit until there’s nothing left but a shell! I don’t understand—I thought the Azora were the shield of the weak? I thought you were the protectors?”
“We protect the Balance, Emcorae,” Rian sighed. He looked suddenly older than his centuries, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if wishing his father, the ancient Lore Master Dallegheri, were there to handle the messy, explosive emotions of a human child. “The Amorosi cannot wage a war of iron and shadows for the romantic entanglements of a human – even a friend such as you. It is a tragedy, yes, but it is a human tragedy. But again, I say to you: the choice is yours. Here is the reality of your life: if you wish to continue the training our goddess Alyssa has ordained for you, you stay here. You sever the tether to the outside. You let the memory of Lynsy Finch fall away like a leaf in autumn. If you do this, Legends and the Way are yours.”
Then Rian stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “If, however, you choose to marry—be it this girl or any other—then you are free to do so. Follow the path of your own kind. Be a man of the flat earth. Live your short, bright life among your people and find what joy you can in the dust. But know this—the moment you walk out that door with the intent to wed, your journey on The Way ends. You will never be an Azora. And what is more, the gates of Arbola will be closed to you forever. We cannot invite the vengeance of a King to our doorstep by harboring what amounts to a rebel. You will thus become an exile from The Forest.”
At her father’s words, the dam inside Nathily finally burst. She could no longer restrain the howling in her chest. She let out a mournful wail—a sound of pure elven grief that caused the men to recoil in shock. Emcorae and Rian stood aghast, frozen by the raw agony in the sound.
Fara immediately dropped her cloth and moved toward her daughter, her arms outstretched to comfort her. But Nathily was too quick, fueled by a frantic, electric desperation. She surged from the settle, her blonde hair a blurred veil behind her, and sprinted for her room.
SLAM!
The door to her bedchamber shook. Nathily collapsed against the wood, sliding down until she was a heap of cream-colored silk on the floor. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed by an icy fist. Choose the forest, she screamed internally, her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. Forget the merchant’s girl! Choose Arbola! Choose the Azora! Choose ME!
Outside her door, she heard the soft, rhythmic padding of Fara’s feet. “Nathily? Amora? Please, let me in,” her mother whispered through the wood.
“Go away!” Nathily choked out, her voice thick with emotion.
She pressed her ear to the door, her elven senses amplifying the muffled voices from the room. She could still see Emcorae’s face in her mind—the way the light had died in his eyes, replaced by the look of a man whose heart was being torn out.
“What about… my grandfather?” Emcorae’s voice drifted, thin and grasping for a lifeline. “Alfranco—the one you call Al-Corragio! He served the forest and… he served Alyssa! That has to count for something! Use his favor! Use his name!”
“Al-Corragio is the very reason Alyssa offered you this unprecedented grace,” Rian’s voice countered, heavy with regret. “No human in the history of the world has ever been granted the honor of the Azora. It was a gift to his bloodline. But even his name cannot rewrite our laws. And speaking of your kin, Emcorae… what would Al-Corragio say to all this?”
There was a long pause. Nathily could almost hear Emcorae swallowing his sobs. “He’d tell me… he’d tell me to follow my dreams. He always said to lasso the moon, no matter how high it hung.”
“A goal without a realistic plan is just a dream, Emcorae,” Rian sighed. It was a line El-Janus often used, and it sounded like a death sentence. “We cannot help you with a plan to live as a man, that must be up to you alone.
Suddenly, the muffled sound of a chair being overturned echoed up the stairs.
“Then I’m done!” Emcorae barked, his voice vibrating with a sudden, sharp anger that cut through his grief. “If this is what ‘Balance’ looks like—sitting in a high hall while the people you love are dragged into the dirt—then I want no part of your balance! I want no part of your Legends!”
“Emcorae Azop, think!” Rian’s voice rose to match his, and for a moment, Nathily heard the Regent’s own desperation. She knew her father was thinking of her—knowing that Emcorae’s departure would ruin his daughter’s happiness. She imagined seeing Rian’s hand outstretched towards Emcorae, a final plea.. “You are the first of your kind! You have a destiny that would make kings weep with envy! Alyssa herself has blessed you! Do not throw away the chance to write your name among the stars for a love you have known for a single, fleeting summer!”
“A summer is all I have, Rian!” Emcorae’s shout was full of grief. “I don’t have hundreds of years to sit around in a kaza and wait for things to be ‘harmonious’! All I have is right now! And right now, the woman I love is terrified and alone, waiting for me to keep my word and return to rescue her! What kind of Azora would I be if I learned to save the world but couldn’t save her?”
“Beware,” Rian cautioned. “And consider this – if you return to Monthaven and interfere with the will of King Diked, you won’t just be losing Arbola. You’ll be waging war against a powerful kingdom. You will become a hunted man, Emcorae. You have no army. You have no rank. You have no protection from your hometown villagers. And think of this—you’ll be dooming Lynsy Finch to that same life of flight and fear. Is that the ‘rescue’ you planned? To make her a fugitive until the King’s hounds find you both?”
“I have no choice,” Emcorae said. The anger had gone, replaced by a quiet, terrifying hardness. “But I do have something. I have the sword El-Janus gifted to me. I have my grandfather’s dagger. I have my passion. And I have the truth. That’s more than Diked has ever had in his entire life.”
Nathily heard his boots heavy on the floor. She heard the rustle of his traveling cloak being snatched from the hook.
“Emcorae, wait—” Rian started.
SLAM!
The front door of the kaza closed with a finality that felt like the snapping of a spine. The silence that followed was so heavy it felt as if the roof were about to collapse under the weight Emcorae left behind.
Still slumped against her bedroom door, Nathily felt like her heart was a splattered, unrecognizable thing. He’s leaving. He’s choosing someone he just met over me, who’s bled with him in The Glade for the past six years! He’s choosing death or exile over the life we were supposed to build together.
She stared at her hands in the dim light of her room. They were steady, but they felt cold, as if the blood had stopped flowing. What will become of me now? she wondered. The Way of the Azora stretched out before her, long and eternal and impossibly lonely. She was to become the first female Azora, the champion of The Forest, the pride of Alyssa herself!
And she had never felt more like a failure.
As the wind picked up outside, rattling the pine needles against her window, Nathily realized that she was lost in a void, waiting for a storm might mercifully arrive to sweep away the wreckage.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 