Location: Arbola Forest
Timeline: Sixth Age, 52nd Year, Fall
Man is a creature of the moment, forever building castles upon shifting sands. I have watched the kings of old wage wars for pride and the gods weave destinies for sport, but rarely have I seen a soul as stupidly optimistic as Emcorae Azop.
Let me tell you about the time the fool stood before the Council of Arbola, believing that love—a force as fleeting as a summer rain to the Amorosi—could bend the ancient laws of the Alyssa’s people. He came not as a soldier reporting for duty, but as a suitor pleading for a miracle. He sought to bring the chaos of the world into the sacred silence of the Trees. It was never going to work.
Fool’s Gold
The Great Green Hall – the heartbeat of The Forest – the place where the ancient soul of Arbola found its voice, a venue comprised of living sinew and sap where the memories of untold thousand years were etched into the very grain of the walls. To enter it was to step out of time. Massive trunks of weir-wood formed the pillars, their bark shimmering with a faint, bioluminescent moss that pulsed in time with the collective heartbeat of those present. High above, the “roof” was a lattice of interlocking branches so dense that even the fiercest storm could not penetrate, yet it allowed the golden shafts of the afternoon sun to spear through the gloom like celestial lances.
Today, as Emcorae stood before The Council, the Hall felt less like a sanctuary and more like a courtroom. The would-be Azora stood before the stoic eternal resolve of the Council. Before him, seated upon the various tiers of the Weir-Tree’s boughs, was the Council of Arbola. At its center sat the Regent Rian, his expression a sad mix of duty and personal concern. The remainder of the leadership lounged in their usual locations.
Around the room, the Amorosi had gathered in numbers not seen since the Drokka’s arrival. They stood in elegant, silent rows—their faces as smooth and unmoving as marble. Among them sat the animal kin, notable today were a pair of massive forest elk who stood sentinel at the eastern archway, their antlers draped in ceremonial ivy, while Nathily’s friend Master Hoobab was perched upon a projection of living root directly above the Council, his amber eyes unblinking as he observed the scene.
Away in the shadows of the southern gallery, Fara stood with her hands clasped in her sleeves. She was the picture of elven poise, but the way her gaze flickered between the Council and her daughter betrayed the storm within. As for Nathily, she was positioned just a few paces away from the central floor, relegated to the role of a spectator in a drama that was tearing her spirit apart. She felt the sap of the Hall beneath her boots, a grounding force that usually brought her peace, but today it felt like it was trying to root her in place so she couldn’t scream.
The proceedings soon stretched for multiple candlemarks. Emcorae hands moved with animated, desperate energy as he wove the tale of his summer. He spared no detail. He spoke of the merchant’s daughter, Lynsy Finch, describing her not as a mortal girl, but as a light that had fundamentally altered his horizon. He recounted his “rescue” of the unfortunate maid —the moment he realized that her betrothal to King Diked of Fubar was not a potential marriage, but a death sentence for her.
“It isn’t just about Lynsy,” Emcorae argued, his voice ringing against the living pillars. “It’s about mercy. I cannot leave her there, nor can I leave those she loves. Her maid, Tiffania, and the farmhand, Darril—they are bound to her fate. They are star-crossed lovers too, and even if they gained approval from the church for a servant marriage, Diked would crush them simply out of spite when he came looking for his lost fiance.”
Emcorae’s plan, in his own mind, was a masterpiece of youthful logic. He proposed a small colony—a human sanctuary tucked into the western edge of the forest. He envisioned a life where he could be the protector of his hearth by night and the student of the Azora by day. To Emcorae, it was the perfect synthesis: he would be a better warrior because he had something worth defending. He saw himself as the bridge between the humans of Pennal and Amorosi Arbola, a hero who could unite their peoples.
His grandfather Alfranco, a master gaffer, would have been proud of Emcorae’s storytelling theatrics. Perhaps as an homage to his kin, or maybe out of desperation, Emcorae embellished his tale to make it appeal to his audience – painting Diked as a monster of greed, a tyrant whose shadow threatened to swallow the entire Pennal region – and surely the evil ruler would soon set his sights on Arbola as well therefore nobody here was safe. The time for action was now!.
The leaders of the forest listened to the youth’s tale with unreadable expressions. Emcoraee, his face flushed and shining with the sweat of his exertion, finally concluded his plea, “Don’t you see, it’s so simple really. I save Lynsy and her friends from a doomed fate, we give them a new life under the protection of these boughs, I continue my training with a heart that is finally whole, and we together we protect this entire region from the growing specter of Fubar. With my plan everyone wins – well everyone except King Diked, but I think we can all agree that evil lord should get the fate he deserves, right?”
Emcorae flashed his winning smile as he finished, fully expecting that he’d be met with instant agreement. Imagine this surprise them when the silence that rushed back into the Hall was not a silence of agreement, but instead that of a parent patronizing a naive child.
“We have heard your appeal.” Rian sighed, tired. “Now it is time for our inquiry. El-Janus, you are doubly affected by this proposal, what say you?”
High from his perch in the upper section, the mysstro spoke with a calm voice. “You speak of love, Emcorae Azop, and rescue. Noble sentiments for your kind. But the Way of the Azora is a path of singular focus. We do not just defend the forest; we are the forest. How can a man be the wind and the shadow if his heart is tethered to a hearthstone?”
“It isn’t a tether, Mysstro,” Emcorae countered, his voice steady despite the intimidating silence of the Hall. “It’s a reason to fight. I didn’t just find a girl; I found the reason why Illyria is worth saving. I am asking the Council for sanctuary. Surely you will not deny a forest friend that request.”
A murmur rippled through the tiers—a soft, melodic sound of disapproval.
“Sanctuary for a human maiden?” Lorindel nodded smoothly, sensing an opportunity. “It is a dangerous precedent, Regent. If we open the gates for one human girl, do we open them for the next hundred? We are a forest, not a refugee camp.”
“Indeed,” piped up Helena, her voice like a silken needle. She relished the fact that this ‘incident’ was a likely stain on the Regent since his family was involved with Emcorae. Smoothing the emerald fabric of her silks, her sharp eyes flicked to Rian. “The boy you’ve accepted into our lands now brings us a war and calls it a rescue. How convenient for the Regent’s ward to ask us to risk our sons and daughters for a human maiden.”
Rian shifted in his seat, his pained gaze briefly meeting Fara’s across the Hall. “Emcorae,” he said softly, “you are trying to make the forest act according to your wishes. You are trying to pluck the leaf of the Pazziera Tree while it is still green. Do you truly believe that King Diked will simply let his betrothed by human law vanish without sending the smell of iron and blood coming after them?”
Emcorae’s jaw set. He looked like a boy who had offered a gift and had it spat upon. “I believe that if we are Azoras, we don’t fear the smell of war. We face it.”
Nathily closed her eyes. She knew that look. It was the same look Emcorae had when he’d fallen in the brambles years ago—stubborn, reckless, and entirely unaware that the world was much bigger than his passion. The “obvious” solution was about to meet the immovable law.
Emcorae’s words of war intrigued Adarius. The Cavalier leaned forward, his presence as immovable as a rooted stone. “The Azora do not face iron for the sake of a bride, boy. We face it for the Balance. A warrior with a divided soul is a liability in the Glade. You cannot be the wind if you are worrying about the hearth.”
As if he’d received a physical blow, Emcorae’s mouth was agape at the unexpected resistance he was facing. Before he could reply, Dallegheri, the ancient Lore Master, cleared his throat, then spoke – his voice sounding like the rustle of old parchment. “The chronicles are clear, Emcorae. The woods of Arbola have remained hidden and free because we do not interfere in the politics of the other peoples of this Flat Earth. To do as you ask is to rewrite thousands of years of isolation for the sake of one summer’s passion.”
“But..but… the Drokka!” Emcorae shouted, his frustration breaking the ceremonial quiet. “I heard they were just here. Isn’t that a sign that the world is changing? Can you really afford to sit here counting rings on your trees while a tyrant builds an army! If the Azora are truly the shield of the weak, how can you turn your back on her, on the world, on this forest?”
“The Drokka spoke of a cosmic storm, but that has not been established as credible,” Ardala noted, her middle-of-the-road tone offering no comfort. “We Amorosi must always be careful not to mistake the ripples for the tide.”
The crowd, once silent, began to murmur more and more. It was clear they were not on Emcorae’s side.
Rian raised a hand, and the Hall fell instantly silent. He looked down at Emcorae, then his gaze drifted to the side of the hall, where Nathily stood in the shadows. His adoptive daughter was a statue of pale silk, her face an unreadable mask, yet the father’s heart knew the young elfess’ was distressed. “El-Janus, we return the court to you.”
“What of your training?” El-Janus asked Emcorae. “The Azora do not marry. We do not breed. How can you walk the path if you are not like the rest of us who have sacrificed everything. If we grant this sanctuary, you will never finish as a Pupil, there will be no chance for you to reach Novitiate. You will be a warder of a single hearth, a soldier with a divided soul. Likely doomed to fail because you will be out of balance.”
“I’ll take that risk,” Emcorae said firmly. “Maybe I won’t be an Azora, but I can still join The Protectorate, right? I can be the best warder Arbola has ever seen. Just, please, help me save her.”
Nathily felt a cold, jagged spike of irony. He is begging them for the very thing I would have given my soul for, she thought. And he is doing it for a girl he just me. Why not me?
Rian cleared his throat, his gaze landing on Emcorae with a paternal weight. “Emcorae, do you not understand that you are asking for more than sanctuary?You are asking us to change what keeps the peace in these lands.”
“I understand, but do you?” Emcorae pleaded, looking directly at El-Janus. “I am asking for mercy. Surely even a mysstro can’t deny help to someone in need?”
At that Rian stood, his robes sweeping the bough he’d been seated upon. “The Council will deliberate. Your request is heavy, Emcorae Azop. It carries the scent of war we have always tried to avoid expect in dire need. I invite you to return to the kaza. Wait there. We shall send word when the trees have spoken.”
Still holding out hope that his arguments would prevail, Emcorae bowed and turned to leave. As he did so he caught Nathily’s eye and offered her a grateful smile—the look of a friend who believed his ally was standing in support of him. Yet Nathily didn’t smile back. The Council might decide the fate of Lynsy Finch, but for Nathily, the verdict was already in: she was suddenly a spectator in her own life, watching the man she loved trying to build a fortress for someone else.
The Hearth of Broken Dreams
Back at the Regent’s kaza, the scene continued to play out. Fara had retreated to the kitchen, the rhythmic thump-thump of her vegetable knife against the wooden block providing a steady, heart-like beat to the tension. Rian was still at the Hall, leaving Nathily and Emcorae alone in the main room.
Emcorae was a whirlwind of frantic optimism. He paced from the hearth to the door and back again, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke. “Did you see their faces, Nat? I think I reached them! El-Janus is tough, but the mysstro is fair. He has to see that this is the right thing. He has to!” He stopped, turning to Nathily with a look of desperate intensity. “Lynsy needs me, Nat. If King Diked gets his hands on her… if he forces that marriage… it won’t just be her life that’s over. It’ll be her spirit. I can’t let that happen.”
Nathily sat on an oversized pazziera pillow, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her knuckles were white, but her face remained as still as a frozen pond. “You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you, Em?”
“Every detail!” Emcorae exclaimed, missing the hollow tone in her voice. He sat down beside her, leaning in close—so close she her heart skipped. “That’s why I need you, Nat. More than ever. If the Council says yes, I’ll need to go back to Monthaven immediately to get her. But I can’t just bring her here and dump her in a barracks.”
He reached out and grabbed Nathily’s hand. Her breath hitched, but he didn’t notice the tremor.
“Don’t you see, you’re the only one she’ll trust here in the forest, Nat. You’re an Amorosi, an amora, and you’re my best friend. I told her you were like my sister. I need you to help me prepare a place. A small cottage, maybe near the western boughs. Somewhere quiet. And when she gets here… you’ll help her, won’t you? Teach her the ways of the forest? Make her feel like she belongs?”
The irony was a jagged blade, twisting in Nathily’s chest. He was asking her to build the nest for the very bird that had stolen her place. He was asking her to be a “sister” while she was drowning in the wreckage of being a star-crossed lover.
“A sister,” Nathily repeated, her voice a fragile thread.
“The best!” Emcorae squeezed her hand, his eyes shining with a terrifyingly pure gratitude. “I knew I could count on you. I told Lynsy, ‘Nat is the strongest person I know. If she’s on our side, the King of Fubar doesn’t stand a chance.’”
He stood up again, his mind already jumping to the next hurdle. “Do you think your mother has any spare linens? Or maybe some of those dried blossoms she uses to scent the rooms? Lynsy loves the smell of lavender. I want the house to smell like home the second she steps inside.”
Nathily looked at her hand—the hand he had just released. It felt cold. “I’m sure Fara can find something,” she said, the words feeling like shards of glass in her throat.
“You’re the best, Nat. Truly.” Emcorae walked to the window, peering out toward the Great Green Hall. “I wonder what’s taking them so long? The sun is almost down. If they don’t give me an answer soon, I’m going to lose my mind.”
Nathily watched his silhouette against the sunset—the broad shoulders, the dark hair, the man who she longed to be her “twin arrow.” She realized then that El-Janus had been right about one thing: her arrow might have been released, but it hadn’t hit a target. it had simply sailed into the void.
“Patience, Emcorae,” she whispered, her voice so low he didn’t even turn around. “The trees take their own time to speak.”
The Apocrypha of Azazel 