4.8 The Answer is No

Location: Arbola Forest
Timeline: Sixth Age, 53rd Year, Summer

Answer is No Chapter

Location: Arbola Forest
Timeline: Sixth Age, 53rd Year, Summer

More than a moon after he’d returned to the forest, Emcorae finally got his audience with The Council.

The Great Green Hall was a buzz with anticipation as the would-be Azora stepped into the center of the space. Yet the contrast the observers saw in the appearance of the human who stood in their midst was staggering. Emcorae’s armor—the silver-filigree plate of the Azora—was immaculate. It shone with a terrifying, mirror-like brilliance, every hinge oiled, every strap tightened to perfection. But his face was a picture of chaos. He looked ten years older than the young man who had left. His skin was sallow, his eyes sunken and bloodshot from a moon cycle of sleeplessness. He’d also lost weight and looked thin and gaunt. In short, he didn’t look like an elf-trained warrior, but more like a man who was barely holding himself together.

“He looks like a corpse dipped in silver,” one weaver whispered to his companion, leaning over a moss-covered railing. “Like the grey of a winter sky.”

“He’s earned that grey,” an Azora scout retorted. “I heard rumors of a Myz here in the East. If that’s true, we’re fools to let him go out there alone. We must help him.”

Throughout the crowd, similar conversations could be heard. The younger elves felt the prickle of action in their own blood. But the elders—those who remembered the charred borders of the Last Great War—shook their heads. To them, Emcorae was a spark in a dry forest, a danger that could bring the wrath of Orkney and the dreaded Myz down upon their sacred canopy.

In the darker corners of the hall, near the root-pillars, the atmosphere was even more cynical. Coins of etched amber and pressed silver changed hands in hushed transactions.

“Three to one says Rian gives him a blessing and a bag of grain, but not a single arrow,” hissed an opportunistic merchant from the Southern Reach.

“I’ll take that,” replied a scholar, scribbling a note on a scrap of parchment. “I say he breaks. He’ll drop that katana and beg for help.”

In the gallery of observers, Alfranco leaned heavily on his weir-wood staff, his knuckles white. Beside him, Nathily felt a cold sweat dampen her palms. For weeks, they had been the twin pillars of Emcorae’s fragile world. Alfranco had spent hours in the dim light of the Archive, coaching Emcorae, refining his words, and teaching him how to appeal to elven logic without losing the raw edge of human truth. Nathily had watched from the doorway, her heart a tangled knot of love and terror. She wanted him to win, yet she feared that winning meant losing him to the meat-grinder of war.

Nathily’s breath hitched every time she looked at Emcorae. “They’re going to say no, aren’t they?” she whispered to Emcorae’s grandsire, her voice barely audible over the din of the crowd.

Alfranco didn’t look at her, his gaze fixed on Regent Rian. “They’re going to do what trees always do, lass. They’re going to try to outwait the storm. But this storm… it’s got a name. And it’s standing right in front of them.”

“Lords… Elders…” he began. His voice cracked, a jagged fissure of humanity in the polished silence of the hall. “I stand before you not as your Azora pupil, but as a son of Pennal. I have seen things that no dream should harbor. My beloved hometown, Monthaven, is gone. The people there were good, hardworking people—they didn’t deserve the fate that King Diked laid upon them.”

While the council listened to the plea, the living timbers pulsed with a low thrum. The architecture of the Council Seats remained a marvel—a vertical labyrinth of horseshoe-shaped boughs that functioned as a gallery of judgment—but it was not without hope. Regent Rian sat at the focal point, his brown robes almost blending into the darker bark of his seat. Near the bottom, tucked into a nook of roots, the ancient Dallegheri sat surrounded by floating globes of light. To the left, Helena and Ardala occupied boughs draped in shimmering Arbola silk. Adarius, the tall Cavalier, stood on a jutting limb near the edge, his beautiful face looking perturbed. Lorindel, the diplomat, moved restlessly along a middle vines, going back and forth between his colleagues, whispering his thoughts. Meanwhile, the mysterious and diminutive El-Janus remained perfectly still in the upper shadows, appearing as if he was part of the tree’s own bark.

“King Diked didn’t just have his monster burn buildings; he hunted people,” Emcorae continued his narrative, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow reached the furthest rafters. “He hunted… my family. He killed… the girl I loved.”

Here Emcorae had to pause to collect himself. In the the silence that followed, more than a few began to weep. Alfranco closed his eyes for a moment, his chest heaving. Earlier he had told Emcorae to use the girl—to make the elves feel the weight of a stolen future. But seeing his grandson crumble now under the weight of the words was almost more than the old gaffer could bear. Nathily bit her lip, a single tear escaping to track through the dust on her cheek. She saw the way Emcorae’s hand trembled and she wanted to run to him. As for the council, they showed no emotion, except that the Regent quietly coaxed Emcorae to continue when once he was ready.

Emcorae gathered himself, his gaze hardening against the throbbing ache in his chest as it swept across the horseshoe of judges. The silence of the Great Hall was profound, broken only by the ancient, rhythmic groaning of the living timber.

“They’re gone. All gone,” he said, his voice low but carrying with a resonance that reached the furthest, vine-choked rafters. “We can’t bring them back. No song of the Amorosi can save my people now, and no prayer to Alyssa can unburn the fields of Monthaven. But we can deliver justice to those who deserve it. I am asking—no, I am begging—for the strength to make things right.”

Regent Rian leaned forward, his hands clasping the armrests of his bark-woven throne. “We hear your plight, Pupil. We feel your pain; it vibrates through the very marrow of this wood. But what specifically are you asking us to do?”

Emcorae straightened his back, the silver of his armor catching a stray beam of emerald light. “Give me but a hundred Azora, and we can show Orkney that they’ll not get away with these crimes! More importantly we can stop them before they hurt others, before they move south and come here too.”

A collective gasp rippled through the hall, sharp and sudden. A hundred Azora—the elite guardians of the forest—was the equivalent of a human army ten times that size. It was a request that bordered on a declaration of total war.

In the gallery, the murmurs turned into a frantic, buzzing storm.

“A hundred?” whispered a silver-haired elder in the front row, his face pale with shock. “He asks for our sons to die in a human feud? To march into the ice lands for the sake of a few burnt hovels?”

“The boy is right!” a younger elf countered. “If we do not stop Orkney’s expansion, we will be fighting them here, under our own canopy! Have we grown so soft in our peace that we’ve forgotten how to bleed for the innocent?”

“It is a trap,” hissed a merchant from the lower boughs, his eyes darting toward the diplomat Lorindel. “If we send the Azora, what will Meridia think? Our southern trade routes could be destroyed.”

Emcorae heard the fraying edges of the debate and realized the moment was slipping through his fingers. He needed more than pity; he remembered what Alfranco told him earlier – sometimes the elves need a bit of terror to tilt the scales.

“Have you considered what it means to have a Myz on this side of TerrVerde?” Emcorae proffered, his voice cutting through the din. “Countless witnesses confirm that such a monster led the slaughter at the behest of the Orkney king. That beast didn’t just kill; it delighted in the ruin.”

The mention of the Myz acted like a spark in a dry thicket. To the Amorosi, the Myz were not mere legends; they were nearly immortal echoes of the Last Great War and may prior wars—nightmares of grey flesh and unnatural strength that none ever wanted to see walking the sunlit world again – and certainly not on this side of The Rhokki’s. Again there was chaos in the crowd.

“A Myz in the East?” an Azora captain roared, slamming his fist against the living wood of the gallery. “If Mezentiuz’ filth is breeding in Orkney, we don’t need a hundred Azora—we need the whole of the Vanguard! We cannot sit here and wait for the rot to reach the Arbola roots!”

“It is a lie to goad us!” shouted a council scribe from the opposite bough, his face flushed with panicked denial. “The boy uses ghosts to frighten us into a war we cannot win. If a Myz truly walked, Alyssa herself would have warned us.”

The fervor and the dissent slammed into one another like meeting tides, the sheer volume of the discord causing the very leaves of the Great Hall to tremble and their animal friends to scamper off. Then it was that Regent Rian stood, his shadow lengthening across the floor as he raised his hands.

“ORDER!” he commanded, his voice a sudden crack of thunder that stilled the room. “The Wood does not debate with a thousand tongues! It listens with one heart!”

When the crowd finally quieted, the only sound was the distant, muffled sobbing of a young elfess in the rafters. Rian turned his gaze back to Emcorae, his eyes dark with the monumental weight of the decision. He looked at his colleagues, saw their divided expressions, and then back to the desperate boy below.

“We have heard the plea, Pupil,” Rian said, his tone shifting to the formal, echoing cadence of the Judgment. “The grief of Monthaven has been laid bare, and the shadow of the northern threat and the potential of their alliance with the dreaded Myz has been named. Now, we must render the Will of the Wood. Councilors, the fate of our decision rests in your hands. Speak, and let your voice be known.”

Ardala was the first to rise, her Arbola silks shimmering like moonlight on water. “To send our Azora—our lifeblood—into a human blood-feud is to invite the fire to our very borders. Emcorae, your grief is a mountain, but we cannot bury our people beneath it just to satisfy a neighbor’s grudge. I vote against.”

“A ‘grudge,’ Ardala?” Lorindel interjected, his eyes gleaming with cold calculation as he paced his vine. “You call the return of a Myz a grudge? Consider this, if we help this boy, we place a debt upon the whole of Pennal that can never be fully repaid. Surely they will see us as peacekeepers, the hand that restored balance. There is a massive diplomatic advantage in a grateful neighbor who owes their thrones to the Amorosi. I vote in favor because it actually protects our future.”

Again the crowd raised their voices – a swirl differing opinions – until El-Janus finally stirred. As a Mysstro he was the highest echelon of the Azora and a veteran of countless campaigns. When he stood up, all others fell silent out of respect.

“We speak of debts and we speak of trade,” El-Janus said, stepping out from the upper shadows. His eyes held a terrifying clarity. “These are the languages of the living, and they are necessary. But as one who has walked the ‘Red Path’ more times than I care to count, I must offer a different tongue.”

He turned his gaze toward Emcorae, not with anger, but with a profound compassion. “My Pupil, the Azora Way was never meant to be a shield against grief. It is a discipline of the spirit meant to protect the ‘breath of life’ in all its forms. I have stood in the mud of the Gap and fought the Myz. I know the dangers. But I have also seen what happens when the heart stops beating for justice and starts beating for the grave.”

He looked back at his colleagues on the horseshoe, his voice softening. “Wisdom tells us that he who seeks revenge would be wise to dig two graves. When we draw the sword for the sake of the ghost, we often lose the mortal who holds the hilt. I do not fear for Arbola’s borders; our roots are strong. I cannot, in good conscience, provide the shovel for my Pupil to dig a path that ends in his grave. I vote against.”

To the affront of the crowd, Helena was unable to hide her soft crystalline laugh as she stood. “The Mysstro is always so poetic. But let’s be practical. A distracted Orkney, embroiled in internal strife and atoning for its crimes, is an Orkney that cannot interfere with the goals of the great forests. Chaos in the north serves the prosperity of Amorosi. I vote in favor.”

The ancient Dallegheri, who had remained silent in his nook of roots, and appeared asleep to more than a few, finally opened his milky eyes. The globes of light around him dimmed as all eyes turned to him. “I decline to cast a leaf into this stream,” he whispered, his voice cutting through the celebratory cheering. “But hear this: ‘Even the wicked man has the right to breathe, until the Heavens stop his heart.’ We are The Amorosi; we are not the wind that blows out the candles of Men. I fear we step into a circle that is not ours.”

The Regent was disappointed that his father did not participate. And since he himself also didn’t vote unless there was a tie, that left only one council member left who would decide the matter. In his heart he was moved to help Emcorae and he secretly hoped this might ease his daughter’s heart. Yet now he feared the worst – for the last voice was to be Adarius – the Cavalier who served under El-Janus. Fully expecting him to side with his mysstro, Rian sighed, “Without Dallegheri’s vote, we are split,”Two for the cause of safety, two for the gains of the realm. Cavalier, what say you?

The crowd began to ripple with a restless energy, sensing the deadlock but eager to hear the great Azora speak. Adarius, the tall Cavalier, stepped to the very edge of his jutting limb. His beautiful face was now set in grim stone. He didn’t look at the councilors; he looked at the thousands of Elves watching from the rafters.

“We quibble over trade routes and future diplomacy while a Myz walks the East!” the Cavalier’s voice boomed, a crack of thunder that silenced the hall instantly. “I respect the words of my colleagues, but I beg to differ – I consider this Pupil’s words a warning bell! This isn’t just about Monthaven or a human king’s cruelty. If King Diked has unchained a beast from Kagor—a creature designed by the God of Death in league with Myzentiuz and Sindra—then he has declared himself an enemy of all living things. Do we wait until the smoke reaches our own woods? Do we wait until the ‘shadow-waste’ is coating our leaves before we admit the danger is real?”

Adarius slammed fit into palm. “I say we do not wait for the fire to find us! We root out the monsters now, before their teeth find our throats! For the safety of the Wood, I vote in favor!”

The gallery erupted. The younger Elves cheered, stamping their feet until the Great Tree vibrated with the force of their approval. Meanwhile, the tension that had been holding Nathily together like a overstretched bowstring finally snapped. She turned to Alfranco, her face illuminated by a sudden radiance, and threw her arms around the old man’s neck.

“They’re doing it, Alfranco! They’re actually doing it!” she cried, her voice barely audible over the roaring rafters. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of relief and a terrifying hope. For weeks, she had watched Emcorae wither into a husk of himself; now, she saw the possibility of him being whole again—or at least, having the means to stop the nightmare that haunted his waking hours.

Alfranco caught her in a sturdy embrace, his weathered face crinkling into a grin that held a thousand unspoken weights. He let out a breath he felt he’d been holding since the first plumes of smoke rose over Monthaven. He patted Nathily’s back with a steady hand, his own eyes moist as he looked down at the silver-clad figure of his grandson in the center of the hall.

“I told you, lass,” Alfranco laughed, his voice full of pride. “The roots of this place are deep, but they aren’t dead to the world! Our boy… he’s got his army. He’s got the steel he needs to look that devil Diked in the eye.”

The old gaffer looked around the shaking gallery, feeling the heat of the crowd’s fervor, and for a fleeting, golden moment, he was grateful to Alyssa. He felt like his sacrifice to her was worth it. He felt powerful again – like Al-Corragio of old. “You watch, Nathily. Our Emcorae is stronger than we know – he’s going to be a storm that will sweep over the north.

Nathily nodded frantically, wiping a stray tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. She looked back at the Council, and caught the eye of her father who smiled at her. It felt like a victory. It felt like a beginning. It felt, most dangerously of all, like the end of their troubles.

Rian looked from his daughter to his wife Fara and then at the surging crowd and finally back to Emcorae. The Regent’s face softened, moved by the sheer weight of the evil described and the military necessity Adarius had laid bare. The matter was grave indeed, but the cause was worthy, so he said with a look of approval, “It would appear that the Azoras will march with you Emcorae Azop.”

Yet even as Rian was speaking he saw that his father was motioning for his voice to be heard. “Hush, friends, let us hear from the Lore Master.”

Shocked and grateful, Emcorae stood tall, the emerald light finally reflecting off his silver armor as he silently thanked Alyssa and tried to process this unexpected turn of events in his favor. He looked up at the horseshoe of judges, his heart thumping against his ribs. He had his army. He had his mandate. For the first time since the fires of Monthaven, he felt there was hope again. He didn’t see the sorrow in El-Janus’s eyes, nor did he heed Dallegheri’s warning. He saw only the road to Orkney, and the ghost of Diked waiting at the end of it.

Meanwhile Nathily grabbed Alfranco’s hand, her face glowing with a frantic, relieved hope. “They said yes, Alfranco! They’re going to help him!”

Nathily and Alfranco began making their way towards Emcorae as the crowd shouted out congratulations to him. Yet before the Council could formalize their decree, the massive, vine-woven doors of the chamber were forced open with concussive blast of white light.

Into the sudden silence stumbled the seer Teresius!

—

The blind prophet was a terrifying sight – as always. His silken robes were scorched, and the pits of his eyes were sunken back into his skull, revealing only the flickering silver veins of a man possessed by the Divine. The great prophet used his ancient cane to stagger through the hall as the crowd parted before him. Still remembering his first horrific encounter with Teresius, Emcorae moved far afield of the seer – hoping to avoid his touch even as his heart hammered in dread.

“HALT!” Teresius’s voice roared in the hall. “THE WOOD SHALL NOT STIR! THE LEAF SHALL NOT FALL!”

The crowd fell into a deathly, suffocating stillness. Teresius’s body racked with tremors as he pointed a trembling, skeletal finger toward Emcorae and levied the following prophecy…

“One walks the Cinder Path, yet many seek the flame.

If the Grove should cast its shadow where the Lone Wolf bleeds,

the Silver Gates shall rust, and the Fields of Gold shall turn to Ash.

To touch the Hand of the Deliverer is to sever the Cord of Eternity.

Let the One be All, or let the All be None!”

Having delivered his spiritual discharge, Teresius slumped forward like a puppet with its strings severed. A dozen Azora rushed to his side and they hauled his limp form to a nearby chamber to help him recover. The Hall dissolved into a cacophony of terror and confusion—a wall of noise that made the previous celebration feel like a distant dream. Even the Council sat in a state of paralysis, their faces pale masks of indecision as they looked at the spot where the prophet’s voice had just flayed the air.

Emcorae stood at the center of the storm, his hands clawing at the air as if he could physically grab the fading echoes of the curse and tear them apart. A frantic heat surged through him, a mix of rage and realization. This was the moment his victory was supposed to be sealed; instead, it felt as though the very heavens had reached down to snap his spine. Had his prayers to Alyssa been denied – again?

In the gallery, the world had turned upside down for Nathily and Alfranco.

“What does it mean?” she whispered, her voice lost in the roar of the crowd. “Alfranco, what did he say about the gates? Why would Alyssa stop us?” Her mind was a frantic whirl and she looked at Emcorae, seeing his silhouette tremble against the emerald light, and felt a chasm opening between them that no army could bridge.

Alfranco’s mouth hung open, his tongue feeling like a dry stone. He had calculated for politics, for cowardice, and even for war—but he had not calculated for a Divine Embargo. Had Alyssa betrayed him too?

“The Seer… he’s touched,” Alfranco muttered, though his own heart didn’t believe the lie. But as he watched the Councilors begin to whisper in terrified, huddling groups, the reality began to sink in.

In the sudden power vacuum, the Elder Dallegheri rose. His voice, usually a frail reed, cut through the noise with surprising power as he pointed to one of his librarian aides. “Scribe! To my private stacks—the Tome of the Crimson Solstice. Fetch the Lexicon NOW!”

What followed was an agonizing, awkward wait—a suffocating interval where each moment was like a slow drip of acid onto the collective nerves of the assembly. The Council sat in stunned paralysis, their prior bickering forgotten. Below them, Emcorae remained rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the empty space where Teresius had collapsed, his mind awhirl. In the gallery, Nathily reached out and found Alfranco’s hand; his skin felt cold and his pulse a ragged, uneven beat. They exchanged a look of terror, fearing the worst.

Finally, the runner burst back into the room, gasping for air, clutching a heavy volume that looked as though it had been forged in The Time Before. He practically fell at Dallegheri’s feet, thrusting the book toward him.

The Elder didn’t wait. He snatched the tome, the weight of it nearly pulling his frail frame down. Dallegheri’s withered fingers flew across the yellowed vellum pages, the sound of the paper like dry leaves skittering over a tombstone. His eyes darted with a manic intensity over the ancient, spidery script. A low, rhythmic chanting began to leak from his lips as he cross-referenced the seer’s cryptic words with the forbidden prophecies of the Crimson Solstice.

“By the Mother,” Dallegheri whispered, his voice suddenly losing its strength, his face turning a shade of grey that matched his robes. He looked up, his gaze finding Emcorae with a pity so profound it was more painful than a blow. “The seer did not merely speak. He recited the Unbinding of the Kin.“

The crowd was confused – most did not know about that ancient rede – including Rian, who asked his father to explain.

“It is exactly as I feared,” Dallegheri croaked, his voice trembling. “Although we don’t know for sure, we can assume the ‘Cinder Path’ is the road north. Perhaps the ‘Lone Wolf’ is the Deliverer Alyssa spoke about, perhaps not. But this much is clear and the warning is absolute: ‘To touch the hand of the Deliverer is to sever the cord.’ Our goddess is not merely advising us; she is leveling a ghastly warning – if any a Amorosi help Emcorae on his individual quest, it might interfere with the Goddess’ Divine Plans. Such an affront would be so profound our Mother would take vengeance on us all!”

“What vengeance?” Rian gasped.

Dallegheri was barely able to mouth the words, “I fear Alyssa will bar the Alyssian Field to all of us!”

“It cannot be!” Helena was horrified, as was the rest of the council and the crowd.

Dallegheri looked up, his eyes filled with a terrifying pity. “I’m afraid it is true. The ‘Deliverer’ is most certainly you, Emcorae. This is why Alyssa brought you here to train as an Azora. We have helped you as much as we could, but for this quest, the price of our help is the soul of our race. Alyssa is not punishing you—she is protecting the balance. You are her Champion for whatever her Grand Plans may be. I fear you must perform this deed… alone.”

As the audience went wild, the political landscape of the Council shattered in a heartbeat. Those who had voted to help now looked at Emcorae as if he were a leper.

“I cannot ask my men to sacrifice their eternity,” Adarius said, his voice breaking as he sat back into his bough.

“The risk is too high,” Lorindel added, his diplomatic polish replaced by naked fear that matched that on the faces of Helena and Ardala. 

Regent Rian stood, his face a mask of grief. “Councilors. In light of the Goddess’s decree and the Elder’s revelation… how do you vote?”

One by one, the hands went up. The “Yes” votes crumbled into a terrified, unanimous “No.”

“I’m sorry, we cannot help you, Emcorae,” Rian declared, his voice echoing with the finality of a tombstone. “The Wood forbids it.”

—

Emcorae stood alone in the center of the Great Hall, a solitary silver figure in a sea of emerald shadows. A dry, hollow laugh escaped his lips—a sound that made even the lobotomized elves at the fringes wince.

“Then I am already dead to you,” he spat, his eyes burning with a cold, blue fire. “You speak of souls? My soul was burnt to ash at Monthaven! You fear the Void? I have been living in it since the day my family and my future die!”

He turned his back on the Council, the polished silver of his armor mocking the dimming light of the hall.

“Keep your prayers!” he roared over his shoulder as he marched toward the shattered doors. “Keep your Alyssian Fields! I don’t need an army to kill a King. I only need a blade and the memory of what you were all too cowardly to defend!”

“Emcorae, wait!” Nathily screamed, reaching out for him, but Alfranco held her back, his own eyes streaming with tears of impotent rage.

“Let him go, lass,” Alfranco choked out, glacing bitterly at Dallegheri. “The ‘wise’ have spoken. They’ve traded today’s hero for an ancient prophecy.”

As Emcorae vanished into the misty woods of Arbola, the crowd erupted into a chaotic mess. Regent Rian stood with his partner Fara on his bough, watching Emcorae disappear into the dark, their hearts heavy with the knowledge that they had just sent Nathily’s friend into the mouth of the wolf, armed with nothing but his own despair. Both wondered how their daughter would react to this horrible turn of events. 

Meanwhile around the Hall, a community prayer began—a haunting, melodic hum for Emcorae’ safety—but would it make a difference? 

But Emcorae didn’t stop. He didn’t look back at the Council, nor at the sea of elves, nor even at the two people who had fought so hard to save his soul. He walked out of the “living” hall and into the cold, starlit night—a warrior who had nothing left to lose but a life he no longer wanted. He was going rogue agent, soon to head toward a horizon that promised only…blood.