Location: Arbola Forest
Timeline: Sixth Age, 53rd Year, Summer
The Regent’s cellar, once a place of whispered recoveries and Nathily’s gentle medicine, had been reclaimed by the cold utility of war. It was no longer a sanctuary; it was a factory of vengeance. Emcorae moved with a mechanical efficiency, his mind a checklist of lethality. Salt for the trail. Arrows for the guard. Steel for the King’s Head. He was packing for a war that had no end date and no allies.
After he’d gathered what he needed from the cellar, he moved up the stairs to finish packing Joanne and a pack mule – their saddlebags quickly bulged, especially upon the mule. In addition to food, Emcorae added all of Azoran specialized weaponry he’d collected during his time: a secondary short-blade of elven steel that caught the light like frozen lightning, several dozen black-feathered arrows tipped with armor-piercing bodkins, a reinforced shield etched with the sigil of The Glade of Gazza, and more.
Although the mule merely grunted as the weight increased on its back, Joanne’s mood was different. The elvish mare’s ears were pinned back and her hooves shifting rhythmically. Joanne knew something was wrong. She felt the unease in her friend’s intent, a spirit that lacked any of the warmth she once recognized in him.
When he finished, Emcorae looked at the small mountain of gear that precariously floated upon the mule’s pack. The forest had become ominously quiet – in his mind he took that to be a preview of the silence he expected to find at the end of his journey—the silence of a grave.
They wanted me to be an Azora, he thought, his fingers cinching a leather strap until it groaned. It was a fool’s quest. It’s not for me to fight for forests or gods. I’ll fight for the dead and the justice they should be given. And I’ll fight for revenge!
Finally, he strapped the Azora Katana to his hip. The weight of it felt right—a perfectly balanced killing tool that would be in the hands of a mortal who planned to burn out the candle of his life in a blaze of glory. The movement had a finality to it and he felt the last tether to his former self snap. He was no longer the boy who laughed at jokes or the Pupil who sought to walk the “Way.” He might have been those things had the gods directed his path differently, but Fate had gained controlled and it was time for the darkness of his destiny to unfold.
Before he could leave, Alfranco and Nathily arrived. Alfranco looked aged by a century, leaning heavily on his staff, while Nathily’s face was a mask of pale, vibrating horror.
“You’re actually doing it,” Nathily whispered, her voice trembling. “You’re leaving us again? By yourself?”
Emcorae looked towards the north. “I’m going to deliver justice, Nathily. The Council won’t give it, so I’ll go find it in the ruins I create of Orkney.”
“It’s a suicide mission!” she cried, stepping toward him, her hands reaching out as if to physically stop him. “Alfranco, tell him! Tell him he’s walking into a grave! He’s throwing his life away?”
Nathily turned to the old man, expecting the voice of reason. Instead, she found Alfranco staring at his grandson with a look of profound, agonizing pride.
“He’s right, lass,” Alfranco said, his voice a gravelly rumble that seemed to shake the very foundations of the cellar.
Nathily recoiled as if he had struck her. “What? You… you’re letting him go?”
“An Azop without a purpose is just a dead man walking, Nathily,” Alfranco said, stepping toward Emcorae. He placed a heavy, trembling hand on the young man’s shoulder. It ripped the old man up inside and he wanted to scream, to stop him, nay he wanted to go with him and fight until his own heart stopped too. He wanted revenge and justice just as much as Emcorae. But he knew he’d only slow Emcorae down and as to what he might accomplish in battle – well those days were long passed too. He also knew that if Emcorae stayed here in the forest, the guilt would rot his grandson until there was nothing left but a shell—just as it had nearly done to Alfranco himself.
“You go, Em,” Alfranco whispered, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “You go and you make them remember our family. Justice is a bloody business, you may need to become a monster to survive. Be the bigger monster, the biggest of all, and maybe, just maybe you’ll pull through. You have my blessing, Em. And know this – the gods… they’ll watch over you. I’ll make sure of that!”
Alfranco looked toward the trees – he knew a certain jay was watching these events. He’d already had made a silent, internal bargain: he would give Alyssa what she wanted. He would let Al-Corragio return to her bed and her service, provided she used her divine hand to protect Emcorae. It was his own sacrifice—trading his identity and the memories of his own lost wife and family for his grandson’s survival.
Through it all Nathily stood frozen, her Amorosi mind unable to process the speed of these hasty human action. In the elven world, decisions took years; here, her world was being dismantled in heartbeats. “Emcorae, please—”
But the man she loved was already mounting Joanne’s back. After getting into the saddle, Emcoare paused for only a moment, his shadow stretching long across the forest flow. He looked at Alfranco and gave a sharp nod—the only goodbye a man on a suicide mission could afford – even to his beloved grandfather. Then his gaze shifted to Nathily. For a fleeting moment, the “Dark” in his eyes softened, a ghost of that friendly boy who had share so many trials in The Glade flickering in the candlelight.
“Thank you for the light, Nathily,” he said, his voice flat but not entirely unkind. “Don’t waste any more of it on me or the road north.”
And then, he was gone. Moving his lonely party forward towards the road.
The sound of hooves on the path quickly faded into the depths of Arbola. Nathily remained standing in the sudden, deafening silence, her heart a leaden weight. She had expected a long goodbye, a chance to plead, a moment to convince Emcorae to stay, certainly time – at least a few days – to change his mind – even to reveal to him her true heart. But it was not to be – Emcorae was gone before she could do any of that. She looked at Alfranco, who had collapsed onto a nearby stone bench, his face buried in his hands. Nathily laid a hand upon the old man to comfort him – yet she continued looking towards the path that Emcorae had travelled – the man she loved was heading into the throat of danger, and she was left standing in a forest that felt more like a prison than her home.
The Flight
That night the Regent’s house was unusually quiet. The air, usually redolent with scents of Fara’s herbs now hung heavy and cloying. Nathily moved through her chambers not as a daughter of her loving parents, but as a thief in the night, stealing away the future Rian and Fara had so meticulously cultivated for her at the direction of Alyssa.
She was leaving – the decision had already been made. The choice had not been a slow burn like most Amorosi would have done; it was a flash of lightning that had scorched her for the process of thinking like a rash human had felt so unnatural. Yet as Nathily stood in the center of her chamber, every flickering shadow cast by the moonlight seemed to take the shape of Emcorae’s departing back—a beloved friend who hadn’t even turned to acknowledge her tears as he rode away.
He is walking into the darkness, she thought, her breath hitching in her throat. And he thinks he is walking alone. He thinks that dark has already claimed him, but he doesn’t know how much light I am willing to sacrifice to save him.
Her Amorosi heart was no longer the steady, rhythmic drum of a forest-dweller; it was a trapped bird battering itself against the ribs of a gilded cage. To stay in Arbola, to wake up tomorrow to the practiced “wisdom” of the Council, to try to return to her training and just go through the motions, to exist under suffocating, silent pity in her mother’s eyes—all of that was a death sentence she could not, would not, accept.
In the pale, ghostly glow of the moon, Nathily shed her silken robes – they pooled on the floor like discarded skin. She put on her sturdy training leathers, the gear of an Amora who had once committed herself to the rigors of the Glade. Overtop of this she slipped on a traveling cloak. In her mind she wasn’t shirking the promise she’d made at The Glade, instead she was fulfilling it by living the spirit of the Azora – to protect those most in need – which in her mind was Emcorae Azop. She knew this decision would not be viewed kindly by her people. Running away would be a blow to El-Janus’s teachings, an embarrassment to her parents’ standing in society, and a direct insult to the Goddess herself, yet to Nathily there was no alternative.
She packed her satchel with trembling fingers, her mind a whirlwind of logistics. Waybread, linen for bandages, and the potent, glowing salves she had received during a final, hushed meeting with her grandfather.
To her surprise, Dallegheri wasn’t all that shocked to hear about her leaving. He had looked at her not with disappointment, but with the understanding of one who had seen a thousand cycles of love and loss. In addition to his encouragement and love, the ancient elf had pressed a small, lead-stoppered vial into her palm—a rare distillate of Suns-breath moss.
“Heal the wounds of the flesh, Little Bird,” Dallegheri had whispered, his hand shaking slightly as he closed her fingers over the glass. “But remember: some wounds are not made by steel. If you go, do not go to bring him back to who he was. Go to help him become who he is destined to be. This forest is old, but true love is older still. Perhaps oldest of all is the duty of one soul to another.”
I will not be a healer tonight, Nathily finished packing in her room. And when I find Emcorae, if the fates require blood to keep his heart beating, then let the earth drink mine before his.
With that she reached for her falchia. She ran her thumb along the hilt of the curved blade. None truly knew its origin; it had appeared in her hand the day she first stepped upon the Path of the Azora, a gift or a curse from a forgotten era. It was a beautiful, terrifying thing, never before used in battle—at least not by her – but soon it would taste the blood of any who might try to harm Emcorae.
Here she knelt by her bed and offered a prayer.
“Great Mother, Alyssa… You who claim to be the patron of our hearts, do not look away from me now. You are the Goddess of Love therefore I ask in the name of love – help me to find Emcorae, help me to protect him, and most of all, help us to find… to find love together. Even if it’s only for a single night, let my life not pass away before Emcorae understands all that’s in my heart – and let me understand his.“
On her pillow, she laid a small note. Earlier, she had started a long, desperate explanation—pages of prose about how Arbola felt like a cage, how El-Janus’ ‘Two Graves’ wisdom was a prophecy she had to stop, and how her love for Emcorae outweighed her duty to the Regent’s house. But the words had blurred under her falling tears until the parchment was a sodden ruin. She had crumpled it. No prose could bridge the distance between her life in the forest and her future as a fugitive of the road.
In the end, she left only a brief, heartbreaking thank you for a lifetime of love from her adoptive parents—a life she was now effectively throwing away. Then she made ready to leave, but she didn’t use the door. To walk through the halls of her parentss would be to risk a long goodbye or worse pleas for her to stay. Instead, she climbed out the window, her boots finding the familiar knots of the Silver Birch. Nearby, tucked into the deep shadows of the garden, her horse Mossflower waited. The mare was already saddled, her panniers stuffed with grain and blankets. Mossflower nickered softly as Nathily approached.
Before she swung into the saddle, she did one final thing. She placed a single Moon-Lily on the earth below her window—a flower that only bloomed in the absence of the sun, thriving in the most difficult, neglected soil. Beside it, on a small scrap of parchment, she had written three simple words:
“I choose him.”
It was a choice of tragedy. She knew she wasn’t chasing a husband or a hero; she was chasing a man who had already declared himself dead. She was choosing the road to Orkney over the safety of the Green, the scent of blood and perhaps evil, and of a love that might never look her in the eye.
With a silent intake of breath, she pulled up the hood of her cloak and then she nudged Mossflower. The mare slipped into the trees, a shadow following a shadow, leaving the Regent’s house to its silence and the Moon-Lily to its dark.
Like Emcorae, Nathily did not look back.
What the fleeing elfess didn’t know is that her parents were not in the Regent’s house as she thought they were. Instead, at the edge of the village, where the ancient oaks gave way to the younger, wilder scrub of the borderlands, two figures stood hidden in the high boughs. Fara and Rian watched in a silence that was heavy with the weight of centuries. Below them, a small, hooded figure riding on a mare slipped past the sentinel trees. It was their adoptive daughter Nathily and she was moving with a desperate, frantic speed, her eyes fixed on the faint trail left by Joanne and the pack mule.
“She’s gone,” Rian whispered when the rider passed them by, his voice cracking. He reached out as if to catch the wind. “She’s walking into dangers unspeakable, Fara. We can still stop her. I am the Regent—El-Janus can surely stop her.”
Fara didn’t move. Her gaze remained fixed on her daughter’s retreating form until it was nothing more than a speck of green against the grey twilight. Her eyes were hard, yet a single tear traced a path through the beauty of her face.
“No, Rian,” Fara murmured, her voice a chilling mix of grief and pragmatic acceptance. “Like parents the world over, we have to let our little bird fly, even if she flies into a storm. She has chosen her path. She is chasing a shadow, yes, but perhaps her light is the only thing that can keep that shadow from being swallowed by the dark.”
Rian looked at his wife, seeing the “possibilities” she still clung to, even now. “It is a tale of two quests, then. One for blood, and one for a heart that may already be dead.”
“Then let us pray to Alyssa that the heart beats again before the blood is spilled,” Fara replied.
They stood together until the forest swallowed the last trace of their daughter. The “Butterfly Effect” had claimed its final victim in Arbola; the peace of the grove was shattered, and the road to Orkney now held the fate of the Azop line and perhaps even the future of the Amorosi people.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 