The maze of rocks and hills seems endless. My feet hurt, my head burns. Around us, sentient plants wither and decay, the dead bodies of orcs and trolls lie on the ground and contaminate the scent of flowers with their cadaverous odor.

  Sometimes I look back and remember the undead that Wander summoned. At other times, I find myself staring at a body, fearing it will rise. This is rare, given the proportions.

  Something fascinates me about this power, but I keep such thoughts locked away. The ultimate fate of necromancers is exposed as a warning to all who dare to read about them.

  Instead, my attention is taken by a much more important event.

  Stretching magnificently across the horizon, the white wooden gates of Vanusia loom over the land. The stone walls surrounding the gate intertwine with nature, large trees serving as towers for soldiers and casting shadows over its perimeter; their multicolored canopies adorn the city and make it sparkle.

  Adorning the entrance, the art of an exquisite tree covers the gates, a rune shining at the end of each of its seven branches. Although I cannot understand what they mean, the language is as soft and beautiful as the art it describes.

  Its boundary is not easily perceived. Instead of sanity conquering the madness of the fairy world, what I see is an implied concession of authority. The circular shape of the city-state blends harmoniously with the greenery, the fairy world lending itself to the elves; in return, their presence orders and concentrates primal desires into something greater than the mere sum of both efforts.

  With the beauty of security, however, there is also caution. There is a reason why the main gate of the city is closed. The war continues, taking soldiers and adventurers. Along with the righteous anger against monsters, there is also an abnormal distrust that surpasses ordinary security: I feel the elves staring at us. We had already crossed the point of no return, and if we came this far, we would be investigated.

  A military camp spreads outside the city, protecting it within a perimeter.

  Hoffstein breaks into a broad smile. The man wears a simple white robe like a monk's, but he has a habit of taking it off when he fights to avoid getting it dirty. It never works. He looks like a beggar—one whose mana no one can see. I have to ask why he hides it if it always causes fear.

  A drop of sweat falls from my forehead. I crack my fingers one by one as I watch the soldiers coordinate on the horizon. Their apparent leader rides a large white griffin and descends from the treetops they use as towers.

  He approaches the group, his white armor gleaming like diamonds and detailed with the image of an eagle; wings extend from his helmet and shoulders, with pointed beaks on his face and chest. Beneath it, blue fabric covers his limbs, and a red cape follows him.

  The creature is twice as tall as Hoffstein, standing a good four meters above the ground. The elf dismounts from his companion, and the animal stares at us with attentive amber eyes.

  “Don't worry,” Hoffstein says. “Let me handle this.”

  The soldier approaches, his posture firm. He stares at Hoffstein. “Who are you?” he says.

  Hoffstein lifts his chin. “Look into my eyes. Who do you say I am?”

  The elf narrows his eyes in natural suspicion. In the next second, he raises an eyebrow. Then, finally, his eyes widen, golden pupils in shock.

  “… Could it be… Hoffstein…?”

  The Hero nods.

  How does the elf know? Now that I think about it, how did Wander and Nia believe him so quickly? Why on earth does he hide his mana if he's going to reveal who he is to everyone he meets?

  I tried hard to stop trying to understand him, without success.

  The elf removes his helmet, revealing a symmetrical face, hair as black as night, and characteristic pointed ears.

  “It is an honor, Golden Hero.” He bows in respect. “Forgive my distrust and the mannerisms of my soldiers. War forces us to take such actions.”

  “Rise, young man, I am not worthy of prostration. What is your name?”

  The elf rises. “It is Serdin, Lord. If I may ask, what are you doing in the fairy world?”

  “You see, Serdin, this old man is also bound by duty to ask for your support at this vital moment. The forest consumes the city on both sides, but protects the ridges and the Vergas Mountains. The only passage that does not involve direct conflict with Hilda is through Vanusia, inside the mountains.” He turns to me. “This is my pupil, Sieghart, and we need to get to Solace.”

  Serdin stares at me, then inhales. He narrows his eyes, doubt showing. Something worries him. It frightens him. The elf maintains his firm posture, and I can see him restrain himself from his habit of placing his hand on the hilt of his sword. He opens his mouth, closes it, and swallows the question stuck in his throat. Finally, he turns back to Hoffstein.

  “We will attend to all the needs of the Lord of Light as best we can. We will give him food, protection, and care. However, I fear that his passage through the mountains will not be as safe as he hopes. In fact, I hope that the Light himself has sent him to save us from the terrible evil that plagues the city.”

  “Terrible evil?”

  “…Vanusia is a trading city, Lord, and we depend on collecting minerals from the mountain. But a creature of darkness prevents us from entering, and with Hilda's attacks, our reserves are dwindling. If you manage to destroy the monster, you may pass through the mountain, and also receive other rewards!”

  “I see. Very well. I will destroy the evil that lurks in the mountains. Who is it? What does it look like?”

  “Thank you, Lord, thank you! However, it is best that you regain your strength, and that the details be told later.” He takes a breath. “Although they do not lie, fairies use the truth as swords of spring.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Hoffstein narrows his eyes, then nods.

  The elf nods. “Come to the hall at dusk. In the meantime…”

  And he talks. And talks. And talks. There is grace in the measured steps and gestures of the elves, softness in how they say their words. But after the initial danger has passed, I don't have the energy to care anymore, and I wouldn't even if I did.

  I know, however, that the elf stares at my back as we walk. Distress. Bad feelings are easier to recognize. He knows. Not completely, not truly, but he knows, in his heart, that something is wrong.

  It doesn't matter. As long as I have Hoffstein by my side, no one will do anything. For now, I just continue along the polished stone road and stare at the elven architecture.

  Stone buildings are used as support structures for the true wonders of the city. Elves don't need to shape nature from scratch, but merely reuse what they already have.

  Giant trees serve as multi-story houses, mushrooms form external staircases, and some of them serve as trampolines to reach another bridge. Vines and creepers form more entertaining footholds than the latter and connect the dwellings as far as my eyes can see. The animal influence is palpable, although I can't tell where each habit was taken from which.

  Perhaps this has something to do with the beast-men walking the streets. So far, all I've seen are lunatics given over to their instincts. But not in Vanusia. Here, I see a humanoid lion and almost pull out my staff, but he is golden and dressed in casual clothes while shopping for fruit.

  Panels, symbols, and statues stand tall and beautiful. Every ornament and adornment is made in the name of beauty, treated as a necessity, as if elves were permanently enchanted by the thirst for something greater than the ordinary.

  Or perhaps they abhor it, since even the ordinary is special. For example, peasants do not have enough mana to use several spells a day, so they concentrate on simple and important uses, on an ad hoc basis. In Vanusia, however, elemental magic reigns supreme.

  Elves coordinate primal power and levitate through the air to reach their homes in the treetops, use fire to light candles, purify water by separating it from clay with the snap of their fingers. Smaller and more constant uses of magic: common, but impressively effective and precise.

  There are also those who open and close passages using geomancy, and the occasional illusion for the dramatization of zealous street theater. Joyful. Happy. Yet anxious.

  Exaggeration is not part of their performance; they remain sincere and sublime in the face of the ideal, but nothing can hide the concern they express.

  I see their hands trembling. One or two notice something strange in the air and turn to face me, raising their eyebrows millimeters. One or two know, just as Serdin knows.

  It is not enough that they fear Hilda and whatever lurks in the mountains; my presence now makes their hearts skip a beat.

  I lose myself in my steps until I cross the distance to the house. There is no need to say what has already been said a thousand times. Guilt that is not guilt, excuses that I admit are just excuses. Nothing has changed.

  Fortunately, they don't last long.

  Our dwelling stretches across the ground, a reddish tree as big as a castle. Its entrance is like an entire house, carved in the shape of a fairy with butterfly wings, that invites us to enter through the passage in its heart. Hoffstein leads us inside, and somehow, it seems even bigger on the inside.

  Floors and more floors ascend to the treetops, rooms and more rooms diverge through branches and roots as large as tunnels. Immense as a castle.

  “Are you treated like this everywhere you go?” I say.

  Hoffstein spits out a laugh. “The opposite.”

  “... Why?”

  The Hero puts his hand on my hair and messes it up. “That's a story for another day. Go wash up, you stink.”

  I shrug, then use platform mushrooms and climb the exaggeratedly long stairs until I reach the main hall. I get lost inside the branches that serve as corridors until I find what would be my room, separated from the rest by vines.

  Human influence has not been completely diluted. Intricately detailed furniture still fills the room: desks, fur rugs, cotton and wool for the bed, stone sculptures like delicacies. The forest almost invades the room and gives it an unexpected richness of detail, but I ignore it to find a bathroom.

  When I find it, I come across a preheated hot spring surrounded by stones. When there is no external artistic reason, the circular shape seems to be the standard. I take off my clothes and leave them on the floor, then check the water temperature with my fingers and, after confirming that it is good enough, I dive in.

  I float on the water, let the steam envelop me, letthe water relax my muscles.

  I let it wash away the sins of what I did and failed to do.

  If it weren't for me and Hoffstein, the group would have no way to reach Vanusia, even if they took a safer route at the foot of the mountain range. Hordes and hordes of monsters.

  But some of them were men. Elves. Like the witches I killed. There's also the lack of trust I must have generated in Nia with all this, the fact that Wander is a necromancer, and that Cloud wants to kill me.

  Oh, one more thing.

  Elron is dead.

  “...”

  I can't afford to use that as an excuse for losing control. The fate of the world matters more than one person. I can't let myself be shaken.

  “...”

  But what I think and don't think has never mattered. If I could control what I feel, half of my problems would be solved.

  Elron. Witches. Necromancy. It's too much. Too much. I can't stay awake. I need to go back to a place where I can think—where I can rest.

  No.

  My answer would be to enter the Unknown and destroy everything I see before me. Make them come to me so they can make me bleed, so I have a reason to paint the emerald with red. But it's not enough. I've killed enough in the last few days, and as unbelievable as it may be, it's never enough.

  My aching body hasn't healed from all its wounds, my limbs go numb. Faced with a lack of defenses—the exhaustion it would take to create them—my mind goes the same path. There's nothing to say beyond what I've already said a thousand times. He'll never listen me anymore.

  “I'm sorry.”

  He won't listen me, but I say it anyway. I'm not sure why.

  “I'm sorry.”

  Something stirs inside my chest. For the first time in a long time, a natural tear spills from the corner of my right eye.

  The rest don't come out. Apathetic, I stare at the ceiling as memories flash through my mind. They pass faster than they could, should, and a million other adjectives; with a million excuses for why they did. I no longer care to keep up. Hoffstein recommended that I ignore it.

  I inhale, exhale. The hot water wrinkles my skin. I feel the accumulated black ink being consumed by the crystal clear water, which does not allow itself to be contaminated. I close my eyes.

  Minutes turn into hours, and a bath turns into a long, deep sleep.

  *

  The rest of the day was sleepy. I don't speak in my mind, but I remain absorbed. I let it wander to absorb everything I had felt appropriately in the last few days. I didn't imagine there was so much humanity left inside me. Is that something to celebrate?

  Footsteps.

  Hoffstein opens the vine curtains and stares at me. He wears a white tunic with gold details and sandals. Like him, I dress in an elven tunic, white and red. His sense of fashion is as ancient as the thematic focus of society.

  “Are you ready?” He says.

  I nod.

  The day of mourning was the best and worst day I've had in a long time. Regardless of his repetitive reflections, I feel lighter. Not much, but enough.

  The waning moon hangs in the sky and brings with it the gloom of dusk; and we need to talk about what dwells beneath its black sky, behind the rocks of the mountains.

  Hoffstein and I walk through the streets, once centers of celebration, now pale with fear. The real activity is in the military camp, which instead of decreasing in intensity, increases. They speak of monsters that devour children. They speak of beings that hide in the darkness.

  The main hall is surrounded by leaves as sharp as crystals. A greenish aura pulses from the emerald structure, a large staircase leads us to its gates.

  Hoffstein and I walk the streets, once party centers, now pale with fear. The real activity is in the military camp, which instead of decreasing the intensity, increases. They talk about monsters that devour children. They speak of beings who hide in darkness. The main hall is surrounded by pointed leaves like crystals. Greenish aura pulses from the emerald structure, a large staircase leads us to its guarded gates which, with the help of the soldiers, opens. And inside it, Serdin awaits us.