Startling awake from dreams of mist and shadow, Matthias realised he was in his room, in the same bed he’d outgrown last winter.

  Music was filling the air, flame crackling in the fireplace, flickering firelight over his desk, chair, and an old toybox.

  Dagma snored softly in that chair, her head resting on his desk, the pelt of a brown bear wrapped loosely around her. The pelt was their mother’s, it was normally clasped around her shoulders with a gilded brooch the size of Matthias’ palm, but for now, it warmed his sleeping sister.

  His head slowly turned toward the source of the music, his eyes falling on the golden-haired figure of Beggahasta Stonebreaker by the fireplace, her greatsword propped against the mantle within easy reach.

  Though she was generations past being fully greatfolk—her sons were throwbacks like most modern greatfolk were—the blood of giants still ran strong in his mother; her height often put many a tall man to shame, and her arms bunched with corded muscle as she moved. Agile hands, calloused from gripping the hilt of her blade, were plucking an ebony harp; an enormous instrument that towered over her as she played the delicate notes of Matthias’ favourite childhood lullaby.

  He smiled. Relieved to be home. “M-mother.”

  “Matt?” Beggahasta’s fingers froze, the song coming to an abrupt end. She sprang from her chair, crossing to his bedside and grasping his cheeks, blue eyes looking deep into his. “Matt, are you alright?”

  “Yeah…” he groaned, “I’m alright, mother.”

  Her brow crinkled at his reassurance even as her face softened with a measure of relief. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah,” he said, trying to keep his face straight. “I am.”

  “Hm?” Dagma lifted her head from the desk. “Wha—Matthie! You’re alive! You’re awake!” She threw off the bear pelt, rushing forward, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I thought you were going to die! I’m sorry I couldn’t help you! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

  Matthias grimaced. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Dagma. It’s not your responsibility.”

  “Yes, it is, you got hurt because—”

  “I’m your older brother; you don’t need to protect me. Besides, I’m not dead. Wounds heal.” He patted her shoulder as their mother rubbed her back.

  “It’s not your fault, Dagma,” Beggahasta echoed. “It’s okay.”

  Dagma sniff back tears.

  Their mother wrapped her in a tight hug. “Could you do something for me, my little Dagma? I want you to go and get Altaizar. He should be at the temple. Would you mind doing that so he can check on your brother?”

  Dagma sniffled. “Okay.”

  She ran to the door, opened it and rushed out, shutting it behind her.

  After watching her go their mother looked back at her son. “She needed something to do, to make her feel like she’s helping. Her errand will make her feel better far more than our words can.”

  “Wise, mother,” Matthias said. “Very wi—Ugh!”

  Beggahasta crushed him in a tight hug. “Oh my, boy. You shouldn’t be alive. I thank every single deity that ever walked this world that you are, Matt, but you shouldn’t be. That fall should have killed you.”

  He grimaced in her death-grip. “Thanks, mother,” he said, sarcastically.

  “What happened?” she asked, pulling away. “And before you answer, I want you to know that—” Her eyes flicked to the window. “We. Are. Quite. Safe.”

  Matthias understood the meaning hidden in those words; father’s guards would be patrolling outside their home and he would have to choose what he said carefully. He told her about the chase, and the gamrung, but left out the parts about the dream and shadow.

  She watched him, her face stony. “I should be able to protect you better. I am so sorry.”

  “Mother, I’m nearly grown; I can protect myself.”

  “‘Nearly grown’ is not grown, and I should be keeping you safe.” She glanced at her sword. “I swear if I could catch those three devils, that overblown bastard Haakon, or Eklund in the woods…” Beggahasta let the words hang for a moment.

  “Don’t mother,” Matthias said. “It’s alrig-”

  The door burst open.

  “There he is!” a cheery voice called. “Thank Melakar and Laurahasa!”

  The mage, Altaizar, closed the door behind him and followed Dagma into Matthias’ bedchamber. His sharp eyes focused on the boy; his hair—like spun silver—gleamed in the firelight.

  “Dagma tells me that you awoke a little while ago.” He followed the girl to Matthias’ bedside, peering at him as Beggahasta moved out of his way. “It’s a small miracle, your recovery. I didn’t think you’d wake for another week at least. How do you feel?”

  Matthias groaned. “In pain, but I can move. How long was I out?”

  “Two days.” Beggahasta gripped Matthias’ hand. “After Dagma told us what happened, we split up to look for you, but Altaizar found you first.” She looked at the mage. “Thank you, again.”

  He chuckled, drawing a pair of spectacles from his robe. His chest puffed out as he spoke. “Think nothing of it! I don’t get to come to Evalmera very often, and you pay me a great deal to help your eldest. I think the least I could do is find your other son and patch him up after he’d been set upon by mangy mutts! And speaking of patching him up.”

  The mage put on his spectacles, leaned down and examined the boy’s injuries. “My mother is more gifted with medicine than I, but I don’t think I did too bad a job, all things considered.”

  He poked and prodded at Matthias, checking his wounds, preparing to change his dressings. He reached into a bag, producing handfuls of tinctures in earthenware bottles, rubbing fresh poultices onto the many cuts and bruises. After dressing the wounds, he put away the tinctures, cracked his knuckles and pointed to the poultices: “Heal better.”

  Instantly, the tinctures tingled against Matthias’ injured flesh.

  Altaizar’s grin turned sheepish. “My commands aren’t the most imaginative, but I used The Gift to coax the tinctures. You should heal faster, though, I must say, you are very lucky. You really should be dead.”

  “I heard that before.” Matthias grimaced, trying to keep his face straight.

  The boy looked up at the mage; the wizard’s face appeared deceptively young, though he’d delighted the Stonebreaker siblings with stories of strange magics and sights from around the Shieldlands and beyond the sea for years.

  His tower, a short distance away, was filled with books and scrolls on the magics of the world. If anyone would have an idea about his dream and the Divine Breath, it would be him. Yet, Matthias was reluctant to tell him too much.

  Long ago, Altaizar had worked not just for his mother, but for his father too.

  He would need to choose his words carefully.

  “I should go.” Altaizar rose to his feet. “Let you be with your family.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Wait, erm…” Matthias paused. “Could, er, could Divine Breath help Bregindoure?”

  Everyone in the chamber froze.

  “Matt, what are you talking about?” his mother asked. “Do you mean for not one, but two forms of forbidden magic to course through your brother’s body? Even if it could work, Divine Breath kills most who dare to even try it. We have discussed this subject many times. The answer is still no; neither of my sons are going down that path.”

  “Both you and your brother have it hard, but there are good things in your lives too.” Altaizar’s lenses gleamed. “Be careful not to risk it all recklessly. Now, if you ever want to discuss trying to develop The Gift, Life Enforcement or your brother’s condition, come by my tower: I’ll make you a nice cider and we can chat.” He paused. “I need to head to the foothills outside the Wolfwood for a few days, but by the time I return, you should be all healed up. My tower’s defenses are keyed to not target your family—I'm not in the habit of having my employers butchered—so just come knock on the door anytime you want. For now, focus on resting.”

  With that, Altaizar bowed and left the room.

  Matthias could wait a few days, he supposed. He could use the time to think of a way, without tipping his hand, to get what he wanted to know out of Altaizar.

  “Alright, we had better go too, Dagma. Your brother needs his rest,” Beggahasta said. “When you’re better, we’ll talk more, Matt.”

  “Get better soon, Matthie.” Dagma patted his hand.

  “Wait, before you go, mother, Dagma.” Matthias stopped them. “What happened with Kari, Petric, and Siegfried?”

  Beggahasta snarled. “Now that we have the full story, I don’t think even Eklund can let them go this time without punishment. Until then, patience, Matthias. Way of Stone. Things will change. Way of Stone.”

  He smiled. “Thanks mother.”

  She smiled back, tousling his hair. “That’s my boy. I’ll leave my harp here and play for you later.”

  As Beggahasta and Dagma left, Matthias tried not to think about the sadness in his mother’s voice when she said ‘things will change.’

  Instead, he got up, drawing his curtains closed.

  He called the tendril out of his shadow.

  It writhed before him.

  “Alright, let’s figure out what you can do.”

  For the rest of the day, Matthias learned about the shadow tendril.

  First, he confirmed it could only stretch as far as he was tall. He tried shifting his position in the room—lengthening and shortening his shadow in the firelight—finding that the tendril could only stretch so far, no matter how long he made his shadow. Thankfully, it still extended to a length equal to his full height, no matter how short his shadow was.

  ‘I’ll have to see if it still works when I have no shadow; when it’s completely dark,’ he thought. ‘I wonder how much it can lift?’

  First, he had it lift his old toys, wrapping it around them and lifting each one without difficulty. Next was the toybox itself—first empty, then full—which the tendril lifted with ease, placing it on the desk. However, when he tried lifting the box and the desk together, the tentacle shook with effort, not able to budge their combined weight.

  ‘It’s not as strong as I am, but I wonder if it can get stronger?’ he thought, glancing at the door and window. ‘Let’s see how agile it is.’

  Slowly, he considered his mother’s harp.

  A gift from his father—in better times—it was beautifully carved; the pillar was in the shape of a bearded man with his eyes closed, a serene expression on his face. His arms were raised either in praise or supplication, as his hands gripped the harp’s bow. The bow, shaped like a woman holding the same pose as the man, curved back to the soundbox.

  The harp’s wire strings gleamed gold in the dying firelight.

  Matthias used his tendril to pluck a single string, sending a melodious note ringing through the room.

  ‘The tendril’s thicker than a finger, but it’s as agile as my own hands. So, what else can I learn about it?’

  He carefully wrapped the tentacle around the toybox again, lifting it up and down, up and down, up and down. Within five minutes, sweat sprang up on his forehead, his breathing growing laboured.

  ‘So, using it a bunch of times tires me out, just like if I was using my body. Maybe just one more test for now.’ Matthias looked around, finding a small knife—he’d lost his dagger to the gamrung—and focused on the tendril.

  ‘Can I cut it? Will it bleed?’ He laid it across the palm of his hand, raising the knife.

  He paused, wincing.

  He could feel the tendril tense; the rest of his body did the same, like he was threatening to slice into his arm.

  “No, I don’t know about this. It’s probably a bad idea.” He put the knife away. “Patience until I get more answers.”

  Matthias glanced at the curtains. Daylight had changed; sundown was fast approaching.

  Bregindoure’s prison was full of books.

  He’d go see his brother tonight, after the rest of their family was asleep.

  Matthias slipped through the window when the white moon was high, landing on the balls of his feet, alert for any sign of the guards.

  None were nearby.

  He slipped from the stone house and into the bushes above the slope leading down the mountainside. He’d left a note for his mother in case she came back to check on him; the least he could do was not make her worry herself to death.

  Creeping through the darkness—wincing at his wounds—he moved through the bushes on his way down the mountain toward the village of Barrowgate. Crickets chirped in the tall grass, an owl hooted on a branch somewhere above, and a swarm of bats flapped over the trees from a cavern roost.

  Matthias pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders when a chill wind blew from the west. Firelight from the village grew brighter.

  He ducked under a tree branch and looked up at a dark grey cliff in the distance. An old watchtower—from a time before the five kings of Evalmera united under the high king—rose from the top of the bluff. It once housed those who’d watched over the Wolfwood; now it served as Altaizar’s home, library and laboratory when he was in the north.

  ‘I have to get that knowledge from him,’ Matthias thought. ‘But not now; not unless I want to break in.’

  Refocusing on the task ahead, he passed through the trees by the village’s fortified palisade; sharp spikes displayed the skulls of different beasts, and above the gate, a single phrase had been etched:

  Suffer not the Wolf.

  Village guards chatted amongst themselves as they patrolled, failing to notice Matthias creeping through the trees.

  As he left Barrowgate behind, he passed Sur Friya’s training grounds—a stone fort built around the colossal skull of some ancient titan—and continued through the woods, his thoughts fixed on his shadow.

  That distraction nearly got him caught.

  His mind was wandering and he didn’t hear the hoofbeats until it was nearly too late; tree cover was sparse around the fort, so he was forced to dive into the brush as two riders on horseback appeared on the mountain road.

  “Shit,” he hissed.

  Moving quickly, he crouched low, calling the tendril, bunching it up, draping it over his head and hands.

  Sur Friya rode beside a trainee—Agustin—the two pacing their mounts at an easy trot.

  Their conversation, however, was far from easy.

  “—tired of him playing me off like this,” Sur Friya was saying. “The high king and the archlord are lying in bed with wolves. We should be mustering our forces in the south.”

  “You go on about this endlessly, Sur Friya” Agustin sighed. “We have a truce with the Artenesians; some of the southern lords even ride with the elves.”

  “They ride with the same damn elves who conquer every single kingdom in the Midlands and unleashed their scourges on Halit-Baal and Yahar in the south.” Sur Friya and the young knight rode dangerously close to Matthias’ hiding spot. “And let’s not forget what they did to Jarnium. Conquering is like strong drink; it’s addictive. Do you really think they’ll stop once Ostari falls?”

  “For decades, people have been saying, ‘they will look north,’ and yet they’ve never brought their war here.” Agustin responded. Matthias could almost feel the heat coming off his horse as he rode by. “Sur Friya, our enemies lie within the Wolfwood. We shouldn’t be distracted by elves or other bogeymen.”

  “The elves are all mad,” she growled. “I’ve seen it in those monstrous eyes of theirs; they’ve lived for too long, locked up in their mountain for too many millennia. You can’t trust—”

  Their words faded as they continued along the road.

  Matthias let out a sigh of relief. “Got to be more careful.” He looked at the tentacle wriggling beside him. “I have to say, though, I really like this thing.”

  With a smile, he continued down the mountain.

  As he entered the valley, Matthias could hear Bregindoure’s lute on the wind. Its tune was harsh, dark and aggressive, like a funeral dirge crushed together with an army’s marching song.

  It was the kind of tune that demanded blood.

  Matthias had a good idea why.

  When he reached the tower, he emerged from the bushes, startling the guards—there were only two on duty at nighttime—and both stared at him like he was a phantom coming to take their souls. He could imagine what their reaction would have been if the tentacle was still out.

  “Young master Stonebreaker?” a guard peered at him under the moonlight. “What are you doing here? You should be—”

  “Dead?” Matthias said dryly. “People keep telling me that.”

  “No, in bed. We’d heard you survived your terrible fall, but not that you’d awakened.”

  “Well, I did.” Matthias nodded to the top of the tower. “I want to see my brother.”

  “Of course,” the guard said. “He’s been playing that song nonstop. Unnerving shit. Hope you can calm him down.”

  As soon as the door was opened, Matthias climbed up the tower two steps at a time; grimacing against the dull aches still throbbing through his body.

  “Breg!” he called, cresting the stairs.

  Bregindoure startled in his chair, hitting a sour note.

  He squinted, his mouth falling open before he threw the lute on his bed and rushed to the bars of his cell. “Matthie! Oh, by the Ascended, say this isn’t a dream! Come closer.”

  “It’s a dream!” Matthias went to the bars. “I’m actually dead! And I’m a ghost! Oooooo—”

  Bregindoure cuffed him on the side of his head between the bars.

  “Agh!” Matthias gripped his skull. “Don’t you know I just suffered a head blow?”

  “If you can make jokes like that, obviously it wasn’t that bad,” Bregindoure snorted, relief dancing in his eyes. “Matthie, they told me you hadn’t woken after your fall. If anything had happened to you—”

  “Bregindoure.” Matthias’ voice dropped to a whisper. “Something has happened to me. Both terrible and wonderful. I don’t know how much time we have before mother realises I’ve snuck out, but she can’t know about this yet.”

  “What do you mean?” Bregindoure asked.

  “Here,” Matthias said. “Don’t scream. Just watch my shadow.”

  He extended the tendril.

  Bregindoure’s eyes focused, bulging like they would jump from his skull. “What…what is that?”

  “Listen to me carefully, because I need your help. It appeared when I went off the cliff.”

  And so we have now met Beggahasta and Altaizar! Fun fact-much like with Fool-some of these characters actually predate this book completely, having been originally spun up in other stories or old D&D games I've run

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