WILDS OF ELDRAINE

COLLECTED STORIES

BY

WIZARDS OF THE COAST

Table of Contents
Episode 1: Pure of Heart ................................................................................................................. 3
Episode 2: Wandering Knight, Budding Hero .............................................................................. 18
Episode 3: Two Great Banquets ................................................................................................... 33
Episode 4: Ruby and the Frozen Heart ......................................................................................... 49
Episode 5: Broken Oaths .............................................................................................................. 64
 Episode 1: Pure of Heart
By K. Arsenault Rivera

There was a king who dwelled in Eldraine, a good king, who had at his side a good
queen. Together they had four good children, and those who lived within the kingdom lived
happily, knowing they would remain in good hands for generations to come.

But the good king is dead—slain defending his family to the last—and the queen is dead,
too. All of their superstitions, all of their wards, all of their goodness meant nothing in the face of
the Phyrexian invasion. The generations that should have lived in peace now lie in mass graves
below upturned heaths and meadows.

The knights who repelled the invasion—both those gone to seed as mercenaries and those
yet clinging to valor—call Will the Boy King. And, no matter how much she wishes it were
otherwise, Rowan cannot blame them.

The knight they've come to see provides easy comparison. Dents and rends mark her
armor, telling the story of her valor as surely as letters on a page. Her handsome face is silvered
with scars earned in valiant service. Her hammer alone is near to Will's size. The arm she lost in
the fight against the Phyrexians has been replaced by enchanted wood—a gift from the fae that
begs as many questions as it answers.

And there are many questions surrounding this woman. For the past six months she's
been demanding tribute from nearby villages in exchange for her services driving off "raiders."
But the raiders in question, well, they always seem to wear her colors. In spite of this, the
townsfolk have a fondness for her—and it is this fondness that drove Will to seek her out for
parlay.

"Syr Imodane," Will says. He inclines his head, offering a hand to the knight. "Glad
tidings to you. I'd like to thank you for welcoming me among you and yours."

The knight does not budge from her makeshift throne. Legend had it she'd crafted it from
the bodies of fallen Phyrexians—and it certainly looked the part, all sharp angles and edges. She
sits with one leg draped over her lap, her eyes narrowed at Will.

"Queen Imodane," she says.

"Ah, a queen. Then we can make arrangements as equals," Will says. He offers a friendly
smile, though Rowan can see the cracks in his mask.

Imodane's riders laugh. She does, too, her shoulders rising and falling. "Oh, we're beyond
talking, Boy King. The only reason I agreed to this little meeting was to see if you were as
pathetic as I'd heard. You are."

"Watch your—" Rowan starts, but Will raises a hand to cut her off. Anger boils in the pit
of her stomach.
 Her brother's smile never quite leaves his face. "Pathetic, is that what you think of me?"

"You've given me no reason to think otherwise," says Imodane. "Where were you during
the Invasion? Certainly not on the field."

"Watch your tongue," Rowan cuts in. They may not have been on the field, but they'd
fought their own battles within the castle.

Will waves her off. "Then how about a duel? If I give you reason to think otherwise, you
bend the knee. No more raiding, no more pretending to the throne. In honor of your service to the
crown you can remain one of our vassals and champions, provided you act accordingly."

His calm only makes Rowan angrier. Power prickles in her blood. She flexes her fingers,
palm to fist, palm to fist, trying to bury her feelings.

Imodane scratches at one of the scars along her jaw. "And if I win?"

Will gestures to the heralds behind them. She knows what he is going to say, and she
already hates that he is going to say it. "Me and mine follow you, instead. I'll surrender the crown
of Eldraine. You will be High Queen in name and deed."

He hadn't consulted her about this. If he had, she would have told him how foolish it is.
Will could hold his own in some fights, sure. But against a woman like Imodane he had about as
much chance as an ant before a lion. Their mother could have done this, even their father—but
Will?

"Let me do it," she whispers to her brother. "I can handle her."

"I'll be all right," Will says.

"Her hammer's bigger than you are. Will, please. There's no need for more of us to get
hurt."

She will grant him one thing—his gaze has more steel in it than it did a few months ago.
"If it brings us stability, I don't mind shedding my own blood," he says. "Besides, she'll come
around when she realizes I don't back down from a fight."

You will lose more than your blood if you do this.

She will not respect you if she sees you broken before her.

I'm right here, why won't you trust me?

Death is thick in the air on Eldraine; family ties bind her in place. She cannot make a fool
of her brother. Not in so public a place as this. Besides, he's been training tirelessly every
morning. He's come a long way from the awkward boy she once knew.

A raiding knight like Imodane has land cleared for battles. How else are her underlings to
work out their rage between campaigns? The grass here is well worn, the earth packed tight
below. On one side, Imodane's rebels sit staring out at them in their cobbled together armor.
Nothing unites them, save their faith in Imodane, and yet to her they seem happier than her own
brothers and sisters in arms. The Ardenvale knights may wear finer cloth, yes, and they've a
place to sleep when many don't—but their faith and loyalty lay with the old king.

The Good King.

Rowan takes a breath.

Her brother takes his place.

A bugler sounds the horn.

Imodane, the Pyrohammer | Art by: Chris Rahn

Long have knights tilted at one another on fields of battle and fields of glory. So many of
her memories see her bouncing on her father's lap as she watched them, asking questions about
everything she saw, asserting with perfect confidence that she'd number among them one day.
Her father always assured her that she was right. When at last she tilted for the first time, her joy
sparked in the hearts of all her family and thus, like kindling to flame, grew stronger.

Phyrexia took that from her.

Now, when she watches Will fall into a fighting stance, she sees their father's face
shadowing his. Imodane becomes a barbed monstrosity intent on destruction.

Rowan tightens her grip on the sword. She tries to root herself to the present moment
through its heft, through the sensation of leather against her fingers. It's going to be all right. This
time is not that time.
 Imodane makes the first move, rushing toward Will with her great hammer in tow.
Rowan flinches—but Will has this under control. He blasts the ground with ice, leaving it slick.
Imodane's momentum carries her to a pratfall. Unable to recover, she falls face-first onto the ice.
Even her rebels cannot help but laugh.

Whatever hope they had for an honorable duel is gone. Imodane doesn't take kindly to
being made a fool.

Flame bursts from the head of her hammer. The ice coating the field melts, the thirsty
ground drinking up the meager moisture with gusto. Imodane raises herself up and—with one
mighty arm—swings the hammer overhead.

Will manages to avoid the shattering blow, but only just, throwing himself to the side.
The move of a complete and utter novice: he cannot regain his balance before he, too, falls to the
ground.

And Imodane can raise her hammer faster than Will can get back up.

Rowan's throat goes tight. Fear screws her to the sticking spot. Each second of indecision
burns her from the inside.

She hates this. It isn't who she is.

She won't let it be.

All of the anger she'd felt then, watching her father die, all of the sorrow she'd felt after—
as current through a wire she lets them course through her, unimpeded.

But there is something else coming along with the anger, the sorrow. Something new and
terrible. Rowan knows it not, yet like poison it courses through her veins, setting her afire.

To name what leaves her fingertips a bolt of lightning is to name a cauldron a thimble.
The heavens themselves tremble at the sight; dark clouds recede to allow the king of elements its
regal charge. By the time the thundercrack brings them all to their knees, it has been full five
seconds.

Only when the dust settles does she realize what she's done.
 Stonesplitter Bolt | Art by: Alexandr Leskinen

Generations from now they will call this Stormcutter Mountain. With lightning her blade,
Rowan's cut a massive rift into the side of the nearest peak. Giants could not hope to match it,
not for all their trying.

Her fingertips tingle, her heart catches in her chest. She stares at her hand, at the massive
rift, in disbelief. Power like this isn't. Where had she found it?

"Rowan?" Will sounds horrified. He looks it, too. Even Imodane's gone pale with terror.
The way she's looking at her is the way people looked at ...

They're afraid of her?

Rowan's tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. She can't think of anything to say, so she
stands tall, instead. If she reaches for her sword, she'll still project power—

But the moment she makes the gesture, Imodane drops the hammer, turns tail, and runs.
The woods swallow her up before either of them can figure out how to stop her.

That isn't quite true. Will could have. A single ice bolt would have done it, but he
remains on the ground, staring up at Rowan. Even when she helps him up, he never takes his
eyes away from her. "What have you done?" he asks her.

She isn't ready to answer that. "You should have let me fight. You never should have
done it yourself; you know you don't have the training—"
 Eyes on her back. Swords drawn behind them. Her warrior's senses are alight. Imodane
may have fled, but her rebels haven't. And without any clear direction, all of them are looking for
a chance to make names for themselves.

"We can talk about this later," she says. "When we're out of this mess."

There was once a good and noble knight who served at Castle Embereth with her fellows,
who drank deep of festival wine and boasted as loud as any man could boast. Stout of arm she
was, but stouter of heart.

That woman died months ago. Imodane is all that remains.

She runs, fear lending her fleet feet, through the thick brambles and over fallen boughs.

But here is the way of things: whenever one flees the past, one must watch carefully the
future.

Imodane does not. Nor does she realize what has happened until her foot lands, beyond
all thought and reason, on cold stone.

Hewed stone in the middle of the wilds.

Sense returns. Her spine ashiver, she looks around for what feels the first time.

Wherever she is, the woods are gone. Into a palace she has wandered, a throne room
glittering and gossamer. Music in strange keys beguiles her ears; she smells wine, ripe fruit, and
perfume. All around, the landscape shifts as easily as the music—walls become windows into a
realm of plenty; windows become doorways to who knows where. If she tries, she thinks she
could see straight through the misty structures, but she doesn't want to try. There are things
mortals are not yet meant to know. Though the throne before her is shrouded in shadow, she
knows upon seeing it where she must have ended up.

Imodane falls to her knees. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, I had no intent to trespass."

Two eyes, gold as mead, glow from the dark. "There is no need for apologies. You were
summoned."

She wishes to answer—but the sight of this delicate sovereign has robbed her of any
sense.

A gentle, cruel laugh caresses her cheeks. "Would-be Queen. Once-brave adventurer. Tell
me ..." The fae lord's hand cups Imodane's chin, tilts her face up. "Are you pure of heart?"

There is a village far from all of this.

 It lies at an edge of the Realm so remote that, in day-to-day life, the names of kings and
queens never cross the lips of its residents. Yearly visits from a single traveling merchant serve
as a holiday all in their own. Whatever road the merchant takes to find this place, he has not
shared it with the world, for even the Phyrexians neglected this place.

Perhaps they were not fond of sheep.

There are more sheep in the village than people by at least five-fold. When people say the
word Orrinshire, the word "wool" inevitably follows.

Kellan doesn't like it here. And as he slinks through the door of his family's small home,
he knows the feeling is mutual. He just hopes his mother doesn't notice the signs.

But mothers are gifted with many magical talents, among them the unnatural ability to
ask questions their children would rather go unasked. As Kellan walks through the door, his
mother looks up from her spinning—and when she does, her face drops from joy to concern.

"Welcome home, sweet—oh, no. Are you hurt?"

He tries to wave her off before she can stand up, but there's no use. She's crossed the
meager distance in the blink of an eye. Already she is looking at the scratches on his cheek, the
pricks of blood on his forearms.

Kellan decides to look at the floor rather than up at his mother. "It isn't a big deal," he
mumbles.

"It isn't a big deal?" she repeats. From the folds of his hood she produces a nail. "Kellan,
what is this? What did they do to you out there?"

He winces. He thought he'd gotten all of them, but he should have known there'd be one
hiding somewhere. "It was just ... do we have to talk about this?"

He does not need to see his mother's face to know her heart is sinking. She smooths the
yew shavings from Kellan's hair with a sniff. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry. We don't need to talk if you
don't want to." After a breath to steady herself, she turns her head and gives a shout. "Ronald!
Ronald, get me some water from the well!"

Kellan winces as his stepfather shouts in answer. When his mother leads him to sit by the
table, he plops down into the chair with a pout, slumping a like marionette whose strings have
been cut. Yes, quite like a marionette, he is wiry and small for sixteen. All the more reason for
the other boys to have chosen him as their victim. He still doesn't meet his mother's gaze, not
even when she fetches a clean rag and starts dabbing away the blood from his brown skin.

"Was it the Cotter boys?" she asks. "I owe Matilda five skeins, I can give her a talking-to
while I drop them off—"

Kellan sighs. He can't find it in himself to lie. "It's not their fault."
 "If they're the ones who hurt you, I can't see how it wouldn't be," his mother answers.

Wide grins. Laughter and jeers as he ran from them. You never belonged here, half-blood.

"They asked me a question, I answered wrong, that's all it is," Kellan says. He hears his
stepfather's thumping footsteps, the open of the door.

"What kind of question warrants this sort of treatment?" his mother says. "Kellan, honey,
whatever happened, none of this is your fault. You didn't answer wrong. These boys, they've
got ..."

"They're afraid of me, I think," Kellan says. "They think the Slumber's my fault."

His stepfather arrives; the bucket sloshes to a stop beside them. "Who's afraid of our
Kellan? Whoa—what happened?"

"It isn't a big deal," Kellan says. He wants to get up and hide, so they stop staring at him
and the cuts on his face, but he knows that isn't going to happen.

"The Cotter boys. Look what they threw at him," his mother says, plucking another nail
from among his clothes. "And look at his hair! I've no idea what's gotten into their heads ..."

A soft hrm from Ronald. He plucks a wood shaving from Kellan's wavy brown hair, then
holds it to his nose. "Yew, and I'd bet that nail is cold iron. That so, Kellan?"

Biting his lip, Kellan nods.

His mother stops mid-gesture. "The question they asked you ..."

He still doesn't look up. "They asked if it was true my real dad was a faerie."

The nail drops between the three of them.

Ronald is the first to break the silence. He lays a hand on Kellan's shoulder. "It doesn't
matter what they say, son. All that matters is who you are, not where you're from. And who you
are is our boy."

Kellan swallows. The question's almost too frightening to ask, but he has to be brave.
Heroes in all the stories are brave. "But ... But what if it's true, and that is who I am? Don't I
belong in the woods?"

"The woods aren't the way you think," his mother says. "There are dangers there you can't
yet imagine, my sweet boy. When you're older, we can face them together. But for now ..." His
mother throws her arms around him. For a moment, he's not sure who's embracing who. "You
belong here," his mother says. "With us. No matter what anyone else says."

But it isn't the first time she's said this to him, nor the first time they've all embraced.

And as much as Kellan loves his family, when he looks to the woods ...
 When he looks to the woods, all he feels is longing.

Castle Ardenvale lies in ruins. Half-burned and abandoned, it is no proper home for a
would-be High King and his court. Will's taken up residence at Castle Vantress, instead. Perhaps
he hopes the knowledge that's seeped into the stone will lend him wisdom.

Rowan's not so sure of that. Although she's been standing in her brother's makeshift war
room for fifteen minutes, this is the first time he realizes she's there. No matter that the guards
announced her, no matter how many times she's cleared her throat, his papers have interested
him more. She can't blame him for it, not entirely; as acting king, Will's buried beneath a mound
of paperwork taller than the two of them put together. Alliances, arrangements for taxes, oaths of
fealty and fiery condemnations—it is impossible to tell which is which when the stack is so high.

Of course, she can blame him for taking the title in the first place.

It's clear to see how much all this has worn on him. There are bags under his eyes and
stubble on his chin. The black eye he sustained during the fight with Imodane hasn't yet healed.
Either Will can't be bothered to ask Cerise to heal it for him or he's trying to make a statement.
Must be the latter—if Cerise had gotten a look at him, it'd be gone, regardless of what he wanted.

"We're leaving," she says.

Will squints at her. His own twin, and he can't recognize her. He thinks he can rule the
realm like this? "Don't think with your sword arm, Rowan," he says, sounding far more like a
beleaguered parent than their father ever did. "Our siblings need us. Our people need us."

"I've already told Hazel and Erec I'll be away for a while, and I think this is the best thing
we can do for the Realm," she says. She had a speech in mind before coming here, but she finds
now that the words have changed. "Look at yourself, Will. You're exhausted. The soldiers tell me
you haven't slept in two days, and looking at you right now, I believe it. Word's going to spread
throughout the kingdom about what happened at the cliffs—"

"—A situation we could have avoided if you'd trusted me," he cuts in, sharp as ice. Will
sits up and sets his jaw. Not breaking eye contact, he picks up a letter. "The Marquess of
Roxburgh wrote to me today. He says he will not bend the knee to a man who lets his sister
inflict such harm on others. ‘A coward cannot be High King of Eldraine,' he says. It isn't the only
letter of its type I've received. I wish you'd trusted me more."

There is a spike of pain in Rowan's temple, a headache she's been dealing with of late,
one that's eroded her patience. She presses her eyes closed. "You'd be dead if I hadn't interfered.
But he is right about one thing: you aren't the real High King of Eldraine. You didn't go on the
High Quest."

"Don't rake me over the coals for a technicality. The Realm needs a High King; I did
what I had to do. And I would have done that at the cliffs, too. I had a plan, Rowan. I don't
always need you to save me," he says. "We have to be careful about the impression we're
making. People want to be united, and I want to unite them. Blasting a hole in a mountain is no
one's idea of unity. I could have talked to her, found some way forward, but now she's gone off
into the woods and her rebels have reason to fear us."

"So? Let them be afraid. I doubt any of them will be raiding the countryside any time
soon with the beating we gave them. I'd rather have a thousand brigands living in fear of me than
a dozen farmers living in fear of brigands," Rowan says.

Her brother clenches his jaw, pinches the bridge of his nose. "That's not what our parents
would have done."

The headache pounding at her temple, her own bottled anger, the spark of her blood—
who can say what it is that causes her to burst out at him? But burst she does. "That's rich, Will.
Our parents wouldn't ignore a curse that's spreading through the kingdom. Or is 'unity' going to
solve the Wicked Slumber, too? I didn't know all those people needed was a handshake and a
cup of ale. And before you forget, our parents earned their titles. You just decided to call
yourself High King because you thought it suited you, no matter how much I told you it didn't."

She's gone too far, she knows she has. But that's fine. They don't have to talk about this
anymore. All they have to focus on is finding a way to solve the problem. The Wicked Slumber
might have stopped the Phyrexians in their tracks, but the Realm struck a foul bargain to pay for
it. Now it's spreading among the citizens of Eldraine with no end in sight. Nothing can wake the
dreamers—neither true love's kiss, nor a bucket of ice water.

So long as they can solve the problem of the Wicked Slumber, the people will rally
behind them. Vantress's finest minds have not cracked it in the months they've had to study the
issue—but Vantress's finest minds don't have access to the Multiverse.

The twins do.

Besides, it gets them away from here. From the castle that is not quite theirs, from the
memories.

And for all their differences, they share at least one thing in common: their spark. Rowan
reaches for its power as she has so many times before.

Will tenses. "Rowan, we can't just leave—"

"We aren't going to sit here either," she says. "Strixhaven taught us to find magical
solutions for our problems. That's what we need to do."

"I'm High King. I have to stay here!"

Strange. Shouldn't they have left by now? It must be Will's fault—his petulance is
keeping them in place. Or maybe his annoying insistence on an unearned title. "Your duty is to
Eldraine, and duty's calling. You're ruining my focus."
 This time, she puts all of her focus into Walking—closes her eyes, forces herself to look
past the stabbing pain in her head, her own frustrations.

But closing her eyes is a mistake. Once more she sees them down the long, curved halls
of Castle Ardenvale: her father, sword in hand; the Phyrexian behemoth he's fighting. Her
stepmother and her siblings running away, straight toward Will and Rowan, fear in the children's
eyes and determination in her stepmother's.

"Keep them safe, and live well," Linden says.

She knows how this story ends.

She doesn't want to see it.

"... Rowan?" Will says. For the first time since they started this conversation he sounds
concerned. "Are you all right?"

Her chest feels tight, her head might as well have a spike through it, and whenever she
closes her eyes she sees their father dead on the end of a Phyrexian's blade.

And, as if taking away her parents and ruining her relationship with her brother wasn't
enough, the Phyrexians seem to have taken something else from her. She can't clear her mind
enough to planeswalk. The spark—it doesn't seem to respond. In fact, she can't feel it at all.

"No," she says, flatly. "Fine. Stay if you want to. I'm going."

Every new moon, Kellan and his mother walk to an old willow tree on the edge of the
woods. With its bark against their backs and its leaves shading their eyes, Kellan's mother tells
him stories. The stars dance in front of his eyes with every word. Fireflies become the gleaming
shields of knights; swaying blades of grass their swords.

Lately, instead of a new set of heroes every time, he hears of two worthies in particular: a
young woman who fled her training as a hedgewitch, and a young man she saved from a troll's
rampage. Through the wilds they've journeyed together, facing all manner of beast and canny
mage.

He has the feeling he knows who they are, but he's enjoying getting to know them this
way.

On this night, as any other new moon night, he is near-running to the top of the hill. The
family sheepdog's following in his wake, bounding along through the grass, full of energy
despite the hour.

"Think you can beat me there, boy?" Kellan calls.

Hex barks, drool flying from his prodigious jowls.

 Kellan grins. He gives Hex a running pat, but pulls ahead of him all the same. There's no
mercy when it comes to racing your sheepdog.

When at last they reach the tree he is panting for breath, but happier than he's been all
day. From here on the hill, the rest of the village seems as far as Castle Ardenvale. He lays a
hand on the comforting bark of the willow and turns. His mother said she'd be along in a
moment—he could see her from here.

But when he looks out, it isn't the village he sees.

Rather, it isn't just the village. Ahead of him there is an archway made of ethereal,
translucent stone.

His mother's stories have prepared him a little. He knows precisely what it is: An
invitation to speak with one of the High Faeries.

As for why it's here ...

Kellan's breath catches in his chest. To the right of the archway he can see his mother
running up the hill. If she sees it, she hasn't said a word.

He could stay here. He could wait for her, ignoring the door until it fades away.

But his scratches still ache, and the words of his so-called fellows echo in his mind. You
don't belong here.

If they're right ... Could it be his father's finally taken notice of him? His real father?

The moment Kellan has the thought, his hand is on the strange doorknob. Hex barks up a
storm. Each one feels in time with the hammer of Kellan's heart. But he can't falter— this might
be his only chance. If his mother catches up, she'd never let him go through.

Kellan passes through the archway. A hero never hesitates. An unseen gust of wind
throws him the rest of the way through and he lands on a cool, mossy floor. Only when he props
himself up does he realize that the grass here is all silver; the twisting trees overhead bear
jeweled fruit. In the distance he sees thatch-roof houses large as mountains, while all around him
there are miniature castles populated by moving miniature knights.
 Into the Fae Court | Art by: Anna Steinbaurer

When he sets his eyes—a little afraid, now—on the horizon once more, he spots the
staircase, and at its top the throne. There is a figure upon it.

Humans are as fond of calling things beautiful as they are of drawing breath. In doing this
the meaning of the word has been worn away, as a mountain may, over eons, become a shore.

The reason for this is simple: true beauty, unadulterated and pure, is enough to strike the
viewer senseless.

The figure who sits on the throne is as beautiful as the stars themselves. Kellan, who has
never ventured far from his village, can't comprehend what he's seeing. The planes of the figure's
face beguile him; the flash of their wicked smile sees him robbed of all thought.

"Tell me, brave hero ... Are you true of heart?"

It's only a passing veil of clouds—clouds that have no right being so low to the ground—
that dispel Kellan's fatal fascination. What was it the stories said? Best to avoid looking at the fae
directly. He stares down at the ground.

"I don't know. I think I'd like to be," he says.

"That's no answer at all," says the figure. They sigh, much in the way his mother did
when imitating princes. "Are you truly your father's son? Bearing such wounds as that, without
having dealt twice as many in turn?"

His heart skips a painful beat. "So, it's true? I'm half-fae? D-do you know my father?
Wait, are you—?"
 Maybe if he got a better look at the figure's face, he'd know. He steps forward—only for
roses to lash his feet in place.

"Careful, child. The blood that compels hatred from mortals offers you some protection
here. But that protection is finite," they say. "Remain where you are and I shall make no move to
stop you, but take another step, and you forsake your realm for my own."

Oh. This was the Faerie Lord. Who else could it have been? Kellan's knees knock
together. He tries to kneel, like all the knights do. He feels silly. "Y-Your Majesty."

"Lord Talion," they answer him.

"Lord Talion," he says. "Do you know my father?"

"I know many things. Yet if you know who I am, and to whence you have come, you know
that our kind surrender nothing," Talion answers. They lean forward on the throne, perching
their head on their hand. "We have our own laws. Render me a service, child, and you shall have
your answers."

Our kind. Our own laws. This place, with its jeweled fruit, with strange animals slinking
between stranger trees. To stand here is to stand in the home of a long-lost relative, uncertain of
what significance anything holds.

Yet the fae do not lie. His mother's always been clear about that. When you deal with fae,
the straighter the answer the better. And this seemed pretty straightforward to him.

"What do you need?"

Talion hums a strange tune, as lovely as bird song. They snap their fingers and two fae
appear on either side of Kellan, each with a bowl of glistening fruit. Kellan's stomach rumbles at
the sight; his throat feels dry. "You must be hungry."

But his mother taught him well, and Talion said it themself: the fae do nothing for free.
"No, thank you."

Talion smirks. With a wave of their hands, they dismiss the other fae.

"To business, then. Witches three have this land with slumber plagued. Agatha, the
Hungry, lays in wait near her great cauldron, in search of heroes to eat. Cruel Hylda has taken
winter's crown for her own. Wherever there are lovers and lords, you shall find the beguiling
Eriette. Whosoever is brave enough to defeat them shall break the curse upon the Realm, and for
that service, earn a boon from my ever-full treasury."

A curse upon the Realm? Three witches? Talion's in need of a real hero. Kellan's palms
sweat. The bravest thing he's ever done is go through that archway. He's never fought a battle,
nor completed a quest. But how can he say no? This place, these people ... they're his blood too,
aren't they? Maybe his father's a faerie knight, strapping and bold; or perhaps a mage, cunning
and clever. Whoever he was, he was someone Talion respected. Shouldn't that mean something?
 Kellan wants to know more about him. Wants to be more like him, this man who dwells
among the silver grass, in a land of impossible beauty. His mother glimpsed it once and left—but
Kellan only wants more.

If he fails, he fails. But if he can do it, he'll finally know the truth.

"I'll do it. I'll go."

 Episode 2: Wandering Knight, Budding Hero
By K. Arsenault Rivera

Across the valleys and into the wilds ventures Rowan Kenrith. Atop a stout horse, with a
sharp blade hanging at her hip and sparks dancing from her fingertips, she journeys wherever the
winds guide her. Gladly the smallfolk take her into their homes, offering what little they have;
gladly does Rowan accept their kindness. In the small hours of the night, when they ask her why
she is awake, she asks if they've heard where she might find a cure for the Wicked Slumber.

"Are you certain you don't long for it?" asked Royse, whose fine weaves even the fae
have come to covet. Rowan has stayed in palaces less well-appointed than Royse's home. The fae
bestow gifts upon creators of beauty, it seems. "You look like you could use the rest."

"Rest isn't of any use to me," Rowan answered.

Royse, eyes flashing in the dark, tutted beneath her breath. "Rest will come for you,
whether you like it or not. Best to face it on your own terms," she said. "But if you are
determined to continue in your quest, brave knight, there is a castle not far from here. Its lord
died long ago—longer ago than your kind remember."

"My kind?" Rowan's grip tightened on her sword.

Royse only smiled. The moonlight played upon her skin and the glamor broke, revealing
eight eyes, two chittering mandibles, eight arms hidden beneath her stole.

Little wonder her weaving fascinated humans and fae alike.

"You're—" Rowan started.

Royse set her two human hands on her knees. "I have promised you shelter and given you
food; we are not enemies."

Rowan relaxed her grip. She did not sleep that night, but she did learn a little of weaving.

In the morning, Royse pointed the way to the castle, wishing Rowan good fortune on her
journey.

Its crumbling walls and ancient parapets now welcome her.

Dust cakes her lungs the farther in she goes. Undead servants rise to meet her blade.
Heart hardened against such sights, she slays them, their innards slicking the stone floors. When
at last she finds the library, its shelves stand empty. There are no alembics here, no cauldrons for
potion crafting, no lost secrets—only whatever the looters have left behind.

After all that she has done to get here, all the blood she has spilled—nothing.
 Alone in the abandoned castle, Rowan Kenrith becomes a storm. She imagines what her
brother would say if he saw her here, and this only drives her further into a rage. By the time she
realizes she has begun to weep, her body is already shaking and weary.

Against all reason there is a bed in this place, untouched by the ravages of looting. When
she collapses upon it, she realizes the truth of Royse's words: rest will come, one way or another.

The dream swallows her.

Once more she walks through the doors of this castle—but they are whole, the wood
polished and new. Within the halls there are bards and dancers. Fair women and handsome men
lead her further. A fit squire removes her armor so smoothly she forgets she'd ever worn it. A
warm robe is draped over her shoulders, a tankard of mead placed in her hand. Pulled along by
such delights, she finds herself before a feasting table.

Her father and mother stand at the head. Hale, hearty, faces radiant in the golden light of
the castle, they spread their arms toward her. "Rowan, you made it," Linden says.

Rowan's chest goes tight. There they are, just as she remembers them—no scars save
those they earned in her youth, no bloody wounds. They are so happy.

She drops the mead, running to them full tilt. Her father lifts her off her feet and spins
her. Her mother smooths her hair and dabs away the tears at the corners of Rowan's eyes.

"You've come so far to see us," says Linden. "We're so proud of you."

Her mouth opens again and again, but she cannot speak.

"You've need of our council, don't you?" her father asks.

Wordless, she nods.

He takes the crown from his head and places it atop her own. "Come to Castle Ardenvale.
Your blood awaits you there."

She wakes, alone in the dusty castle. Sunlight filters in through the broken windows. She
must have slept the whole night through. Alone, surrounded by death and cold, she allows herself
another chance to weep.

For when it is over, she will do as her father asked of her.

She will go to Castle Ardenvale.

 Rowan’s Grim Search | Art by: Aurore Folny

"Um. Excuse me, sir, but have you seen any witches lately?"

This man, like all the others Kellan has asked before him, laughs. "Oh, aye, there's one
down the way. Sells the best pies in Edgewall. Tell her Duncan sent you."

He's kind enough to toss over a coin. Kellan tucks it away in a pouch, his shoulders
slumping, his spirits bruised but not broken. This is only the first step on his journey, right?
There are so many people in Edgewall. One of them's bound to know something. All he has to do
is keep at it. With a grunt of effort, he adjusts the pack on his shoulders and makes his way down
the long, ambling street.

All his life his mother's told him stories of places like this—of dwarves, fauns, knights,
and mages. They didn't feel real until now. Across the street from the pie shop, an elven woman
sells enchanted wooden songbirds. Up ahead, a Verdant Knight speaks to a smith. There are
banners and baubles everywhere the eye can land. He nods to himself as he walks, decided.
There's no better place to live than here.

Already he can see the line at the shop doubled and tripled up. They really must make
great pies—but there's no way she's a real witch. His mother always told him that cooking is the
closest most people can get, though, so maybe the woman who runs it will know something.

Kellan plants himself at the end of the line. As he waits, his eyes wander over the
messengers running from one end to the other, the bard playing his lute. He hums along. A group
of children in leaf-wrought clothes toss pinecones back and forth in a fit of laughter and giggles.
Kellan grins, watching them.

But then he sees the sleeping man standing under the eaves of a shop, a swirl of violet
around him. His eyes are closed, his mouth open; as he sways, drool falls on his armor.

This must be the Slumber the merchant told them about on his last visit. Seeing it in
person is a strange thing. How long's he been like that? There's a touch of rust where his spit hits
his armor. Why doesn't anyone help him?

Worse, someone in a hurry bumps into the sleeper. The sleeper jerks, falls over—and no
one helps him up.

Kellan can't let that stand. He takes a step toward the fallen knight.

A hand on his wrist snaps him from his thoughts. He looks up to its owner and finds a girl
in a red cloak, her brows furrowed. "You might not want to do that."

Kellan draws his hand back. "Why not? He needs help."

The girl winces. "You're the kid who keeps asking people about witches?"

Kellan puts on a hero's voice, or tries to, but the crack undoes him. "I might be. Depends
on who's doing the, uh, asking."

The girl laughs and shakes her head. She takes his hand again and starts tugging him
along. "All right, hero, you're coming with me."

"What? What about—Hey! What about that man?" Kellan asks.

"The Wicked Slumber spreads, though no one's really sure how," she answers. "If you
touch him it might get you, too. That's if the witches don't get you first."

Kellan looks over his shoulder at the sleeper. As the girl tugs him into an alley, someone
slips a wooden baking spatula under the man. With a little effort he is upright once more.
Whatever relief Kellan feels is mitigated by his surprise once he realizes what the girl's just said.

"Wait. They're after me?"

The girl looks both ways down the alley before speaking. "They're going to be, if you
keep asking questions like that. Don't you know you shouldn't draw a witch's attention?"

"Do you know a lot about witches?" he asks. "If you do, I could really use your help. I
just got here, so I don't know a lot, but I've got a quest to finish."

"A quest?" she says, giving him a quick assessment. "You've got a quest. You don't even
have a sword."
 "Heroes don't need swords," he says. He leaves out that the only sword his stepfather
owned was rusty, so he couldn't bring it. "Besides, I got these from my lord, and they said they're
just as good as any blade. These mean I'm a real hero!"

He brandishes the pair of basket hilts—Talion's parting gift. Old wood has grown to
mimic the worked steel of human smithing, with a peculiar glow proclaiming their unearthly
provenance. They're sure to impress anyone.

But the girl isn't just anyone, and she regards them with only a raised brow. "Whenever
someone insists that something's real, it means it isn't." She sighs. "Anyway, I wouldn't be of
much help. You've got to go out to Dunbarrow. My brother, Peter, he knows every inch of that
place like the back of his hand. He could help you."

Kellan stows his hilts with a bashful sort of gratitude. "Could you take me to him?"

The girl's expression clouds under the brim of her cloak. "I haven't seen him in days. I
thought maybe you'd seen him, since you're from out of town."

"Oh," Kellan says softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I, um, I don't think I met any Peters
along the way here."

"Figures," says the girl. She turns. "Well. I wish you all the best on your quest, hero. If
you see my brother, tell him Ruby's waiting for him back at home."

Kellan, shorter than her by half a head, shuffles after her. "Wait! You can tell him
yourself if you come with me."

She stops. When she turns this time, her brow is raised. "You're going to find him?"

"I might," says Kellan. "You said Dunbarrow's where all the witches are. You've been
there, haven't you?"

Ruby dusts off her shoulder. "Once or twice."

"I bet it's more than that," Kellan says. "If you can help me find the witch I'm looking for,
then maybe my liege can help you find your brother."

Ruby tilts her head. "And just who is your liege, anyway?"

Oh no. He can't say it's the Lord of the Fae. That's no way to earn anyone's trust. But he
can't lie, either. Kellan's cheeks go hot. "They don't like people talking about them very much,"
he says. It's true enough, right? "But they're helping me find my father. That's what I get for
finishing the quest—a chance to know who he is. So I'm sure they'll help you with your brother."

A pause. Ruby's studying him. He tries to stand tall. "You're sure your liege can help?"

Kellan nods. "Sure as sheep's wool."

 Ruby frowns for a second, then nods, the tension leaving her shoulders. "All right. I guess
someone's got to look out for you, and it might as well be me."

Over the heaths and through the barrow in search of witches they go.

From the stories his mother told him, Kellan expected the wilds to be prettier than this.
Maybe it's the aftermath of the war. Ruby tells him that the sharp metallic aberrations dotting the
countryside are Phyrexian remnants, hacked apart after the Slumber stopped them in their tracks.

"Those things used to be alive?" he asks her.

"If you can call it alive," she answers. "You really don't know?"

Stopping by one of them—what looks to be some kind of walking battering ram—she

shows him the oil oozing from within it, the face with its two weeping eyes.

Kellan turns away, preferring the twisted trees of Dunbarrow to the twisted body of the
invader. "Where'd they come from?"

"Somewhere else, says the Boy King," Ruby explains. "Some other Realm."

"There are other Realms?" As they walk together through the woods, he does his best to
keep the ignoble corpse behind him, focusing instead on the flitting shapes of pixies, the black
streaks of birds overhead, on darting stoats. "What are they like?"

"I don't know," Ruby answers. "If they have those things in them, though, I'm fine
without visiting the place. Besides, I'd never go anywhere without my brother."

Kellan nods. "I'd never go anywhere without my family, either. Anywhere, you
know. Else."

Ruby quirks a brow at him. "Even if it was for your quest?"

He lets that one lie, unwilling to even consider it.

Ruby clears a fallen bough with surprising ease, then helps Kellan to do the same. When
his feet hit the earth, water splashes onto her shoes. She yelps. Somewhere in the woods around
them a pixie laughs.

Since time immemorial it has been impolite to laugh at a struggling girl. It is the purview
of a hero to defend such damsels.

Kellan frowns and prepares to shout the impish thing away—until Ruby picks up an
apple from her basket and flings it hard as a giant flinging a boulder, as fast as a crossbow bolt.
The pixie yelps in misery.
 Ruby pouts. "They're so annoying," she says, continuing along the unmarked path as if
she hadn't displayed such talents.

Kellan, awestruck, can only follow. "King's wounds, what a shot!"

She stops just to stare at him for saying such a thing. "King's wounds. Really?" she says.
"It's just an apple. I'm sure you can do a lot more with those fancy swords your liege has given
you."

It takes concerted effort not to trip when she says this, though there are no brambles in
sight. He tries to think of something to say, or what the best way to tell her he has no idea how to
turn the hilts into anything useful, but the words are as tricksy as the pixie Ruby so easily
dispatched. All he manages is an unsure hmm.

But it makes little difference, for at that moment an arrow whistles past his face, nicking
the tip of his nose before striking the tree nearest him. Kellan covers his face in alarm. Are those
war drums he's hearing, or his own frantic pulse?

Though fear's gotten the better of him, Ruby is quick to act as ever. She tackles Kellan
into a blackberry bush. His mother's weaving keeps him safe from the thorns thirsty for blood—
and the leaves keep him safe from their assailant.

"King's wounds, what is that?" Ruby whispers.

Beyond the border of the thicket they can see him: the man in wolf armor. Beneath the
mail, a blood red gambeson seems an omen of wounds to come. The bow that shot the near-fatal
arrow is as wicked as the thorns of the bush; at his hip hangs a sword as long as Kellan's legs.
The snarling metal maw of a wolf conceals all but his burning eyes.

And he is staring right at them.

Kellan's throat is tight. He saw a knight for the first time only hours ago—what is this
thing?

The Wolf Knight strides toward them.

"Run!" Kellan shouts.

Ruby doesn't need to be told twice. Throwing themselves from the bush they scrabble to
their feet and dash ahead. A wordless howl from the Wolf Knight peals through the forest; crows
flee from their nests in terror. Even the pixies who tormented them earlier have cleared away.

Another arrow whistles over Kellan's shoulder.

"Now would be a great time for those magic swords," Ruby shouts. "We can't keep
running forever!"
 Kellan swallows. Pressure mounts within his chest. He can't lie to her—but the hilts aren't
swords, either. They're just ... hilts. Talion said they'd help refine his abilities. Of course, in all
the time he's traveled with them, he hasn't been able to do anything except punch things a little
harder, or ...

Well, it's better than nothing. Turning toward the Wolf Knight, Kellan hurls one of the
hilts as hard as he can.

It bounces uselessly off his armor—then flies back to Kellan's hand.

"Oops," he says.

"What was—All right. All right, okay. I've got this. Follow me," Ruby calls.

Her groan hurts, but he can't blame her. It would be great if he did know how to use
them. He could probably slice clean through an oak tree with a fae-wrought blade, but as it
stands ... he's kind of a joke. "I'm sorry, I'm still learn—wait, what're those?"

As they run beneath the massive body of a dead invader, they come upon half a dozen ...
creatures. If a toddler's malformed drawing of a wolf were given form, muscle, and fang, it might
resemble one of these beings. Their forelegs and haunches are dense with power, their muzzles
slick with blood.

"Witchstalkers!" Ruby answers. "You're not magical, right?"

Kellan winces. "I, uh, I'm not sure!"

"Well, it's time to find out," Ruby says.

He expects her to stop, or hide, or lead the witchstalkers back toward the Wolf Knight,
but Ruby does no such thing. She runs toward the pack of witchstalkers, weaving between them,
her cloak dragging past their faces. By the time she's cleared them, she's wearing a giddy smile
beneath the hood.

Easy enough for her to do. There's a pit in Kellan's stomach as he looks at the
witchstalkers. His lord's gifts, or his father's blood, might doom him should he risk it.

But he has his mother's love to keep him safe—a thick cloak that's fought off plenty so
far. He throws up his own hood. If Ruby can do it, Kellan can, too.

Hard as he can, he runs between the gathered witchstalkers. He's halfway through before
he realizes the high-pitched yelling he hears is coming from his own mouth, a sound between the
wail of a ghost and the laugh of a child at play. Every beat of his heart feels stolen and glorious.
Though he doesn't linger to see if the creatures will attack him, when he clears the pack, he still
finds himself doubling over with relief.

They didn't bite him. Not even a nibble. He laughs in earnest. He did it! He really did it.
His first brush with adventure!
 Ruby offers Kellan a hand up and he takes it, looking back the way they came. The Wolf
Knight's stepped into the clearing.

Witchstalker Frenzy | Art by: Pascal Quidault

"Come on, come on ..." whispers Ruby. "He's got to be magical!"

Two youths, hoarding their breath like a dragon hoards gems, stare down the Wolf
Knight. Their pursuer, in turn, lets out another wordless howl.

The witchstalkers answer. As one their heads perk and they turn toward the Wolf Knight,
their growls resonating in Kellan's chest. The Wolf Knight runs into the woods as the
witchstalkers give chase.

"I think we're safe," he says, huffing. He grins. "You did it, Ruby!"

She stares at the witchstalkers as they take off. It looks like she can't believe she's still
standing. "Yeah, I guess I did," she says.

Relieved, Kellan turns and notices the cabin for the first time.

He's not sure how neither of them saw it before now. Maybe this is what his mother
meant whenever she talked about the chaos of a melee—when you're busy trying to make sure
you get out of something alive, you aren't always paying attention to the horizon. Still, it's hard
to miss. The house is thorny and black, as if made from blackberry brambles, standing twice as
tall as those back home. Violet windows pulse with light from within. All around the house there
is a thicket of violet mist.
 "Ruby," Kellan says, taking her hand to get her attention. "Look! That's the witch's house,
it's got to be."

It takes her only a glance to agree with him. "I'll be damned, you're right," she says.
"What should we do?"

"Those windows are huge. We can try and peek inside, then figure out how we're going
to defeat her," Kellan says. He hopes Ruby won't ask for more details than that.

Luckily, she doesn't.

The two of them slink through the twisting trees and thick bushes toward the house. Burrs
cling to Kellan's cloak; he thinks of each one as a well-wish from his father. He's so close to
finishing this first witch off. Will Talion give him a hint? Maybe a riddle? The thought of
discovering more is as tempting as fresh fruit on a hot summer day.

The brush allows them to get right beneath the lowest of the witch's windows. Here at the
bottom the glass is thick, distorting the two figures in the cabin. One, Kellan thinks, is the witch:
she walks in a broad circle around a large darkness in the center of the room. Smoke rises from
whatever it is she's guarding. The other figure is slumped over, their back to the window.

"A real cauldron," Kellan mumbles. "I wonder what she's using it for ..."

"Eating people," answers Ruby readily. "I've heard a couple rumors that there was
someone nearby boiling people's bones into stew. And that's definitely a cauldron, and she's
definitely got someone tied up ..."

"Witches don't eat people," Kellan says. "My mom was almost a witch, and she'd never
do anything like that."

"Have you considered that maybe that's why she's almost a witch, not is a witch?" Ruby
asks. She tugs on his cloak. "Get down, I think she's coming."

She is. The witch's pacing around her bubbling cauldron brings her toward them now.
Kellan and Ruby duck beneath the windowsill in time to avoid her gaze, but only just. Even
through the glass her eyes are wicked and piercing, a violet not unlike the glow surrounding
them.

"So, what's the plan?" Ruby asks.

Kellan puts a hand to his chin as if he's considering one. The deception, such as it is, lasts
a second at most. Then he shrugs. "We're going to play it by ear."

"What?" Ruby hisses, eyes narrowing. "You can't be serious. That's a real live witch in
there!"

"We aren't going to be able to win with magic, and we don't have any weapons," Kellan
says. He slinks around the corner of the cabin, careful to keep from touching the cursed plumes
of smoke along the ground. "And I've got this new friend who taught me the value of
improvising."

"Improvising's one thing, but this is asking for trouble," Ruby says, following him
anyway.

Kellan waves at her to stay put. He points to his eyes, then to the window. "Let me know
when she's facing away from the door," he says.

Ruby frowns, but stays put beneath the window. Meanwhile, Kellan leans an ear against
the door. From within he hears a keening song. Delivered without much care for rhythm or
melody, the singer is nonetheless enthralled with the sound of her own voice.

"When I was hungry a knight wandered in, wild at heart and covered in tin ..."

A knight? She's going to eat a knight?

"How easy it was to beat her, in truth! But how hard to eat her without breaking a tooth!"

Sweat rolls down Kellan's brow. Ruby was right. This isn't any normal witch—she's
nothing like his mother. If they don't act fast, that knight's probably going to die. But what to do?

He doesn't have much time to think. From around the corner, he sees a blur of red—
another apple thrown by his new friend. A fine signal, he thinks.

Until he hears the apple thunk against metal.

A glance over his shoulder is all he can afford—but he already knows what he's going to
see. The Wolf Knight. Had he already fought off the witchstalkers? Yes—that's his shape
slinking through the mists, covered in blood.

He can't leave Ruby outside with him, and he can't let that witch eat the knight. If he
saves the knight inside, maybe she can fight off the one outside. And maybe when the witch is
gone, the Wolf Knight will just ... fade away. That's what happened to conjured guardians in
stories, anyway.

Kellan plucks a burr from his cloak. "Dad, if you're listening," he says, "please make me
brave enough to do this."

He doesn't wait for an answer, because he knows he can't. He just has to have faith that it
worked.

Kellan opens the door, quiet and quick. As a mouse slinking through a cat's domain, he
scurries over to the center of the room where the witch continues her awful song. Lashed to a rod
near the bubbling cauldron is a rugged woman clad in armor, her right arm made from solid
wood. Bleary and delirious, she locks eyes with him.

Kellan can see the hope in her when she does that.
 "Oh, brave knight, what shall I do? Boil and bubble, broth and brew—oh brave knight,
I'll make you a stew!"

The witch is so preoccupied with stirring her foul smelling brew that she has not yet
noticed him. She stands before the cauldron, leveling a crooked finger at the knight. For once she
drops the sing-song.

"But what spice to use, hm? I don't suppose you know what you taste best with, do you?"

"Die in a fire," the knight spits. She glances at Kellan, then gives him a covert nod.

The witch, however, turns back toward the cauldron. She shakes her head, then reaches
into her pocket. "That isn't very kind. I need this fire for cooking you. There's an art to this, you
know. I can't just throw anything in there and hope it'll end up gourmet."

Whatever's in that bag she dumps in makes Kellan want to vomit, but he keeps it
together. He has a job to do—and he has an opening here. Like the rams on his farm, he lowers
his head and charges.

"You're the one that's cooked!" Kellan answers.

Feed the Cauldron | Art by: Marta Nael

He hears the witch howl when he slams into her, and he hears her scream as she falls into
the cauldron, but he tries not to think about the implications of any of it. A puff of black smoke
rises, the smell so acrid it brings tears to his eyes. Kellan runs toward the knight. There'll be time
to think about what he's done later—right now, he needs to make sure Ruby's safe. And the best
way to do that is to free this woman.
 "Can you fight?" he asks, hands working the knots around her wrists. One of her arms, he
notices, is made of a strange, pliable wood that struggles just like flesh and muscle.

"Grrkh ... If you get me ... my hammer."

It isn't an answer that fills him with confidence, but it's what he's got. The ropes fall
away. He scans the chaotic mess of the cabin in search of a war hammer—there. It's slumped
against a counter covered in all manner of viscera and gore, with jars labeled "Eye of Newt" and
"Toe of Frog."

As he runs for the hammer, Ruby dashes in through the door. "He's almost here!"

"The knight's going to save us," Kellan says. He can't lift the hammer, but he can drag it
over. "She can still fight!"

He hands the hammer to the knight, who stands.

Or tries to.

But Kellan learns here an important lesson: not all knights can be heroes all the time.
This one is far too exhausted, far too beaten. She collapses back into her ignoble seat.

Kellan's heart is somewhere in his throat when the Wolf Knight walks through the door.
Covered in blood, his sword freshly used. Had they come all this way only to—?

"Get up!" Kellan says, shoving the knight. "You can do this, come on! You used to
defend the Realm!"

"That was a long time ago," the knight mumbles. Yet once more she tries to stand—and
once more she falls.

The Wolf Knight stops at the threshold.

Ruby hurls a jar of something foul. Clay shatters against his armor. He turns toward her.

"Ruby," bellows the Wolf Knight. "I've finally found you."

Ruby's eyes go wide. She stands from her hiding spot, lowers her hood.

The Wolf Knight doffs his helm. Beneath is the face of a grizzled woodsman, his beard
thick and his hair unkempt—yet his eyes are kind, and his smile warm. He spreads his arms.
"Ruby, it's me."

"Peter!" Ruby shouts. She runs to him, and he is there to meet her, lifting her up and
spinning her around before he sets her down on her feet. "What happened? Are you all right?"

"I don't know. I've never seen this place before today. I went out hunting, and there was
this awful song," he says. "This is a witch's cabin, isn't it? She must have enchanted me. I'm so
sorry I scared you, but I'm happy you're safe."
 Ruby throws her arms around him. "Don't worry," she says. "I'll forgive you for that if
you forgive me for siccing the witchstalkers on you."

He tousles her hair. "I'd expect no less from you. You always were the clever one in the
family," he says. Then, he turns toward Kellan and the knight. "You there—boy. You helped my
sister, didn't you? Whatever you ask of me, only speak it, and I will grant it, if it's within my
power to do so."

"She did most of the work," he says. "But ... if you want to help, I have to get the
cauldron to my liege. They said I needed to show them I'd ..."

"Say no more. You need someone to carry it, and I shall," Peter says. His eyes fall on the
injured knight and he winces. "I must have caused you great harm. My apologies."

The knight groans. "Wasn't a fair fight, between you and that crone."

"Stay here. Once we've moved the cauldron to its destination, Ruby and I can make you a
healing salve. There are plenty of ingredients here, and I think I remember something of
herblore."

If the knight has any counterargument, her mind is too addled with pain to make it.

Peter enlists Ruby and Kellan's help with the cauldron; the two of them together hold up
one side, while he lifts the other, bearing the majority of the weight. Kellan tries not to think
about what's sloshing around inside. Together they're able to move it through the threshold—but
instead of the violet mists, Talion's court greets them on the other side.

This time, the Kindly Lord does not make themself visible. Kellan knows they are present
only when familiar music plays around them. There are no pleasantries this time: their advice is
quick and to the point.

"Hylda is the next witch you seek. Her magic is great, her skill yet greater; she has
concealed herself from my eyes. But consult the mirror Indrelon, and you may yet find her. Torn
from Castle Vantress by Gerra Grandsquall, it now lies far from its home. Worry not, my wisdom
will save you the trouble of hunting it down. A beanstalk grows not half a day's ride from here.
Climb it, and you shall find the mirror at its peak."

No sooner have they finished speaking than the court disappears, forgotten as a dream.
The trio stands once more before the cabin.

Ruby's staring at him. "Your liege is the fae king," she says.

"Is that ... does that upset you?" Kellan says. "I was going to ask if you wanted to come. I
could really use your help. Both of you."

"I'd be of no help to you, wounded as I am," Peter says. "I'll not be in fighting shape for
days yet."
 Ruby looks from Kellan to Peter and back again. She sighs. "You helped me find my
brother, so I'll help. But let's rest for a while. We can tend to the knight's wounds and figure out
what it is we're going to do."

Kellan's fingers are shaking. "But ... do you hate that I'm working with the fae?"

He's surprised how much Ruby's scoff sets him at ease. "Are you kidding? That just
means you're braver than I thought."

And that? That, he can live with.

 Episode 3: Two Great Banquets
By K. Arsenault Rivera

Rowan,

I hope this finds you ...

I can't say it'll find you well when I know that you aren't. You're angry, you're frustrated. I
understand. Nothing makes sense anymore.

Since you left, I've worried about you every day. Losing control at the mountain, taking off—
you're trying to help, but you're driving yourself half to death. What we're dealing with isn't
something anyone should face alone. We're family.

Please come home. I know you're hurting, but together, we can find some way to help.

Your brother always,

Will

Rowan reads the missive once. Her brother's neat handwriting stares back at her from the
page. I know you're angry. I understand. We can find some way to help.

If he understood, he'd be here. And if he wanted to help, he'd also be here. Instead, she
sits on her own in a Wealdrum tavern. The courier, wearing Kenrith livery, lingers in wait of a
response.

She tries to think of one. I'm right to be angry. Our world is collapsing around us, and
we don't have any clear answers. You want to sit at home and wait for them to show up. I'm tired
of waiting. Why does that make you so afraid of me?

The messenger approaches. Rowan still has an empty page before her. She folds it in
three, then hands it to her brother's servant. "Give him this, and tell him to come find me if he's
serious."

A curt smile. A nod. The messenger leaves.

Rowan returns to her drink, seeing in it her own reflection. The face that had so
frightened Will at the mountain.

It doesn't look so frightening to her.

What remains of Ardenvale awaits the knight errant. A veil of mist lays over the hills and
valleys, concealing the metal bodies beneath. If she takes a false step she will tumble from her
horse into a trench of Phyrexians.
 As she nears the castle she sees more and more of the Wicked Slumber's violet swirl. By
the time she stands at the shattered gates she must take great care where her feet fall.

Yet Rowan does not take great care.

Rowan, Scion of War | Art by: Magali Villeneuve

A blast of lightning widens a hole in the great oaken gates. She steps through, the scent of
burning wood clinging to her cloak, and climbs the violet-cloaked stairs.

She makes it only five steps before she sees the knights.

Worthy they are, though their armor bears the patina of ill use: each as strong and stout as
they had been last Rowan saw them. For she knows these helms, these suits of plate, these
people. Her comrades stand with weapons at the ready.

Worst of all: each one is bedecked in the Slumber's mist. Like the strings of an unseen
puppeteer it rises from every limb and weapon. While the knights themselves do not move, the
mist is more than canny enough to move them: an arrow fired by one of her former archery
instructors misses her by a coin's breadth.

Must this war continue to take from her? Her chest aches.

"It's me," she calls to them. "It's Ro! Wake up!"

Another arrow fired, this one struck down in mid-flight. The lump in Rowan's throat
grows. Fighting seems the only option.

Readying her blade, she begins her climb through the melee.
 Syr Saxon, a ranger of generous heart, and Syr Joshua the Beast Tamer once spent all
their waking hours together. The same is true now that the sleep has taken them. Saxon swings
his bone axe, a blow she must parry; Joshua seizes the opening to bring his warhammer down on
her leg.

Pain ignites her vision. The old headache returns, as if summoned.

Rowan scrambles away from Joshua. Aiming at his feet and Saxon's, she channels
another blast. Both men are thrown from their feet, metal clattering as they hit the wall nearby.
Slumber keeps their bodies limp—in this case, a good thing. Staying limp is the best way to
avoid injury at times like that.

Syr Joshua told her so.

Head ringing, sorrows heavy as a crown, she ducks another oncoming arrow. Swords,
hammers, sickles, and clubs all rise to meet her on the stair. Her old companions do their best to
break her bones. Weaving around them is the best thing she can do—but that won't suffice in
every case. More than once she's forced to let out another blast. Each one leaves behind a bigger
crater than the last.

And each one feels more thrilling.

She'd like to deny it, but that is the truth of the matter. Even as she worries for her friends
she finds her blood singing with the melody this new power's brought her. And that, in turn,
makes it easier to draw upon. No matter how often she tells herself that this is enough, she must
keep from losing control ...

It's all too easy to do.

When she finds her way to the top of the steps, the knights lay resting beneath her. She
looks into the charred ruin that once was the castle.

And there she finds more knights waiting. Beneath foreign banners they stand, weapons
in hand, heads turned toward her. For months no one has lived in Castle Ardenvale, yet these
knights wear their courtroom finery in place of their armor. Each one is dressed to sweep
someone off their feet. A plush violet carpet leads beyond a veil of shifting shadow.

Gripping her sword, Rowan advances. Sparks crackle in her hand and along her blade's
edge. Should anyone come near—well, isn't it better to finish fights as fast as you can? Isn't that
the merciful thing to do?
 Eerie Interference | Art by: Nestor Ossandon Leal

She expects the knights to attack her as they did along the stair. They do, though not so
directly. Instead of charging at her outright they waltz toward her, some holding partners in their
free hands. Even the terrible dancers move with uncanny grace through the ruins of Castle
Ardenvale. Couples part only long enough to slice at her before returning to their strange dance.

Avoiding one lunge sends her into the path of an overhead cut; ducking that leaves her
open to a halberd's swing. She raises an arm to block only for someone to take her hand and pull
her further into the eerie celebrations. Dozens of knights press in, a swirling garden of the
slumbering. Rowan cannot move without touching another. Her sword is wrested from her hand;
her breath catches in her throat. Indecision is a pillory.

The crowd moves her along, each pair of dancers a cog. The swords are coming, she
knows they are, but she has to find some way to get through.

She reaches for the swaying veil with her free hand—

—only for a pale white palm to press against her own. "Welcome to the Court of the
Ardent Queen, Rowan Kenrith."

All at once, the silent dancing comes to a halt. Then, as one, they drop to their knees.

Rowan's erstwhile partner remains standing. A being of strange and terrible beauty, their
face hollowed like a chalice, studies her. Smoke rises from the pits where their eyes should be. A
cruel mouth smiles as the figure inclines their head. "We have been waiting for you."
 Rowan reaches for her sword out of habit—only to remember she lost it in the thick of
the crowd. She cannot spot it among the kneeling. "You're Ashiok. I've heard of you."

They only grin, revealing a mouth of pointed teeth.

"What are you doing here?" Does she mean on Eldraine, or Castle Ardenvale? She isn't
sure.

"I am a friend and counselor to the one you seek here. She has done extraordinary work
so far." They glide past her, the air cooler where they've touched it. A simple gesture behind her,
and one of the knights produces her sword. He holds it out to her, laid across the flats of his
palms. The figure squeezes her shoulder. "Go on. That is what you were looking for, isn't it?"

She's seen this tableau before. Her father and mother knighting the latest worthies. The
crowns upon their heads. The crown she'd seen in her vision.

Rowan's hackles rise. She takes the sword. "Let these people go," she says—but she does
not yet raise the blade against the mysterious figure.

"Are you certain that's what you want?" they ask.

"I am. They're my friends, and they've suffered enough without your meddling," Rowan
says. "If you can control the sleepers, you're the one who cursed us, aren't you?"

Their smile reveals two rows of pointed teeth. "The one who cursed you lays there,
beyond the veil. Do you wish to speak with her?"

Rowan grits her teeth. She does not wait for the figure to guide her but takes off on her
own. When they reach the gauzy gray, it is the figure who parts it for her.

On the other side is a full feasting table with a beautiful woman in black at its head. The
woman lifts a goblet toward her—in her other hand, Rowan sees, is a glass apple with strands of
translucent violet snaking out. Magic. "Rowan Kenrith. A pleasure, and an honor, to finally meet
you. Has anyone told you you look just like your mother?"

The faceless figure pulls out a chair for her. Rowan ignores them, walking straight to the
woman. "Whoever you are, you have some nerve. That woman's got nothing to do with this," she
says. She lifts the sword overhead, then brings it down in a mighty swing. That she stops a
hairsbreadth from the woman's face is testament to her newfound control. Rowan wants nothing
more than to rid the world of her—of this curse. "Did you call me here just to make sick jokes? "

The woman makes no move to stop her, nor even to stand. She sips from her goblet.
"Dear Rowan, I brought you here because I admire the fire within you."

A knight is prepared to face all manner of weapons on the battlefield: swords, pikes,
arrows, hammers. What they are not prepared for—and, indeed, what Rowan has never trained
against—is such disarming sincerity. Her grip wavers. "What?"
 The woman smiles. She lays her manicured fingers on Rowan's knuckles, gently easing
the sword from its path. "The others are afraid of you, aren't they? Your comrades. Your people.
Even your siblings."

Rowan swallows. "You don't know anything about them."

"Yet you haven't told me I'm wrong," the woman says. She never looks away—her eyes
are rich as mead. "Your father's family tells you that you've changed. Your brother hardly
recognizes you. You're in awful pain, and yet all he can seem to do is try to 'fix' you. Isn't that
right, darling?"

Rowan's mouth opens. She cannot force any words to come out.

The woman rises to her feet. Rowan lets her. Just as her mother had so many times, she
clears a shock of hair from Rowan's face. "I know what it's like to have your family turn their
backs on you. But I won't."

Why does it ... Why does it feel like this? To be seen in this way? Rowan's breathing is
shakier than she'd like to admit.

"You've been working so hard to keep everyone safe. Since the attack, that's all you can
think about, looking after the Realm, your father's family. Making sure no one hurts you ever
again," says the woman. She sits once more. "You wanted to know why I brought you here. Why
I created the Wicked Slumber. Just like you, I wanted to keep my people safe. The invaders had
no hope of standing against something like this. That it spread to the others is ... unfortunate, but
even in that misfortune, I've discovered something beautiful. Would you like to know what that
is, Rowan Kenrith?"

Her mouth has gone dry, her headache pounding harder than ever. If this woman wanted
Rowan dead, surely she would be. And if the Wicked Slumber truly had come about as a way to
stop the invasion ...

Her mother urging her to hurry, her father planting his feet for a hopeless last stand.

What if Rowan could have stopped it? What if she could have put the invaders to sleep,
as this woman had?

"I would," she says. "I would like to know."

The woman's smile is warm as spiced wine. She turns to the stranger. "Ashiok, if you
would?"

A blink, a moment of darkness, no more than that. When she opens her eyes again her
parents are standing at the woman's side. There is her father, whole as he'd been in the vision; her
mother, beaming and proud. Rowan, for whom words have failed, rushes into the arms of her
parents.

Only for them to fade after she's closed her arms around them.
 Rowan's whimper is not that of a knight, nor that of a woman grown—it is the whimper
of a child carried from a cabin, too young to understand what had just happened. How cold she
feels, standing where they stood moments ago!

"It felt real, didn't it?" the woman asks.

Rowan can only nod, staring at her hand. A little of their warmth still clings to her skin.
"Was it ... was it you who sent the first vision?"

"With assistance from my own mentor, yes," the woman answers.

"My father said I would find my blood here," Rowan says. Her voice begins to waver.
"You said I looked like my mother. You didn't mean Linden."

The woman's smile is oddly nostalgic. It occurs to Rowan why—she smiles the very
same way. "No, I didn't."

"That woman killed me and my brother. She was going to drink our blood," Rowan says.
Every word is a cut.

"My sisters have never been known for their wisdom—only their ambition," the woman
says. "Your mother was the cruelest of us. Make no mistake, your father was right to strike her
down, and Linden right in saving you. But that doesn't erase the magic in your blood, Rowan.
You can use it for something good. You have the opportunity to redeem our line, to grant the
Realm a boon unlike any other."

Anger in her heart. She stares down at her hands, already covered in blood. How long had
she denied that part of her? The blast at the mountain. Her difficulty with control. What if the
witch's blood was at its core? And the dream this woman had granted her ... how long had it been
since Rowan was that happy?

"Why didn't they ever tell me about you?"

The woman tuts. "I imagine they didn't want you following in our footsteps. But that
hardly matters now."

Rowan swallows. The storm inside her is almost too much to bear.

"Everyone you've seen on the way here—every dreamer in the Realm—experiences the
same thing," says the woman. "Whatever they've lost has returned to them. In glad halls they
celebrate the Realm's victory, surrounded by all those they hold dear. Picturesque meadows away
from all the turmoil, the lap of a loved companion—wherever they wish to be, that is where they
are. Where they will remain. No worries, no fears."

"People need more than dreams," Rowan manages. Yet it feels hollow even to say such a
thing. Given the opportunity to spend eternity in a dream with her parents ... Could this cursed
blood of hers grant that to the whole Realm?
 "Some do. They can remain awake. But for those who seek escape, well, I've found a way
to grant it to them. Their bodies yet serve my will, but their minds are elsewhere."

Rowan takes a steadying breath. "The Slumber doesn't pick and choose who it takes. You
aren't approaching them one by one and asking. Whatever your will is—"

"My will is the same as yours, Rowan. I want to keep the Realm safe. I want to lead it. I
want power," says the woman. "Power to drive off threats, power to secure my own future.
Nothing in this world is so certain, so vital, as power. With power, you can command loyalty,
grow stronger, endure any challenge thrown your way. To seize it you need courage and
knowledge of your enemies; holding it lends you only more. You've come to realize that, haven't
you? It's the reason no one respects your brother—and the reason they fear you. You've too much
of my sister in you for their tastes. But I know your potential. I can be there for you, the way I
never was for her."

Rowan's eyes fall to the ground—to the tiles she'd helped her father pick during the
castle's last renovation. She liked the sunburst designs.

People respected her parents. They were fine warriors, kind of heart, and had earned their
places.

What had Will done? He is kind of heart, but without the rest, would anyone . . . ?

And isn't keeping people happy the kindest thing she could possibly do? To say nothing
of all this woman—her aunt?—had done for the Realm. Before coming here, Rowan thought the
Slumber was a curse, but now she sees what a blessing it can be. The Realm's lost so much. Isn't
ensuring that it stays whole the right thing, the gallant thing? And while her subjects slumber,
she can see to their well-being. With an army of sleepers like this, they could ...

They could unite the Realm. They could turn the curse of their birth into something
beautiful.

"You understand, don't you?" the woman says. "I knew you would."

Rowan presses her eyes shut. She can fix it. She can fix everything, if only she could . .
. "Can you ... Can you teach me? To bring people peace in this way, to keep them safe? Can you
teach me how to planeswalk again?"

"The spark is gone," says Ashiok, their voice a long, drawn-out hiss. "For you, and for
many others."

The woman rises, grinning. "But the rest will be my pleasure. Every ruler needs an heir."
She, too, opens her arms. "My name is Eriette, darling. Welcome home."

As Rowan lays her head on Eriette's shoulder, as she allows herself to relax for the first
time in months, she wonders:

Just how long has it been since anyone understood her like this?
 Twisted Fealty | Art by: Mila Pesic

"All you have to do is keep from looking down."

"Easy for you to say, you've done this before!" Ruby shouts. Halfway up as they are,
Ruby is clinging to the stalk as if it owes her money. It sort of does—Peter couldn't make it up
the tree with his injuries, but he did give them all his savings so they could hire a guide.

That guide, Troyan, is way up ahead of them. He stands on a leaf the size of a paddock
watching Kellan and Ruby climb. "That's not true. I've never climbed a beanstalk, not once."

"You said you were an expert climber," Kellan shouts. The air's thin enough that it hurts
him to do so. Troyan looked like a beanstalk climber, blue-skinned and dashing, clad in punchy
green and blue, some strange mythical creature with too many arms painted on his coat. The sign
he carried even said "professional wanderer and adventurer." That had been the whole reason
they hired him! Well, that and how confident he was when they asked him if he knew how to get
up the beanstalk.

"I am," he says. "Climbed plenty of spires in my day, won every competition there was to
be had. A beanstalk's a pleasant change of pace."

Kellan frowns. His arms hurt, his shoulders ache, and he's finding it harder to breathe, but
somehow Troyan is doing just fine despite being higher up. "But ... we hired you ... to help us!"

"Yeah," Ruby says. "Do your job!"

 Troyan sighs. "All right, all right, you've got a point," he says. He sits down on the edge
of the leaf, then moves his heavy pack to his lap. From it he pulls two glass vials full of oily,
slick liquid. The stopper's covered in bulbous warts. "I was saving these for a tough time. They're
hard to come by around here, you know. But since you're paying me so well ..."

Up the Beanstalk | Art by: Lucas Graciano

"Don't sound so smug about it," Ruby chides.

"I guess I can spare two," Troyan finishes. "But you'll have to get here, first."

Ruby groans, and Kellan echoes her. Being a hero isn't all it's cracked up to be. But he
has to admit, he's curious about just what those potions do.

He puts his all into it. Fifteen minutes of muscle-burning effort and he crests the leaf.
Troyan is kind enough to help him up. He tosses Kellan the vial. With the cap removed, bubbles
float onto his skin. One lands on his nose. When it bursts, he smells swamp water, and feels a
slight buzzing in his throat. Kellan can no more keep from drinking it than a sheep could keep
from grazing. He downs it in a thirsty instant.

His tongue is the first thing to change. Tingling gives way to a stretching sensation, and
soon it rolls out of his mouth like a knight's unfurled banner. Next comes his skin, oozing and
slick; then a sort of pent up energy in his legs. When he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a
greasy croak. Kellan chuckles.

"Pretty cool, huh? Don't worry, it's only temporary," Troyan says. He gestures to the open
air above them. "Go on. Jump. Just make sure to mind the landing."
 Ruby's hand crests the leaf. Kellan helps her up. On seeing his now bulbous eyes, his
lolling tongue, she starts. "What did you do to my friend?" she asks Troyan.

"Ruby, don't worry, I'm fine," Kellan says. He smiles to drive home the point. "I think
maybe we can jump all the way up if we drink these."

Ruby squints at them both in turn. "You're asking me to believe a lot, there."

Kellan holds the other vial up. "He's got frogification in a bottle, I think we can trust him
on this one," he says.

"If you're going to get up there, you need to get jumping," Troyan cuts in.

Ruby sighs. She glances at the vial, then shakes her head. "I'll hold onto you, Kellan. If
these things are so hard to come by, then we'll be better off saving them. Turn around."

Kellan does as he's told. "Where'd you get this, anyway? Did a witch make them for
you?" A pause as Ruby climbs on, piggyback style. "Wait. You aren't fae, are you?"

Troyan laughs. "No, no, not at all. Pay me a little more and perhaps I'll tell you how I
found them."

"Skinflint," Ruby mutters.

"I heard that."

Kellan laughs. High up as they are, he isn't afraid to look down, not when he feels like
this. Whether by lightning's grace or by some other unseen mechanism he feels alive. When was
the last time he was around such friendly people? People who weren't his family?

"Ready?" he asks.

"Ready."

Kellan, farm boy from Orrinshire, leaps to the sky—and the sky lowers to meet him.
Bubbles of swamp water spring from his feet, propelling them higher and higher. A ribbit hits his
ears only after they've broken through the clouds. On the other side?

A moonlit castle awaits.

Hurtling toward the ground is less frightening when the ground's close by. Kellan lands
with only the slightest of tumbles; he falls face first, but Ruby remains unscathed. She offers him
a hand as she admires the castle's brutal, towering facade. "We're really here, huh?" she says.
"Stormkeld."

"It's huge," Kellan says. It's hard to keep his mouth from hanging open at the sheer size of
it. Giants are big, but until now, he'd never had any indication of just how big. He points to the
great doors, each a tower's size on their own. "Look, we can probably walk in right beneath the
doors."
 "They must not get many human visitors," Ruby says. "We must be like mice to them,
coming to steal all their food."

"Only if they catch us," Kellan says. "Coming at night was a good call. I bet everyone's
asleep."

Ruby smiles and starts walking along the path. Each flagstone is the size of a horse,
taking several steps to traverse. "Listening to me is always the right call, hero," she says.

He shuffles to keep up. "Shouldn't we wait for Troyan?"

"Let him break another record climbing up here if he wants to," Ruby scoffs. "It's what he
deserves!"

It takes more than an hour's walk to clear the courtyard. Troyan catches up midway
through. Sweaty and exhausted but nevertheless undaunted, the three continue on their way to
the threshold.

Until the ground begins to quake beneath their feet.

Ruby squats down, Kellan hides his head. Only Troyan remains standing, raising his
fingers, swinging them gently side to side. Ruby yanks him down by the sleeve. "I don't know if
they have earthquakes up here, but if they do, you need to brace yourself!"

Troyan shakes his head with a smirk. "Try counting the quakes."

A roll of the eye, a puff of air between her lips, Ruby protests but does as asked. All her
frustrations fall away as she hears the first strains of distant music and realization sets in. "Huh."

Kellan, as yet uninitiated to the finer world, tries to follow in her footsteps with no
success. The quakes stopped and started often—but why were they counting? His brows furrow
as he tries to work it out.

Ruby covers his counting hand with her own. "They're dancing," she explains.

"Waltzing, to be specific," adds Troyan. "Which does, unfortunately, mean they're

awake."

Waltzing? Kellan has no idea what that is, but he caught his mother and Ronald turning
in wide steps around the house once. Maybe it's like that.

"If they're dancing, they won't notice us," he says. "We can still sneak in."

By now he knows what that hum from Ruby means—she's not sure, but she's not going to
back down from the challenge. "Let's hope so," she says.
 Further they walk, to the threshold itself, a great gate that opens only for the most
miniature beings on the beanstalk. Beneath the wooden ceiling they pass. The world that awaits
them on the other side would beggar any king of the Realm: beautiful marble arches higher than
any parapet, a dome of morning sky overhead, boisterous music that thrums in their lungs, and
gilded goblets holding wells full of wine. Most striking of all are the giants themselves. Whether
clad in gambeson and mail or taffeta gowns, they make a handsome sight. And a strange one, if
all the rumors of giants are to be believed.

"Shouldn't they be doing giant things?" Ruby asks. Though she's shouting, it's hard to
hear her over the music.

"Maybe these are giant things," Kellan says. When the quakes come, he hops along with
them. In the back of his mind he wonders if his father has wings—if he'll have them, too, when
he gets older. He hopes so.

"The boy's right. I don't see why they can't enjoy a celebration every now and again. This
place certainly needs it after what it's been through," Troyan says.

"Well, I didn't say—It's just that other people don't—" Ruby starts, but she ends in a huff.
"Whatever. At least they haven't noticed us. Kellan, do you know where they might keep a
mirror?"

Indeed, the giants have not noticed the adventurers, and this is all the worse for their part.
While there is a pattern to dances, not all giants make graceful dancers. Their best predictions of
where the next footfall will be sometimes go awry. More than once Ruby pulls Kellan out of
doom's reach; more than once, Troyan does the same for her.

Kellan's heart is hammering again. This is dangerous. Of course it is. But with the music
playing, and the laughter around him, it's sort of fun, too. Back home he's the smallest boy in the
village—but here, they're all small, and his agility is a boon. He darts from step to step, his eyes
full of wonder, looking for the gleam of silver. "I don't know. Maybe it's in somebody's room?"

"What, to ask it questions in the middle of the night?" Though Ruby's initially skeptical, a
moment's thought changes her tune. "Actually, that's not a bad idea."

It's hard to determine where a room might be when everything's so large as this. When at
last they find a stair, only Troyan can scale the slippery stone—and it takes him great effort to do
so. Nevertheless, he drops a rope for the others, and they haul themselves up one by one. In this
way they can climb the two dozen steps to a higher level which may not, all told, even contain a
bedroom.

But halfway up the steps they have the displeasure of running into a goose.

Years on the farm have hardened Kellan's heart to these blasted creatures. He loves near
everything and everyone that draws breath in the Realm—except geese. And with good reason.
The local geese are the only things that trouble him as much as the local bullies. Perhaps the
geese are worse.
 And what's worse than a goose his size?

A goose the size of his family's market cart.

The goose, festooned in gold, waddles down the steps ahead of its owner—who, by her
raiment, must be the lady of the house herself. And while the giants may not take notice of them,
the goose does, honking a horrible honk, locking eyes with them as they crest another step.

Kellan knows in his heart the right answer to dealing with this abomination.

"Run!" he shouts. "Run for your lives!"

He takes off like a shot, his shoes failing to get any traction against the marble. Ruby's
got better luck—she jumps off the step, landing in Troyan's awaiting arms. She stops and turns
only to see Kellan land chest first on the marble, the goose's beak descending like an axe—

And two fingers pinching the back of his cloak.

He's lifted high into the air, his feet dangling beneath him. The goose nips at his heels. If
he dares to look down he will have an unholy view of the goose's mouth, something that might
stain his mind forever, but he is wise enough to avoid this fate. Instead, he fixes his eyes on the
giant's scowl. Kellan holds up his hands and shrugs. "S-sorry for intruding."

"Who are you?" she asks. The force of her speech sends him swaying. "What are you
doing at my party?"

"I've come on a quest!" Kellan says. Difficult to strike a heroic pose here, but he gives it
all he can. "I seek the magic mirror—"

The giant's lip curls in a sneer. "No."

"Honored Lady," shouts Ruby. She's cupped her hands over her mouth; she must be
shouting at the top of her lungs. "We don't mean any harm! We just want to ask the mirror a
question!"

"Do you think it's the first time I've heard that lie?" the giant answers. "Smallfolk like
nothing more than deception. How dare you come into my home on the night of my birthday and
demand such a thing from me?"

"Happy birthday!" Kellan blurts.

"I don't need to hear it from you," she replies.

Kellan hears a deep sigh from behind them. "Beluna, don't tell me you're causing
trouble."

Their unwilling host—Beluna—turns. Over her shoulder, Kellan sees a crowned man, his
cup already half empty, his cheeks ruddy. Despite the finery he wears, he's only half Beluna's
size, his beard bushy and green. Beluna curtseys at the sight of him—which nearly drops Kellan
into the goose's waiting gullet. "Lord Yorvo," she says. "I'm only dealing with some pests."

"Pests you're speaking to."

"Aye, my lord," says Beluna. She holds Kellan up toward the other man. Looking at him
now, he's fairly sure that beard really is made of plants. And if he's smaller, but Beluna's
listening to him ... could that be the Giant King? Kellan doesn't even know his name, only that he
vanished from Garenbrig during the invasion. What's he doing all the way over here? He's not
like these Giants. Maybe he's paying them a visit for the birthday party? Kellan really, really
hopes he's in a good mood, or else ... the goose awaits.

"That looks rather like a young man," says the king. "You aren't planning to feed any
smallfolk to your goose on your birthday, are you? You can't be that in need of golden eggs."

"He means to steal the mirror," she protests. "And as it is my birthday, I think it right I
decide what to do with him."

The king turns his attention to Kellan. "Young man. Why are you here?"

"I've been given a quest by the fae lord," Kellan says. He hopes mentioning Talion will
smooth matters over. Lords respected each other, didn't they? "I and my friends mean to find and
defeat two witches, but we don't know where to go. We were hoping to ask the mirror for
assistance."

The king nods, stroking his beard. "Consider you and yours my guests at this party."

Kellan grins. "Of course!" he says.

"Beluna, I don't think there's any harm in showing them the mirror. There's no way they
could possibly move it with only three of them, and ... well, they are guests, now." The King
offers them a conspiratorial wink. "Give the Kindly Lord my regards, will you? Back now from
that long trip of theirs."

He does not hear Beluna groan, but he can feel it. "You're stretching hospitality, Lord
Yorvo," she says. "But ... I see your point."

The king passes, patting the goose's head as he goes. Beluna sets Kellan down in the
palm of her hand. She carefully picks up the others and sets them there, too, then starts walking
with nary a word. Her gait is so wide that they reach their destination in mere moments.

It is, indeed, a bedroom.

She sets them down in front of the mirror, then crosses her arms. "Make this quick," she
says. "You're lucky Albiorix won't be eating you tonight."

"Who names a goose Albiorix?" Ruby mutters.

 Kellan stifles a shudder and approaches the mirror. The boy he sees there—cloaked,
already a little leaner from travel—seems larger than the boy he was only a few weeks ago. More
like a hero.

"Oh great mirror," he says. "Where can I find the witch Hylda?"

Nothing happens.

Kellan frowns.

"You have to tell it something it doesn't know, manling," Beluna says. "The mirror
doesn't just spit out valuable information for free."

"Hm. Something it's never heard before," Troyan repeats. He sets a hand on Kellan's
shoulder. "Mirror of Indrelon, my name is Troyan, and I wasn't born here in Eldraine."

"What?" Ruby says—but already the magic is starting to work.

Winter's own breath fogs the silvery surface. Kellan feels compelled to reach forward and
wipe it away. Beneath the condensation, he sees a castle of ice, faceted and glittering, resting
atop a rocky cliff.

"Wait ... I think I know that place. Loch Larent. My brother used to take me fishing
there," Ruby says. She frowns. "But there wasn't any ice there when we went before the war.
How'd she build something like that so fast?"

"I don't know," says Kellan. "But if you'll lead the way, then maybe we can find out."
 Episode 4: Ruby and the Frozen Heart
By K. Arsenault Rivera

The day is brisk and bright when Kellan and Ruby return to Edgewall. After the rough
living of Dunbarrow and the wonder of the giants' home, this place seems both a paradise and a
hovel. That is what Kellan likes most about it. If he were to return home to Orrinshire, he knows
precisely what he would see: his mother at the loom, his stepfather tending sheep, the villagers
going about their day in perfect harmony. There are no traces of the Wicked Slumber in
Orrinshire, nor any surprises.

Here in Edgewall there are plenty.

First is the spread of violet across the town. Where once the cursed threads accented the
streets and alleys, they now form rivers and brooks. When they left, there were dozens of
sleepers. Now, with a sinking heart, Kellan realizes that the victims are beyond counting.
Leaning against balconies, hidden beneath parchment and blankets, standing at open windows ...

Even Ruby is thrown off by the sight. She doesn't say so—she's too brave—but he hears
it in the sharp draw of her breath as they walk the streets. He sees it in the careful hops she
makes to avoid any strands of violet, in the stiffness of her posture. "Watch your step," she tells
him with a smile more for his sake than any joy of her own. "Can't have our hero falling asleep
on us."

"Don't call me that," Kellan replies. "My mother always tells me that if I act like
something I've done is no big deal, everyone else will, too. You're just as heroic as I am."

Ruby laughs. "Your mom does sound like a nice lady, but you're mistaken. Peter's the
hero in our family. Raising your little sister all on your own and being the best hunter in town ..."
She hops a cursed thread. "That's a real hero."

"I think there are plenty of ways to be a hero," Kellan says. "Peter's one, but so are you.
And I'd like to be one someday, too."

"Well, you're already on a quest," says Ruby. She leads them through the streets to a
small cabin on the very edge of town. An uncharitable soul might say it isn't part of Edgewall at
all, but the city colors draped in the window proudly proclaim otherwise. A plume of applewood
smoke rises from the chimney. Kellan's stomach rumbles.

"What do you think makes a hero, anyway?" she asks him.

"A hero is someone who always does the right thing," he says. "Someone who makes
other people's lives better."

Ruby stops with her hand on the door. She narrows her eyes. Kellan waits to see if she'll
answer, but there's no chance to talk it over. Peter spots them from the window and invites them
inside. With fresh venison steaks sizzling in his cast iron pans, the subject of heroism gallantly
gives way to that of dinner. And plans.

They tell him they are going to Loch Larent, and he agrees to take them—on one
condition.

"You must wear my thickest cloak, and when you can no longer feel your nose, you must
turn back. No matter the circumstances."

"But what if we're not done by then?" Kellan says.

"Then once the two of you have returned, I will go myself," says Peter. "I've heard about
that castle. No one's managed to get to the center. Not the other hunters, not the bandits. Syr
Imodane tried it before she came here. In her opinion it was an easier thing to brave the wilds
than it was to walk more than forty paces across the drawbridge—and she with that firey magic
to warm her."

Quiet falls over the room. Kellan glances to Ruby, and Ruby to Kellan.

"I'm not going to turn back," he says. "I can't. Not when so many people are sick. My lord
said that whoever defeats the witches will end the curse—"

"Your lord did not say it had to be you, lad," says Peter. "There's no shame in needing
help. You're only a boy, and Ruby still young herself. You must know when a beast can be
felled, and when it is best to leave it be."

When Kellan catches Ruby's eye again, he knows she's thinking the same thing.

What if Peter's right?

In the end, Ruby makes the promise. Her brother drapes a bearskin around her shoulders,
though she insists on keeping the hood. To Kellan he grants a fine coat of wool, the sight of
which makes the boy break out in a groan. The wool is from Orrinshire.

Yet he wears it proudly at night, when Peter tells them he has a surprise for them, and he
buries his face in its raised collar once the embarrassment overcomes him. For there, in the town
square, there are children gathered in red hoods and woolen cloaks. Dozens of them, he thinks—
and there are girls in wool as much as there are boys in red. All watch in perfect stillness as two
puppets triumph over all manner of trouble to defeat an evil, man-eating witch.

In the flickering candlelight, Kellan thinks he sees Ruby tear up. But she wipes them
away the second he spots her, and the two of them say no more of this sacred moment.
 A Tale for the Ages | Art by: Julie Dillon

Loch Larent lies a long week's journey from Edgewall. Peter takes them much of the
way, but as they approach the loch itself, he announces that he will stop to make camp. And who
could blame him? Even a full day's travel away, it is so cold that Kellan must hop from foot to
foot to keep warm. In all his winters, he's weathered only two days colder than this—both in the
bitterest months. He and his family huddled up with the sheep so that no one would freeze. Deep
down, he wondered whether it was possible for someone to freeze at all. It seemed a thing that
water did, or perhaps beer, but never people.

He wonders less about that now. But he doesn't bring that up. Neither does Ruby.

Peter is more vigilant. "Are you certain you don't want me to come with you?" he asks.

"You're still recovering," Ruby answers, though Kellan hears a pang of regret in her
voice. "And besides ... I think I want to try this one. To see how far I can go."

They bid farewell to Peter. He holds them close, wishes them well, and lingers by the fire
as they go. For a long while afterward, Ruby looks over her shoulder, perhaps searching for his
silhouette against the orange light. Everything else in this place is blue, green, or violet. The sky
above is marbled with all three colors swirling over each other like the layers of a noblewoman's
cloak. Beneath the frozen surface of the loch, eerie blue lights bob and weave, vying for their
attention. Kellan thinks he sees a pair of yellow eyes under the ice—but a moment later they
disappear.
 Most striking of all is the castle. Seeing it through the mirror is one thing; to lay eyes on
it in person is quite another. Kellan had no idea how large it was until now. The main tower
stands on a cliff overlooking the loch, but whoever designed it could not bear to stop there.
Madness struck the unseen architect: gates leading to new fortresses, drawbridges to nowhere, a
never-ending series of baileys, each giving way to a new gate. Kellan counts five portcullises
alone.

They'd snuck into a cabin, climbed a beanstalk, and walked beneath the door to enter a
giant's stronghold.

They had not yet stormed a castle.

The road before them, paved with glittering crystal gravel, seems more threat than
invitation. Yet Kellan does not hesitate to step upon it. Fear is nothing in the face of the greater
good, he tells himself.

But Ruby stops, her foot at the very edge of the crunchy gravel. "This ... feels different,
doesn't it?"

"Only if you let it," Kellan says. He holds out his hand. "At least we don't have to do any
climbing this time."

Ruby laughs up a cloud of vapor. She takes his hand and starts on the path. "Don't say
that too loudly, or Troyan might burst out of a snow drift."

"I don't think that would be so bad," Kellan says. "The places he used to talk about
sounded great, didn't they?"

Ruby blows a raspberry. "The places he was talking about were made up, Kellan! All my
life in Edgewall and I've never heard anyone talk about a pain circus before. What does that even
mean?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe it was something the fae did," Kellan says. He tries not to
let the disappointment reach his tone, but as always, Ruby's too clever for that to work.

"You really want to see more of the fae lands, don't you?" says Ruby. She squeezes his
hand. "I'm sure once this is done, you'll be the toast of the town."

He isn't so sure about that. Part of him wonders—he was always too fae for the humans,
so what if he's too human for the fae? Talion already pointed out how little he knew of fae
customs every time they spoke. He still hasn't gotten the basket hilts to work for him. What if it's
the same there, but different?

He tries to think of something to say.

But someone else soon speaks for him: a woman's voice carried on gelid wind.
"Knights, bandits, and would-be kings have failed to walk this path. Two children have little
hope of success. Turn back."

The sky overhead darkens, the wind strengthens; were it not for the steel pin holding
Kellan's cloak in place, it would have been torn right from his small body.

Ruby pulls down the bear's head over her own to keep from freezing. Kellan does the
same, though with his plain hood of wool.

"We're not going to give up that easily," he shouts into the air. But here the air is so cold
that it cuts him to speak, and when only silence responds, he regrets making such an effort.

"The brave live short lives. Do not think your age will earn you any mercy from me. My realm
will be safe from threats, regardless of who those threats might be. Turn back."

With every word Hylda speaks the air around them grows colder. So powerful is the wind
that they must strain against it with every step, but they do not stop walking.

Kellan keeps glancing over to Ruby as they go. He can't see much of the rest of her face,
but what he can see is red as her hood. Surely she can no longer feel her nose. "You don't have to
keep going."

But Ruby only shoots him a sidelong glance. "And let the witch win?"

"She won't win if I get there," Kellan says. He speaks into his scarf to try and keep warm.
"If we keep going ..."

"You will die," comes Hylda's voice. "This is your final warning. Heed your own words, and turn
away."

The veil of snow has gotten so thick that all he can see is gray and white. Still, he turns in
place, looking to find the castle. In the distance he spots the faintest smudge of blue. A mile
away, if not more.

Kellan blinks cold eyes. He could turn away—but if he does, no one will ever wake up,
and he will never know who his father was.

"You ... don't know ... a questing hero when you see one," he rasps. Next to him, Ruby
laughs, and it makes him feel a little braver.

"I do. They die as easily as anyone else. You will not be the last," Hylda answers. Her voice
fades into the howling of the wind—and the creatures within it.

The first moves too quickly for the two youths to see: a streak of cerulean across their
vision, a sound like breaking glass. Only when the icy spear lands at their feet do they realize
what they're seeing. The swirling snow ahead of them has solidified into mail and plate: a
warrior of frost, at least twice Kellan's size, bears down upon them. A new spear forms in his
open palm.
 A wicked thrust aims straight for Kellan's heart. Ruby pulls him out of the way. Still, the
point pierces Kellan's fine cloak to the snowy ground beneath them. Wind howls in his ears and
snow stings his eyes as he tries to scamper away.

But Orrinshire wool is renowned for its strength. The very fiber of his home—perhaps
sheared from his own sheep—keeps him in place. Try as he might, he cannot tear the pinned
corner away.

"He can't hurt you if his spear's stuck!" Ruby shouts. "Just drop the cloak and go!"

But he can't. His fingers are too stiff to work the clasp keeping his cloak in place, and
even if he did, where would that leave them? In cold like this he'd surely freeze.

Kellan locks eyes with the warrior through the murk. There's a new shape forming in its
free hand: an axe.

"Ruby, go on ahead!" he says.

"Don't be s—aah!"

Her protest is cut short when she's yanked high into the air. Another warrior's formed,
and this one's got her in its clutches. A rime-streaked sword is pressed right up against her throat.

No, no, this isn't how this is supposed to go. It's one thing for him to be in trouble, but
there has to be some way out of this. In stories, there's always something the hero figures out.
But he doesn't have any weapons and he doesn't know any magic because his mother never
taught him any, and his father never ...

The warrior readies a blow.

"Dad, please," Kellan whimpers. He reaches one last time for the basket hilts ... and gold
light cuts through the gray. Something in Kellan feels bright as spring no matter the
surroundings, something that pours into the hilts and changes them. Acting on instinct he lashes
out—
 Kellan’s Lightblades | Art by: Fajareka Setiwan

—and his newfound sword cuts straight through the frost warrior's arm.

Kellan gawps at the delicate blade of light in his hands, the thing he's conjured from his
own desperation. Around the hilt the light seems to sharpen like thorns. He admires it for a
second, but now he has to get them out of this mess.

Kellan ducks beneath the warrior's legs, running straight for Ruby. Before he can think to
hesitate, he lops this warrior's arm off, too. Catching Ruby on the way down is an easy thing in
comparison.

"Kellan, you're doing it!" she says, eyes wide. "Fae powers, you're really doing it!"

"I am!" If he says anything else, he's worried he'll ruin it, as if naming it aloud will dispel
the effect.

He sets her back down on the path. The warriors, howling with pain, have wandered
away, leaving their weapons lodged in the snow. Ruby picks up the sword and stands back-to-
back with Kellan on the path. But the longer they wait, the harder it is to stay upright. His initial
giddiness begins to give way. The magical sword in his hands is heavy as iron. Has it gotten
colder already? A strange sleepiness creeps in and he worries that it must be the curse—but there
are no plumes of violet here, no magic save his and Hylda's. So why is he so ...?

Kellan's eyelids begin to droop. "Ruby ... I think I might be ..."

"Kellan?" Ruby says. She turns. "Kellan!"

Maybe they should rest before then, though. He's so cold, and so tired, and ...
 He's already done so well, he's earned a little nap.

Kellan falls.

This time, Ruby is the one to catch him.

Kindled Heroism | Art by: Leanna Crossan

Among the swirls of blue, white, and green, there is a girl in red—and a boy she carries
through the snow.

Cradled in her arms, curling up instinctively into the warmth of her cloak, Kellan is so
fragile that she worries the falling snowflakes will break him. So shallow is his breathing that,
could she not feel his heartbeat, she'd think him dead.

"Take him and go home."

Looking down on him she knows it's good advice. Her brother would tell her the same:
they've failed. She can take him back, and then the two of them can figure out something else to
do. Or maybe some other hero will come by, someone with a heart like a furnace and blood like
molten ore, who will not be slowed by the cold.

A month ago she wouldn't have hesitated. Life was about looking out for you and yours;
it was about staying alive.

But it's not just that anymore. This is bigger than the two of them; the puppet show
showed her that. All those children in their red hoods—what would they think if she left him
here? What would Kellan say when he awoke, knowing he might never learn the truth about his
father? How could she live with herself if the Wicked Slumber never faded away?

Ruby begins to walk.

Snow crunches underfoot, wind whistles in her ear. Her footsteps have never felt so
heavy as this; each one is a battle.

"You owe him nothing."

"People don't need to owe each other to help each other," Ruby answers, speaking into
the razor wind.

There is no response. For a long span there are no words at all—no sounds save the gusts,
the snow, her breathing. She can't even hear Kellan's. Frost has formed on her eyelashes. Though
it is yet far, the castle comes closer with every step taken—every battle won.

One step, another. Her legs hurt.

"He is small and weak. You are hardy and strong. You have hunter's blood. Abandon him and
you may yet reach me."

Ruby feels like she's breathing in glass, but she keeps breathing. "Keep ... talking ... I was
getting lonely, anyway."

A strong gust, likely the witch's displeasure, knocks her off her feet. She and Kellan
tumble into the snow. Cold saps the strength she's fought so hard to keep. Each of her limbs
seems to weigh as much as a harvest pig.

Yet she raises them. Yet she stands. Yet she lifts the boy from the snow and carries him,
once more. And not once throughout does the thought occur to her to leave him behind.

One foot in front of the other.

"You know what I think?" Ruby shouts into the wind. "I think you're lonely too. That's
why you keep taunting me. You don't get to talk to people otherwise, do you?"

Another powerful gust. Hail batters her. She hunkers down, the cloak taking the worst of
the impact.

"Leave."

Ruby holds Kellan tighter and keeps going.

The skeletal gates rise up before her. How long has she been walking? It feels an eternity.
She turns and surveys her tracks over the frozen wastes. Peter said that was the easiest part,
getting to the outermost drawbridge. It was crossing it that killed.
 When she turns back to the drawbridge she can see them: lumps beneath the blanket of
pure white snow. Bodies kept hidden from sight. She and Kellan will be so small as to escape
notice if they end up like that. Even Peter wouldn't be able to find her.

Turn back when you cannot feel your nose, he said to her. He made her promise.

In truth, she hasn't been able to feel it for some time.

Ruby steps onto the bridge.

There are no mountains to moderate the wind here, no structures to shield from hail or
sleet. The moment she's out in the open the weather comes at her from all sides. Her fingers
tremble. She could not move them if she tried. But she does not need to move them to keep hold,
to keep walking.

One step, another.

"You are a fool to continue."

"Maybe," Ruby says. She can't argue the point. Though she's only a quarter of the way
along the bridge, it's already getting hard to keep lifting her feet.

"You are going to die here."

"I won't know that until I do," Ruby says. She's not lifting her feet anymore; she can't.
She trudges through the snow like a drunkard walking home from the pub. "I have to try."

"But why? Why?" the witch asks. For the first time there is urgency in her voice; for the first
time, she actually sounds upset. "You have no reason to—"

"Because my friend wants to defeat you, so he can meet his father and save the Realm,
and I'm not going to let him down," Ruby says.

One third of the way there. She's walked by five bodies already.

"You would abandon your life because ...?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," Ruby says.

Another step. One more. Her knees give.

So she can't walk anymore. Big deal. She can still crawl.

Ruby forces herself to roll over. She shifts Kellan onto her back, throws her hands out
ahead. They plunge through the snow. So cold, so tired, so clumsy, but she has to try.

"This is pointless. You know that."

"He would do the same for me, and he wouldn't think it was pointless," Ruby says.
 It isn't going to work. She knows that, deep down, but she's going to keep trying anyway.
Even if she passes out, even if the snow takes her, Kellan will wake up at some point. Maybe his
fae blood will help. And then when he gets to the castle, he can figure it out. She reaches for the
next handhold.

But instead, she finds an outstretched palm, its fingers pure white, the nails upon it
delicately pointed. A crystal bracelet glimmers on the wrist. "Take my hand."

That voice. It's the witch. But what is she doing out here?

Ruby takes a shaky breath. Her brother met a witch once—look where it got him. She
shakes her head. "No. I'm not—"

"I mean you no harm," says the witch. "But if you will not believe me, I shall prove it to
you."

The witch kneels next to her. She seems sadder than Ruby expected. No amount of white
finery, no heavy winter crown, no magic can conceal the loneliness in her pale eyes.

Slowly, the weather around them clears until only the gentle snowfall remains.

It is in this perfect silence that that witch leans over Kellan. "Sweet children, who have
borne so much trouble ..." She presses a kiss to each of their foreheads. "Be welcome in Winter's
Home."

Break the Spell | Art by: Miranda Meeks

Magic tingles along Ruby's skin as she starts to lose focus. "What are you doing?" she
mumbles.
 "Keeping you safe," the witch says. Ruby feels cool fingers running through her hair.
"You were right about me, I'm afraid. I'm lonely. I'd forgotten that, but the two of you have
shown me what I've forsaken by staying here in this castle."

Ruby's vision starts to fade.

"Sleep, child. When the two of you wake, you shall have the truth."

The youths awake hours later in a room of glistening ice. Two golems, crafted from the
same material as the walls, guard their slumber. Blankets, thick and plush, surround them, and
before them is a morning banquet presented on a crystal tray. Spiced cider, pie, hearty soup—
anything someone could want to warm their bones—lies beneath a sparkling cloche. All that
remains is to reach for it.

Kellan does without thinking. His stomach rumbling, his head hammering. What else is a
young man to do? But Ruby stays his hand.

"It's the witch's doing," she says.

"The witch who means you no harm," comes the answer from across the room. She's
standing from a chair, setting down a book. She picks up her own mug and saucer before coming
to sit across from the two of them. "I'm glad to see that you're well."

"How do we know this isn't a trick?" asks Ruby. "You saved us out there, but maybe you
only wanted to put us at ease for a while. Maybe you're going to eat us—"

"Eat you? I suppose you've met Agatha," she says.

"We threw her into a cauldron," says Kellan. He's not sure how right Ruby is about this,
or even how he ended up here, but he thought it bore saying.

If it bothers Hylda, she gives no sign of it. "She deserved no less," she says. "I used to
believe I was different from them. The other two, I mean. They always sought power. All I ever
wanted was to be alone."

Kellan glances at Ruby. He has a faint memory of Hylda's voice, but it's one that puts him
at ease. He squeezes Ruby's hand. "Even if you like being alone more than being with people, it's
always good to have friends."

The witch smiles. Her face is not suited for such things. "So it is," she says. "Even when
they are very skeptical friends."

Ruby pouts. "I'm just looking out for him!"

A laugh as unsuited to the witch as her smile. "I bear you no ill will—but you are difficult
to impress. Will two more gifts prove my intentions to you?"
 Ruby crosses her arms, as if waiting to see what they might be. In the meantime, Kellan
avails himself of cider and pie. Hylda doesn't mean them any harm; if she did, she would have
left them out there. Besides, his mother always taught him it was rude to turn down hospitality
like this.

But he soon stops when he sees what Hylda's done. With a careful, light touch, she's
lifted the frozen crown from her head and set it on the table before them.

"There. I feel lighter already. Take that to the Kindly Lord, as proof of my defeat."

"You're sure?" Kellan asks.

"You aren't defeated if you're still around, though," Ruby says. "Who's to say you won't
keep growing the castle and freezing people to death?"

"I do," she says. She gestures to the windows. "Take a look outside, if you'd like. Without
the crown I can maintain only a small home for me and mine."

Ruby narrows her eyes and goes to the window, Kellan following. The morning sun plays
upon the castle's walls, illuminating the water already running in rivulets down the stone, streams
already cascading down the cliffside. The castle has begun to melt.

"I think she's serious," Kellan says to Ruby. Then, to their host: "That was a brave thing
to do, to give up power like that. My mother always said witches aren't all to be feared."

"Your mother did not speak falsely," says Hylda. "Besides, I had plenty of inspiration."

Ruby sits. At last, she lets herself enjoy some of the cider.

Kellan takes the crown and sets it on his lap. "You said you had something else for us?"

"A gift of information," says Hylda. "I heard the two of you speaking on the way here.
You serve the Kindly Lord. When you leave this castle, you will surely find one of their
gateways awaiting you. But this time, you will not cross the threshold unaware."

"What do you mean?" Ruby asks.

Hylda looks toward the window before continuing. "We witches did not create the
Wicked Slumber alone. To do so would have been beyond our power."

"What?" says Kellan.

"When the invaders arrived, we each had different ideas of how to handle matters. Talion
was the one who broke the stalemate. Eriette's sleeping curse, they argued, would be the surest
way to counteract the invaders. Since the three of us could never have cast a spell that powerful
on our own, we never would have considered it otherwise. There were four of us once, and we
might have had some hope then, but she died twenty years ago. We needed four. Talion, strong
as they may be, needed us for it to work as much as we needed them. Thus, they offered us the
chance to save the Realm—and boons for our help. Always boons, with fae."

Kellan swallows. "But Talion said that you put the whole world to sleep."

Hylda smooths Kellan's hair. "It was only meant to stop the invaders," she says. "That it
continued spiraling out of control afterward is Eriette's doing. Of that, I'm certain. She leapt at
the chance to enact a curse of that size—to have all those people at her beck and call. I think she
might have even done it without a boon, had the Kindly Lord not offered one."

"But ... this is supposed to be a heroic quest," Kellan says. His lips start to tremble, his
voice wavering. "I thought we were doing the right thing. Talion's the one who did this?"

"You are doing the right thing," Hylda says. "Talion has sent you to clean up the mess
that all four of us created. That is a good and noble thing to do—to fix things. But it is done best
when it is done knowingly."

Ruby squeezes his shoulders, but Kellan still can't stop shaking. Talion created this. Fae
aren't supposed to lie, are they? Witches three have this land with slumber plagued ...

Kellan picks up the crown in his lap and storms out of the room.

Down the winding halls and spiral stairs he goes, despite not knowing the way. Behind
him Hylda calls, but he cannot make out what she's saying with his blood rushing through his
ears. When at last he arrives outside, he sees that Hylda is right: there is already a portal.

When Kellan reaches for the door, Ruby's hand finds his wrist again. She is sweaty and
out of breath, having run after him all this way, but she is there—with him.

"Together, remember?" she says.

Kellan can't summon any words; the lump in his throat is too great. He nods and walks
through the gateway.

Together into the land of fae the two heroes stride, the land of false castles and false
hopes. Talion awaits, draped as always, on their throne. "Gallant adventurers, glory great you
have earned—"

Kellan throws the crown at Talion's feet.

The Kindly Lord studies the priceless boon. They crook a brow at the boy. "Your father's
spirit is at last showing itself, lad. What troubles you?"

"You lied," Kellan says.

Talion waves a wand of hawthorn. A fae handmaiden picks up the crown and carries it
away. Talion, for once, sits properly on the throne.
 "Fae do not lie," they say. "It is anathema to us. If I were to lie to you, my blood would
clot like spoiled milk."

"We know about the curse," Ruby says. "We know you were the one who had the idea.
You're using us, aren't you?"

Talion leans back. Is that a smirk on their face? Kellan thinks it might be, and he hates it.
"Ah. That matter. Is it such a bad thing to be used for such noble ends? A knight's sword does
not complain of drinking blood."

"This isn't the same!" Kellan protests. "You asked if we were pure of heart. You said
you'd help me find my—"

How shameful to break down like this, to cry in front of the Fae King, yet Kellan cannot
stop his voice from cracking, nor the tears from flowing. He wipes at his eyes in frustration. "I
believed you. I really believed you knew him."

"I do," says Talion. Kellan's tears have no effect on them whatsoever. "And I will tell you
what I know of him if you complete this quest. Or will you refuse to save the Realm because you
do not like the reason it is being saved?"

Kellan clenches a fist. "I ... I didn't say ... It isn't that simple!"

"Nothing in our lands is simple," says Talion. "You shall find Eriette at Castle Ardenvale.
Defeat her, and you will end the curse; end the curse, and I will tell you of your father. Or do not
defeat her. Return to your pastoral home, and never again come as near to belonging as you did
when you embraced your heritage. The choice is yours."

A wave of the wand. The Fae World flickers and fades around them.

Once more, they stand on the cliffs outside Hylda's castle.

And Kellan? Kellan begins to weep.

 Episode 5: Broken Oaths
By K. Arsenault Rivera

Child Kellan to the castle ruins comes. Though his and Ruby's deeds have merited them
the recent gift of ponies, he does not feel heroic astride his new steed. Far from it. As he surveys
the once-proud hills and valleys around Castle Ardenvale, all he feels is resignation.

"Are you ready?" he asks Ruby.

She's atop her own pony, kitted in her namesake color, her cloak billowing out over its
flank. There is good reason for such showmanship: a blade of eternal ice hides beneath the
fabric. Hylda found Ruby's request for a sword "as big as she was" endearing rather than
ridiculous. With the last bit of the crown's magic she'd granted Ruby the boon—and Ruby was
only too happy, in most cases, to brag about it.

She is not bragging about it now. Who could, seeing the gloom upon Kellan's face?
"Yeah, I am. But if you need more time to talk about it—"

"I don't," Kellan says. "We're going to do the right thing, and that's that."

Nary an enemy challenges them along the way to Ardenvale's gates. An eerie quiet rolls
across the plains. Kellan's felt this before in the lead-up to a storm, the livestock all retreating
hours before the people knew why.

When they see the battered state of the doors before them it is a sensible thing, a
reasonable one: the proverbial storm that will consume them has torn the door from its hinges;
the rotted, corrupted heart of the curse has eaten away at the wood; the dreamers that lurk behind
it are the nightmares that plagued Kellan during their journey here.

This is not a place of succor or rest, nor a place of glory.

It is a place where wounds fester.

Kellan doesn't want to enter it. But he has given his word that he will, and something in
his blood has affixed itself to this oath like enamel to a knight's shield.

"We can't go through the sleeping guards," he says. "We'll just be hurting them."

Ruby raises a brow. "Got a better idea?"

Kellan reaches in his cloak. In his hand, held aloft: the second bottle of frogification
Troyan lent them.

Ruby grins. "You know, I like the way you think," she says. "But this time, you hold
onto me."
 There is something in Ruby's smile that reminds Kellan of better times. "All right, all
right. Just bring us down easy."

"No promises," Ruby answers.

Kellan lashes the horses to a post. With two sacks of feed, they'll be set for the rest of the
day—hopefully he and Ruby won't need any more time than that. After giving the horses a quick
goodbye, he meets Ruby at the base of the castle walls.

They're in the air seconds later. Ruby isn't one to wait around for a cue.

Her landing skills are better than Kellan's, landing on her powerful amphibian legs only
moments before she starts to revert to her human shape. Eriette must not have been expecting
anyone to bypass the castle gates. There are no sleepers here standing guard, no closed eyes to
watch them.

"Okay, okay, maybe Troyan wasn't so bad," Ruby says. She keeps her voice as hushed as
their footsteps. "Where to?"

Kellan's brows meet as he thinks. "If I were a witch, I'd want to have the throne room to
myself."

"Hylda said Eriette loved attention," Ruby says with a nod. "Probably got a whole bunch
of people in there feeding her grapes and stuff."

Kellan tilts his head at her, but opens the first door he sees, all the same. "Why grapes?"

"I don't know. It's always grapes, though," Ruby says.

Ahead of them: a yawning hallway, dark and dreary, festooned with faded and defaced
portraits. The stone floors and walls leave the air cooler within. Though there are plenty of
torches in their holders, not one is lit. The only light granted them is that which filters in through
the door—and the light of the curse along the floor.

Together the two heroes follow the winding cords of violet through the halls of Castle
Ardenvale. Past empty bedrooms, ransacked war rooms, and raided armories they skulk. So open
are their ears that the passing squeaks of mice are as loud as a dragon's dying cry.

It is thus no wonder that they hear the woman's footsteps before they see her. Soft, they
are, but not soft enough: the creak of her leather boots, the scuff of sole against stone, even her
belabored sigh gives her away.

Kellan and Ruby press themselves on either side of the door. Ruby is the first to peek,
blade held at her side. When she gestures for him to do the same, it is with a stunned look.

He understands why. Standing before a lectern and surrounded by swirls of curse-clouds

is a woman known even in Orrinshire. Rowan Kenrith, the daughter of the High King herself,
has come to Castle Ardenvale.
 Kellan cannot stop himself from smiling. She must have figured it out the same as they
did. He can't believe their luck.

The glad tidings overwhelm his good sense. Kellan dashes into the room, and Ruby
follows, her sword hanging toylike at her side. "Rowan!" he calls. Then, his cheeks reddening
with embarrassment when she looks up, he sputters. "I-I mean, L-Lady Kenrith! Be careful with
the curse—"

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" she answers. Strange—Rowan's frowning.

"We came to defeat the witch, the same as you," Ruby says. "Is there some kind of spell
keeping you in place?"

Kellan hadn't thought of that. Good thing Ruby came along; she's always thinking on her
feet. There must be something binding Rowan in place—the curse, maybe. The way it's swirling
around her, that must be it.

"We can find some way to break the spell," Kellan offers. There are no cauldrons here, no
unmelting ice, no sigils he can spot. Only books, wands, loose pages and ink wells. He scans
these for answers. "Me and Ruby have gotten really good at that."

"We're heroes," Ruby adds, helpfully.

But Rowan Kenrith neither laughs nor smiles, nor even thanks them for their assistance.
She lays her hands on either edge of the lectern. Sparks crackle along her fingers.

"I think the two of you should leave," she says, her voice cool and level.

"Ha, I mean, you probably could handle it on your own. But I need to be with you, at
least," Kellan says. "I promised I'd help end this curse."

"You can do that from outside," Rowan says. "It'd be best if you weren't here."

Something in her voice raises Kellan's hackles. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth,
and he looks once more at the page before him. In red-brown ink, jagged handwriting spells the
truth.

Attempt 23. Haven't been able to put anyone to sleep yet except the old-fashioned way.

He has no time to process what he's just read, for when he looks up at Rowan, she's
wreathed in sparking light.

Kellan's vision goes white.

"Kellan! Kellan, wake up! Don't make me get the prison water, I swear I will!"

... What?
 Before he can sort out what's going on, he's hit in the face with something very, very
cold; Ruby is standing before him with an empty bucket at her feet.

"Are you back?" she says.

Kellan clears his throat. The rope keeping his hands together has been severed already,
likely the work of Ruby's frosty sword. But wait ...

"Where are we? And how did you get that sword back?"

"Take a look around, hero. Syr Rowan knocked us both out. She was trying to work some
kind of dream magic on you when I woke up, but then ..."

Kellan's eyes land on sleeping guards face down on the ground. Clattering metal and
creaking wood echo down the stone stairs into their small cell.

" . . .the cavalry arrived. She went off to deal with it, so I got my sword and woke you
up."

Kellan stands. He hefts the chains overhead and drops them to the ground, all save the
shortest, only long enough to wrap around his palm. "She really turned on us?"

"She thought she was helping you," Ruby says, frowning. "Kept saying that while she
was working. That if she got the spell right, you'd be thanking her for what she was doing."

"Yeah, well, that wasn't a very good dream," Kellan says. He lets out a breath. "She's up
there?"

"I think the witch is too," Ruby says. "Someone shouted Rowan's name, and it sure
sounded ominous."

"Then let's get up there," he says.

In her heart of hearts, Rowan Kenrith knew this dream could not last. Just as no amount
of training prepared her to save her family, no amount of wishful thinking could extend this
respite into eternity. Her time with Eriette, studying the magic that would save Eldraine, had
always been fated to end.

But she hoped she'd have longer than a few weeks.

As her brother's knights burst through the gates, sparks crackle along Rowan's forearm.
Eriette, seated upon her throne, strains to control the dozens of sleepers among the ruins, violet
strands flying from her hands to warriors' limbs. Rowan struggled just to keep the children asleep
and weave a dream for them. Eriette is doing it for a whole army.
 The last thing she needs are distractions, but what she can use is help. Ashiok had left the
Realm to attend to business elsewhere. Rowan is the only person Eriette has left. At least until
Ashiok returns.

A phalanx of knights breach the doors. To counter them, Eriette fields her dreamers,
positioned in two ranks before the throne. Eriette might be her better when it comes to dream
magic, but Rowan's taken enough tactics lessons to know this is going to end badly. Two ranks
won't be enough to counter a phalanx of that size.

"Under order of His Majesty the High King of Eldraine, stand down!" shouts a woman in
the vanguard. Rowan narrows her eyes; the voice is familiar. Is that a wooden arm? Ah—the jet
of fire over the heads of the sleepers confirms her suspicions. Imodane. Of course someone that
foolish would think shooting fire at innocent sleepers is a good idea. She was careless at the
mountain and she's careless here.

Rowan focuses on the sparks in her blood, lets them grow, lets them build. All of this
energy she unleashes in a fearsome bolt aimed at Imodane's feet. Stone shatters; smoke rises
from a newly made crater in the castle's flooring.

"There is no High King in Eldraine," she booms. "Turn tail and return to the pretender,
Imodane, or I'll dash you across the rocks."

"You!" says Imodane. "What are you doing here?"

"Ahh, Rowan," says Eriette from the throne. "Will you keep the vermin away for me,
child?"

"They won't get in our way," Rowan promises. As she steps to the raised dais, she spots
her brother, and knows that—one way or another—all of this is going to end today.
 Will, Scion of Peace | Art by: Ryan Pancoast

He rides atop his white horse behind the vanguard, his sword drawn. Rime coats his
pauldrons, his vambraces. Despite riding into battle, he hasn't the sense to don a helmet. Seeing
him ... Seeing him is seeing all the parts she least likes of herself externalized into someone else.

Worse still when he narrows his eyes, when he calls with his voice full of disbelief and
ache, "Rowan? What are you doing?"

There is a lump in her throat, a pain unspeakable, when her brother looks at her like this.
Like he's afraid of her. Like he wants her to be something other than she is, to wake up one day
and return to being the woman he knew before. When will he realize the Rowan he knew is
dead?

"I'm learning how to save the Realm," she says.

"Listen to yourself. Working with witches? Cursing the Realm? This isn't like you," he
says. Is this what he thinks a High King should be—a man who is on the verge of tears atop his
warhorse? "Please come home."

She wants him to understand. She wants so badly for him to understand that she's never
going to be all right again.

But he won't.

She's charging them before she knows what else to do. Her sword beats back shields and
snaps lances. In the thick of the melee her blood sings. Here, surrounded by steel's blooming
petals, she is free from any thought save that which animates her limbs. Parry, riposte; dodge,
blast.

When she reaches her brother, there is already blood on her armor. She levels her sword
at him, he on his horse, and dares him to dismount. "Home is gone, Will!"

Cool eyes study her. When his feet finally touch the ground, his shoulders are doubled
with the weight of his worries. He draws no weapon. "No, it isn't. Hazel and Erec need us—"

He's talking to her the way he talked to Imodane. His own sister. She can't stand another
second of it. "Our parents are dead, the Realm is shattered, and you're acting like talking about it
will help. It won't! Talking is never going to help!"

A rough slash to his chest will convince him to raise his sword. Even Will cannot
compete with such a compelling argument—he raises his own blade to parry. It doesn't help him
much. Rowan is stronger than he is. She's always been stronger.

Under a relentless barrage of blows he's beaten back, step by step, his warriors parting to
let him pass. Whether because he'd given an order or because they fear her, the other knights do
little to stop Rowan.

The only thing that does stop her is a bolt of ice. Will manages it between blows: she
doesn't realize her feet are frozen to the floor until she tries to move them once more.

Rowan catches her breath. As the battle rages on around them—knight against dreamer,
friend against friend—her brother fights back tears.

"Ro, I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't help you when you needed it."

It isn't what she was expecting from him. There's a sharp feeling at the corner of her eyes,
a pain in her chest. An arrow flies over her head, landing in a dreamer behind her. She cannot
look at Will for too long, or she's not going to be able to speak. She glances over her shoulder
toward Eriette.

But it isn't just Eriette she sees. Rowan's heart sinks. The children must have gotten loose.
Worse than that, they're attacking the throne. The girl in red is swinging a sword twice her size at
Eriette; the boy fights with a whip of golden vine.

Eriette may be a powerful witch, but she's no fighter. She can't deal with the children and
animate the dreamers at the same time.

Rowan looks to Will again. He's frowning, now. "You want to save her?"

"She's our aunt. This magic was always in our blood, Will," Rowan says. She's surprised
at how young she sounds. "We can use it to save Eldraine. No one has to suffer anymore, no one
has to die. We can keep them safe."
 For a moment, she mistakes the hurt in his expression for sympathy. It is the longest
moment of her life—a length of hope tied around her neck, a box kicked out from under her.

"I don't know you anymore," he says.

Sparks coalesce at her fingertips. Rowan blasts the vanguard again, creating another rend
across the floor. Another wave of anger, another wave of frustration, another wave of hurt. Over
and over she fires at her faithless former friends. All these people who knew how badly she was
hurting and left her to rot, all these people who saw her bleeding and rubbed salt in the wound—
let them know her power.

Only when the dust of her rage settles does Rowan let out a breath.

And there, where she expects to see them laid low, she sees a cocoon of ice. Pitted,
cracked, and scarred, it yet stands in the face of her onslaught.

Will dismisses it with a wave of his hand. "This isn't going to work," he says.

"You don't know that!" Rowan answers. Winded and desperate, she cannot hold herself
back from charging at him. Her sword arm will succeed where her magic failed—she's sure of it.
Will could never match her on the field.

She slashes at him, only for a familiar hardwood hand to catch her blade. Imodane shoves
her back and Rowan stumbles.

"You don't get it, do you, girl?" Imodane growls. Losing a weapon hasn't seemed to stop
her. She punches her wooden fist into her fleshy palm. "He's going to be the one to reunify the
Realm. Even I can see that now."

"Don't be so certain."

Ice against the nape of her neck; smoke in her lungs; a haze that threatens to carry her to
somewhere beautiful and far. Veils of black coalesce into Ashiok's elegant form before the
gathered army.
 Ashiok, Wicked Manipulator | Art by: Raymond Swanland

Rowan can't help but smirk. Eriette might have had trouble controlling so many at once,
but for Ashiok it's second nature. The gathered dreamers attack with new grace, swaying out of
the way of incoming blows, and dealing their own with vicious precision.

"Will isn't the only one with friends," Rowan answers Imodane.

They can't easily fight this off. Ashiok, at the center, is surrounded on all sides by their
dreamers, and their dreamers are all too happy to defend. The phalanx must break if they're to
attack.

Imodane sends a haymaker Rowan's way. She doesn't bother to dodge—her nose cracks,
the world around her spins, copper floods her mouth. Worth it, if it gets her closer. Because there
is something Rowan understands, something they don't know: the gathered knights cannot win
against Ashiok. All she has to do is hold out long enough for Eriette to send all of them to sleep.

Rowan drives the pommel of her sword into Imodane's face. A moment's concentration is
enough to channel sparks through the knight's armor. She howls, splitting off from the fight to
try to tear off her plate mail, but she isn't the only enemy Rowan faces. A dozen knights at least
have gathered to defend her brother while the others hold off the dreamers.

Thirteen to one.

Rowan likes those odds.

"All of these people are here because they believe in the same thing our parents believed
in: a united Eldraine. You can't just make people do whatever you want!" Will says.
 "You're only saying that because you've always been too weak to do it," Rowan answers.
"Would diplomacy have stopped Oko? The Oriq?"

Three of Will's guards collapse around him, their bodies joining the pile of the
slumbering. An incoming slash from one of the others gives her another chance. Rowan lunges
into the blow, turning aside at the last second. With the distance closed she can crack her
pommel on the knight's temple. Blood coats her knuckles as her opponent crumbles.

Halfway there.

In the distance she spots a flash of gold among Ashiok's smoke. The boy from earlier,
swinging some kind of golden chain. Small as he is, he's managed to slip between the ranks.

Kellan, the Fae-Blooded | Art by: Anna Steinbauer

Lot of good that will do. He's one boy against Ashiok—what can he possibly do? The
golden arcs of his makeshift whip might be flashy, but they won't save him. Talking wouldn't
help him either. She turns her attention back to Will.

"If you'd talked to the Phyrexians, Will, do you think our parents would be alive right
now?" She launches herself at Will once more.

For years they've sparred, for years they've known each other's minds. She knows every
trick he has, but he, too, knows hers. And with his back to the wall, he's desperate. Chilling the
air around her, conjuring shields at the last second, icing the ground to throw her off balance.
"Does power matter that much to you?"
 "Power is the only thing that matters," Rowan says. She clips his elbow with a slash; he
drops his sword. A lance comes her way, but one of the dreamers throws themselves in its path.
Their counterstrike—a hammer to the knee—sees their killer fall, too. "Do you see that now?
Bring as many people as you want, Will. It won't matter. Look around you, your army's fallen
asleep."

Will, the follower he is, does as he's told. Rowan watches him as he realizes there's no
escaping them. He lets out one last, hopeless bolt of ice, one she easily avoids.

"It's over."

But then Will begins to smile. "What was the line? 'Don't be so certain'?"

It's the oldest trick in the book, yet she falls for it, turning to look behind her.

The bolt has struck its true target: Ashiok's chest.

The boy wasn't trying to beat Ashiok at all. Rowan sees that now. He only ever meant to
lash them in place long enough for Will to land a strike. A potent one, too; Rowan's rarely seen
Will put so much of himself into a bolt.

Ashiok lets out a howl of pain as the ice spreads through their body. Smoke swallows
them, and then they are gone. They still had their spark, realizes Rowan suddenly, with a
lurching sensation.

The smoke clears just in time to see the girl press her blade to Eriette's throat.

Rowan's heart leaps to her throat.

In this moment of distress, Eriette remains calm and collected. Across the ruins of the
throne room her eyes meet Rowan's. A single thread of the curse—hardly enough to be
noticed—links them.

Go from this place, Eriette says to her. When the time is right, we will meet again.

Rowan steps toward her. But I can't lose anyone else.

You aren't losing anyone. They won't kill me, darling. They're too soft. We bide our time.

The thread snaps. In the recesses of her mind she is alone, watching once more as
someone she cares about is held at sword point.

If she does not heed Eriette's advice, then her brother will surely take her in. He will
imprison her, and there will be an endless parade of healers and tender-hearted fools to speak
with her. To try to understand her. Meanwhile Eldraine will remain splintered, for though Will
has gathered an army of many colors here, he has not gathered them all. And if she finally gives
in, if she pretends to be all right, he will remain High King and she ...
 She will always be the woman who rebelled. Worse, she will always be the woman
he graciously forgave.

No—there is no going back now, no returning home.

She has enough left for one more blast.

Rowan Kenrith takes a breath. As she had on Strixhaven, she lets her power crackle
through her. Light surges.

"Rowan!" Will shouts.

He reaches for her, too. But he's still afraid of her, and that's the problem.

Difficult to control her power when there's this much of it. Still, she has to try.
Wrenching her brows, gritting her teeth, she twists the energy as it leaves her—instead of aiming
outward, she aims it all down.

A boom louder than the fall of a giant.

Rowan's in the air.

From up here she can see the threads of the curse coming together, a spiderweb centered
around the castle.

What was it Royse had said to her? If you do not make time for rest, it will come to you
when you least expect.

It is the same for Eldraine. How many blows have they weathered by now? How many
shattered dreams? If they are to be strong again—if they are to be unified—they need to forge
those dreams a new.

They need to rest.

As does Rowan.

One day, she'll bring that blessed slumber to the rest of Eldraine.

Afterward, there's much for Kellan to sort through.

High King Kenrith takes him and Ruby aside. He tells them he's never met children
braver than they are, that they are invited to come to the palace whenever they like, that they will
be welcomed like members of the family. But his eyes are stormclouds when he says all this, and
he cannot stop looking to the horizon. Kellan thinks he's looking for Rowan. If it were him—if
that were his sister who had done all that—that's what Kellan would do. So he doesn't blame
King Kenrith for being a little distant. He must be hurting.
 Ruby takes him up on the offer, on the condition she can bring her brother. The king's
smile cracks. He agrees. Yes, he would love to have her and her brother visit, the both of them.

As they make their plans, Kellan slips away. There's something else he has to do. His
friend deserves all the awards she could get. Facing down a witch with a sword of ice? That sort
of thing sang well in a story. Edgewall will be out of red cloaks ere long. Let her revel; what he
has to do will only lead her away from the glory she deserves.

Outside of Castle Ardenvale he steps into the Fae World.

A sleepy farm outside a sleepier village. A place that knows struggle only against the
weather and soil. Here, among the paddocks and pastures of Orrinshire, there is no talk of heroes.

The quiet sits strangely in Kellan's ears as he walks the beaten path to his family farm.
He's never been so grateful for distant bleats and wood-chopping axes. After everything he's
been through, silence fits him like a shrunken coat. This whole place does.

When he walks by the Cotter boys, they glare at him just the same. The terrible thing is
that part of him still fears them, even when he knows he shouldn't. But he knows he's strong
enough now. He holds himself taller. He walks by them, and when they do nothing to harm him,
he lets out a breath.

Hex is the first of his family to greet him. Bounding across the rows of neatly planted
turnips he goes, dripping a trail of drool, yowling his familiar yowl. When Hex licks his cheek,
Kellan lets out a small sigh of relief. No matter where he's been or what he's discovered about
himself, Hex still knows who he is.

Kellan hefts the dog onto his shoulders as he makes his way up the hill. Hex won't stop
barking, of course, so it isn't long before his family hears something's going on. Ronald emerges
from around the farmhouse, an axe slung across his shoulder. He drops it upon spotting Kellan.
"Honey! Honey, he's home, our boy's home!" he shouts.

Ronald runs to him, and Kellan is so wrapped up in his stepfather's arms that he does not
notice his mother's arrival until she's embraced them both. Turning about on the fields, the gentle
bleating of the sheep in his ears and the faint taste of earth on his tongue, his mother's voice and
his stepfather's strong grip—yes, after all of that, he is finally home.

They welcome him in. Insist on it. Happy tears stream down his mother's face. She
presents him with a coat she has made for him. How long has she been spinning thread for this?
How could she have possibly finished it in the time he was away? For every thread is vibrant and
beautiful, from the deepest azures to the brightest yellows. Where gold is called for he is shocked
to find thread-of-gold itself. Colors and material alone would beggar the village—but the details
would beggar even a city like Edgewall. Embroidered throughout are elks frolicking among the
elms and beeches surrounding Orrinshire. Along the cuffs are primroses in bloom; below one
pocket, a girl sits before a pond of clear water, her reflection staring back at her. And the lining!
Here he sees the girl again, following a man whose skin is streaked with blue.
 Kellan's jaw hangs slack. He throws his arms around his mother again. "This is so
beautiful, Mom, but I can't accept it. I can't wear this outside! It might get ruined!"

She laughs, smoothing his hair away from his face. "That's thoughtful of you to say,
Kellan, but I enchanted it."

Kellan turns to the coat again. He presses his fingers to the fabric, as if magic is a thing
that can be felt like grooves on an instrument. "Really?"

"Well, your mother didn't spend five years as a witch's apprentice for nothing," she says
with a smile. "Ronald, will you make us some tea?"

"Of course. But first I'll have to go get it from the Browns, I heard Gretchen just got this
new stuff in ..."

He's already throwing on his own coat—far less fancifully made—and heading out the
door. When it closes behind him, Kellan raises a brow at his mother. "Something's up."

"You've gotten cleverer, haven't you?" his mother says. She looks over to the coat.

Kellan takes a seat across from her at the dinner table. He doesn't feel much cleverer, but
he thinks he has an idea what's going on. Still, he wants her to be comfortable. "What did you
want to tell me?"

"About your father and I," she says. "Your birth father. I'm sure the Fae Lord told you
what they know of him, but I thought you could get to know him as I did."

Kellan smiles. His heart's pounding, too. "The Fae Lord didn't tell me anything about
him, actually."

"He didn't? But your quest—"

"I told him I wanted to go home, to hear the story from you," Kellan says. "Whenever
you thought I was ready."

Silence passes as tears well in his mother's eyes. She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes
hers, and when she is ready, she begins.

"I met your father during my training," she says. "I was out in the woods, gathering
nightshade, when I found a man lying among the blossoms as if they posed no harm at all. When
he invited me to sit with him I thought he must have been joking, but he offered to give me all
the nightshade I wanted in exchange for only a conversation. Knowing him for a fae, I made him
promise that it was only a conversation, and with that ... I spoke with him. He told me his name
was Oko, and he told me that he was newly arrived in Eldraine. That he was not from any of the
Realms I'd ever seen. He wanted to know more of the place, and from a pretty girl it was all the
better."
 The blue-streaked man on the coat's lining catches his attention anew. Oko. His father. A
man among the nightshade blossoms.

His mother sighs with a hint of a dream. "It was the first time that anyone had ever said I
was pretty. And I found the idea of Realms beyond our own so thrilling that, naturally, I asked
him a thousand questions. Graciously he entertained them with answers, so long as I told him
something of Eldraine in exchange. For hours we sat like that, talking among the flowers, until ...
we realized we'd need to meet again."

"Another Realm ... Did he say what it was called?"

"He did, though if I am honest, the name's long since escaped me," his mother says. "But
he said it was a land where fae ruled supreme. He found the idea that humans should challenge
them very amusing indeed and lamented that he couldn't confront Lord Talion directly. Of
course, all young men talk that way, and we were both young then."

She leans back in her seat.

"Over the next few years, I would hear his voice from crows, or trees, or sometimes even
baked goods, and I would know it meant to meet him at the nightshade glen. He came to me in
many forms and told me many things. Showed me many things. Without your father's aid I never
would have escaped my mistress—he made me feel so bold and clever.

"For a while, it was wonderful. The two of us went wherever we liked and did whatever
we pleased. I learned more of magic from him than I ever did from her. He whispered to me the
secrets of the land and promised me a throne.

"The trouble started afterward. Though I'd been freed, no one in town wanted anything to
do with me. Once a witch, always a witch, the saying went.

"Your father ... was very upset by this," says his mother. "Part of me found it charming
that a man should care so much about me. I wanted to go away with him, but he couldn't take
me. And staying here was wearing on him. Eventually, he ... hurt people who had been unkind to
me, and I realized that we couldn't continue as we were. No matter how much I loved him.

"I wasn't meant to be a queen, you see. After all that struggle, I wanted peace—but he
wanted to raze this place to the ground for offending me."

"He visited again three years ago. I heard him calling to me while I was spinning one
night. And though the girl within me wanted to go to him, the woman I've become knew what I'd
be giving up if I did. I'm far happier here with you."

Kellan listens, too intent to interrupt, looking over the coat again and again.

"Could you tell me more about him?" Kellan says. "About what he was like."

His mother's smile is only a little sad. "Of course. Whatever you'd like to know."
 He cannot sleep. There is too much story inside his head. Too many of his father's faces
looking back on him. He wonders how many times he's seen him already. Mother said he was
fond of changing shapes, so maybe they've already met.

But if so, why hasn't his father introduced himself?

That is the question that keeps him from rest, like a horseshoe badly struck keeps a mount
from running. It hurts. The question keeps coming to him: Why haven't you spoken to me? Am I
not good enough?

He hadn't been brave enough to ask his mother.

With little use for sleep, he decides on a walk, instead. Perhaps it will dislodge the
thought from his traitorous head. Perhaps it will hurt less. Down he goes, wrapping himself in his
fine new coat, out into the darkness and the wilds.

They used to frighten him. He knows better now. The woods will never betray him, so
long as his blood smells of pine.

Hex follows him. Unlike other nights, Kellan can think of nothing to say to his old friend.
To talk would be to make things worse; if he opens his mouth, he's sure he'll have nothing but
questions. And he shouldn't ask questions of an old bloodhound.

But Hex has his own ways of helping. Only five minutes in he bolts off, as if he's caught
a scent. Kellan can do little save run after him. His breath mists against the cool of the night;
moonlight plays upon his skin.

Over the boughs, past a copse of yew that prickles his skin, he finally catches up to Hex.
He barks once and assumes his pointing posture, aiming straight for ... a portal?

That must be what it is—a swirling series of interlocking triangles, something like a
cloudy mirror, standing free beneath the swaying branches of the trees. It looks nothing like the
portals into Talion's realm. The other side looks nothing like Eldraine.

Kellan's breath catches in his chest. Troyan told him about other Realms. His mother had,
too, repeating the things his father had told her of them.

What if this is his way of reaching out? What if this is a test? His father dwelled
somewhere other than Eldraine. What if he lives there, on the other side? Kellan could ask him
why it's been so long without them ever meeting. Maybe they'll know of him there.

He steps forward.

It'll just be a quick look around. And he'll remember the way he came in. It should be
fine, right? He isn't really leaving home, he's just taking a trip somewhere. It's no different than
going to the market.
 He isn't leaving home. He'll be right back.

Kellan pets Hex, and steps through the portal.

Extraordinary Journey | Art by: Volkan Baga

Awake. All is not yet lost. I have returned for you.

The voice is cool, familiar. Eriette wonders why it took this long before she heard it once
more. When she opens her eyes, the jail cell stares back at her, but so, too, does Ashiok. Smoke
billows from their evanescent shrouds, despite the lack of wind in the room.

"What took you so long?" she asks. Her chains rattle when she stands. If the guards
outside hear, they say nothing, nor even stir. No doubt they're dreaming of something far more
pleasant than guarding her.

"Preparations needed to be made," Ashiok answers.

"Where's Rowan?" she asks. "Waiting outside?"

Ashiok's lips purse. "She is not yet ready for what must be done."

Eriette frowns. "If you give her a chance to learn, I'm sure—"

"Opportunity calls us in a new direction. One far from here. You will learn much, and if
you wish, you may return to educate her. By then you will have a host of servants to tend your
new queendom."
 Well. That certainly soothed matters. Rowan would be all right on her own for a while—
and if Eriette secured new land for them, all the better. She holds up her chained hands.

Ashiok's hand hovers over the shackles. "You will be far from here, Eriette. Very far."

"Far from a jail cell? Darling, that's a good thing," she says.

They do not laugh. They never laugh.

Darkness falls on the cell. Shackles fall to the stone ground. In the morning, when they
search the cell, she will be gone.