They must have known of the storm’s cruelty that night. Of this, the young prince was sure. He saw the distant lightning and searched his thoughts for the reason he had been thrown to the mercy of the storm. Perhaps the High King wished to retain his mantle of power, perhaps the High Count had once again fell victim to the whispers from the darkness. He knew that the calling of Lightkeeper was a sacred one, one to be honored. But he was Vaniri, and princes and kings were never to be called. The line was not to be endangered by the darkness. As the young prince stood poised at the top of the mountain peak, he knew in the depths of his denying mind he had been betrayed and sent to die. Runil sighed and heard the sounds of his comrades feet striking the ground.

Whether he lived or died was irrelevant, he thought as he stepped from his transport into the wet wind. Ultimately, another would take up the mantle of High King. He took comfort in this, and his spirits were further lifted when one of his subjects drew a handful of black sand from a pouch and let it slip through his fingers into the open kiln of his lantern. The warm, familiar flame blazed and bathed the road ahead with light. Runil stole himself and forsook his betrayal by the Vaniri; all that mattered now was the journey to Waykindle, and the safety of his fellow Lightkeepers.

The others seemed to dismiss the dangers they faced, but Runil’s eyes remained fixed on the looming storm. The front was still west of the valley, but the force of the eastern wind against his cold skin forbade their fate lest they make their journey now. Runil closed his eyes for a moment, and thought of the warm fire that awaited him should he live through the night. He drew his fingers across a rune that dimly glowed blue, and traced the intricate design with a jeweled birch sceptre as his fellows followed his movements. He felt the silver talisman hum to life within his pocket and withdrew it. He kissed it and laid it to the ground where it took the shape of a sword, a pipe and a hovering board. He mounted the board, sheathed the sword and socketed the pipe by the bowl into his necklace, then turned to his companions.

“Unless you fancy getting struck twice at once, I’d suggest you follow me,” he said with a trivial tone to mask his fear. They laughed and murmured quietly. The naivety of his disciples drove him to anger. Without warning, he struck the glowing rune which glowed brightly and screeched with magical energy and propelled himself onto the path. The others followed shortly, the sounds of their activation runes startling the sleeping birds into flight. Their journey had begun.



The narrow passageway at the mouth of the trail glowed with flashing blue light as the 5 rode through at breakneck speed. Crossing an ancient bridge and through a thick canopy, they entered the darkness of the forest woods. Runil, still at the helm, slowed as he heard the whisperings of forsaken souls doomed to wander the shadows of the valley. The others drew their fingers back across their runes to slow down, and an eerie silence fell upon the group. “Refill the lantern”, shouted the eldest disciple from behind. Runil unattached the pipe from the socket in his necklace and emptied the ashes within into the open pane of his lantern. It’s fire blazed anew and filled Runil with relief. The whispers from the darkness seemed to withdraw and fade until their diminished echoes were snuffed beneath the threshold of the conscious mind. There was nothing like the darkness of the valley at night; the influence of Reth’Delar seemed stronger somehow. The forest seemed to swallow them with an enveloping wall of black. Fear of what watched just beyond the lantern’s light gripped the hearts of the young Lightkeepers.

“How far until we reach the Glyphwall?” cried Revan from the back of the group, a note of dread audible in his voice.

“We won’t see the Glyphwall until we see the glow of Waykindle, Revan. We have a long way to go.” Runil’s words were severed by the first sounds of thunder, and freezing drops of rain began to fall through the darkness of the trees overhead. The wind accelerated, and with it, Runil’s speed. The path forked right and the group turned as one. Their runes glowed nearly as bright as the lantern in their prince’s hand and whirred against the gale. The time for moving slowly in fear of what lurked out of sight was over. It was time to flee the storm.

Hours into their journey, the lantern’s light faded in the wake of the constant flashing of lightning. The rain had soaked through their pouches and rendered their lantern dust useless. The danger had become real to all. Runil’s mind was plagued once again by whispers. The mesmerizing constancy of the lightning flashes dazed him and dampened his sight and will. The darkness was barely held at bay by the dying flame. Runil reached into his pouch to relight the lantern, just as he heard Revan’s anguished cries that cut off violently as soon as they had been made. The only light to be seen was that of the flashing sky. The shadows enveloped the remaining four and seared their minds with profane and primal threatenings. Runil drew his sword and bellowed at the others to do the same over his shoulder. Wide white eyes in the black stared horribly at the next to fall. Once again, a gargled cry was cut short.

Tears ran down the prince’s frozen face. The living 3 sped with blinding ferocity and relied on the light of their runes to ward off the spirits of the wood. Through the dim fluorescent light, disfigured faces and outstretched hands brushing against skin could barely be seen. The whites of their eyes remained. Their whisperings seemed as screaming curses in the ears of the broken and terrified men. Runil held his sword outstretched and his eyes open against the rushing wind.

Suddenly, the road forked against the wind and lightning struck a tree yards away. The canopy was set alight and the shadows screamed deafeningly in retreat. Runil sighed an exhausted sigh of relief. The glow of the Glyphwall could be seen against the fire. They were close.

New determination took the prince. He sped on, guided by the fire, until coming to a halt at the great wall. He rounded on his heels and saw the darkness swallowing the flames. It seemed furious and alive. Runil drew his sword and hastily thrust it into a blue-glowing keyhole in the wall. The runes of the wall blinded the 3 and the deafening sound of stone scraping against stone signaled that the wall had allowed them passage. The prince ducked into the haven of the wall just as it was struck by the night. Turning, he saw his two remaining friends swallowed by the dark, and cried before the wall closed them from him forever.
New darkness caressed Runil, but it was a safe one. Then, the glow of torches bathed him in bittersweet warmth. He wept in the light of the fire and grieved with all his soul. Then, he felt a benevolent force smile upon him. It bade him look up. The old room smelled of honey and mint. Before them stood an ancient fontthat flowed with a dark green liquid and a great kiln bare of fire. Runil remembered the purpose of this room and closed his eyes in acceptance. A chalice of birch sat upon a pedestal before the font. The prince filled the cup to the brim and brought it to his lips. The sweetest warmth he had ever felt filled him, and then felt nothing. The great kiln before him blazed to life.