Rowan didn’t stop until they were some distance away from the square, on one of the quieter streets that had mostly abandoned homes. The buildings belonged primarily to people who hadn’t survived the food shortages of the Great Wither or to soldiers who died at war.

“Rowan, up here. I see some reeds.” At the sound of his grandfather’s voice, Rowan looked up from where he was crouched by a rotting stump, inspecting the bits of lichen and fungus growing on it. Or rather, half-inspecting, half lost in thought.

Ladisdale was nothing impressive, in Rowan’s opinion, but he admittedly only knew of ‘impressive’ through old books that he read in the local library. ‘Impressive’ was the capital city of Orbcrest, spilling over one of the tallest hills of the region with its numerous spires and sprawling colonnades.

Every night, Rowan Spicer had the same dream. He stood in swirling darkness, like thick, black smoke that obscured his vision. Vague, distant shapes broke through the undulating void, hinting at a world beyond what he could see. Despite that, he couldn’t escape the darkness around him.

The western border of Bascor had been a battlefront for longer than Nova’s eighteen years alive. The towns that once lined this edge of the country were now either military outposts or abandoned ruins, and nothing in between.

Archmagus Avelore Amantius had seen a great many things in his one hundred and eighty seven years of life, and he could confidently say he was done with all of it. Every damn species had problems, and those problems had snowballed into bigger problems, and now the problems wouldn’t leave him alone.

The sound of footsteps moving through leaves and underbrush felt far too loud, like the uncomfortable whispers of gossipers upon entering the room. Each crack of a twig was an accusation, and each rustle of grass comparable to judgmental eyes from corners of the forest.