Coming NOVEMBER 2, 2026

Read the First Chapter

CHAPTER ONE

The Abandonment of Magic

A bone-chilling screech echoed through the forest. The old man turned his gaze to the large black raven, who shifted uneasily on his driftwood perch. Crossing the small cottage, he stopped by the open window and tilted his head to listen. He knew the Draywood Forest well—its creaks, groans, and the curious sounds of countless creatures. But this was different. Something had happened.

He leaned in closer.

“Grunk, craw!” the raven called out.

“Hush, Bertram,” the old man whispered, his voice tight with unease.

Then another screech cut through the silence.

With a grim expression, the old man pulled his battered leather eyepatch down over the scarred hollow where his left eye had once been. He reached for the tall wooden staff resting against the wall, grabbed his weathered brown hat, and hurried out of the cottage to investigate. Bertram, following his lead, fluttered to the windowsill and launched himself into the darkening sky.

The old man hurried through the forest, his pace quickening with each agonizing cry that echoed through the trees. What had begun as a distant, indistinct screech soon became unmistakable, frantic pleas for help. Bertram stayed close, flitting from branch to branch as they pressed deeper into the woods.

The old man adjusted his course as the echoes shifted, sometimes veering left, sometimes right. The cries were growing louder now. A cold knot twisted in his chest as he realized they no longer sounded like the cries of a creature in pain. They sounded like the screams of a child.

Panic surged through him at the thought. He quickened his pace, feet crunching over leaves and snapping twigs as the screams continued.

Then, just as suddenly as they had begun, the screams stopped.

An eerie silence fell over the forest.

The old man froze mid-step. The stillness was unnerving. Bertram landed on a nearby branch and cocked his head as if listening. The sudden absence of sound was far more unsettling than the cries that had led him there.

For another moment, there was only silence. Then, faintly in the distance, he heard a low, rhythmic humming. Or was it buzzing? He couldn’t be sure. It was soft, like the delicate purr of hummingbird wings, yet it carried a strange, unnatural edge. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. He strained to place it, to determine its source. He took a tentative step forward, focusing on the faint hum.

Everything about this felt wrong. He wanted to turn back, to return to the safety of his cottage before nightfall. But he couldn’t. Someone had cried for help, and he couldn’t ignore the desperation in those screams. He had to press forward.

With fresh determination, the old man picked up his pace once more, moving as quickly as his old legs would allow. The humming sound wove in and out of his hearing, teasing him, always seeming to be just ahead. Bertram kept pace, darting from branch to branch, his sharp eyes scanning the shadows for hidden dangers.

Finally, the source of the sound came into view.

He crept up behind a large, gnarled tree, peering cautiously around its trunk. A short distance away, in the faint light filtering through the canopy, he saw them.

“Faeries,” he murmured under his breath, shock washing over him.

He had seen faeries before, long ago, but never in the Draywood. The creatures before him bore little resemblance to the delicate, graceful beings he remembered. These faeries were slightly larger than his fist, and their appearance was wild and unsettling. Their hair hung in disheveled tangles, and a thin layer of fine, silvery feathers covered their bodies. Most of the faeries were smeared with blood, like beasts after a fresh kill. Beneath each hand protruded a single long claw, sharp and curved like a talon.

Their wings were translucent and shimmering, beating furiously like those of hummingbirds, producing the sound that had drawn him there. But these creatures were nothing like hummingbirds. They were grotesque, twisted beings, driven only by madness. In their tiny faces, the old man saw nothing but pure hatred and savage fury.

On the ground beneath them lay a small body, bloodied and half-hidden by leaves and mud. Its limbs were unnaturally twisted. The old man’s heart lurched at the sight of the pitiful figure, unrecognizable beneath the grime.

The faeries above darted back and forth erratically before diving in swift, vicious bursts, talons outstretched. One by one, they swept across the body, slicing into the already battered flesh. The figure remained still and unresponsive, yet the faeries continued their frenzied assault, slashing and tearing with ruthless determination. Their behavior seemed driven by some cruel, malevolent force.

He had never seen faeries behave like this. They were feral and violent, nothing like the creatures he had known in his youth. A wave of dread washed over him as he watched. He felt compelled to intervene, yet feared what these faeries might do if he revealed himself.

Bertram, perched on a nearby branch, remained still, his dark eyes fixed on the bloody scene below.

At last, the old man decided something had to be done. Tightening his grip on the staff, he stepped out from behind the tree and ran to the limp body, positioning himself over it. The faeries reacted instantly to his intrusion. They had a new target. One by one, they dove at him, talons outstretched and ready to tear into him.

Bertram, always loyal, swooped down to defend him. But the faeries, merciless and brutal, attacked the bird immediately. They tore at his head and wings. Feathers flew everywhere as they battled in midair.

“Bertram, fly off!” the old man shouted. “Go! Now, go!”

Reluctantly, Bertram obeyed, retreating as the faeries gave chase. Several pursued the raven briefly before turning back to focus their attacks on the old man.

The old man crouched over the body, bowing his head. His right arm shielded his face while his left hand clutched the staff. The faeries attacked from all directions, their razor-sharp talons slicing into his back, arms, and hands. He could hear his cloak tearing as they slashed through it, reaching the tender flesh beneath.

Despite the pain, the old man fought to center himself, to find the inner peace he required to mount his defense. He needed to focus, to summon the strength for what he must do. Slowly, he chanted, his voice a faint whisper at first, then growing louder.

“Dispere esto adiu te… Dispere esto adiu te…”

The words gained power with each repetition, his voice rising above the faeries’ frenzied attacks. He stood and raised his staff high, even as their talons slashed at his exposed skin.

“Dispere esto adiu te!” he shouted, louder and louder, until his voice echoed through the forest. Still the faeries continued their assault, swarming around him, talons tearing at his face and hands. Desperation overtook him. A single tear rolled down his cheek as he screamed the words with all the force he could muster.

Then, finally, the staff reacted.

A flash of blinding light burst from its tip, followed by a wave of energy that radiated in every direction. The air erupted into a whirlwind of leaves, twigs, and dirt as the blast hurled the faeries backward, flinging them away from the old man. They screeched in panic and fled into the shadows of the forest.

But the old man knew it wouldn’t last. He no longer had the power to bind the faeries or banish them from the forest entirely. He had once been a powerful wizard, capable of such feats, but that was long ago. Many of the powers he had wielded were now gone. Magic was fading from the world, slowly stripping him of purpose and leaving him to fend for himself.

He scooped up the blood-soaked body and hurried through the forest, retracing his steps. He had gone only a short distance when he heard the unmistakable buzzing of faerie wings behind him. They were coming for him again. The old man quickened his pace, moving as fast as he could.

Just as the cottage came into view, the faeries caught up with him. They resumed their attack, ripping at his face and back with renewed fury. Carrying his staff in one hand and the limp body in the other left him defenseless. But he was close. Almost home.

He stumbled between two massive, ancient trees just outside the cottage. As the faeries swooped after him, they slammed into an invisible force. They screeched in agony as the unseen shield surrounding the cottage hurled them violently backward.

Battered and bloody, the old man ran inside, cradling the limp body in his arms. Again and again, the faeries tried to breach the boundary, only to be repelled, their shrill cries of pain filling the air. The charm he had placed upon the cottage long ago was an old but powerful spell, meant to keep the unwanted at bay. Lucky for him, it was holding firm.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the faeries gave up. They screeched one last time, then disappeared into the depths of the dark forest.

The old man swept the wooden table clear and gently laid the body upon it. A faint moan escaped its lips, and the slight rise and fall of its chest caught his eye.

It was alive.

He knew there were wounds that needed tending, but they lay hidden beneath clothes caked with layers of blood and dirt. He fetched a rag and filled a washbasin with water, then wet the cloth and began the slow, deliberate task of cleaning the body. Each careful wipe revealed bruises, cuts, and scratches beneath the muck. Fortunately, the mud and leaves had sealed most of the wounds, keeping the worst of the bleeding at bay.

As more of the body emerged from beneath the filth, distinct features came into view: long, tangled white hair, webbed fingers, and ears that pointed straight upward before bending sharply at the top like folded leaves. To confirm his suspicions, the old man gently lifted one of the creature’s eyelids. A large black pupil, surrounded by a thin ring of bright gold, stared back at him.

The old man drew in a sharp breath, his heart skipping a beat.

This was no child.

“A Terralin,” he whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief.

The realization made his hands even gentler, as though he were handling a rare and fragile relic that might shatter at the slightest touch. With deliberate care, he turned the Terralin onto its side. More serious wounds marred its back. As expected, there were fresh gashes from the faeries, but there was something else as well. Deep, jagged scars crisscrossed the Terralin’s back. These were not the work of the faeries. They were signs of past torment. Evidence of vicious beatings and unspeakable cruelty etched permanently into its skin.

He examined the rest of the body more closely. Smaller scars marked the Terralin’s face, arms, and legs. The top of its right ear was partially torn, mutilated as though something had ripped through it. The old man’s throat tightened, and tears welled in his eyes as he traced the brutal patterns with trembling fingers.

He knew the pain those scars carried. He knew because he carried scars of his own.

Once he had finished cleaning and tending to the Terralin’s wounds, the old man laid him gently upon a makeshift bed near the fire. The remedies he had prepared would ease the Terralin’s pain and keep him resting as he healed. He tended to his own wounds, then set aside a few herbs for Bertram, should they be needed.

The raven had not yet returned from the forest, but the old man knew he was injured, though he could not say how badly. Now, with the fire crackling softly beside him, he sat in uneasy silence, his thoughts weighed down by worry for both of them.

— The story continues. Read the rest of Chapter One for free —