Winter had settled over Rayan and shrouded a grim sequence of events with a cold, white blanket. The rebellion didn’t die that night at Dragon Peaks. It went silent for about a year, but then it resurfaced with even greater intensity than before. Dark warlocks of the Ashen Host started to appear, practising the old forbidden rites of the Valalfyr in rural areas of Rayan. They took advantage of the farmers, sick and poor, and sold them ominous potions as a cure to all their problems. No poison, no. Transformative elixirs that would manage to inhabit mind and soul of those with strong dragon blood animalis, turning each of them into a hubris-driven creature of the black scales. Violence had spread again across the rural provinces. First plundering, then murders, then sacrifices of the flesh. Arayon would aid as often as he could, fighting back those lost to the tainted transformation. But to carry out unrestricted investigations or even travel to Rubinburgh, was no longer in his power. The risks were simply too high. He and the affected Red Rangers had to return to Spiritwaters every few days at this point to get their banishing runes renewed. For the intervals during which a new set of blessings was required grew shorter and shorter by the end of the first year. It almost seemed as if those responsible for the chaos unleashed meant to weaken Rayan’s defence by locking up some of its most powerful sentinels.
Another concerning dimension to the whole disaster was the fact that the investigation of the explosion in Forest’s Chant did not provide any satisfactory results. Rubinburgh’s alchemists hinted that the pattern of detonation described by Arayon couldn’t be matched to any source of Gardyan magic. Such combination of explosive substances was uncommon to unknown. Them having been brought to Rayan from another world was the only logical explanation. With the suspect vanished but his disciples still emerging after his disappearance, there also was reason to believe that some sort of portal helped them to spawn purposefully at selected locations. A clear disadvantage for Arayon, who saw his radius of action tremendously limited due to the toxic curse flowing through his veins. And that wasn’t all.
It started around the Deepwood houses. Parts of the Red Forest started changing at random when people were passing through. Dangerous beasts nobody had ever seen in Rayan before seemed to spawn out of nowhere. Well-known trails suddenly vanished. Popular locations couldn’t be found anymore while unknown territory took their place as if reality itself had begun to dissolve. It became evident that Firav had learned how to manipulate space by abusing the power of the Raven Stone. His demonic runes cast upon the walls of the crime scene where the Nyeda sisters were found turned out to not be as harmless either. The dead root of the world maple Zakuray, in which the Deepwood houses were embedded, showed new signs of life around those runes. But it was not some form of life to welcome. Zakane and Arayon had been called to the house yet again a few weeks back by Dakeda’s guards. What they should find lacked any logic. Pulsing veins had manifested on the root walls in the bedchamber. They almost appeared like veins of a living being, with some red substance flowing through them. If this abomination reached the mother tree, decay would come over all of Rayan, so the Rangers weren’t the only patients anymore Azwood’s rune experts had to treat. They would send entire processions into Deepwood on Aronya’s request, to cleanse the tainted bark of Zakuray’s dead root. Another quest that should present itself more difficult than expected. For the transformation of the giant rhizome ran deep.
In the second year, Arayon had enough. He was determined to find a cure against the poison in his body as well as the dark enchantment of the Red Forest. Sure enough, he knew where to look for it. And Roxana’s blood would help him. He had already spent many moons rebuilding the hunters lodge of Forest’s Chant, making the house tree’s branches his private lookout for those mysterious nebulas dwelling in the east. The elders had decided that it would be for the best to keep the phial out of the veil’s reach and his mistress equally was against him entering Cloanta’s realm. But the longer he waited, the louder became the voice in his head that Roxana’s last wish remained unfulfilled.
Aaron’s infected rangers resided in camps around the Red Raven by now. A sporadic solution, so they could stay closer to Spiritwaters while still carrying out their duty as border patrol—somewhere, somehow. They were far from home, and it showed. Many started missing their native forests of Redbranch. A Sionnaigh was bound to them by heart, even if in a more abstract way than the eye could tell. Being excluded from the Wild Hunt the first Blood Moon after the battle against the black scales, the tainted third of rangers caused sheer chaos around the Red Raven. They argued, lost control of their feral side and became a threat to Mama Woodleg’s girls. A second Blood Moon of this kind the commander would not allow to happen.
Arayon had kept Roxana’s probe safe in a case on his desk. Old Woodleg gave him a little studying room in her mansion—the same he often wrote his letters from to Aza when he was in a hurry. Pondering, he observed the blood sample under the light of a half burnt down candle. For some reason, her blood had not dried out. Moreover, it had developed a lively pulsating glow that close to the Eastern Veil. It caused the blood probe to react whenever its fogs neared the tavern.
“Arayon?” A knock on the commander’s door should pull him out of his thoughts. It was Zakane. “He’s here.”
“I’ll come down in a minute.” Taking in a deep breath, Arayon stood up and shoved the phial into his jacket. Tonight, a solution should be found, one way or another.
Arriving in the tavern’s taproom, he detected Aaron and Zakane among the rangers. They all made pretty long faces in front of their drinks.
“What a clan meeting, huh?” Aaron tried to lift everyone’s spirits although he himself had a hard time staying in a good mood with all the reports from the villages. “So then, I’m here. What is the matter of this gathering?” As lord general he was called to hold council with his clan brothers and Arayon. Pretty secretive the bunch had behaved since his arrival.
Arayon sat down on the other side of the table, looking his cousin in the eye. “We need to solve this, once and for all.” His voice sounded determined. “It can’t go on like this. We’ll be of no use anymore in a couple of months.”
Zakane leaned back in his chair, discouraged. His father had promised to help and while they were all gathered in his house, the old man still didn’t appear once with good news. “Seems like there isn’t any option left except for Ghostglade,” he assessed. There must have been a reason they all ended up here, in his father’s house where once the most dangerous threats to Gardyan’s matriarchies were announced and missions against them distributed among the assassins of the Raven Blade Order. In this very moment, Zakane regretted not having continued this legacy after his father was exiled. Maybe, the order would have been able to prevent the situation from escalating the way it did.
“He can’t go.” Ruadhan, one of clan Sion’s oldest serving rangers, reminded his clan brother. Arayon’s countess had forbidden her blade supreme to enter the veil. She knew Baba and didn’t trust her magic, nor did the rangers. A lot of clueless wanderers never returned from her glade. Not even the Wild Hunt chased the mists that far east. “It’s been over a year, Ruadhan,” Zakane reasoned with the ranger. “I gave a promise to Roxana, and I don’t intend to break it.” That would’ve gone against his honour. “If he’s not going, I will.”
“There must be another way,” Arayon refused Zakane’s plan. “I won’t let you take this risk on my behalf.”
Moaning started to fill up Aaron’s half-empty glass as he finished its high-percentage content. “Can’t we just get her here then?” Placing his glass back on the table, the general immediately became aware of a dozen eyes staring at him. “What?” It was just a stupid comment; they didn’t have to stare him to death for it like that.
“Could we even do that?” Arayon asked Zakane, visibly warming up for Aaron’s silly idea.
His lieutenant had to think. “We wouldn’t even know how to reach her.” Messenger birds shied away from the veil as much as most people. “Maybe I can be of help.” Quietly, Mama Woodleg’s voice was raised at the side door to her girls’ quarters. She had just returned from their private wing, assuring that they were all safely kept in their chambers for the night. The men’s attention was all hers now, while she limped into the taproom.
“How do you have any involvement with the raven witch?” Arayon narrowed his eyes. He only knew Mama Woodleg as the owner of the Red Raven. But then it clicked not only with him but also with his lieutenant. “My father didn’t randomly pick you as administrator of his house, did he?” Zakane eyed her up. Somehow, he always felt as if recognising a familiar face beneath those wrinkles. He just couldn’t tell who she reminded him of. And then there was this finely overplayed but still hearable accent he couldn’t identify.
Mama Woodleg fiddled with her dress. “He did not,” she admitted. Restlessly, she wandered around the tables, picking up some empty glasses from guests that had left hours ago.
“Who are you really?” Arayon demanded to know, following her every step across the room. All kinds of things she found to bother with all of a sudden—adjusting tablecloths and chairs. Was she nervous?
“Summoning Baba in order to return a blood gift requires a descendant of the exact bloodline the gift was taken from,” old Woodleg explained, finally ending her tireless stroll through her tavern.
Aaron struggled to follow. “Roxana’s only living relative is on the run with a stolen stone and body,” he brought the apparently confused old woman up to date.
“That, my lord general, is not entirely true,” Woodleg opposed him. “There is another relative remaining.”
“Really. And who would that be?” Aaron crossed his arms. There were absolutely no records of Roxana having any relatives except for her son. No siblings, cousins, nieces, nothing. A reason that made this whole matter even more tragic, because the Dragovaste bloodline ended with the war mistress.
“When Roxana’s father disposed of her mother after she became infertile, he should’ve made sure that she was executed before his eyes,” the old woman answered and came closer to look into the round with slight discomfort. “But he failed and so, the Red Raven found her.” Her gaze fell upon Zakane. “From her body, he severed her rotting leg, cursed by a warlock of the Ashen Host. Then he brought her here, to watch over your mother while she was pregnant.”
Zakane was shocked. “Lady Ruxandra!” he proclaimed with a temper. His mother had often told him the story of her midwife—the baroness of assassins from another realm, formerly in service of a dragon knights’ consort, then enslaved by a Witcher King. He always thought it to be a fairytale. In an impulse, he sprung up and walked around the table. His clan brothers and Arayon did the same. He had told all of them the story far too often at the campfires—the tale of Roxana’s mother having been his nursemaid until his mother died. Everyone deemed it a humorous tribute, referring to Zakane’s strength and flawless combat skills. But there she stood, the matron of House Dragovaste. Together, the men would salute in utmost official posture before her—fist at heart. Just one couldn’t maintain his formal stance. “Why have you never said a word?” Zakane couldn’t make a rhyme of it. Her daughter was the second most powerful woman in all of Rayan while she spent her days running a harlot’s den as an anonymous old woman.
“Two lives I’ve lived, my boy. And in two worlds I’ve caused nothing but chaos,” she tried to make him understand. “My place is here, as a humble servant to your father’s house.”
Curiosity was sparked in Arayon. “Does Firav know who you are and who you’re working for?” If that offshoot of hers had any clue, this disaster would gain a whole new dimension yet again. If not, she might be the solution Zazan had promised to deliver.
Ruxandra shook her head. “I don’t think he does.” She stepped forward to the commander, laying her palm at his chest. “Now, give me that phial with my daughter’s blood. I will try to make up for my grandson’s mistakes.”
In silent agreement, Arayon nodded and handed over the phial. Like a newborn baby, Ruxandra caressed it. Memories of her little Roxana surfaced from the darkest corners of her mind and while she clung to those last remains of her daughter she’d ever hold close to her heart, her summoning chant began. Broken she appeared when she walked to the entrance, singing a lament of her home country—guttural in tone, yet melodical and deeply moving. To tell mourning cries from invocation was difficult for her male audience. They only knew they had to follow her outside into the snow.
On the first floor, curtains were lifted. Ruxandra’s girls, if not still awake anyways, woke from their matron’s ululation. They saw Ruxandra down in the yard, holding a red glowing phial up in the air. They saw the men accompanying her into grey clouds that resounded with her call. From the eastern treelines, the veil approached and crept up on Zazan’s estate. Into the mist her chants she carried, behind her those, who bore the mark of death. Soon, the entire yard of the Red Raven sank into hazy uncertainty. No shape or shadow remained to observe what was happening. Barriers between the worlds had shifted for a brief moment, before they retreated in direction of Ghostglade again. Two were left behind—Zakane and Aaron. The rest of men, including Arayon, were gone with the veil together with Ruxandra.
The transition wasn’t without consequences for any of the Rangers. One in particular found himself overtaken by numerous questions. Ruadhan would not let his unsettled feelings show in front of his companions, but his mind was racing. Had Ruxandra’s survival initially caused all of this? If her presence in the Red Raven was a result of measures taken in response to the events, time had been tampered with. “They would’ve died one way or another,” an unfamiliar voice rang through his head.
Startled, the ranger looked around. The others didn’t seem to notice any of it. Their eyes were glued to Ruxandra. Only his wandered off into visions of what could’ve been. The Nyeda sisters might not have found refuge in the Red Raven without the Dragovaste matron. Chances were, they would have gotten lost in the veil or been taken hostage by Firav way earlier—torturing them in a secret lair where their gruesome fate would have lasted way longer. Nesya might not have survived to tell Aaron and Arayon about her ordeal and they would not have been able to protect the Peaks. Adra and the whelp could’ve died, just as the rangers without Arayon returning to Spiritwaters. A whole chain of events would’ve taken a completely different course had Zazan not brought Ruxandra to the Red Raven.
“Now you start to understand, don’t you?” The female voice sounded old and wise, guiding him through a journey of the veil nobody but him seemed to share. He saw the dead bodies of the Nyeda sisters lying in a cave, deep down the Rakatan Rift. A rift that had formed towards the end of the second war. The Ashen Host had taken some Nemesian women as hostages, committing unspeakable acts against them. Their goddess unleashed her wrath upon the borderlands for it, separating her realm from the nefarious tribes of the north. Tribes, her much beloved sister deity had created in all her agony of loneliness. They were supposed to be noble demigods but turned out to bear the rotten blood of a mischievous warlock that had corrupted the very seed of the maple goddess. A corruption that would find its culmination within the bloodline of Valalfyr. Half dragon, half raven—another irregularity in the waves of time that stood uncorrected and now demanded attention.
Ruadhan could not explain those thoughts to himself. He was aware of Rayan’s legends of origin, but why did they resurface from the corner of his mind in this very moment?
“Are you alright, friend?” Arayon’s question cut through his visions like a dagger. “Aye, mate. Let’s keep moving.” Ruadhan gave his commander a vigorous slap on the shoulder. But his thought process wasn’t finished.
What if the raven witch had orchestrated this communion in the hidden to not leave any trace for Firav’s suspicions? Had she remained unseen the past year, because she didn’t want to reveal her plan? If so, why was Arayon’s mistress so distrustful towards her? And what about Zazan? According to the commander, he was his wife’s uncle. But the Red Raven’s architecture resembled nothing Ruadhan had ever seen in terms of buildings behind the southern border. A raven animalis wasn’t something associated with Nemesava either. Was there something that tied the raven shaman to Rayan soil? Ruadhan began to realise that the journey all of them were about to embark on would hold a load of revelations none of them ever imagined. He tried to keep his composure and prepare himself mentally for the road ahead.
