1. Owen

Owen

"Run."

Owen bolted out of the way as an arrow flew past him. When something yelped from behind, Owen whipped his head around to see a four-legged beast lying in the dirt. Wisps of black smoke curled around its dark, spotted skin, its body spasming before going limp. The arrow protruded from its throat, and black blood oozed from its flesh and pooled in the dirt.

A rotting stench swirled around him. When Owen glanced over at the man who had shot the arrow, he wasn't sure if the foul energy was emanating from him or the beast. It seemed the man had only intended to bring down the monster, as he lowered his bow and put his hand up in surrender. He was tall but slightly hunched over, his irises so light they looked almost white. The man's tattered cloak was thin with holes in many places, and black feathers sprouted from the fabric on his shoulders.

"You are the Shadowborn?" the man whispered.

Owen clenched his teeth as he stared at him. If the man decided to attack him instead, Owen had nothing to defend himself with. He had only his Essence, which pained him to use with his injured shoulder. He backed away as the man pulled out another arrow.

"I will not harm you," came the man's scratchy voice. "But the fields are dangerous, wrought with terrifying spirits who will torment you, and beasts who will rip the flesh from your bones while you are still alive." He stepped forward. "It is better if you come with me."

"What do you want?" Owen held out his left hand, preparing to blast the man away with what little energy he had left.

The man cocked his head. "My name is Shirkh. I can take you to a safe place. A place where you can rest."

Owen narrowed his eyes, detesting the rot of this man's energy. "Stay away from me." He backed away, but when Shirkh didn't slow his steps, Owen turned and ran.

"Come back!" the man yelled. But then his voice took on a softer tone as he said, "I will not harm you! I promise!"

A howl broke out from behind. Owen jerked around, expecting to see the man attacking, but another beast was there instead, heading his way.

Owen instinctively raised his left hand again. His Essence shot out, and he threw the monster against a boulder, slamming it so hard, it yelped.

Panting, he seethed and held his arm. The space where his shoulder and chest connected throbbed in pain, the numbness snaking all the way down to his fingers. A glance over his shoulder confirmed more beasts flooded the field. They moved around Shirkh, who stood idle in their midst as if leading the creatures. Owen ran harder to get ahead of them and made for the trees in the distance, tripping over scattered rocks and dry grass along the way.

He didn't stop as he made his way into the forest. When several beasts reached the treeline, they halted as if hesitant to enter. Instead, they walked slowly up and down along the edge of the forest before finally turning away .

Relieved, Owen slowed his steps and leaned against a tree. He sucked in a sharp breath of air when the slicing pain ran along his shoulder. After a moment, he continued on, venturing deeper into the forest with no clear path before him.

Owen glanced around, observing his new surroundings. Orb like lights floated around the trunks of the trees, and every plant and shrub gave off a greenish-yellow haze. The realm was still, but there was a disquiet about it, as if something in the air vibrated. There was no wind, no birds, no sounds of scurrying animals.

Is this the Unseen Vale, where spirits go after death?

Someone whispered to him nearby, and he whirled around, his heart hammering, but he saw no one.

His mind fogged as he pushed deeper into the forest, and he put a hand to his head as a dull ache started there. His limbs grew heavy, and it became harder to walk. When his foot caught on a root, he fell with a grunt into the dirt. He winced and groaned as a deep sting of pain rushed down his right arm.

His head spun for a moment, and as he got to his knees, he growled in frustration as he placed his hand over the right side of his chest. He was sure the stitches Agnes had used to sew up his wound had burst by now.

A flood of grief poured over him as he remembered the events of the past day. Part of him wanted to lie there and close his eyes, but he knew he had to get up. Colt was out here somewhere, he was sure of it. And Brom…

Owen reached out with his Essence, searching for his companions' familiar energies. A small fissure of hope opened in his heart when he felt Colt's life essence still pulsing, though he couldn't detect Colt's usual scent of lemon and sweet taste of honey. He couldn't detect Brom's life essence at all. He wasn't sure if it meant Brom was dead or just not in this strange place with him.

Tears gathered on his lashes as he stared at the dirt. His left fist curled, his nails digging into the earth so hard it pained him. He did it again, scraping the dirt over and over, as if trying to find something, but even as the water fell from his eyes onto his hands, he found nothing but sorrow the deeper he dug.

"This way…"

His heart picked up when he heard the whisper. He lifted his head and held his breath, expecting to see someone, but instead, he only saw a hut sitting within a clearing. Owen pushed heavily to his feet and made his way forward. The hut was made of stones embedded in mud, with gnarled limbs and brush making up the roof.

Does someone live here? Perhaps Shirkh?

But a quick glance inside the doorless entryway showed Owen an abandoned living space overgrown with moss and weeds. Ivy grew in through the open window and crawled up the walls, while spotted green mushrooms glowed in shady corners.

Owen made his way inside and lowered himself against one of the walls. He trembled from running, from the constant pounding of his heart, as he checked the stitches on his chest. They looked red and inflamed. He tried to calm himself by rubbing the brass honey bee charm on the bracelet Colt had given him for Winter's Solstice. They had exchanged gifts and celebrated with Bridge and Agnes and their daughter Nel not more than a few days ago. He inhaled deeply, but he couldn't stall the shake from his limbs. He was in some strange world, away from Colt, away from Brom. And Gilda…

He swallowed the lump rising in his throat.

No, she's not dead. It was a dream. All one big dream .

Tears rose in his eyes again, but he blinked them away as he shut them tightly. He thought of Rem, the Hunter who had found him in Pitchvale, and a fury settled over the sadness. Rem had acted as their guide along a refugee network called the Silent Road but had betrayed Owen and his companions. The Hunter had planned from the very beginning to force Owen to open the Gate to this strange spirit world.

The glint from Owen's dagger flashed in his mind. The fresh flow of blood as Rem used it to slit her neck. Gilda's eyes as they reflected nothing. He still couldn't believe she was gone, and that he had opened some gate to the netherworld. Perhaps Elian had gotten to him after all, and he'd died instead of opening this portal.

Owen had touched death before, when the Horgg in the graveyard had pierced his shoulder with a poisoned knife. Owen had been to the plane between life and death. It felt much like the air of this place. There had been peace, but also something strange, and he had refused it.

No, this was different. There, in that plane between life and death, he felt no pain. Here, he was still suffering.

Sickness rose in his throat as he ran the last images of his friends over in his mind; of Brom's wounded leg, of Rem somehow repelling Gilda's power.

Of being parted from Colt.

Of opening the Gate of the Unseen Vale.

What have I done?

Pulling up his legs, Owen let the tears fall silently down his cheeks as he leaned his head back against the wall and stared at nothing.

"You are nothing without your Essence. Remember that as you fall into the void."

Owen jerked awake and stared up at the dirt roof of the hut, his heart beating fast as he let Rem's words fade from his dream. The Hunter had come through the Gate too. He recalled landing within the Vale before a dark castle, and to his utter dismay, Rem had landed there beside him. The man had tried to pull Owen toward the castle, but Owen had gotten away.

He buried his regret deep in his stomach as he got to his feet. The hut was brighter now, and he could see outside through the open doorway. He rubbed his face with his hand and blinked the sleepiness from his eyes. He had slept poorly, dozing off and on for hours and waking often in panic, afraid the creatures of the Vale were just outside. Or worse, afraid that Rem or Shirkh would find him.

When he exhaled, he saw his breath against the cold air. He looked around the small space and realized how alone he was. Shivering, he looked ahead as he thought of Gilda again, of her vacant brown eyes as they reflected the sky. Brom had screamed when Rem had killed her, and his wails tormented him.

And what did you do? You opened the door like a coward rather than fight Rem.

Owen moved stiffly and got to his knees. He felt so weak, it took all his energy to stand. His mind wavered as he placed a hand against the wall to steady himself, and his legs ached, as well as his hip for some reason. His right arm was in pain. It felt as if someone was pinching a nerve, making the pain run all the way down to his fingers. He had been through so much lately, it made sense he felt so tired and sick.

He pulled the hood of his fur-lined coat up over his head and made his way to the open doorway. Nothing stirred from the trees, so he stepped out and moved around the hut. When he saw a low stone well a few yards away, he limped over to it, hoping to shake the stiffness from his legs.

A tin bucket tied to a thick rope sat on the circular wall. Owen peered at it cautiously before looking down at the well, where water reflected the light from above. His throat was parched, and the water looked good, but he wasn't sure it was wise to drink anything from this strange plane.

He glanced around, and his skin prickled. There were many energies in this place, and he couldn't get a good grasp on any of them. The air smelled and tasted different, like a sour fruit he couldn't recall.

When he heard someone weeping nearby, he looked around until his eyes landed on a spirit. Hovering above the ground a few feet away was the translucent form of a woman crying into her hands. Her skin was pale, and long black hair fell in waves to her waist. A tattered gray dress hung limply around her. As he neared the weeping spirit, the hairs rose on his neck.

"Why are you crying?" Owen asked softly.

When the spirit looked up, he held his breath and stiffened, as her eyes were nothing more than two dark hollows.

"I need it…" the spirit whispered.

"You need what?" Owen kept his voice steady.

"Company."

When she inched closer, Owen took a step back. He narrowed his eyes and opened up his mind. The spirit gave no notion of ill intent, and her energy was calm .

"What's your name?" he asked.

The spirit woman looked surprised at first, then she smiled as she said, "Meg." She looked down at the well and asked, "Do you wish to drink?"

Owen shook his head. "I'm not sure. Is it safe?"

"All water in the forest is safe." Her words were soft, like rose petals. "Water flourishes our spirit and keeps us thriving. Do you see, even the glowing orbs drink from the puddles, replenishing the last of their memories before they fade away."

Owen glanced over to see the glowing flecks hovering around a small puddle at the base of a tree, as if looking for something. "What are they?"

"The remnants of spirits who drifted away. They are no longer whole."

A pang struck through Owen that spirits such as the one before him could branch off and become lost. It was strange to him how water could soothe such beings, but water itself did replenish. There was no reason why he shouldn't drink it as well, as Meg told him it was safe. But she was a spirit, and Owen had poor luck trusting another spirit before. He remembered all the instances where the shadow man had appeared along his journey. The spirit had followed him from Milarc to Avathon, whispering to Owen that he would find safety in Vanhelm, only to coerce him into opening the Gate. He wasn't sure if the shadow man was in this place or not.

Still… he needed water, and he was so thirsty, he couldn't stand it.

Taking the tin bucket, Owen lowered it until it hit the water. When he hoisted it up, he tipped it to his mouth. After several gulps, Owen took a few breaths before he drank more, until his stomach was full. He wiped his mouth and waited a few minutes, but all seemed well, which meant it was safe after all.

Owen pulled his scarf around his neck and mouth, but it did little to cloak the cold. When he exhaled through his nose, tufts of white air mixed with the dull green haze billowing through the trees. The numbness in his bones dug deep, seeping into his soul, and he hoped it would ice over his heart so he wouldn't have to feel the sorrow of loss there.

Meg cocked her head at him, her smile slowly fading. "I have been watching you. You are sad."

"Are you the one who whispered to me yesterday?" Owen asked.

She nodded. "I can help you."

Owen stepped back again. "I'm looking for someone. Someone like me in this place. Do you know where he is?"

"Come." She beckoned him forward with doleful eyes.

Feeling more cautious than hopeful, Owen followed her. She wasn't like Shirkh, who appeared threatening. Meg was calm and gentle, inviting him rather than being forceful. As he walked behind her, he used the soft moss to step lightly. The deeper into the forest they ventured, the more the trees grew in size, their massive trunks no doubt thousands of years old. In some places, many of the trees had been visibly chopped or destroyed by fire. In others, trees lay strewn across their path, as if a massive storm had come through and destroyed them. Brown fungus grew along the dead trunks, and small mushrooms glowed turquoise from the uprooted trees, illuminating the forest floor in patches.

He hadn't realized how far he'd walked with Meg until he stopped and panted against a tree, feeling spent from walking. The trees were black here, dead, charred from a past fire. Through the scramble of burned trees was a clearing. He made his way there, running his hand over the black residue coating the trunks. Owen looked up at the branches as he walked, noticing how still they were. There was no breeze or sound. Only the hazy green glow and a cloudy sky. Fog swirled out from the trees and spiraled around, clinging and curling like hands. A tremendous weight fell over him, bringing about a sadness so strong, it crushed him like a mighty wave.

When he came to the clearing, he stopped and held his breath.

Before him were hundreds of rocks wedged into the ground like headstones. They were close together, their surfaces weathered. Owen stepped between the graves, noticing some had carved or painted letters, but the ones beyond held nothing. A heaviness settled over his shoulders.

"What is this?" he asked Meg.

"The resting place of many," she said. "Death within death."

Owen furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

Meg swept her hand over one of the tombstones. "The people who followed the dormant one were placed here with him. They were alive. Then they passed. They died twice." She looked around. "Can you hear it?" she whispered.

"Hear what?" Owen craned his head, listening. At first, there was nothing but silence, then came whispers so faint it sounded like a breeze, but then it turned to a moanful lament.

"Slaughter," came a soft voice.

Owen looked behind him, and though he saw no one, the light seemed to dim.

"He killed us."

"She tried to save us."

"That demon drove us to madness."

"He dragged us all to hell with him."

Sweat prickled on Owen's forehead. He stumbled backward, looking around at the trees and headstones but seeing nothing as the light slowly blotted out around him.

"You have a gift. You feel."

"You can save us."

"Defeat the dormant one. He holds us all captive."

"Open the channels once more."

Shaking his head, Owen fled the graveyard. His heart rammed against his chest as he scrambled through the brush, his voice cracking in fear. The light around him brightened, and when Owen was far enough away from the gravesite, he clung to a tree and stopped to catch his breath.

Meg drifted past him, her forehead creased in concern. "They will not harm you," she said. "They only speak the truth. They have been held captive here for centuries. We all have."

When she reached out to touch Owen, he tried to push her away, but his hand went right through her, and his eyes widened.

Meg moved away from him and gestured ahead. "It's just this way."

Owen glanced back at the tombstones in the distance, staring at them for a long moment before he finally turned and continued on, grateful to get away. When at last they came to a brown tent in a small grove, Meg gestured to a small, wooden wind chime of bones hanging near the entrance. "Grutwyr dwells inside," she said.

Owen's brow pinched. "Grutwyr?" He sighed, as he hoped Meg would lead him to Colt. But he should have known, as Owen hadn't sensed Colt's energy at all in this forest.

Tensing, Owen gave the chime of the tent a shake. The bones rattled and clinked .

"Have you brought him, Meg?" someone replied from within.

"He has come," Meg said from beside him.

Owen held back for a moment. Whoever dwelled inside sounded as if they knew Owen had planned on coming. Perhaps Meg found him on purpose, just as Clove had done for Rem. He recalled how the wolf-dog had found them shortly after leaving Milarc. She'd helped them evade soldiers many times, but she'd also led Rem right to them.

He couldn't trust whoever was inside.

It wasn't until the flap of the tent pulled open that Owen readied himself. Even hurt, he'd have to fight with whoever this person was, or run. But the man who hobbled out of the tent was short and walked with a gait, grunting as he came around Owen. The man was clothed in dark robes, and his long, white hair was braided into several fine braids that looped and twisted around each other. He appeared human, but Owen wasn't quite sure if he was or not.

Peering up at Owen, the man asked, "Are you coming in or not?"

"That depends on what you want with me," Owen replied, his left fist clenching. He was tired of being lured into places, tired of people trying to kill him or capture him for their own purposes.

"You are the Gate opener, are you not?" When Owen said nothing, the man went on, "You should be aware of your obligations, Shadowborn. There is much you must know, and I did not wait around for centuries hiding in this forest for you to be untrusting."

"Centuries?" Owen raised his eyebrows and gaped .

The old man narrowed his eyes on him, one blue and one brown. "There is a great darkness in you, but also good. I sense longing and sadness, fear and anger."

"I long to find my companion, I'm sad that I lost someone dear to me, I'm afraid of where I am, and I'm angry at the man who forced me to open the Gate." Owen gritted his teeth, then he blinked and looked away, wondering what had come over him. But Grutwyr seemed pleased, and he opened the flap of his tent.

"I cannot help you with the anger and sadness and fear you feel, but if you wish to find your companion, then you will come into my hut and hear what I have to say." Grutwyr bowed his head. "But that will depend entirely on you, lad. Should you allow me to trade my services, I will open the door and you will choose your path. This is the way of the Vale."

Owen frowned. "Choose a path… what do you mean?"

The man smiled. "Right and wrong. Good and evil. Shadow and light." He moved his hands out, palms up, with the mention of each word, then the corner of his mouth rose in a sly smile. "And here you are at my doorstep. You must choose which of the two paths you will take. It all starts with what decision you will make."

Decisions…

If Owen was bad at anything, it was decisions. He'd gone his entire life with his uncle Amias making decisions for him. Then when the time came to go into hiding for fear of being found by the Legion, his companions had still made decisions for him. To rescue him, to aid him, to come after him at the Gate…

Opening his mind, Owen felt for the man's energy, and when he found the scent of earth surrounding him, Owen knew he could trust him, at least long enough to talk .

Nodding, Owen stepped forward, and the man let him in. The air of the tent was instantly warmer and dimly lit with candles. A small fire burned in the middle, and the smoke swirled up and out of a hole at the top of the tent. There were several rugs and cushions laid out on the floor.

Owen pulled down his scarf. "Your name is… Grutwyr?"

"Grutwyr, Grut, Wyr. Whichever you prefer," the little man said. "Have a seat."

As Owen sat on one of the plush rugs, dust rose and floated in the air around him.

"I hope you did not mind my sending Meg to fetch you." Grutwyr chuckled. "Weepers like her are fine as long as you do not keep their company for too long. They may appear friendly, but they crave your soul. They cannot help it. It is part of them, as they are always looking for company."

"Oh…" Owen said, cutting his eyes to the flap of the tent where Meg lingered outside.

A bubbly laugh rolled up Grutwyr's chest. "All of us here knew when the Gate opened, and I knew the Shadowborn had arrived, as it has been foretold in the Vale."

"It has?" Owen blinked in surprise.

"Yes, yes, we have had a long time to spin the foretellings around, adding to them and whatnot." He grabbed a pot from the fire and ladled something out into another bowl, then he fished for a spoon in a cupboard and handed it to Owen. "Here, drink this. It is mainly ginger root and onion. A bit of spice."

Owen looked at the watery bowl, wondering if he should eat from it.

"There are two living humans in this place, besides yourself. Do you not want to find them?" Grutwyr held up the bowl .

Blinking, Owen hesitated before he said, "My companion, Colt. Do you know where he is?"

"I will find him for you, but you must eat first, and pay the price."

If Owen was untrusting of this man before, none of it mattered now, as he needed to find Colt the way he needed air. He brought the bowl to his mouth and sipped the bitter contents. He gagged when he caught a piece of ginger in his mouth but closed his eyes and steadied himself.

"Mm, yes," Grutwyr said. "Water does the body right. Even for those lost and wandering. But it can be strange here for new faces. Chase it down with this." Grutwyr handed him a cup of liquid. "Even those of the Vale need uplifting. This is why Meg comes to me, why others seek out my services. It is why she did not drink your soul."

Owen winced at the aftertaste of the sweet and sour drink but downed it anyway. "You give them hope?"

"I suppose you could say that." Grutwyr took his bowl and cup and set them aside. "Now, we must discuss your payment to me."

"But I don't have anything to give you."

The man raised a bushy eyebrow and asked, "May I see your arm?" When Owen hesitantly reached his left arm out, Grutwyr took it. He jumped at the feel of the man's cold fingers pressing into his palm and wrist.

"You carry the divinity in you." Grutwyr brought Owen's hand to his mouth and smelled his skin. The man's eyelids fluttered before closing, as if intoxicated. "It is all I need from you."

Owen pulled back his arm, and the man grinned.

"For such a price, I can find the other two humans in the Vale, and I will answer your questions after." Grutwyr put up a finger. " Such a valuable thing will allow me to search this realm in vivid detail."

"What do you mean?"

"The taste of divine blood is a delicacy. It is a rare treat."

"You want my blood?"

"Of course I do." The man chuckled. "A simple exchange for me to give you the answers you need. Divine blood heightens Astran abilities. It allows those without the Essence to also take hold of power."

Owen tensed, unsure if he should have come into this tent at all. "What do you gain by drinking my blood?"

"The blood of the divines can make any living thing more powerful. But too much of it can be very dangerous, as the issuer of such blood can control the one who consumes it. There is a balance."

Despite the dreadful feeling settling between his shoulders, Owen knew he didn't have much choice. He was willing to do whatever it took to find Colt and leave the Vale.

He swallowed hard and said, "I was injured not long ago and lost a lot of blood. I'm not sure I should do this."

"I will only drink a bit. Enough to flourish my own Essence to find these humans. After, I will teach you how you can help yourself."

How to help myself?

Taking a deep breath, Owen said, "Okay, but I'm not sure how… divine my blood truly is."

Grutwyr laughed and rubbed his hands together in excitement. When he brought up a sharp knife, Owen braced himself for the cut into his flesh. The man was gentle as he made a cut on Owen's arm, deep enough so the man could swipe his finger through it and taste no more than a few drops.

Owen's eyes widened as he watched Grutwyr smack his lips and nod in approval. The burning cut now leaked blood, but Grutwyr wound a cloth around Owen's arm.

The little man gave a pleasurable sigh before instructing, "Hold still. You are Shadowborn. You have the ability to heal."

"What…?"

"Spark your fire," Grutwyr told him calmly, pressing the cloth against Owen's wrist to stem the blood. "Only you can control the states of your Dark Flame, and it is a fairly simple thing. All you will do is use its calm and warmth on your own body, or on others. You are in control."

Owen swallowed hard and drew up his right hand. It trembled, but he pushed his fire through his veins, and the purple flame sparked in his palm. It was much easier to produce when he wasn't attacking something or wasn't pressured by intense circumstances.

"I will take away the cloth, and you will use it on your own wound," Grutwyr said. "Are you ready?"

When Owen nodded, Grutwyr removed the cloth, and Owen held his breath as he slowly moved his fire to his arm. He closed his eyes as he curled his fingers around his wrist and pushed his Essence out, but surprisingly, he felt no heat. Only a soothing cool feeling as the pain in his arm dissipated.

Gasping, Owen opened his eyes, watching as the flame turned blue and swirled around his arm. When he removed his hand, what remained of his cut was a slight scar.

Baffled, Owen pulled up his arm and turned it around. "Amazing…" he breathed, feeling winded and slightly weak.

"It was not so hard, after all, was it?" Grutwyr grunted and scooted away. "But be aware, there are limits to your healing. Each time you use it to heal, you become weaker, as you do any time you use your Essence. Healing takes a significant amount of energy from the mind and body. Do it too much in a short span of time, and your body's immunity to sickness weakens. During this time, you may want to rest for a day or so. And keep in mind—" Grutwyr pointed at him. "You cannot bring back the dead, nor can you heal sickness beyond your reach within the body."

Owen recalled the pictures in the book that Bridge had shown him. Bridge had known Owen's father, and he'd shared information about Astrans that Owen had no idea about. There were four abilities Shadowborns could use: moving mass, speaking with the mind, the Dark Flame, and healing. He blinked as he thought of his mother on her deathbed. Even if he had known he'd possessed the ability to heal at the age of ten, he still wouldn't have been able to heal her. But Gilda… This news about what he was capable of angered him. This whole time, he could have healed her.

Finally, Grutwyr pulled away to sit around the fire and said, "Now, to find your companion. Your blood will empower me enough to find who you seek, but heed my warning, Shadowborn, once I find them, I cannot bring them to you. You must seek them out yourself."

"How will I know where to go?"

"I will point you in the right direction." The little man grunted as he stood and hobbled over to his cupboard. He muttered to himself as he rummaged through it before bringing out a heavy stone shaped into a perfect sphere. It looked like an ordinary rock glimmering in the candlelight.

Grutwyr caressed the stone with his fingers, tapping it with his long black nails. He picked it up and held it over the smoke swirling heavily up to the small hole of the tent. "Ah, yes, such strong blood you hold." The man's eyes seemed to glaze over. "Now, I have only one rule. Do not speak to me while I am transcending, nor plot to kill me." He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "I will haunt you."

Owen grimaced and looked down at his wrist. He had no reason to kill this man. Despite how he was feeling, Colt and Brom were his priority. "I promise I won't harm you or interrupt."

"Good, now… describe to me what this person looks like."

Taking a breath, Owen said, "He's tall, with dark-blond hair and green-brown eyes. Well, they are mostly brown, but in the sunlight, the greens really come out. A light beard, a scar through his left eyebrow, and he walks as if everyone should get out of his way."

"Hmm." Grutwyr closed his tired-looking eyes and waved his hands over the stone. Owen watched as sparks of light rose from the stone, floating dimly through the air like embers. Grutwyr seemed to be in such deep concentration, his arms shook.

Several more seconds ticked by, and then the little man gasped and opened his eyes, making Owen jump. Grutwyr tossed a cup of water over the stone, then he coughed and waved a hand at the smoke. "Done."

"That fast?" Owen leaned forward, eying the man curiously.

Grutwyr glowered at him, "Do not insult me. The two others from the living world are searching for you. Meg will take you to the one you wish to see."

Colt.

It had to be. Owen recalled Colt being pulled into the dark void of the Gate before darkness overtook him. His heart fluttered with warmth, and he let out a breath of relief knowing Colt was here and alive.

"Now, ask me anything. I will answer you as best as I can. "

"Alright…" Owen looked down at his healed arm and asked, "Where can I find the Gate to get out of here?"

"After leaving these woods, you will cross the dried channels and find an unnatural cliff. Atop, you will find the Gate."

"What are the dried channels?"

"The Unseen Vale is a dwelling place for spirits. The in-between life and death. The channels were once the way to eternal life or death for spirits. They were a river full of souls flowing to the Firmament." Grutwyr pointed up. "And a channel to eternal slumber. Those who were of pure hearts and minds went on to the Firmament, an endless haven of beauty where you chose whoever you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. Those of ill hearts went to the darkness, where they slept forever. Nothing, no consciousness. Only death. But they dried up when my lord abandoned the Vale."

"Your lord…" Owen's chest flared with uncertainty, and he tensed. "You mean Mor—"

"Shh!" Grutwyr put a finger to his lips and looked around. "Do not say his name here. I wish to remain hidden from him, but I have no choice but to call him my lord. All spirits here are bound to him. We cannot be released from him. He graced this forest with a veil himself to keep evil things out, a spell he never lifted, so we continue to hide here."

Owen hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he asked his last question, "Will your lord leave this place?"

"He is preparing an army as we speak." Grutwyr lowered his voice to say, "It has been uttered for centuries within the Vale that he needs the blood of his kin to aid him in his plight. If he cannot be stopped, then he will ravage the living world with his army. All of us spirits have been barred from telling anyone how to defeat him. "

"Defeat…" Owen's eyebrows shot up. "Is that what you want me to do?"

The man nodded slowly.

"But how?"

Grutwyr opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then he shook his head. "I told you I am barred from doing so by my lord. But here is a clue… seek the burning embers. They will shatter the heart and halt the three made whole."

Owen hated riddles. "Can't you just write down what you want me to do?"

The man looked suddenly agitated as he got to his feet and gestured for Owen to leave. "If I was able to, do you not think I would have? My lord has set a curse on the spirits of the Vale. We cannot speak of it directly. You must find the path to his destruction." He put out his hand to the flap.

When Owen emerged from the tent, the sky was darker. He glanced around, taking in the dense surroundings. Meg hovered nearby, awaiting Grutwyr's command.

"Meg, take him to the ruins, just beyond the headstones," he told her. "He will find his companion there."

Meg gave a gentle smile and said, "Follow me."

Owen turned to ask Grutwyr one more thing, but when he did, his eyes widened as he found the man gone, along with his tent. He blinked and looked around, searching for him. All that remained of the man's presence was smoke drifting through the air and a slight indentation on the ground where his tent had been.

"Come," Meg whispered.

Owen cut his eyes to her, then he followed as she drifted back the way they'd come from, except this time they didn't go through the grave markers. Owen saw them from afar and was thankful Meg avoided it.

Whispers traveled in the air, and eyes seemed to watch him from the brush. At his feet, the small white orbs of light floated, but they broke away into smaller specks of light every time he moved near one. It worried him that these spirits were drifting even more from the whole, so he moved around them more carefully.

He stepped over fallen trees, pulling his scarf back up around his face and his hood over his head. For a long moment, he thought about what he had learned in Grutwyr's tent. Colt was alive, and he was here, searching for him. But then he frowned when he thought of Rem.

He hoped the Hunter hadn't found Colt already. The thought made his heart frantic, and he began running until he caught up with Meg.

When she stopped and looked at him, Owen looked back at her, panting. "Why'd you stop?"

"You must calm yourself," she told him. "Nothing good comes from being rash."

Owen blinked at her. It was something Gilda would have told him, and this alone brought tears to his eyes. How did this spirit know such words could get to him? He looked down and focused on the bottom of Meg's translucent gown, his sadness growing. Then he looked up and found himself transfixed on the black holes of her eyes. Meg caressed his cheek with a gentle hand, and Owen shivered. No, he couldn't feel her touch, but his whole body went cold.

As Meg drew close to him, something in her face softened. "I was told by Grutwyr not to drink your soul, but sometimes, I still have that urge. To do bad… for my own gain. He told me all souls of the living are that way. But I was told you are good, and that you may save us."

Owen ran his eyes over her pale face and black eyes. How inviting they looked, two hollow holes that he could spiral into. He leaned into her, craving to be like her, a spirit drifting around.

When Meg pulled away, Owen's heart raced, and he looked away, wondering what had come over him. The Vale, these spirits, were making him feel things he didn't want to feel. Closing his eyes, he let out a breath and asked, "What do you mean by ‘save us'?"

She turned and continued floating through the trees. "The channels of the Vale are dried up. No spirit can bathe in them before flowing to the cave of eternal slumber, or to the Firmament where they live in good memories. You will help open the channels, won't you?"

Owen looked at her, baffled, unsure of how he was supposed to do such a thing. He recalled reading about these channels in his father's journal not long ago, and he wondered if his father had ever spoken with Grutwyr.

"I-I don't know," he finally told her.

Her face fell, and she turned away, her shoulders shaking as she began to cry. Owen winced, feeling remorseful, and when he glanced up at the darkening sky, his worries heightened. He needed to find Colt as quickly as he could before night, and Meg stalling him was sparking his impatience.

"I'll help in any way I can," he finally told her. He knew the only way to open the channels was to destroy Mordren, as Grutwyr had told him. This was no small stake. Doing such a thing could potentially kill him…

What am I thinking?

Meg looked up and sniffled. "Thank you," she said, before drifting onward.

Owen kept sight of her, as she seemed to give off a white glow as she passed the enormous trees. He took comfort in her spirit, thankful he had met her, even though she did frighten him a little.

He thought of the graveyard and what Meg had said about death within death. What if his destiny was to be stuck in this place forever? To slowly succumb to loneliness, or worse, become one of the spirits stalking the realm, like Meg? What if he died here?

He thought of Gilda, and his eyes glossed over as he walked on in a daze. He thought of Colt and Brom, his mother, Amias, and water rimmed his eyes. But instead of letting his tears fall, he willed them away, wiping his eyes and steadying his gaze on the path before him.

And then he caught it, the slight scent of lemon and honey.

Owen stopped and looked to his right, where Colt's energy was coming from. His heart started, and he ran forward through the trees.