Page 28 of The Dryad Storm

Weeping, Ee’vee burrows her head against Mynx’s chest. The Subland woman briefly meets the intense silver gaze of the tall Alfsigr archer, and Gwynn catches the impassioned look that crosses his chiseled features, the bow gripped in his pale hand at the ready.

The slender Alfsigr archer, Rhys, holds his hand out to Bloom’ilya. “We will not hurt you, child.”

Breaking into heaving sobs, Bloom’ilya gives in and takes Rhys’s hand, Watchers briefly shimmering to life on both girls’ shoulders as they’re guided to the geode-cavern’s far end. Bloom’ilya turns to give Gwynn one last, heartbreaking look, and Gwynn’s own heart twists as she takes in the glimmering gold interiors of the three sapphire-rune-bracketed portals.

A fierce reluctance to send the girls into an unknown world rises in Gwynn, chokingly tight, but she holds fast against it as they’re passed to two female Subland soldiers. Gwynn’s breath catches as the children and the soldiers disappear into the portals’ golden depths, her conflict soon overtaken by a tenuous surge of relief.

They’re free of Gardneria, she assures herself.And once they clear the portal lag, they’ll be in the East.Gwynn blinks back tears, instinctivelysurethat these Smaragdalfar Elves she’s been taught to hate and fear her whole life are Bloom’ilya and Ee’vee’s best shot at survival.

A soldier runs to Mavrik. The two of them exchange a few words in rapid-fire Smaragdalfarin, and surprise darts through Gwynn over Mavrik’s fluency. The soldier hands Mavrik a Varg-rune-marked charging stone that Mavrik places on his Varg wand’s faintly glowing runes. The runes instantly brighten.

Another cave jostlingBOOMdetonates, but Wynter’s rune holds fast this time, its brightness undimmed, the shield secure.

“When are we portaling East?” Gwynn asks Mavrik. Before he can answer, a woman’s distant voice yells something in Smaragdalfarin, her voice echoing out from a separate, unshielded tunnel to the right of the tunnel they arrived through.

In her mind, Gwynn briskly rifles through the Smaragdalfarin translation dictionary she embedded there, along with multiple other language dictionaries, thankfulagain that her light magery, even trapped as it is, gives her the ability to remember in exacting detail anything she sees. She quickly parses out some of the meaning.

Children... portals... Alfsigr soldiers...

The woman’s urgent words continue to echo off the tunnel’s stone along with what sounds like a strengthening sea of thudding bootheels shot through with children’s scattered cries.

An elderly Smaragdalfar woman bursts from the tunnel and runs toward them, an emerald-glowing rune stylus gripped in her hand. There’s a battle-hardened expression on her weathered, emerald-patterned face. A large number of terrified-looking Smaragdalfar children rush in behind her in panicked flight, three younger, heavily armed Smaragdalfar women bringing up the rear.

A little boy, not more than five years old, shrieks in horror and skids to a halt when he catches sight of Gwynn and Mavrik as well as Wynter, Rhys, and the taller Alfsigr Elf male. The elderly runic sorceress scoops up the child and gives Mavrik and the Alfsigr Elves grim nods that they return. Gesturing toward them, the elderly woman calls out to the children a string of words in Smaragdalfarin that Gwynn recognizes asfriendsandwill not hurt you. Other Smaragdalfar soldiers close in around the children and usher them and their caretakers toward the portals.

“Where are these children from?” Gwynn asks Mavrik, a sick guilt over their fear clenching her gut as translucent Watchers flash into view once more, a single Watcher perched on each child’s shoulder.

“They’re escapees from the Alfsigr lumenstone mines,” Mavrik explains.

Shock overtakes Gwynn, and she meets his gaze. The eye contact triggers a stronger pull on her lines toward him that she knows he feels too as they both shiver against it, but even the mind-scattering effect of their magical draw isn’t enough to distract from this horror.

Mavrik’s brow knots, his gaze turning searching, as if he recognizes something in her that he’s felt himself. “Gwynn,” he says, “the Smaragdalfar people have been imprisoned in the Sublands by the Alfsigr military fordecades, adults and children alike. All of it abetted by the Mage Council and military.”

Gwynn’s gut heaves and she fears she might retch. She’s heard of the lumenstone mines, but she had no idea the Alfsigr were imprisoning people who are not depraved criminals there, much lesschildren.

The elderly Smaragdalfar sorceress yells something to Mavrik, too fast for Gwynn to translate, the woman motioning toward the tunnel the children ran in from.

Mavrik nods at the woman before turning back to Gwynn. “Now that my wand is fully charged, I’m going to help them wall off the open tunnels while the children and others evacuate.” He glances toward the large crowd of children bottlenecked in front of the three portals. “In a matter of moments, we’re going to break down the West’s entire underground network of Noi military portals so that the Mages and the Alfsigr military can’t make use of them.”

Their magical pull surges, and Mavrik hesitates, his jaw flexing as if he’s fighting to concentrate around their mutual thrall as Gwynn fights off the almost gravitational urge to move toward him.

“There’s only so much charge in those portals, and they’re slow to recharge,” he forces out, then swallows, his gaze softening into something akin to real affection. “You should go with them, Gwynnifer. Your work for us is done.”

Gwynn pulls in a shaky breath, her heart inexplicably tightening due to the intimate tone he’s wrapped around her name. Reluctance to be parted from him rises.

“My light magery gives me a perfect memory of any image I’ve ever seen,” she confides, her voice quavering as her magic strains toward his. “And I’ve read multitudes of high-level military grimoires from my father’s armory. Which means I have an encyclopedia of spells in my mind that you might have need of, including knowledge of primordial Shadow magic from a demonic grimoire. I want to stay and help you fight the Magedom.”

“No,”Mavrik counters. He sounds firm, but the word is tight in his throat, as if refuting her is going against his every magical instinct. “The Mages and the Alfsigr will likely find a way to attack while we’re holding the line. Gwynn, you’ve done your part, justgo.”

The pained look overtaking his expression steals Gwynn’s breath. She knows—justknowsfrom the intensity of that look—that if she touched him right now, she’d find his Level Five magic straining as relentlessly toward her lines as her trapped light magic is flashing toward his.

The image of the Great Tree pulses in the back of Gwynn’s mind, and she’s overwhelmed by a sense of life-altering crossroads dividing before her. Her choice in this moment will be irrevocable.

“I’m staying,”she states. She glances toward the rapidly diminishing bottleneck of children being led through the portals, the will to fight for them—and for the Wand—intensifying as she meets Mavrik’s gaze once more. “I’m staying, and I’m going East with you.”

The tension in Mavrik’s expression doesn’t lessen. “If we survive holding this line, we’re not portaling to the East,” he warns. “We’re portaling to the Northern Forest. To take down the Black Witch.”

Thrown, Gwynn gives him a questioning look.

---