Page 36 of The Dryad Storm

Gwynn translates bits and pieces—“Summoned by Commander Fi Suur...” and Mavrik’s response “...destroyed Mage armory”—before Mavrik is being led toward one of the cavern’s tunnels.

“I’ll be back soon,” he calls to her, and Gwynn latches ahold of his promise like a lifeline as he disappears with the Vu Trin into the stone corridor’s rune-lit depths.

Shaken, Gwynn looks at Mynx. “Where did they portal the children to?” she asks, hoping she’ll get an answer this time.

“Itold you,” the commanding soldier with the half-shaved head snaps in heavily accented Common Tongue as she knifes a withering glare at both Gwynn and Mynx, “they’re somewheresafe. Away from Crows and Maggots.”

Mynx stiffens and levels a scalding look at the soldier. “You don’t have to be wretched to her, Yyzz’ra,” she bites out. “She helped destroythousandsof Mage weapons.”

“We don’t need the Crows’ help!”Yyzz’ra seethes back before hurling out what sounds like a series of Subland expletives. Yyzz’ra’s outburst is met with a biting reply in Smaragdalfarin from Mynx that’s too fast for Gwynn to translate.

Yyzz’ra narrows her silver gaze on Mynx, her mouth twisting in an unkind smile. “You have sympathy toward the Crows and Maggots because you’reruttingwith the Icaral’s brother.”

Spots of color form on Mynx’s cheeks, and she turns away, seeming cast into utter humiliation as Yyzz’ra barks out a mocking laugh and takes her leave down the tunnel with a number of Subland soldiers.

Mynx stiffens her jaw and visibly gathers herself, then meets Gwynn’s gaze. “I’m Mynx’lia’luure,” she says, her tone shot through with real kindness. “Youmay call me Mynx, as the others do.”

They stare at each other for a protracted moment as Gwynn desperately tries to quell the slight tremble that’s kicked up all over her body. “Have you... shut down the Western portal system?” Gwynn asks, motioning toward the portals’ blue tracings, only mist remaining.

Mynx’s silver eyes glint like battle-hardened steel. “We did.” Gwynn catches a quick flash of anguish in her expression. “We got everyone out that we could.”

Gwynn can read the unspoken in Mynx’s splintered tone.

Everyone we could get out before the Mages cut off the escape routes, making life a living hell for those left behind. The Western Realm completely fallen.

A different sort of shame swamps Gwynn, filling her with rancid guilt—she’s broken free of the Magedom physically, but her mind and emotions are still ensnared by it, when she should be castingall of itaside. But she can’t help it. Just the act of wearing bright emerald garb—andpants—feels unmooring to the extreme.

“Come,” Mynx says to Gwynn, a searching light in her eyes that feels like an undeserved port in a storm. “Let’s get you settled in for the night, and get you some food.”

“Eat, Roachling,” Yyzz’ra orders in the Western Common Tongue.

Feeling the inward sting of the slur, Gwynn looks warily to where Yyzz’ra sits amidst a circle of Subland soldiers around one of the large cavern’s multiple emerald-flamed bonfires. The bowls in their laps are filled with the strange, wormlike food in Gwynn’s own bowl, the fragrant steam wafting up from it smelling of rich spice and mushroom.

After a trek through several long, circuitous tunnels, they reached this heavily Varg-warded gathering cavern, and Gwynn immediately retreated into a solitary alcove just behind Mynx’lia’luure and her circle of soldiers.

Her emotions a storm, Gwynn glances up at the huge tree roots woven along the cavern ceiling, as they were throughout Valgard’s Sublands, a protective net of Varg runes covering the ceiling’s expanse.

Lowering her gaze, Gwynn focuses on parsing out the Subland Elf conversation, rapidly ascertaining that they’re positioned in an incredibly sheltered spot with the Agolith Desert’s thickest, most violently powerful storm bands surrounding the land above them—storm bands set down by the Zhilon’ile weather Wyverns of the East during the last Realm War.

To wall off the Magedom’s forces.

Awe overtakes her at the thought of the huge, deadly storm bands she’s only read about protecting the land above them.

“You still haven’t taken a bite,” Yyzz’ra chides, breaking into Gwynn’s thoughts. There’s an unkind glint in Yyzz’ra’s eyes as she narrows them on Gwynn, a mocking smile on her lips as her eyes flick toward the bowl of food cradled in Gwynn’s lap. “Don’t fret, Roachling. It’s not a bowl ofworms.”

“Stop, Yyzz’ra,” Mynx’lia’luure retorts in Smaragdalfarin, her gaze flickering with censure. “She’s not calling you ‘Snake Elf.’ So leave off with the slurs and accusations.”

Yyzz’ra snorts a laugh, her gaze remaining fixed on Gwynn with a damning light. Gwynn tenses, a sting of shame racing over her neck for ever having countenanced slurs like Snake Elf, her past ignorance further cementing her outsider status in this new world she’s found herself in. A world the Verdyllion and the Watchers have led her to.

Yyzz’ra’s penetrating gaze swings to Mynx. “You just love the Crows and Maggots, don’t you? How many cups of tea have you given the Icaral’s brother? A full thirty?”

Anger fair crackles off Mynx as she gives Yyzz’ra a confrontational smile. “And what if I have, Yyzz’ra? What if I want to give Caelall the tea in the world?”

Yyzz’ra lets out a contemptuous snort. “Oh, it’s clear you’ve already given him ‘all the tea in the world.’?”

Mynx snaps something emotional in Smaragdalfarin that’s too fast for Gwynn to translate, then rises, fists balled.

Anger sparks in Yyzz’ra’s eyes. “Don’t you have first watch, soldier?”

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