Chapter 30: The Road Ahead

(This circle pattern I first sketched in my sketchbook with a pencil and used references from the Islamic window patterns on display at the Victoria & Albert Museum in London. I then uploaded a photo of my design to Procreate on my iPad, where I refined the lines further. Afterwards, I uploaded the design to Canva, layering it over a faded Procreate oil painting of the Eldertree Forest with a recent artwork at the centre. - Chaiga T. Cheska)
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Bran found himself unable to look away from Harthos, his gaze drawn irresistibly to the Burrowback.

The pale spines rising in a delicate row along Harthos’s back were far more than mere spines. Between each, where the bone thickened and split, miniature towers had taken root. Crafted from stone, each tower boasted a sharply pitched rooftop and arched windows no broader than a thumbnail. Within, a steady amber radiance glowed, warm and patient, reminiscent of candlelight in a room undisturbed by breeze. The nearest tower was adorned with three windows, all three shining brightly.

Oren reached across Tavik, his hand landing firmly on Bran’s shoulder, a gesture both reassuring and deliberate. Bran, intent on not betraying the fact that he had been staring, dropped his gaze to the grass and managed, with only partial conviction, to feign indifference.

A hush settled across the clearing, the forest enveloping them in a silence that felt both ancient and intentional. Above, the spring canopy filtered sunlight in shifting bands of gold and pale green, casting the glade in a tender, almost reverent light. Even the air seemed to pause, the stillness charged with the sense of a place set apart, its sanctity etched by both time and presence.

“Let us sup together,” Harthos offered, his voice measured but warm, “before we turn our thoughts to the path that awaits us.”

They reached into their packs without exchanging words, laying out the remnants of their provisions on the grass between them: slender strips of dried fish, a wedge of hard cheese swaddled in cloth, a pouch of cracked grain mingled with dried herbs, and a handful of frostberries, their skins sticky from the afternoon’s warmth. Bran contributed the final piece of root cake, setting it carefully alongside the rest, whilst Nix, with characteristic quiet, produced a paper twist of salted seeds from the inner pocket of his cloak and placed it amongst the offerings. Harthos accepted his share with composed, deliberate gratitude, the manner of one who recognises that the significance of a gift lies not in its abundance but in the spirit with which it is given.

They ate together in companionable quiet, the forest enfolding them in a deepening hush. It seemed as though the woodland itself stilled further, gathering close and holding them in a tranquil embrace that asked for no words, only a shared attention.

Harthos was the first to break the silence, his words measured and deliberate. “The Temporal Mist has marked two amongst you,” he observed, his gaze settling first on Oren and then shifting to Nix. “It is evident in the very manner you move through the world. Such a thing needs addressing.”

Bran laid aside the piece of cheese he had been holding, the relief that swept across his features immediate and unguarded. “You are familiar with the Temporal Mist Migration.” The words emerged more as an assertion than a question, the certainty in his tone unmistakable.

“I am,” Harthos replied, watching Bran, sensing the boy had more to offer.

Bran sat in silence for a moment, his palms resting open in his lap. “I came across it in Rootbinder’s book,” he said, “and I was afraid Tavik and I wouldn’t return in time. There was a real possibility, I thought, that Oren and Nix would stray into the deepest part of it, and what befell them would far surpass anything Rootbinder wrote about.” His gaze travelled from his elder brother to Nix. “But in the end, it has only added two years to you both. I had feared something far worse, that we might lose you altogether.”

“It’s alright, Bran,” Oren said, his tone gentle, the kind he reserved for moments when he wished his words to carry the weight of truth rather than offer mere consolation. His gaze lingered on Bran, unwavering. “It was always meant to be, I think.”

Bran nodded, his gaze suddenly bright and lingering first on his brother’s features, with the two years now etched into his bearing, the greater breadth of his shoulders, the measured steadiness in his eyes. “I know, I do,” he said quietly. “Truly, I do. Yet it’s difficult, seeing you both changed, aged by two years that Tavik and I had no part in witnessing. There’s a strange sorrow to it. It feels, somehow, as though those years were taken from us, as if we’ve lost time that ought to have belonged to all of us together.”

Nix ate in steady silence, his runes coursing in a gentle, unhurried rhythm along his skin. At Bran’s words, he paused, meeting his gaze with a calm, measured directness. “We remain ourselves,” Nix murmured, his voice low but assured. “Older, yes. But not lost.” He allowed the statement to linger amongst them before dropping his attention once more to the seeds cradled in his palm, not sure what else to say.

Bran exhaled with measured deliberation, turning the lump of cheese and focusing on it, fingers settling once more around its familiar shape.

Tavik watched his brothers and cousin, his own inner turmoil evident, his forearms draped across his knees, gaze now fixed unwaveringly upon the mandala grass between them. He spoke with measured restraint, keeping his eyes on the grass. “When Nix’s lightning coursed through the tether to me,” he began, his voice even and deliberate, “and you were flung away from me, Bran, and when we called your name and the forest offered only silence in return.” He paused, the muscles in his jaw shifting as he fought for composure. “For a moment, I believed my lightning had ended your life. The absence of your reply was devastating.”

The clearing held the words without disturbing them as if they needed to be said.

Oren reached across and pressed his hand briefly to Tavik’s shoulder. Tavik’s shoulders dropped a fraction, almost imperceptibly, and he did not shrug his brother’s hand away.

“Tav,” Bran whispered, watching his brother steadily.

“Just….” Tavik looked at Bran briefly before flicking his eyes back down. “I’m glad you’re alright, that’s all. But I never want to feel that again.”

“I’m alright, Tav, really.” Bran bumped Tavik’s shoulder and sighed, looking sideways at his brother. “I just…. I remember one moment I was standing beside you, and then you were covered in lightning, and then I was thrown backwards into a really awful bramble bush,” Bran said, with the faint air of someone presenting an account they are aware does not reflect well on them. “A very determined one, in a really strange woodland. It was very sharp and unpleasant. I even got stabbed behind my ear! Look!”



He turned his head to the side to show his sore ear, then briefly turned his forearms over, the thin red lines still visible across the skin. “When I had finally freed myself, I couldn’t see you, Tav, and I called, but it was just me alone, and I saw Harthos, and then there were two thorns floating in the air right in front of my nose. Sort of turning in the air... It’s hard to explain. It’s really odd, but I felt like I needed to pull them apart, and then there was an awful sound that hurt my ears and was really frightening, and then it was such a relief to see the three of you on the other side and be back in the Eldertree again.”

With a quiet gesture, Tavik drew Bran close, his arm wrapping around his brother’s shoulders. The two sat in silence for a moment, the relief of having voiced their fears settling between them, a gentle reassurance exchanged without the need for words.

“I had only just arrived in MirMarnia, myself,” Harthos said, breaking the brief hush that lingered, “when the surge of magic reached me. I traced its course across the threshold, much as one follows the scent of rain and soon found myself standing at the edge of a modest clearing within a liminal woodland, a threshold wood belonging neither to this place nor to any other.” His black eyes retained their gentle warmth. “I watched as the boy, Bran, guided by nothing but instinct, drew two thorns apart with his hands and, in doing so, opened a portal between worlds, a Lightweaver passage conjured out of pure impulse.” He turned his gaze to Bran. “In that moment, I understood I had found the four I was seeking.”

A particular stillness settled over them, absolute and unbroken, as though the clearing itself was holding its breath. Nix looked intently at Harthos, trying to read this strange creature that knew so much.

“How, then, did you traverse from one woodland to another?” Oren inquired, curious and still slightly wary. “Do you also open portals to different worlds?”

“Such is the nature of Burrowbacks,” Harthos remarked, his eyes twinkling.

Bran continued to rotate a dried frostberry between his fingers, thoughtful. “I opened a portal,” he murmured, the phrase tasting unfamiliar as it left his lips. “That’s Nix’s domain, not mine.” He paused, lifting his gaze. “Is this something to do with Tavik’s lightning, or is this my Lightweaver half waking up?”

One by one, each member of the circle fixed their gaze upon Nix.

His ears pressed flat, and his attention fell to the grass, hands motionless against his knees, then he looked up and stared at Bran with an intensity that made Bran shift uncomfortably. “Through the tether, you have my portal magic, it seems. Prematurely, just like my magic, but without a wound.” His words had a heaviness in them that made Oren and Tavik look sharply at Bran with worry, while Bran looked back at Nix, feeling a strange sense of guilt that didn’t make sense to him.

Harthos cast his gaze around them, his manner unhurried and deliberate. “It appears you all have something to resolve when you have more knowledge.”

He straightened, took a breath, and looked around the circle.

“This meal we have shared stands as a testament to our unity, a foundation, steady and vital. It is this sense of togetherness that we must carry forward, grounding ourselves before we embark upon the path that awaits us,” Harthos remarked. The pale spines along his back caught the afternoon light as he shifted.

“Beyond this point, between here and my homeland, stretches a region of the forest quite unlike any you have traversed. It is older than memory, refusing to retain its shape. The paths within fold upon themselves, echo, and double back unexpectedly. Every traveller who enters is tested, for it cannot be navigated by customary means.” His tone remained matter of fact, stripped of embellishment, conveying the simple truth of the terrain. “It is, in every sense, a living labyrinth. I would not undertake its crossing without the four of you beside me.”

Oren met his gaze with unwavering steadiness. “You need us.”

“We must travel this path together, and yes, I will need your support if we are to arrive unscathed on the other side,” Harthos said. “Your circle, the breaking of bread, and your readiness to meet each other sincerely, all these are far from trivial. They fortify my role as your guide, ensuring the ever-shifting paths remain visible.” He paused, letting the weight of his words linger. “You each have a unique ability that, when added to a collective, offers great strength in difficult places.”

He allowed the sentiment to settle before speaking again.

“If you are to emerge unharmed from the labyrinth, passage within my towers is essential.”

The silence that followed bore a distinctly altered character, denser and more contemplative than before.

Tavik regarded the towers, their glow diffused warmly between the spines of Harthos, then returned his gaze to the Burrowback. “Those towers,” he stated, his words measured and precise to preclude any misinterpretation, “are scarcely larger than my fist.”

“Indeed, they are,” Harthos affirmed, seemingly amused by Tavik’s attempts to understand.

“You intend for us to enter them.”

“By means of magic, I can diminish your size. Although the towers seem modest from the outside, their interiors offer ample space, far more than one might expect. You will remain together throughout, and I assure you, no harm will befall you.”

Oren shook his head, the gesture spare and deliberate. “No,” he replied, his voice steady. “I refuse to place my brothers and my cousin in circumstances beyond our control, shrunk by a magic I cannot grasp, within a forest whose nature defies prediction.”

Harthos received this without offence. He looked at Oren for a moment with his small, deep eyes. “What you are to the three of them is what holds the field together from inside,” he said. “The steadiness you carry, the grounding they return to, that is not diminished by the walls of a tower. It travels with you. Your presence inside is not incidental to their safety. It is the anchor of it.” He held Oren’s gaze. “Entering the towers is the act of protection, and it is by your choice entirely. You are not held captive.”

Oren remained silent, his jaw set with quiet determination. Though the refusal lingered in the air, he did not voice it again.

“I won’t be carried,” Tavik declared, his tone unwavering and deliberate, the words shaped by careful consideration. “I am able to discern what lies before me and respond as needed. That capacity vanishes if I am confined within a box.”

“It is not a box,” Harthos replied, the same measured calm suffusing his tone as before. “It is merely a vessel, and the labyrinth discerns those who traverse its paths. It perceives strength, discipline, and the readiness to dedicate such virtues to a purpose greater than oneself.” He fixed Tavik with a steady gaze, his words deliberate yet unhurried. “To embrace that service is no lesser feat than standing in battle. Indeed, for many, it demands far greater resolve.”

Tavik turned aside, his jaw tightening as he silently grappled with the implications of Harthos’s words, the inner struggle evident in the set of his features.

Bran studied the nearest tower, watching the glow from its three windows. Turning to Harthos, he spoke with a note of unease. “Will it be very small inside? Will I be able to open a window?” His voice betrayed his apprehension. “I’m not certain how I’ll cope with such close quarters.”

“Your sensitivity perceives the world in ways that remain beyond the others’ grasp,” Harthos observed. “Within the towers, that same sensitivity plays a crucial role in maintaining the field’s stability. You can open a window, but you must be cautious not to let the labyrinth reach in.” His tone was measured, free from any hint of patronisation. “Moreover, the towers are generous with space and will supply all that you require as you journey through. This is the Burrowback way, which I believe you may already have experienced when you first entered the Eldertree Forest.”

As that statement settled, Oren, Tavik, Bran and Nix shared a glance, realisation dawning as they thought back to their rest in the hollow tree when Bran had followed the acorn lanterns.

Nix had been quiet through all of it, his ears forward, his runes steady. When Oren looked at him, he said simply, “I will go where you go.” He looked at Oren, then at Tavik, then at Bran. Nothing more was needed.

Oren looked at his brothers. Something moved between the three of them, brief and wordless, the particular shorthand of long familiarity.

“Alright,” Oren said.

They stood together, each quietly regarding the others, the silence between them stretching with subtle gravity. None hurried the moment; instead, the stillness settled in, deliberate and poised, holding them in its sweep as if waiting for the precise instant when resolve, rather than impulse, would move them forward.

Harthos reached into his satchel and produced four stones. Resting in his broad palm, each one was small and dark, polished to a smoothness reminiscent of river shingle, their surfaces reflecting the quiet, deep grey of water poised before rain. He handed them out in turn, offering one to each, and as they received what lay in their hands, a hush settled amongst them.

Cleanly and delicately carved into the surface of every stone was a name, rendered in runes.

Their own names.

“Entry to the towers rests solely upon your own decision,” Harthos intoned. “There is no force within the stone that compels you. When you feel prepared, place your thumb upon the rune and say your name clearly.” His gaze travelled around the circle, lingering on each of them in turn. “Speak as one, so you might arrive as one.”

They regarded one another across the pale heart of the mandala: Bran, the smallest among them, with Nix a little taller by his side; Tavik, broader still, and Oren, the tallest. Standing with them all, Harthos watched, unhurried and patient, the steady warmth of the towers’ light illuminating his back.

Bran pressed his thumb to the rune, sensing an unexpected warmth beneath his skin, far warmer than the afternoon sun could explain. He glanced towards Oren.

Oren met Bran’s gaze with an unwavering composure, then pressed his thumb down in turn. Tavik followed, deliberate and sure, and finally Nix pressed his own stone, the runes on his skin brightening for a moment. A subtle flush of silver-green shimmered across his hand before fading softly.

“Together,” Oren said, his voice quiet but resolute.

Golden light lay undisturbed over the grass in the clearing, imparting a quiet radiance to every blade. Overhead, from the uppermost branches, the sharp, lucid call of a solitary bird rang out, vivid and fleeting, then gone.

“Bran,” said Bran.

“Oren,” said Oren.

“Tavik,” said Tavik.

“Nix,” said Nix.

The clearing was suddenly vacant, its hush undisturbed. Not a breath of movement lingered where they had stood; the air hung with the tranquil stillness of a place that had quietly outlasted its moment.

Harthos remained alone within the mandala, the four quarters still sharply defined around him, their presence lingering like the shadows of those departed. The forest, restored to its ageless rhythm, carried on: leaves whispering overhead, sunlight drifting lazily across the moss, and somewhere deeper in the canopy, a wood pigeon began its gentle, warbling call.

Harthos surveyed the four empty spaces where his new companions had stood. After a moment, he turned, entering the trees, with the towers upon his back, casting a steady amber and gold glow in the fading afternoon. Each small window shimmered with warmth, as if the lives within had endured for generations.

The path ahead beckoned quietly.