Val drifted through layers of consciousness, awareness coming and going like the tide. Sometimes he heard voices; Elara's tight with worry, Kaelen's gruff with concern, Rhalla's measured. Other times there was only silence and the distant sensation of his own heartbeat, steady but somehow separate from himself.

  Time lost meaning. Had it been hours since the Shadowbinder's attack? Days? Years? He couldn't tell, couldn't focus long enough to count the rhythms of light and dark that occasionally penetrated his awareness.

  Then, abruptly, clarity returned, not to wakefulness, but to the dreamscape where Lyraelle waited. This time, he found himself standing on a hillside overlooking a much larger settlement than before. Stone buildings replaced the simple thatched structures of Arden's childhood village, and a wall surrounded the perimeter, punctuated by watchtowers.

  "The Atilean outpost of Vertus," Lyraelle's voice came from beside him, though he hadn't noticed her approach. "Established fifteen years after the memory you witnessed previously. By this time, the Empire had claimed half the valley, displacing or subjugating the native villages."

  Val studied the settlement, noting the imperial banners that fluttered from the tallest tower. Soldiers in polished armor patrolled the walls, their movements precise and disciplined. Outside the walls, farmers worked fields that stretched toward distant forests, watched over by mounted guards.

  "Where is Arden?" he asked, searching the scene for any sign of the girl who would become Mother Arden.

  Lyraelle gestured toward the edge of the forest that bordered the cultivated fields. "Watch," she instructed.

  At first, Val saw nothing unusual, just the interplay of light and shadow among ancient trees. Then movement caught his eye, a figure emerging so stealthily from the undergrowth that, had he not been looking for it, he might have missed it entirely.

  Arden had grown into a young woman, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old. Her black hair was braided and wrapped around her head like a crown, small white flowers woven through it. She wore practical clothing; leather trousers, a loose tunic belted at the waist, and soft boots that made no sound as she moved from shadow to shadow.

  "The empire took her home when she was twelve," Lyraelle explained, her voice tinged with old sorrow. "Her father died defending it. Her mother escaped with her into the forest, where they found refuge with others who had fled imperial expansion."

  As they watched, Arden reached the edge of the cultivated fields, kneeling to place her palms flat against the earth. Her eyes closed in concentration, and that faint glow Val had noticed in her childhood was now unmistakable; a verdant aura that surrounded her like a second skin, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat.

  "What is she doing?" Val murmured.

  "Healing the land," Lyraelle said softly. "The imperial farmers used methods that depleted the soil, chemicals that poisoned the water. Each night, Arden would come to undo the damage, to ensure the land could sustain life despite their abuse."

  For several minutes, Arden remained motionless, communing with the earth beneath her hands. The glow around her intensified, spreading outward in ripples that vanished into the soil. When she finally stood, her face showed signs of fatigue, but also grim satisfaction.

  "She couldn't stop the empire's advance," Lyraelle continued, "but she could mitigate its harm. It was her first act of resistance, and it taught her something crucial about life aether."

  "What?" Val asked, fascinated despite the growing sense that he was witnessing something deeply personal, almost sacred.

  "That intention matters," Lyraelle said simply. "That life aether responds not merely to command but to purpose. The imperial mages could channel aether through rigid formulas and structured spells, but Arden learned to speak to it, to request rather than demand its cooperation."

  As if illustrating this point, Arden turned her attention to a withered apple tree at the field's edge. The tree had clearly been marked for removal, axe cuts marring its trunk, its branches bare despite the season.

  Arden approached it with reverence, placing both hands on the wounded bark. Val couldn't hear her words from this distance, but he saw her lips moving, her expression one of intense concentration tinged with compassion.

  The glow around her flared brilliantly, channeling down her arms into the tree. For a breathless moment, nothing happened. Then, miraculously, the axe cuts began to close, bark growing over the wounds like accelerated healing. Dormant buds appeared on barren branches, swelling and bursting into leaf before their eyes.

  She turned to Val, her eyes searching his face. "This is what separated her from other mages, even those with stronger raw power. She understood that life has its own intelligence, its own purpose. Her gift was not in bending it to her will, but in aligning with its inherent direction."

  Val thought of his own experiences with aether, how different it felt from what he'd been taught at the academy. He'd always assumed his unusual abilities stemmed from some defect in his core, some aberration that made conventional techniques ineffective for him. But watching Arden, he recognized something familiar in her approach, a resonance that felt right in a way he couldn't articulate.

  "The army teaches control," he said slowly. "Precision. Mastery over aether."

  "The academy teaches what survived," Lyraelle corrected gently. "Fragments of knowledge preserved through catastrophe, interpreted by generations who never witnessed true communion with aether. They aren't wrong, exactly, control and precision have their place. But they're incomplete."

  A sudden commotion interrupted their conversation. Shouts erupted from the direction of the imperial outpost, and the patrol nearest the forest edge turned sharply, pointing toward Arden and the rejuvenated apple tree.

  "She's been seen," Val said, alarm rising in his chest despite knowing this was merely memory, events long concluded.

  Arden clearly realized her danger. She cast one last look at the tree, then sprinted for the forest, moving with the speed and agility of someone intimately familiar with the terrain. The mounted guards gave chase, their horses struggling to navigate the uneven ground at the forest's edge.

  "Did they catch her?" Val asked as Arden disappeared into the trees, the guards close behind.

  Lyraelle's lips quirked in a small smile. "Not this time, nor many times after. Arden knew these forests in ways the imperials never could. But eventually, yes, she was captured. And that capture changed everything."

  Rhalla stared at his cards with the focused concentration of a master life mage examining a particularly vexing strain of corrupted fungi. The edges were worn smooth from countless hands, the illustrations faded from years of use, but none of that explained why his supposedly excellent hand kept losing to the rangers gathered around the makeshift table in the Clearwater barracks.

  "That's another win for me," Kitra announced, her amber eyes gleaming with barely suppressed mirth as she raked in the small pile of copper coins. Her auburn hair caught the light from the oil lamp hanging overhead, giving her an almost fiery halo that matched her triumphant grin.

  "Impossible," Rhalla muttered, setting his cards down with exaggerated care. "That's the fourth time you've produced a Fleet straight from nowhere. I'm beginning to think the laws of probability don't apply at this table."

  Lian laughed and began to shuffle the deck again. "Perhaps Master Rhalla should stick to growing plants. They seem less likely to empty his coin purse."

  "Or perhaps," Rhalla countered, reaching for his mug of ale, "you rangers keep changing the rules when I'm not looking." He took a long pull of the amber liquid, savoring its slightly bitter taste. The local brewers might be facing hardship with the siege, but they hadn't forgotten their craft. "I distinctly remember Pairs outranking Triads last round."

  "Only when the moon is waxing," Aric replied with such deadpan seriousness that Rhalla almost believed him, until Kitra snorted into her own drink, setting off a round of barely stifled laughter around the table.

  Rhalla shook his head, unable to keep the smile from his face despite his dwindling pile of coins. He'd chosen to spend the afternoon here, among the rank and file, rather than attend yet another strategy meeting with Captain Alfen and the city's military leadership. After a month of siege with little change beyond the slowly dwindling supplies and gradually fraying nerves, the meetings had become exercises in repetition. The same concerns, the same limited options, the same grim assessments of their chances.

  Here, among the rangers of Company Two, at least there was laughter, even if it came at the expense of his purse.

  "Another round?" Lian offered, his deft fingers already dealing the cards with fluid precision.

  "I'd be a fool to continue," Rhalla observed, pushing forward another small stack of copper. "So deal me in."

  Across from him meticulously arranged his coins in neat stacks before committing a few to the growing pot in the center.

  "Missing the command meeting could be considered dereliction of duty," Thalia noted as she studied her cards. The healer's copper colored hair was tied back in its customary tight bun, her amber eyes missing nothing as they flicked from her hand to Rhalla's face. "Though I suppose mages operate under different rules than rangers."

  "Like card games," Aric added with a grin.

  Rhalla arranged his new hand, considering his response. "Master mages are granted certain... discretionary judgments," he replied, selecting a card to discard. "I judged that listening to the same arguments about deploying our limited mage resources would be less productive than building camaraderie with the rangers I'm meant to support."

  "A convenient judgment," Thalia observed, though her tone held no real criticism.

  "The most useful judgments often are," Rhalla countered with a wink. "Besides, you lot are far better company than a room full of officers debating the finer points of defensive perimeters."

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The truth, which Rhalla kept to himself, was more complicated. Yes, he'd grown tired of the repetitive meetings, but more concerning was the growing tension between Alfen and Reeve Lakewind regarding the city's dwindling food stores. The Meryan, led by Amortta, continued to bring fish from the lake, a crucial supply line that kept starvation at bay, but disputes over distribution had started to emerge. Rhalla had no interest in politics, and even less in watching good people argue while a greater threat loomed outside their walls.

  So instead, he sat in the communal barracks room, losing at cards to rangers who seemed to invent new rules with every hand, drinking ale that grew scarcer by the day, and pretending, just for a few hours, that they weren't all trapped in a city surrounded by the dead.

  Jens returned from the cooking area with a fresh pitcher of ale, the foam sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he navigated between the crowded tables. "Might be the last of it," he announced as he set it down, "until the next brewing cycle. Quartermaster's put restrictions on the barley."

  A collective groan rose from the table, though no one seemed particularly surprised. Restrictions and rationing had become a fact of life in Clearwater, each week bringing new limitations as the siege stretched on with no end in sight.

  "Cant you fix that Master Rhalla?" Aric whined.

  "Yeah, some plant mage you are." Lian snorted.

  "All the more reason to drink while we can," Rhalla declared, reaching for the pitcher and refilling his mug before passing it along. "To resourceful brewers and the next batch, may it come swiftly."

  They raised their mugs in toast, the momentary camaraderie pushing back against the shadow that hung over the city. Rhalla took another sip, then returned his attention to his cards, determined to at least win one hand before his coin purse was completely emptied.

  "Three Pairs," he announced with satisfaction, laying his cards face up.

  Kitra examined them, her expression unreadable, before breaking into a wide grin. "Impressive," she conceded, "but not quite enough." She revealed her own hand, a perfect Sequence of five cards in ascending order.

  "Unbelievable," Rhalla groaned, watching as she claimed yet another pot. "I'm beginning to think you can see through these cards."

  "Just good instincts," she replied with a casual shrug that fooled no one.

  "Like when a mage's purse is ripe for the emptying?" Rhalla suggested dryly.

  "Especially then," Aric confirmed, his eyes dancing with amusement.

  Rhalla had grown fond of these rangers over the past month. They'd accepted him into their circle with minimal fuss, respect for his abilities as a mage balanced by the good natured ribbing that came with being an outsider to their tight knit unit. In return, he'd done his best to support them, whether enhancing the growth of medicinal herbs for healing supplies or accompanying simply telling them tales of the academy and aether.

  But always, in the back of his mind, remained his true purpose here: monitoring for any sign of Val's recovery, any flicker of the unique aether signature that might mean the ranger had finally awakened from his coma like state. Linden's instructions had been clear; observe, support, and report any developments regarding Valtha Hearne's condition. So far, there had been nothing to report beyond the continued absence of aether activity from the temple where Val's body rested under Elara's watchful care.

  "Another hand?" Lian asked, breaking into Rhalla's thoughts.

  "Why not?" Rhalla agreed, pushing forward his dwindling stack of copper. "Though at this rate, I'll be paying my debts in accelerated plant growth by evening."

  "I could use some help with my window herbs," Jens mused, tossing in his own coins. "They've been looking rather sad lately."

  "Probably because you forget to water them," Thalia noted dryly. "Even Master Rhalla's talents can't compensate for complete neglect."

  Three more hands passed, with Rhalla's luck showing no signs of improvement. His coin purse, once pleasantly heavy, now sat distressingly light on the table beside him. The afternoon light slanting through the barrack's narrow windows had begun to take on the golden quality of approaching evening when Rhalla felt it; a deep, resonant pulse of aether that seemed to vibrate through his very core.

  He froze, cards forgotten in his hand, every sense suddenly alert. This was no subtle fluctuation in the background aether field, no gentle ripple like those he monitored daily. This was a surge of power so concentrated it felt like a physical blow, even at what must be significant distance.

  The rangers noticed his sudden stillness, their own attention shifting from the game to his face.

  "Master Rhalla?" Aric prompted, concern evident in his voice. "What is it?"

  Rhalla held up a hand for silence, closing his eyes to better focus on the sensation. It wasn't life aether; that would have felt warm, vibrant, like sunlight on skin or the rush of sap through wood. This was different, colder, with an alien quality that raised the fine hairs on his arms.

  Then it came again, a second pulse, identical to the first. Not random, not natural. Deliberate.

  "Something's happening," he murmured, eyes still closed as he tried to isolate the direction of the surge.

  "Is it Val?" Jens asked, hope coloring his voice. "Has he woken up?"

  Rhalla shook his head, opening his eyes. "No, not Val. This is... wrong."

  "What is it?" Kitra demanded, also rising, her hand instinctively moving to the knife at her belt.

  Rhalla met her gaze, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by a focused intensity that surprised even him. "I believe," he said with deliberate calmness, "the Shadowbinder is playing his opening move."

  Without waiting for a response, he strode toward the door, the rangers quickly abandoning their game to follow. They emerged from the barracks into the late afternoon sunlight, squinting against the sudden brightness after the dim interior. "The wall," he decided, already moving toward the nearest access stairs. "We need to see what's happening."

  The rangers followed without question, their training overriding any urge to demand further explanation before action. They climbed quickly, emerging onto the broad walkway that ran along the top of Clearwater's eastern wall. The defensive structure, originally built to deter bandits and wild beasts, had been reinforced and heightened during the siege, impressive by civilian standards, but far from the formidable battlements of Oakspire.

  Guards stationed along the wall nodded in recognition as the rangers and Rhalla passed, though their attention remained fixed outward, toward the enemy that had contained them for a month. Rhalla moved to the parapet, gripping the rough stone as he gazed out over the landscape beyond.

  In the month since the siege began, the undead army had maintained its distance, establishing a cordon around Clearwater while never committing to a full assault. They'd been visible, certainly, a dark presence on the horizon, a reminder of the danger should anyone attempt to flee, but they'd remained spread out, almost casual in their containment.

  Now, they stood assembled in a semi circle of death stretching from horizon to horizon. Rank upon rank of ghouls and zombies formed the front lines, thousands strong, their desiccated bodies swaying slightly even in stillness. Behind them, wights and more substantial undead creatures waited in organized units, armor glinting dully in the afternoon sun.

  And above it all, ravens circled in their hundreds, a living cloud of darkness that blotted out patches of sky, their eerie silence more terrifying than any natural cawing would have been.

  "Mother's mercy," Thalia breathed beside him, giving voice to the shock they all felt.

  "There must be ten thousand of them," Daven estimated. "Maybe more."

  "And they're not just standing around anymore," Aric noted grimly.

  Rhalla barely registered their words, his attention focused on something beyond the visible threat. He closed his eyes again, extending his senses outward, searching for the source of the aether pulses he'd felt. There, another surge, powerful enough to make him flinch. And another, perfectly timed after it. His mind traced the energy patterns, following them to their origins.

  "Eight," he said aloud, opening his eyes and scanning the assembled horde with new purpose. "There are eight points of concentrated aether activity, arranged in a perfect arc around the city."

  "What does that mean?" Kitra asked, her hand now resting on her bow, as if the familiar touch brought comfort in the face of such overwhelming odds.

  "I'm not certain," Rhalla admitted, still tracing the pattern. "But they're equidistant, too perfect to be coincidental."

  Rhalla felt a chill that had nothing to do with the afternoon breeze. He'd studied enough death aether theory to recognize a ritual when he saw one, and this was no minor working. The synchronized pulses, the careful positioning, the gradual build-up of power; all pointed to something massive in scale.

  "Aric," he said, decision made, "find Captain Alfen and the city leadership. Tell them to come to the eastern wall immediately."

  The ranger dispersed without argument, recognizing the urgency in his voice. Aric sprinted toward the stairs, while the others moved along the wall in both directions, taking up observation positions.

  Left alone momentarily, Rhalla closed his eyes once more, reaching deeper into his connection with the aether field. As a life mage, death aether was anathema to him, difficult to sense directly. But he could feel its effects; the disruption of natural patterns, the absence where life energy should flow, the wrongness that rippled outward from each pulse.

  Whatever the Shadowbinder intended, it was building toward a crescendo. The pulses came faster now, their rhythm accelerating like a heartbeat rising in panic. Beneath them, Rhalla sensed a deeper current, a massive reservoir of power being channeled through the eight focal points, gradually taking shape into...

  "Master Rhalla!" Kitra called from further along the wall. "Something's happening!"

  Rhalla staggered toward Kitra's position, his eyes fixed on the horror unfolding below. The corruption that had been creeping across the land for weeks suddenly accelerated, as if some cosmic dam had broken. The earth darkened to an impossible shade of black, pulsing with malevolent energy that made his stomach turn.

  Every blade of grass that withered, every root that blackened, every microbe that ceased its endless dance of life, he sensed them all. The sheer scale of the destruction threatened to overwhelm his consciousness. His carefully maintained mental barriers, developed through years of practice, began to crack under the assault.

  "By the Oakspire," he whispered, gripping the wall's stone parapet as the wave of corruption rushed toward the city's defenses. The moat they'd dug and filled with the Meryan's crystal salt gleamed like a ribbon of starlight against the encroaching darkness. Rhalla had helped design that defense, combining his knowledge with the Meryan's ancient wisdom about purification.

  The corruption reached the moat's edge and stopped, as if hitting an invisible barrier. But the victory felt hollow as Rhalla watched the earth beyond writhe with unnatural movement. Pain lanced through his mind, sharp and sudden as a surgeon's knife. His vision blurred, the world tilting dangerously as his legs gave way. The last thing he saw was the crystal salt in the moat beginning to pulse with an answering light, as if engaged in some terrible dialogue with the corruption beyond.

  Rhalla forced himself back to his feet, fighting against the waves of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. Each pulse of death aether felt like a physical blow, hammering against his consciousness with relentless force. The corruption had transformed the landscape into something from his darkest nightmares, where vibrant grasslands had stretched toward the horizon, now only blackened earth remained, pulsing with an unholy light that made his eyes water.

  "Master Rhalla!" Captain Alfen's voice cut through his disorientation. The ranger captain approached with Farrah and Reeve Lakewind close behind, their faces tight with concern. "Report."

  Rhalla steadied himself against the parapet, drawing on years of academic discipline to organize his thoughts despite the assault on his senses. "The Shadowbinder has been conducting a massive ritual," he managed, his voice rougher than he'd intended. "Eight focal points, perfectly positioned. He wasn't just waiting us out, he was preparing the battlefield."

  "Preparing how?" Farrah demanded she surveyed the transformed landscape.

  "Converting the very earth to death aether." The words tasted bitter in Rhalla's mouth. As a life mage, the violation of natural order struck him on a visceral level. "Everything that lived in the soil, every blade of grass, every insect, all converted to fuel for his power."

  Reeve Lakewind's face had gone pale. "Can he breach our defenses?"

  "The salt moat is holding," Rhalla said, gesturing to the gleaming barrier that encircled the city. "But-" He broke off as another surge of power rolled through him, nearly driving him to his knees. Through watering eyes, he saw movement in the distance. "They're advancing."

  The massive undead army began to move with terrible synchronization, tens of thousands of feet stepping forward in perfect unison. No horns sounded, no drums beat, the silence made it all the more terrifying.

  "By all the gods," Farrah whispered.

  "Now I understand," Rhalla said, clarity cutting through his pain like a knife through fog. "He needed this. Needed to transform the land itself to access his full power." Academic theory crystallized into horrible reality in his mind. "On normal terrain, the Oakspire's life aether rages against death aether, death aether users are limited, working against the natural order. But here, in this corrupted space he's created..."

  "He's made himself a new kingdom of death," Alfen finished grimly.

  Rhalla nodded, watching the approaching horde with horrified fascination.

  "Sound the alarm," Alfen ordered, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. "Get every defender to their positions. All citizens to the inner city to shelter in place. Someone find Amortta, we're going to need every advantage we can get."

  As runners scattered to carry out his orders, the army of the dead marched on, and Rhalla felt the corrupted earth pulse beneath his feet like a countdown to doom.