Beneath the vast canopy of the vallenwood, where golden light wove
through leaves like strands of memory, Othorion Sha’evlas walked the
ancient paths. The whispers of the forest spoke in rustling branches
and the distant hum of unseen life. It was here, amidst the sacred
grove, that Ryger Arawyn sought him.

The Ariel’s feathered wings folded neatly behind him as he stepped
forward. His voice, when he spoke, carried the fluid cadence of Elvish.

Ryger said, “Hello.”

Othorion turned, inclining his head. “Ryger.”

Ryger hesitated before asking, “You are a priest of Zandreya, aren’t you?”

Othorion nodded. “I am.”

Ryger exhaled, gaze distant. “I’ve spent the day in my home,
contemplating what to do with my life.” His voice carried the weight of
uncertainty, the echoes of long years adrift.

Othorion’s tone was calm. “Many spend their lives in such contemplation.”

Ryger’s voice grew softer. “I once served her, long ago. But since
leaving Greystoke, I have wandered... my thoughts, my emotions, all
scattered. There was a time I felt I had purpose, but it was built on
lies. Now, I am lost.”

Othorion regarded him carefully, his voice steady. “Then take the time
to think. What is it you truly wish?”

Ryger’s wings shifted slightly. “Honestly? To belong. To serve a cause
that isn’t driving the world toward ruin. I have always been a
protector.” He glanced toward the trees. “That’s why I joined the
Slayers, to shield the weak from dragons, to give mortals a life
without fear.”

Othorion asked, “And yet?”

Ryger frowned, his voice filled with disillusionment. “I found more of
the same. Deception, misguided truths. Perhaps there was a time when
the cause was just, but now? Most dragons, most of those we were sworn
against, they just want to live.”

Othorion stepped closer, voice calm, measured. “The gods created the
Wyrm before us. They were part of this world before elves, before
Ariel, before man. They lived within Zandreya’s own nature, endowed
with her greatest gift, consciousness.”

Ryger nodded. “Exactly. That’s why I came to you. Why do I serve
Drakkara? I only wanted a home, a place to belong. And instead, I let
myself be manipulated, let hatred consume me. I followed the path of
war rather than standing for my own morals.”

Othorion’s expression remained unreadable. “The path away from
Drakkara is a dark one. She does not let go easily.”

Ryger’s voice was firm. “I have taken the easy road long enough. I
think it’s time I put in real effort. Would you help me?”

Othorion gave a slow nod. “I can open the door. I can guide you. But
the journey must be walked by your own feet.”

Ryger asked, “What does this road entail?”

Othorion answered, “While Zandreya may accept you in a day, a week, or
a month, it is not for me to say. She is aiding in the efforts against
Ironclad, and her gaze is elsewhere. But to walk this path, you must
pray to her, earnestly. Learn of her, honestly. And care for the gifts
she has bestowed upon the world.”

Ryger considered this. “Where can I learn more of her?”

Othorion gestured to the trees around them. “Everywhere. Her first
lesson is simple: She is.”

Ryger furrowed his brow. “She is the soil and trees? The water that
flows and brings life? The animals, the rocks?”

Othorion nodded. “Precisely. She is the wind, the sun weaving through
the leaves. She… is.”

Ryger took a deep breath. “And my first step?”

Othorion’s expression grew serious. “You must denounce your allegiance
to Drakkara.”

Ryger’s wings ruffled, uncertain. “How do I do that?”

Othorion held his gaze. “Make your will to leave the Mistress of
Darkness known to the realms. That is step one.”

Othorion continued, “This will be the hardest part of your journey.
Drakkara will not let you go easily. When she does, you will be severed
from her gifts, unable to cast even the simplest spell. And your
prayers to return home will go unanswered.”

Ryger’s jaw tightened. “I understand.”

Othorion warned, “She may not come for you today or tomorrow, but she
will.”

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the sighing
leaves above. Then, Ryger squared his shoulders. “I will think on this.
I wish to return to her, I only hope she will accept me.”

Othorion’s voice softened. “Walk with her. Acknowledge what she has
given us. Love it with all your heart. She does not forget her
children.”

Ryger gave a solemn nod. And in the quiet of the vallenwood, amidst
trees older than time, a new path began.