Phyllis did not come at dawn.

In fact, for a good number of days after Gyssevear brought him food, Judson saw no other person.

He would spend long hours perched near the window, hoping to spot Phyllis, but she never showed up. The stranger thing was, a sudden quiet came over the Guard House that made him feel more abandoned than curious.

However, he doubted the prison yard was wholly deserted because oftentimes he could feel like he was being watched from a distance. By someone who made no effort to hide the fact. His Elven guards did not show themselves either - the only sign of their presence being a tray of food and water they left under his cell gate before daybreak.

If not that the cell was secured, he would have stepped out to investigate for himself. Though the lock was far from impossible to shatter with a little force, he thought it better to refrain from breaking out.

Something warned him not to.

Whether it was part of the natural ecosystem or the faint sense of foreboding that draped his own mind, winter seemed to grow fiercer. On certain mornings, or so he figured, the atmosphere would be shrouded in such stark white that everything shone.

Elven winters looked and even felt different. There seemed to be magic of some precious kind scattered about in the air - not the remnants of Juniper's broken spell.

Something far different - old, yet lethal.

It felt to Judson's senses as an irresistible vacuum that could suck in whatever it deemed unfriendly. A trap for outsiders. But he did not, in any way, feel like an outsider. Ever since his arrival, he had felt much welcome and that he actually belonged, which was why he prayed that, soon, an explanation for his sudden desertion would be provided.

He sat in his usual spot, listening subconsciously to the wind as it swooshed in and out the window, spraying him with cold air every now and then.

In his hand was a little sprout. The dungeon floor was carpeted with its like. His jailers would be stunned if they discovered the real value of every single plant shooting from the walls. It was fascinating though that because the Guard House was located within the Woodlands it experienced greenery even in the unlikeliest of areas.

Judson twirled the soft plant between his fingers. A bean. The soft green skin of its stem and its twin leaves tinier than his own pinky finger reminded him of newborns, and his mind immediately flashed back to Ayariel. The sudden memory filled him with hot panic and he dropped the stem on impulse, clutching hard at his forehead.

"I see you're troubled."

His gaze shot up immediately.

There, in front of his cell door, stood a woman. A She-Elf.

His eyes shone when she gently pushed the door open - without prying the lock - and stepped forward only two steps. She was dressed in royal clothes that was nothing of the heavy, velvety kind other female royals would fawn over. Her attires were breezy and elegant, and native. Hair as stark white as the falling snow outside overflowed from her head, surrounding her like a cape, complimented by a crown of golden laurel.

Judson needed no introduction to know she was the Queen of Elves.

He rose and lowered in a bow.

"Arise." Her voice was friendly, and the sound of it banished what little trembles had erupted inside Judson without his knowledge.

He looked at her face, on which was a kind and curious expression. She seemed to be assessing him with smiles and frowns that came at infrequent times. It was almost as if she read a confusing book.

"I was told you were kept in here and decided to come see for myself." She chuckled a bit. "Well, without the King's knowledge, of course."

Judson progressively eased at that. He bowed again, unable to peel his eyes from the Queen's sunny blue ones. "I am honored by your Majesty's generosity."

"To be truthful, curiosity is what brought me here." She confessed, lifting both eyebrows. "I find it staunch that a man should defy the grave consequences and cross into these lands when his life might be taken from him for doing so. Yet it is also cause for questions. Such persistence, I perceive, can have but one driving force."

She stepped closer yet remained far. In spite of the distance, Judson felt as if she was staring right in his face.

"You act on love."

He stilled, pierced by how quickly his motives had been dissected by an absolute stranger. However, the Queen seemed different from the average stranger. Age graced her head, and he could sense it well.

"You speak the truth, my Lady." He professed, bowing slightly.

There was no point in twisting words. He was well prepared to bare all and brave the embarrassment. Also, the last thing he wished was to give the Elves another reason to mistrust him after everything they went through. Everything he put them through.

The Queen smiled. A genuine beam that could have morphed into a laugh had she permitted it. "Your plight was brought to my ears of recent. But there is only so much a seven year old child can retell with accuracy."

Judson's brows went up in utter confusion. "A seven yea—"

His words retracted into his throat when from the corner of the cell wall, one half of the body of a small person gently unraveled. The child seemed to have been there the whole time. Hidden and quiet. He stood as tall as a normal Human at the age of seven, but svelte in the fashion of common Elven forms. His eyes were frighteningly captivating and familiar.

Judson heaved a small gasp when the same jolt of familiarity seized his spine at the sight of the boy. The youngster detached from his position with marvelous stealth to clutch at the Queen's side.

"My grandson related the tale of your imprisonment to me." The Queen said, smiling down at him. Her hand went up and down his back in affectionate rubs. "He's very adventurous and likes to stalk his mother for fun."

"My pleasure to meet you." Judson said and held out a hand, unable to comprehend the face that stared innocently at him.

As fast as thought, the young Elf touched his open hand and withdrew, prompting Judson to smile a little.

"It was he who informed me Aurora had gotten a Shade imprisoned in the Guard House." She went on. "Do you care to elaborate on why you have come again?

It was easy to talk to the Queen because she listened without interruptions and was attentive in a way he never thought a person could be. Her eyes stayed on his even though her hands clutched at her grandchild.

When he finished the tale, she leaned outward with an exhale that suggested she might have been holding her breath a while. Sadness crept into her features.

"No one deserves to meet such doom, no matter who they are." She spared the softest grin. "I remember her well. Waverly. A phenomenon of her time. She accomplished so much that even though the King refuses to acknowledge her wholeheartedly, I am proud to. It appears she did nurture her light more than I expected."

Judson nodded in agreement.

Silence reigned for a minute before the Queen asked, "You sought access to our sacred Curatorium then, is that right?" Her grandson tugged at her dress and she took his open hand without looking.

"That is right, your Majesty."

"I hereby grant you full access."

An explosion of air went off inside Judson's that rendered him speechless for a time.

"Should there be any resources needed for your research, don't hesitate to ask for it."

His breath quivered. "I have no idea how to express my gratitude."

The Elven Queen laughed softly. "Think nothing of this other than a debt being paid. Hlāren was our very own. We will do everything to rescue her from the jaws of doom." Then her countenance changed. "In the meantime, you must not ignore that which sits on your shoulders."

Then, her tone took on a sinister, warning edge and this time, she indeed drew close. The blue in her eyes glazed over, and when she unexpectedly placed both hands on Judson's cheeks, the shock of the act itself combined with a foreign energy that followed her touch made him jerk.

"Calamity awaits by the side." She warned, appearing suddenly frightened. "Heed my advice."

His eyebrows wiggled in perplexity and his attempt to look elsewhere proved impossible. The situation was a tad awkward and uncomfortable, but he feared he had a clear understanding of what the Queen spoke of.

"I will do my best." He whispered.

"Hlsira." The young Elf's light voice sounded wary and timid, but his call did not immediately rouse the Queen. (Grandmother)

It took a while before her expression cleared. Then, she retreated in slow back steps.

"I cannot help the visions that come to me." She scoffed a laugh, reclaiming her grandson's hand.

"However, your words were taken to heart, your Majesty." He offered, sensing her discomfort.

Oftentimes, he also got intrusive visions, but mostly at night. It did leave him feeling curious as to what kind of powers the Elf Queen possessed. Whatever it was, it seemed like a burden on her.

"The Commander will report back to you soon enough."

First, Judson bowed to her, then to the young prince. "You did not tell me your name."

"Alyza." The boy introduced shyly. His stare was studious.

"Pleasure to meet you, Alyza."

The Queen smiled. "We will take our leave now. I pray that your quest proves fruitful."

Together, the royals exited the cell and the Guard House.

Judson remained in a state of ecstasy, unsure of how much time passed before Phyllis came rushing down the dim hallway with Freañin and Gyssevear in tow.

"What happened?" She questioned the minute she was inside.

"I have permission from the Queen to visit the Curatorium." He revealed, and a little squeal of joy came out of her that surprised him a bit.

She immediately turned to face Gyssevear. Her excitement was almost palpable. "Release him at once."

"Yes, Commander." The Elf nodded and walked out to hold the cell door ajar.

"We must see Diarmaid."

"You do remember we still have to be quiet about this, Olwirien." Freañin cautioned despite the smile of contentment on his face. "Word concerning his presence will spread the moment he's spotted by any local."

Judging from her easy smile, Phyllis appeared to have thought everything through. "That's why he won't be spotted by any local. Come on!"

The snow was less denser back in the Woodlands, and Freañin explained that it was so because a new season was just around the corner.

"Floom marks the beginning of the new year two days hence." He explained, destringing a plant he had carried with him since they left the Guard House. "The days go by so fast now that even I can feel it no longer. It's almost as if time is in a hurry to run out."

"I feel likewise." Judson admitted with several nods.

"I suspect that you will tarry long here with us." Freañin went on in a hopeful tone. "If you do, you may witness the manifestation of the Floom throughout."

"What is the Floom?" The former queried, suddenly noticing distant sounds of animal noises.

Before Freañin could provide an answer, they had closed in on Diarmaid's treehouse. A queer sight met Judson as well as an inbound creature, running toward them at full speed.

Freañin bent low in readiness and swept it up in his arms in one fluid motion with a joyous laugh. "Elisel!"

The dog, Elisel, was full of so much excitement that it often staggered and fell on its back, but would rile up and attack Freañin again and again in friendly hugs.

The wholesome sight made Judson laugh. "Whose is it?"

"Diarmaid's." Freañin chuckled, scrubbing the dog's head. It was a chubby and handsome breed.

"Diarmaid has a dog?" He questioned and lifted his eyes to the aforementioned approaching, surrounded by a great gang of canines. Some were very different from Elisel in appearance, others looked exactly like her.

"Actually, Diarmaid has nineteen dogs," Diarmaid smiled, glancing around his feet. "and two of them have gone missing again."

Judson's mouth fell open at the army of identical animals scattered about, filling the air with barks, huffs and yelps, and felt too stunned to speak.

A quad of horses were stationed near the treehouse that he suspected was meant for their transportation to the Curatorium, but with how some of the dogs bothered their feet and tails, he suspected that the equines might wind up becoming very eager to be on the move. The idea was near hilarious.

From the corner, Phyllis suddenly emerged, holding the upper half of another dog in her arms. It should have been far from surprising that she could lift the animal in spite of its weight.

Nonetheless, Judson felt stunned.

"I found Éseth!" She announced, hefting the creature whose forelegs hung up in the air and rear legs scrubbed the ground thereby exposing the whole of its tanned underbelly.

Diarmaid heaved a sigh of relief and began to go down on his knees, but once Éseth's fours touched the ground again, she bounded straight for a sibling to fight it, completely ignoring her owner.

"Well, that was rude!" He blinked, laughing softly.

"How did you come by them?" Judson asked, lowering to touch the fur of one that seemed the smallest in comparison to the others.

"Their mother was my pet." Diarmaid replied, watching the multitude with an easy kind of inspection similar to a shepherd's.

"Was?"

"Borzoi died a few years back." He revealed, chewing softly on his lip.

Judson stilled. "I am sorry."

"Hm, that's alright." He shrugged, shaking off the morose countenance that only draped him for a moment. "She was always very reckless."

"What happened to her?"

"Fell off a cliff side. The fall wouldn't have been so fatal if she hadn't sustained incredible injuries." He paused, a faraway look in his eyes. "She bled out before I got to her."

"That is horrible!"

"Yes. None of it would've happened if I'd probably let Phyllis watch her that day."

Phyllis walked forward, mouth hanging open in disbelief. "Now you admit it?"

Diarmaid turned as if oblivious to the fact that she had been standing behind him all along. "Admit what? I don't know what you heard."

"She was just here." Freañin's worried voice came to them. His eyes were clocking from one dog to another in very quick motions. "Elisel has run off."

"Aundlin too." Diarmaid noted. He heaved a sigh as he turned to Judson. "I'm afraid I cannot accompany you to the Curatorium right away."

"I understand completely." Judson nodded, beaming.

"We'll leave him to his father and grandfather duties." Phyllis teased, side glancing at Diarmaid. "Have they come yet?"

"Yes." Diarmaid answered, seeming to understand her question. "They should have reached the Curatorium by now, I believe."

"We have more company?" Judson questioned, keeping a wary gaze on Phyllis. A dog nudged his ankle as it ran past him.

"Friends. Good and dedicated friends. They will ensure that you are kept hidden through all of this." She placed a hand on his arm. "We have to be quiet if we must succeed."

He nodded in understanding.

"I wish you all good luck." Diarmaid waved, his dogs swarming him.

"You'll be needing it a whole lot more, grandpa." Phyllis's chuckle was tainted with harmless mockery.

Freañin went over to Diarmaid and hilariously offered him a consoling grip before climbing onto his horse.

Judson felt rather awkward about riding, but he could not risk flight or even walking. The main aim was to keep him from being seen.

In no time, the marshland had disappeared.

Phyllis rode alongside the empty horse, guiding it by its reins. Freañin rode next to her, and Judson. He wondered in silence why they brought the fourth horse along when Diarmaid had not followed them after all.

"Are these unusual paths?"

Phyllis threw him a glance. "Yes. Locals barely come through this way. It's too close to the forest."

He immediately understood. "The attacks."

No reaction came from her.

"Have there been any recently?"

After observing silence for a while, she heaved a sigh. "Two of our battlements were destroyed on the same day I last visited you in the Guard House. The blame sits upon me."

"Why?"

"I was supposed to appoint and dispatch the soldiers that would keep watch there, but I was absent."

"I've told you, Olwirien, to stop blaming yourself for what happened." Freañin pitched in.

The roads were deserted and awfully silent, thus magnifying the sound of multiple horse feet and his own voice.

"You couldn't have known."

At that, Judson's curiosity spiked. "Known what?" His head whipped to Phyllis, whose expression now carried pain and obvious regret.

"We recorded the first deaths." She revealed in a near whisper. "The lives of ten young Elves were claimed."

Judson's heart dropped. He fought to say something yet found that he had nothing to say. Guilt also began to creep into him and he attempted to distract himself by looking around. Winter no longer appeared so prominent – not in the sense that there was very little snow, but their density seemed to have dwindled by a large margin. Larger trees did not bow from the weight of snow clusters on their branches; pathways and footprints became a tad more evident than before, and there was noticeably lesser chills in the air.

They seemed to be riding around the edge of the Woodlands, where housing structures were fewer and there was
more forest. Nothing looked familiar at all.

At last, the horses were guided into a sloping road.

"Where is this place?" Judson asked, gazing up at the curtain of trees above his head. They provided a soothing shade and there was hardly any snow on the road.

"It's this way to ti torrés." Freañin answered.

"The Roots." Judson translated. Yet he had no idea about it. "What is that?"

"Where Elven knowledge has been seated for eons." The Elf replied with hints of pride in his tone. "Not many non-natives have been shown the path to The Roots nor ever taken down it. You should be honored."

"I am."

Quietly, the company rode down the sloping path that seemed to continue on for a very long way. Derews dwelled abundantly there, zipping in and out of the trees like wisps of smoke and wind.

Eventually, the slope came to an end when they reached a plane that spread out into a new environment. A very strange environment. Up above, taller trees with broader leaves provided even more shelter, and in the distance, there seemed to be the shadow of something large projecting sharply on the ground.

Judson could not tell yet what the thing was because he saw nothing up ahead. However, his breath caught when they rode out from under the shade and he found himself looking up at a building in the air.

The closer he came, the more he realized that the structure was not even what awed him, but its source of support. The entire building was actually suspended by a great tree; one that had grown from an impossible angle and protruded from the farthest corner to hold up the building with far reaching boughs as wide as roads.

"She's an offspring of Cyriñnthr." Phyllis revealed when she had jumped off her horse, pointing to the mighty tree.

"Such a wonder!" He muttered, unable to shake off the numbness that had seized his face. "How many more are there?"

"Her breed does not exist in any other realm." Freañin contributed, guiding them down the rest of the way toward a great silver gate.

A group of Elves patrolled the entrance.

"How was she. . .?" Judson trailed off with a nervous gulp. The size of the tree was dreadful because it seemed to get larger the more he advanced.

"Mailliñn is a symbol of longstanding peace and friendship between the Crysotoni and the Elven." Phyllis shared. "She was planted during the rule of King Morfir – tenth King of Elves. It was he who brought her other parent seed out of Crysoton – a wedding gift given by the Lady Maddei. The seed had been borne from one of Crysoton's greatest and oldest trees. It was used to merge with Cyriñnthr, planted here, and has stood ever since."

"Did the Curatorium exist then?" Judson queried, halting with the others when they reached the front gates.

"Name your business." An Elf ordered.

"Commander!" Another acknowledged.

Phyllis unveiled a little parchment from her belt and held it out. "We have passage rights from Her Majesty, Queen Daya."

"You have to surrender any and all weapons before you may proceed."

As they obliged, Freañin continued the explanation. "In the reign of Morfir, Elves didn't remember to write down what they knew. No, the Curatorium was initiated in the time of Erémel Duñnian. He was Morfir's eighth son and ruled after his father. They called him The Brightest Star because his wisdom knew no limits."

While the gates were being opened, Phyllis took over from Freañin. "He founded Añnathnorir in the East and introduced the first ever Elvish map. Erémel was the greatest scholar in Elven history. He was an Elf to be modeled after."

Judson did not fail to notice the stare he received from the soldiers. Both held onto their bows with such firm grips that he wondered if their minds were workimg in sync.

Inside the compound, they met the foot of a wide curving staircase of silver. The surroundings of Mailliñn nurtured perfect gardens complimented by forest, peaceful quiet, and snow.

"One would think that before then, Elves ought to have thought about penning routes and landmarks, but we just kept it all stashed inside our heads for eons and for generations. I say, it's too much suppressed knowledge that made the Wanderers snap that hard."

Phyllis broke into laughter at that, whereas Judson had no clue what was funny and made no attempts to ask.

"You'd want to mind your footing, Kartogarath." Freañin cautioned. Each silver step was about half a jumping distance from the other. "Although you have the advantage of fluttering if you fell."

Judson risked looking back, very briefly, at the Elf. "What does that even mean?"

"What?" For a moment, Freañin looked confused, then he understood the next second. "Oh! Why, it's just Elvish for Shade."

"And what about nemethil?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"I was called such a few times by a Derew."

"Oh, I see." Freañin laughed quietly. "Well, ethil is wing and neme is tide, or perhaps in this case, deep. Nemethil means deep winged. Rightfully so. It suits you."

The ground was very far away by the time they arrived the top of the stairs. A broad porch intricately decorated from roof to floor presented multiple doors before them. The surrounding showcased beautiful statuettes and a small fountain.

"Let us hope, for our sakes, that she's not too occupied." Phyllis muttered and pushed open the middlemost doors.

The interior was cool and old looking yet attractive. The wooden floors were polished, thereby able to catch faint reflection. Great shelves stood – all perfectly lined – in patterned sections everywhere the eyes could follow. Albeit, space was abundant in the room. Only a few Elves occupied the Curatorium, dressed in attires that made them appear altogether foreign.

The moment he noticed them, Judson found himself staring more at their clothes than anything else.

"Ceylon." Phyllis called, averting his attention.

Ceylon was approaching with two other Elves behind him, although the Elf on the left appeared unusually taller than the rest.

When they closed in, Phyllis turned to look at him. "Judson, meet Regent and Grasiriel. You may call her Grace. They'll both act as your escorts each time you have to visit the Curatorium without us."

Judson's inside tied into nervous knots. It suddenly dawned on him just how much he treasured her company. "I will. . . have to come without you?"

She nodded once and a little smile flashed across her face. "You'll manage. But now I will come with you to see the Historian."

"Is it really true what happened to Waverly?" Grasiriel asked, stepping forward. She looked on the verge of tears.

Regent looped his hand around her own and she let out a soft sniffle. Somehow, the simple act softened Judson. He gave a single nod and caught the silent wince that passed across the She-Elf's face as she fought with her emotions.

"We'll help you however we can." said Regent, consoling his friend with gentle arm rubs. "The Historian is this way. We informed her of your arrival."

"Lead us." Phyllis prompted.

Up another flight of silver stairs they went, and Judson shivered when he got to the curious plane at the top – a great library.

The room felt as though it was detached from the rest of the Curatorium; spacious, artistic in every way, and domed to resemble a bird's eye. This allowed one to see all four cardinal points of the forest as distinct as though he stood outside.

Perched near a section of the dome glass that served as a window was a lady.

Immediately the company walked in, she heaved an audible breath.

"And I almost believed that, for once, I had enough free time to myself."

"We apologize, historian." Phyllis offered.

Then, the She-Elf wheeled and let out the smallest gasp of surprise. "Olwirien?"

Phyllis's grin was wide. She bowed a little as the historian approached. Though the She-Elf's eyes stayed on the Commander, it swept furtively over the rest of the company.

She took Phyllis's shoulder, causing her to stand up straight. "Last I saw you, you were a newly recruited Tyro-in-training. Now, I hear you command your own brigade."

"It's hardly a brigade." Phyllis chuckled with a modest laugh.

"However, you have made me very proud of you." The She-Elf scanned the group again, in a more obvious way than she did before. "I was not told that you would be here today. What brings you?"

"We need your help, Threya." Phyllis's whisper was soft and urgent. She looked the historian in the eyes.

Threya gave slow nods that showed she understood the emergency.

"You may all take a seat." She invited aloud.

As his group dispersed to find seats, Judson found himself standing face to face with the historian, whose head immediately tilted at the sight of him.

"Curious!" Her lips curved into a little smile, then she pointed over his right shoulder. "That one."

He turned about and saw that she was gesturing to a fine stool at the far end of the room with a frame slender enough to support the make of his lower back. It struck him as wonderful that such furniture could even exist.

"Should be more comfortable." She finished.

Threya spun to return to her wide table. When she began to talk, she addressed everybody by name - their Elvish name, with an exception of Judson; whose name she did not bother to ask for. Even though he understood that she was acting upon familiarity, it still made him feel a bit overlooked.

"The Chasma." Threya repeated with a flickering expression of worry when Phyllis had revealed their purpose of visitation.

"Yes." Phyllis confirmed and gestured to Judson beside her. "He is the one in need of whatever information you may have regarding it."

Threya's attention became fixed, completely, on Judson, but she wore a grim look that he could not decipher and studied him for a few moments.

"Gzrel." She breathed afterwards.

He nodded in confirmation. "He told me your Curatorium will prove useful."

"Of course he did," Threya muttered, appearing frustrated. "and he wasn't wrong."

"You seem certain it was Gzrel who gave him directions. How's that possible?" Ceylon queried.

Threya beamed in disbelief. "Are you really asking me that? You think I wouldn't recognize it if a god walked into my library in my absence?"

"Gzrel is a god?" Freañin piped to Phyllis in a whisper with his head lowered.

"He is more of a healer to the gods. A physician of a kind." Threya revealed, plopping into her chair. The seat was crafted to resemble a slender tree with delicately thin branches from which hung several objects that Judson doubted were mere trinkets and decorations. A powerful aura oozed out of them, filling the atmosphere to the very brim.

"How so?" Freañin questioned again, folding both hands under his pits. "I thought the gods never fall sick or get hurt, at least not fatally."

"You thought right, Freañin." confirmed Threya without lifting her eyes. She seemed to be browsing through a flat book made of the finest kind of brown paper. "Gzrel's abilities are not meant for injuries of the body. He is blessed with a kind of power no other god has ever possessed."

Then, she looked up - at everyone. "He mends a god's essence when it is broken or disunited."

"In that case, a god that has been touched by something as lethal as Heaven's Medal can be made whole again by Gzrel?" Judson asked with lifted brows, thinking back on the old Grump's spectacular healing approach and another past memory he all but forgot ever happened.

Threya looked straight at him and the shortest hum sounded from her throat.

Then, she refocused on her book.

"I do have records of the Chasma from since the time of The Learned himself and before, but you cannot be granted access to them unless—"

"The Queen has granted us access already, historian." Phyllis cut in and provided the little parchment again.

Threya reached around the roll, as if she would take it, then drew back her fingers satisfactorily.

Judson found her mannerisms strange yet very interesting. She was unlike any other Elf he had met.

"As My Lady wills then." She agreed. "Is there a reason you seek to research on the Chasma?"

At that instant, Phyllis turned to Grace and Regent. "You didn't tell her?"

"Obviously not." Threya responded, chuckling, and relaxed into her chair.

"It was too difficult for us to." Regent confessed.

Then, Threya's humor fell.

She sat up slowly, eyes raking across the group. "What was too difficult to tell?"

Phyllis heaved a sigh and it showed that she was equally finding it difficult to retell the grave news. "One of our own was taken through The Chasma some three years ago. Aurdreñn Hlyré." (Child of War)

A humorous frown came over Judson's face as he realized that the Elves had actually bestowed a lot more than just a few titles and nicknames upon Waverly.

From what he knew, a single title could command great authority amongst the Elves, even amongst Humans. But since his departure from The Grand Ale, more than three titles had been used to refer to her, which meant that Waverly commanded a staggering height of respect among the Elven - one that could even match a King's authority.

The realization covered him with cold goosebumps.

"How did this happen?" Threya was mortified.

"I believe our Dakritonian friend can give you the details." Freañin offered, gesturing to Judson. "He saw it happen. He was there."

Judson leaned forward to rest against the table, eyes down yet so far away, though he knew everyone was staring at him attentively. He reached far into his memory, where the dreadful event was deep-seated, always churning to erupt to the surface.

"There was a gate." He felt his forehead grow warm as he squinted in remembrance. Trying alons caused him a physical headache. "It was left ajar, as if its lock had either been broken or taken away."

He paused to peep the historian and saw that she was attentive.

"We wanted to leave, but. . . she went back to confirm something she thought she saw. Eyér Virga. Elemental spirits, she called them. While we looked, something grabbed her by the ankle."

He felt a hand rest on his back and turned to see Phyllis. Her eyes were greatly clouded by tears, but none had fallen yet.

"Did you see what did?" She asked in a whisper.

"No," He answered, shaking his head and clasped both hands to rest against his nose bridge. He, too, was moved to weep. "but it was a very powerful thing. It dragged her from where we stood and right through the gate."

He began to feel himself inflate and fought against it to prevent from hyperventilating. "I followed as quickly as I could. I caught her."

Then, he looked at Phyllis. As if on cue, tears fell from both their eyes.

"It was too strong nonetheless." He went on, unable to banish the scenario from his mind. Instead, he settled on Waverly's face - her beautiful face marked by extreme horror. He could never forget it.

"I think it might have been hurting her somehow. Then it took her away, far from me and into the largest vacuuming depression I ever saw."

For a while, the room stayed silent, breeched at intervals by a soft sniffle here and there, until the historian spoke up at last. She sounded nothing like herself then.

"I did not ever think that any tale, whether past or present, would have the power to break my soul as this has just done." She bowed her head, exposing complicated braids interwoven in her hair.

When she looked up again, composure seemed to have overtaken her once more. "Can you tell me where this awful incident took hold?"

Judson wiped his eyes and sat back against his stool. "The Empyreal Homestead."

Instantly, Threya froze.