We were in the library when I first heard it—a sound so faint it could have been mistaken for the whisper of wind through cracks in the stone walls. A voice, barely audible, asking for help. The plea was weak, fragile as a dying flame, but there was something profoundly familiar about it. It carried the distinctive cadence of someone I had known, someone very close to my heart, though I couldn't immediately place who it might be.
I lifted my head up from the book I had buried myself in that morning, my attention completely diverted from the philosophical text I had been studying. The words on the page before me blurred into insignificance as I strained to hear more. And then it came again—another weak plea: "Help me, I don't want to die." The desperation in those words made my chest tighten with alarm. I was thoroughly confused. Who had said that? Where was the source of this mysterious voice coming from? It seemed to have no particular direction, as though it originated from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously.
In front of me sat Sagar, who had been diligently writing something on the paper spread before him. He worked with focused concentration, occasionally pausing to read passages from the hefty tome open beside his notes—*Account Settlements Volume 06*, a text as dry and technical as its title suggested. He didn't look as though he had heard anything unusual at all. His attention remained completely absorbed in his studies, so much so that he didn't even notice when I raised my head and stared at him, searching his face for any sign that he too had heard the voice. There was nothing. No flicker of recognition, no pause in his writing, no indication whatsoever that anything out of the ordinary had occurred.
To my right side sat Katherine, equally engrossed in her own work. She had a book written in Arthian positioned before her, and a permanent frown of concentration creased her forehead. She was clearly struggling with the complex language, mumbling the words she read under her breath as she attempted to master the proper pronunciation. Each syllable was carefully formed, tested, adjusted. She certainly wasn't the source of the voice I had heard—for one thing, it had been undeniably male in timbre, deep despite its weakness.
And neither of them showed any sign whatsoever of having heard what I had. They continued their respective tasks as though nothing unusual had transpired, as though the air around us hadn't just carried a desperate plea for help.
So I decided that perhaps I had heard it wrong. Perhaps the voice had been nothing more than my imagination, some trick of fatigue or stress manifesting as auditory hallucination. I forced myself to return my attention to the book before me and began reading from where I had stopped, though the words now seemed to carry less weight than they had moments before.
*"...The wonder of life lies in a person's power over their own existence. You may believe that you lack power over your decisions or the path you are choosing, but the reality is that you do possess agency over yourself. You alone decide whether to take action or to refrain from it. Each action you take shapes the trajectory of your life. Your thoughts crystallize into actions, and each action molds the course of your existence..."*
The philosophical musings of the ancient scholar seemed particularly hollow in that moment, especially when I heard it again—this time, unmistakably, my own name. Someone had uttered my name with more pain and desperation than I could adequately process. The sound carried such anguish that it made my heart clench painfully in my chest.
"Rhia—" the voice had whispered, drawn out as though speaking even that single syllable cost tremendous effort.
There were very few people who called me by that particular shortened version of my name. And each and every one of them was precious to me, woven into the fabric of my heart in ways that made them irreplaceable. The realization that one of those cherished few might be in mortal danger sent ice flooding through my veins.
I closed the book I was reading with a decisive thud that echoed through the quiet library. *The Meaning of Life by Tarhan Gunasera*, the title proclaimed in elegant script. Whatever wisdom it contained would have to wait.
"Did you hear that?" I asked urgently, looking between the two people beside me. They both lifted their heads from their respective works, confusion evident on their faces.
"Hear what, my queen?" Katherine asked, her frown deepening as she studied my expression with growing concern.
"I didn't hear anything, sister-in-law," Sagar replied, clearly baffled by my sudden intensity. He glanced around the library as though expecting to discover the source of whatever had disturbed me.
This couldn't be. Was this something only I could perceive? But I tried to dismiss the thought. Perhaps I had simply misheard, or perhaps the others had been too absorbed in their studies to notice a subtle sound.
Then Aiona decided to interject, her mental voice carrying an edge of dark amusement that made my stomach sink.
"You didn't hear it wrong," she informed me with what could only be described as mockery threading through her words. "It was indeed someone calling for you—from the eastern woods, just before the Gorei Plains begin."
*What?* I demanded silently, my thoughts tumbling over themselves in confusion and disbelief.
How was that even remotely possible?
The place where the Gorei Plains began was miles away from the castle. How could I possibly hear something from such a distance? The very notion defied all logic and natural law. Human hearing simply didn't function that way, couldn't function that way. Even my enhanced senses had limits—or so I had believed.
Instead of providing a direct answer to my mental question, the dragon laughed. The sound reverberated through my consciousness with infuriating satisfaction.
"You arrogant creature!" she chided, her tone mixing reproach with something almost like affection. "This serves you right, always fantasizing about escape when the inevitable surrounds you on all sides. Why do you think you can suddenly hear voices from miles away? You have been transforming into something beyond human for quite some time now. That process started long ago, though you've been determinedly ignoring the signs. You cannot outrun this metamorphosis, and you certainly cannot escape it through wishful thinking or denial."
She paused, and when she continued, her tone had shifted to something more serious, almost commanding.
"And you had better go find the owner of that voice immediately. If you don't, you are going to regret it for the rest of your life—however long or short that existence might prove to be."
Then she abruptly shut herself off, severing our mental connection as decisively as slamming a door. The sudden absence of her presence left me feeling oddly bereft, even as I processed what she had revealed.
I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping against the stone floor with a harsh sound that made both Katherine and Sagar start in surprise. I walked toward the library door with swift, determined strides, and Katherine immediately rose to follow me, clearly alarmed by my sudden change in demeanor.
"An urgent matter has come up," I informed the equally confused Sagar over my shoulder before disappearing through the doorway. "I'll finish the lessons later."
I didn't wait to see his reaction or to offer further explanation. There was no time for lengthy discussions or detailed justifications. Someone I cared about was in danger—possibly dying—and every moment I delayed could be the difference between rescue and tragedy.
When I went to find Arvid, he was in the midst of consulting with his soldiers about some tactical matter, his expression serious and his posture radiating authority. Maps were spread across the table before him, and several officers stood at attention, listening to his instructions with focused intensity. It was clearly an important strategic discussion, one that should not be interrupted without cause.
But I had cause.
I marched directly up to him without hesitation and clung to his arm, my fingers gripping the fabric of his sleeve with desperate urgency. The conversation around the table immediately ceased as all eyes turned toward me.
"A friend is in danger, Arvid," I told him without preamble, my voice low but intense. "Please help me. I know where they are, but I need your assistance. I need soldiers, horses, weapons. Please."
To his immense credit, Arvid didn't question me, didn't demand elaborate explanations or express skepticism about my claim. He simply looked into my eyes, read the desperation and certainty there, and gave a sharp nod. Within moments, he was issuing crisp orders to his men, calling for horses to be prepared and a small contingent of soldiers to ready themselves for immediate departure. The efficiency with which he mobilized was remarkable, a testament to both his authority and the discipline of his forces.
---
By the time we were ready and rode out through the castle gates, snow had begun falling again. Large, lazy flakes drifted down from the gray sky, landing on my cloak and hair and the mane of the horse beneath me. It had been quite a while since I had ridden a horse—weeks at least, perhaps longer. My body had grown unaccustomed to the particular rhythm and movement required, and I could already feel the unfamiliar strain in my thighs and lower back. But I had no time to gradually reacquaint myself with the beast that carried me, no luxury of a gentle pace to rebuild my confidence and skill. I pushed the animal to its limits, urging it faster despite the treacherous conditions, though I felt genuinely guilty for driving the poor creature so hard.
Arvid rode directly beside me, matching my pace without question or complaint. He followed my lead even though I had given him no specific destination, trusting that I knew where we were going. Several of his soldiers followed as well, forming a protective circle around us as we thundered across the snow-covered landscape. Their presence was both comforting and concerning—comforting because danger might await us, concerning because their skepticism was almost palpable even through their disciplined silence.
It took considerable time to reach the border of the Gorei Plains, where the thick tree line became visible against the horizon—a dark smudge of forest rising from the white expanse. Without hesitation, I directed my horse into those woods, plunging from open ground into the shadowed, tangled wilderness. Arvid and the soldiers followed without question, though I could sense their growing confusion about our destination and purpose.
After entering the woods, our pace inevitably slowed. It was simply impossible to maintain a gallop through thick forest filled with undergrowth, fallen logs, and low-hanging branches that threatened to sweep riders from their saddles. We were forced to navigate carefully, picking our way through the dense vegetation. As we proceeded deeper into the forest, I noticed one of the soldiers methodically placing marks on the trees we passed—small cuts in the bark that would help us retrace our path. It was smart, practical thinking. Forests like these could be disorienting, and more than one expedition had become hopelessly lost in similar terrain.
Throughout our journey, I continued to stop periodically, reining in my horse and sitting utterly still as I strained to hear that voice again. For the last hour, I had been catching fragments of it—weak pleas for help, gasping repetitions of my name, sounds of suffering that made my heart race with anxiety. But as we drew deeper into the forest, the voice had gradually faded and then fallen completely silent. No matter how intently I listened, no matter how I focused all my enhanced senses on detecting that familiar sound, it never came again. Instead, I heard a multitude of other noises—the rustling of small animals in the undergrowth, the creaking of branches laden with snow, even the nearly inaudible flutter of insect wings. Everything except the one sound I desperately needed to hear.
We finally stumbled upon a clearing—a roughly circular space where the trees thinned and weak afternoon light penetrated to the forest floor. I stopped my horse at the edge of this open area, holding up one hand to signal the others to halt as well. Then I closed my eyes and listened with every fiber of my being, trying to recapture that thread of sound that had guided us this far.
Nothing. Only silence, or rather, only the ordinary sounds of the forest. No voice calling for help, no whispered plea, no utterance of my name.
Frustration mounting, I guided my horse around the perimeter of the clearing once, then twice, hoping that movement might somehow help me reorient on the source of that mysterious voice. But the result remained the same. Was this truly the end of the trail? Had I led us all the way out here only to arrive at a dead end?
The soldiers' faces had visibly transformed, disappointment and skepticism now openly displayed where before they had maintained professional neutrality. I understood their reaction. They had not believed me initially when I had claimed to hear a friend's voice calling for help from miles away. Such a thing was impossible, after all. But Arvid had believed me—or at least, he had trusted me enough to act on my conviction—which meant the soldiers had been forced to follow along, setting aside their duties and riding out into increasingly hostile terrain. Only to end up here, apparently for nothing. I understood their frustration completely. In their position, I would likely feel the same way.
But my own anxiety far exceeded their disappointment. What if I was too late? What if the person who had begged so desperately for my help was already beyond assistance? What if their silence meant not that they had moved out of range, but that they had died while I was still trying to reach them? These terrible possibilities kept rising and falling in my mind like a dark tide, making me increasingly desperate. The thought that one of the few people precious enough to call me by that intimate nickname might be dying—might already be dead—while I sat uselessly in this clearing was almost unbearable.
I was on the verge of despair, considering whether to expand our search in concentric circles or to admit defeat, when something emerged from the undergrowth at the clearing's far edge.
It was a wolf.
Not just any wolf, but the very same creature I had seen in last night's prophetic dream. I recognized it immediately—the particular pattern of its fur, the intelligent gleam in its eyes, the way it moved with purposeful deliberation rather than the wary caution of ordinary wild animals. It sniffed the ground in exactly the same manner I had witnessed in the dream, nose down and head moving in a systematic search pattern. Then it lifted its gaze directly toward me, those strange, knowing eyes locking onto mine with unmistakable intent. It let out a huff—that same exasperated sound from the dream, as though annoyed by my slowness—and then began to slowly retreat beyond the tree line, moving deeper into the forest with measured steps.
Understanding flooded through me with absolute certainty. I knew instinctively that I needed to follow this creature, that it would lead me where I needed to go. The dream had not been mere fantasy but genuine prophecy, a glimpse of what was to come. The wolf was a guide, sent or appearing exactly as foretold.
Without explanation or hesitation, I urged my horse forward, following the wolf as it moved through the trees. Behind me, I heard Arvid's voice calling out a command to his soldiers, and then the sound of multiple horses following. They came with me despite their confusion, despite the apparent madness of pursuing a wild animal deeper into unknown forest.
But I had faith now. The wolf would lead us to whoever had called my name. It had to. The alternative was simply too devastating to contemplate.