Dear Diary,
We spent the next few days settling into our new lives in Tarn, so I’ll try to distill only what mattered most — though even the quiet moments felt heavy with meaning after everything we’d endured.
To begin with, I moved back into my old mentor’s house at the edge of the village, right where Tarn’s fields melt into the treeline of Lorewood. Or moved in might be too simple a phrase. Liliana and I practically set about reshaping the place from the moment we arrived — adding new rooms, carving out gardens, sketching the frame of a greenhouse that would take shape once we had the lumber. Terrin kept his half of the house boarded up in the familiar way he preferred, and we simply expanded outward around him like new branches on old roots.
Because I knew the days ahead would be swallowed by construction work and helping Tarn recover from the sudden influx of new residents, I wouldn’t have the time to scout either Rosebloom or the satyr grounds myself. So I sent Fiachna — loyal, sharp-eyed Fiachna — to circle both from the sky.
The news she brought back was… wrong.
The entire valley of Rosebloom drowned under thorns, not merely overgrown but suffocated — every roof, every lane, even Sir Fynn’s keep swallowed in bramble thicker than walls. Fiachna hadn’t dared fly low enough to check for survivors, but she saw no lanternlight, no movement, no hint that anyone still lived there.
The satyr grounds weren’t any kinder on the nerves. According to her, satyrs — a whole cluster of them — were preparing a village there. But Ileas had told us they were nearly wiped out. So what exactly was his “uncle” cultivating on that land? And to what purpose?
Two questions, both stinking of trouble, both demanding answers.
But at least there was one bright spark that cut through the foreboding: a few days after we arrived, Galienne finally woke.
Alistan, who had barely loosened his grip on her hand since we reached Tarn, told her everything — from her final blow against the Black Knight to the fall of Wolf’s Rest. His voice trembled only once.
Gael came to speak with Luke and me about the dreams Dynia had been having since we fled Keralon — strange, too-vivid things for a girl her age. She spoke of places she’d never walked, halls she’d never seen, visions threaded with feywild shimmer: a throne room that mirrored High King Ulther’s almost perfectly, except for the unsettling sense that it was watching her back.
Gael looked worn thin with worry.
I assured him the dreams weren’t dangerous, and certainly weren’t memories clawing their way into her mind. Though I still couldn’t tell him the whole truth — not yet — the reassurance eased something in his shoulders. He let the matter rest, at least for the moment.
The very next day he returned, though this time his concern had nothing to do with Dynia. He needed to perform a ritual deep within Lorewood — a summoning of a Moonshadow — and, well… Gael knows his luck. Or rather, his lack of it. He asked if the rest of us would accompany him, just to be safe.
Naturally, we agreed.
Lorewood was quiet as we entered, too quiet, the way it gets before something old decides to take notice. Once Gael found a clearing bathed in pale morning light, he lifted his flute and played a melody that curled through the branches like silver smoke — haunting, delicate, edged with longing. It should have called a Moonshadow.
Instead, something far more formidable descended.
A winged lion — massive, majestic, terrible — touched down before us, feathers shimmering like hammered bronze. A sphinx of valor. And the first thing it did was level its golden stare at Gael and accuse him of treachery, mistaking him for Vincent.
Gael tried to surrender, hands lifted, voice steady as he attempted to explain.
The sphinx didn’t care.
It lunged.
The fight was short but vicious, a blur of claws, radiant light, and the ringing of steel. When we finally forced the creature to retreat, the clearing looked as though a storm had ripped through it.
We stood there catching our breath, half-wondering if Gael’s ritual had failed — until someone noticed Gael’s silhouette on the ground. Or rather… silhouettes. Two shadows, one crisp and familiar, the other darker, deeper, wrong.
When Gael spoke to the second one, it peeled away from his feet like ink lifting off parchment and shaped itself into a shadow-cat, its eyes two violet pinpricks. It regarded him with a knowing tilt of the head, as if amused by the chaos it had orchestrated.
We left Gael to speak privately with his new companion — or counterpart, or omen; with shadow-things, one never truly knows — and walked back to Tarn.
Gael followed later, now the somewhat bewildered but undeniably proud bearer of not one, but two shadows.