Wolf's Rest betrayed (entry 85)

Dear diary,
 
As I write this, my hands tremble with barely contained rage. Each letter bleeds from me like venom, a small act of defiance against the fire coursing through my veins. I tell myself that setting these thoughts to paper will calm the tempest in my heart — that by writing them down, I might keep from unleashing them upon my friends. They may deserve my disappointment, yes, but not my anger. Not yet.
 
It has been a very long day. My body aches — from exhaustion, from wounds half-healed, and from the fury coiled behind my ribs. Sleep is a stranger I will not know tonight, not until I empty this storm onto the page.
 
The last time I wrote, we had just returned from the temple of air — a triumph that now feels like a lifetime ago. The following days passed in relative calm, the road home stretching long and uneventful. I had not thought them worth recording. How foolish that seems now.
 
We reached our keep on the eve of Haggayn, that wretched and wondrous night when the hags’ coven roams the streets of Keralon, free to snatch away any child unlucky enough to cross their path. Once, it was a night of fear, when families barred their doors and whispered prayers to gods who did not answer. Now, it is little more than a festival — all bonfires, masks, and laughter. A night of games built upon a graveyard of old terrors.
 
But for us, it was meant to be different. I knew Auntie Patty would strike tonight. I could feel it like a chill in my bones — that this would be the night she came for the Tommel child.
 
So I went to them. To make certain.
 
The air in Wolf’s Rest was thick with the scent of roasted squash and sweet bread, the hum of preparations rising from every street. Emma Tommel greeted me with a warm smile, her hands dusted in flour, her cheeks flushed from the oven’s heat. She assured me all was well — that she, her husband, and their child were safe. To prove it, she pressed a slice of pumpkin pie into my hands, still steaming and rich with spice. I thanked her and ate it as I walked back toward the keep, trying to let the sweetness soothe the gnawing unease in my chest.
 
It didn’t work.
 
By the time I reached the others, the courtyard had transformed into a whirlwind of foolishness. My companions were parading about in festival costumes. Laughing. Competing over masks and trinkets, as if the night were nothing but a game.
I wanted to shout at them. To shake them and remind them that there are monsters who wear no masks at all.
 
But I didn’t. Not yet.
 
I had fully intended to go as myself — the black-robed scholar of ill omens, as predictable as dusk. But Liliana, with that mix of charm and stubbornness she wields so well, insisted I do something special. So, against my better judgment, I relented.
If I was to play along with this farce of joy, I would at least twist it into mockery. I raided the keep’s wardrobe until I unearthed the most offensively flamboyant noble’s outfit imaginable — a swirl of emerald, gold, and crimson that made my eyes ache just to look at. The crowning humiliation was the hat: an oversized monstrosity with a plume so large it deserved its own postal address.
 
So there I sat, in the heart of Wolf’s Rest, draped in absurd finery, pretending to celebrate while the world quietly rotted beneath its own laughter. My companions laughed, music drifted through the square, lanterns bobbed on the wind — and still my thoughts lingered on the shadows creeping ever closer. The hags. The Feywild. The unseen rot threading its way into Keralon’s heart.
 
It was almost a relief when I saw her.
 
Auntie Patty.
 
Standing at the edge of the forest like a stain on the night, watching the festival as though it were a memory she could no longer touch.
 
Gael and I rose in unspoken agreement, slipping away from the laughter and the lanternlight. As we crossed the grass, I felt that familiar tightening in my chest — the prickling sense that what stood before us was not quite right. The hag’s grin was painted on like cracked porcelain.
 
When Gael asked her what she was doing here, her voice came soft and simple:
 
“Taking part in the festivities, of course. I’m heading into the city proper.”
 
Something in the way she said it — the careful phrasing, the way her left hand rubbed at her wrist like an old wound — made my skin crawl.
 
“Why?” I pressed. “Why leave Wolf’s Rest?”
 
She hesitated, then gave a small, brittle shrug.
 
“Mistakes get punished,” she murmured. “This year, Wolf’s Rest will be safe from us.”
 
The bitterness in her voice didn’t sound like defiance. It sounded like fear.
 
Whoever held her leash was stronger than she was — and that thought chilled me more than any threat she could have uttered.
 
Before I could press her further, she turned and slipped away into the dark, vanishing toward Keralon.
 
Gael and I exchanged a look and hurried back toward the green to warn the others. But the moment our boots hit the grass, the air cracked with a deafening thunderclap — the kind that seems to tear the sky in two. Snow began to drift down, soft and shimmering, settling on the feast tables and flickering torches.
 
From that storm of frost, a snowman stumbled forward, absurdly out of place — until it moved. Until it looked at us.
 
And then, of course, it wasn’t a snowman at all.
 
The illusion melted away like morning frost, revealing Vivienne. Her bow was graceful, mocking, and her eyes gleamed with that mercurial light the powerful fey wear when they’re trying to look harmless.
 
“I’ve come for the festival,” she said, voice light as frost, as though she weren’t a being who could unravel a soul for amusement.
 
It was ridiculous, and yet… utterly believable.
 
With a sigh, I offered her one of my robes and cloaks — something simple, practical, to hide her otherworldly gleam among mortals. She accepted it with surprising sincerity, the faintest curve of a genuine smile softening her otherwise glacial composure.
 
And that, perhaps, was the most unsettling thing of all.
 
As evening began to fall, someone suggested that we should head to court — as is apparently expected of nobles on such an occasion. I can’t imagine why I should go, considering recent events. I’m not a noble, which made for a very convenient excuse to stay behind. And, truthfully, someone had to keep watch over Wolf’s Rest. The idea of leaving the entire village unguarded on the one night when something was bound to happen seemed, to me at least, the height of folly.
 
Dynia, Lumeria, and Vivienne went along, of course. I can understand Vivienne’s interest — the politics of mortals must seem like a game of glass chess to someone like her. But displaying Lumeria before the king, knowing he’s somehow connected to King Ulther, felt dangerously shortsighted. And taking Dynia? Even more so.
 
So I stayed. I ate and drank with the villagers, listened to their stories, laughed where it felt appropriate. It was almost peaceful.
 
Until Lady Rootskewer joined me.
 
My would-be ally.
 
I had hoped she might appear — I needed answers, after all — and she didn’t disappoint. When I asked about the true history of Sister Willow and Brother Stalker, she seemed genuinely taken aback by the question, but promised to return later that night to tell me what she knew.
 
More importantly, she confirmed what I had begun to suspect ever since my talk with Auntie Patty: the hags would stay away from Wolf’s Rest tonight.
 
Apparently, because of me.
 
It seems they’ve decided it’s wiser not to antagonize me. I’m still not sure whether to feel honored by that… or terrified.
 
Rootskewer also told me I needn’t worry about Tommel’s bargain with Auntie Patty — she had used her influence within the coven to claim the deal for herself, and then declared she wouldn’t be collecting on it. A gesture of goodwill, she said. I thanked her, though the words tasted strange in my mouth. There’s something deeply unsettling about earning a hag’s favor.
 
With that, she departed for Keralon proper. Wolf’s Rest might be safe tonight, but I doubted the same could be said for the city.
 
When the others finally returned from court, I was more than happy to share the good news about Tommel and his family. They, in turn, brought troubling news of their own. Lumeria, it seems, had gone pale and silent at the mere mention of the king — afraid of being seen. Combined with what Alistan told us, that the king possesses powers similar to those of Ulther, it only strengthens the suspicion that they are one and the same man.
 
As if that weren’t enough, rumors about us have begun to circle through the court.
 
And, of course, none of them are good.
 
We had barely settled back into our seats, the air warm with laughter and the smell of roasted pumpkin, when Gael froze mid-bite. Liliana’s head snapped up beside him, eyes wide.
 
Wolves.
 
The sound cut through the festival like a blade through silk — a low, hungry howl, followed by a chorus of screams. The peace of Wolf’s Rest shattered.
 
We were under attack.
 
I’d expected an assault eventually — something aimed at us, not at the innocent villagers. But whoever orchestrated this was a coward. Two enormous wargs burst onto the green, snarling, eyes gleaming like shards of obsidian. Behind them came the bullywugs — frog-faced wretches, their skin slick and glistening under the lanternlight. They fanned out, surrounding us and the terrified townsfolk.
 
The fight was chaos. Steel against claw, fire against fetid breath. Then, out of nowhere, a familiar voice cried out — and a small satyr darted from the shadows, blade flashing. Ileas. The Delaroosts’ servant boy, the one we hadn’t seen in six years. Somehow, impossibly, he’d found his way back to us.
 
The battle turned bloody but steady. One by one, we cut them down, until the last bullywug fell — and then the ground itself seemed to quake.
 
A fomorian stepped out from between the cottages, towering above the green. Its single eye burned with malice, and the air reeked of iron and decay.
 
We braced ourselves.
 
And then — in the midst of it all — Vivienne appeared. One heartbeat she wasn’t there, the next she was, drifting out of the smoke like some elegant specter. Her gaze locked on Liliana, and before any of us could move, she lunged — trying to tear Gael’s mask from her face.
 
Gael stopped her — barely. Vivienne’s expression flickered, something between anger and regret, before she vanished in a burst of silvery light.
 
The look on Liliana’s face afterward — shock, betrayal, pain — cut deeper than any blade.
Rage burned through me like wildfire.
 
We felled the fomorian with the combined fury of all that remained unspoken. Its corpse struck the earth with a sound that rattled windows. While the others crowded around Ileas, questioning him, I reached out with my mind — sought Vivienne across the planes.
 
She answered.
 
Of course she had tried to steal the mask. Not for herself, but for King Ulther. The same monster who fears Gael’s legacy — and, it seems, us.
 
Before I could press her further, a thunderous explosion echoed from the direction of the city. Flames climbed the skyline, and without hesitation, we ran.
 
When we reached the southern gate, it was barred — the guards not in the city’s livery, but the green and thorned sigil of the Briar Ring. They told us the city was closed to all outsiders, and we were to turn back.
 
We had no time to argue.
 
A distant horn — our horn — sounded from Wolf’s Rest. The alarm.
 
Keralon would have to wait.
 
We turned and rode hard for home.
 
When we crested the hill and saw the keep below, my stomach dropped.
 
The banners still flew — but the courtyard blazed with enemy fire. Shadows danced across the stone walls, and in the flickering light, I saw their faces. Fey.
 
Wolf’s Rest was under siege.
 
I will spare you the details of the fight. It was brutal — desperate — and we were already worn thin from the first assault. Once again we found ourselves surrounded, and this time there was no easy way out. One by one, my friends fell.
In the end, only I remained standing.
 
If it hadn’t been for Fiachna — my loyal companion, my fierce and steadfast friend — I wouldn’t be writing this at all. He dropped a healing berrie in my mouth, buying me the precious seconds I needed to escape. Leaving the others behind felt like tearing my own soul in half, but staying would have been pointless. Dead, I could help no one. So I fled.
 
I made for Wolf’s Rest first, coordinating the evacuation of the villagers while I tended to my own wounds — shallow cuts, deep exhaustion, and the kind of ache that seeps into the bones. Once the villagers were safe and hidden away, I returned to the keep, bracing for the worst.
 
But fate, for once, showed mercy.
 
To my disbelief — and relief beyond words — I found them all alive. Bruised, bloodied, and exhausted, but alive. They were already making their slow way back toward Wolf’s Rest. The fey had left them where they fell, and someone — or something — had healed them just enough to crawl away from the ruins.
 
I met them halfway, and together we returned to the villagers. We had lost people — good people — and more of our guards than I care to count. But our guests, including Rachnar and Dynia, were unharmed. That was something.
 
While I tended to wounds and weary hearts, Gael, Liliana, and Dadroz set out to hunt and scout for supplies. When they returned, their faces were grim. They had stumbled upon a place where the veil between our world and the Feywild had nearly vanished — a shimmer in the air, thin as silk. And there, impaled by a spear through its massive heart, they had found one of Auntie Patty’s giant geese.
 
Another mystery for a night already too full of them.