Sitting atop a distant hill, the Tower of Githel rose above the forest canopy like a broken spine of stone. Even from afar, its circular upper structure could be seen drifting between the treetops—silent, watchful, and unchanged through the passing cycles. The forest curved away from it, as if even nature refused to come closer.
This was the Tower of Githel, a place spoken of only in lowered voices and half-remembered warnings. No roads led cleanly to it anymore. Paths faded long before reaching its shadow, swallowed by overgrowth and time. It was said to hold the final workings and deepest studies of Lord Githel himself, though few agreed on what that truly meant.
Though not the first to wield Encara, Githel became its most devoted scholar. Where others treated the magic as a tool, he treated it as a language to be deciphered. His work extended beyond known limits, pushing Encara into forms and applications no recorded mage had achieved. Some claimed he spoke to it directly. Others believed he simply listened longer than anyone else dared.
In time, the strain of his research bent even his own mortality. Whether through spellcraft, alteration, or something far less understood, Githel endured nearly a full hundred cycles—far beyond the span of ordinary men. The man who had begun as a scholar was, by the end, something closer to a legend than a person.
But such changes did not go unnoticed.
The shifting of the land around the tower, the unnatural persistence of Encara in the soil and air, and the slow corruption of nearby game and water eventually reached the attention of the crown. Reports spoke of animals refusing to enter certain boundaries, of compasses failing, of men who returned from scouting parties with no memory of what they had seen. Fear, once distant, became impossible to ignore.
Fearing the spread of a force they could neither control nor contain, the king issued a single order: the source must be ended.
A dozen soldiers were sent to the tower with no expectation of negotiation. No request for surrender. Only a directive—clear and absolute—to eliminate the origin of the phenomenon by any means necessary.
They entered expecting a man—perhaps a mad scholar, perhaps a dying mage clinging to power.
What answered them was not a man at all.
The interior of the tower erupted in a sudden, violent bloom of light and force. It did not explode outward like ordinary fire or siege magic, but unfolded in layers, as though reality itself had been peeled open from within. Windows shattered in cascading bursts of glass and stone. Walls buckled and vented pressure through every opening. Flame and arcane discharge tore downward through the structure, ripping through floor after floor in a collapsing wave of force.
The heavy doors were blown outward on impact, then snapped shut again as if pulled by invisible hands, their hinges screaming under the strain.
The two sentries outside were thrown from their feet, skidding across broken ground as the shockwave rolled through the treeline.
Githel was never seen again.
Any attempt to enter the tower was met with the presence of Encara itself—no longer contained within its walls, but radiating outward like a living presence. Those who approached spoke of an overwhelming dread that turned them away before they could even reach the doors. The air grew heavy near its edge, as though the forest itself resisted intrusion. The few who pushed through and entered regardless never came back outside.
With each failed attempt, the tower’s reputation hardened into warning. The surrounding forest was abandoned to time, left untouched for hundreds of seasons. Nature reclaimed the land in silence, yet never erased the structure itself. Animals still passed through the trees beyond its reach, unbothered by the unseen boundary that marked its domain against all of mankind.
Over time, the presence of Encara did not fade. It settled and lingered in the air, subtle but persistent, as if the tower had become less a place and more a condition of the land itself.
And so the Tower of Githel remained for many years untouched. People learned quickly to avoid it.
This was the story we had been told for years. One that passed down through the ages.
Which is exactly why Sagar brought us here…
Staring up at the tower, I felt my stomach tighten. I didn’t like how close we were—the feeling made me uneasy. Even from this distance, I could make out the rough, jagged stone, every uneven edge too clear for comfort. It loomed in a way that didn’t feel natural. The vines crawling along its surface gave off a faint blue glow, even under daylight, and that alone was enough to make my skin crawl.
A chill slid down my spine. I turned away, putting a few more steps between myself and that thing, and headed toward Lyle. If I kept looking at it, I’d start imagining things. Better not to give it the chance.
As I approached, Lyle gave a quick nod before diving back into the brush, pushing aside branches like he expected something to leap out at him.
“I’m starting to wonder why we’re even scouring this place,” I said, irritation creeping in as I watched him. “We’ve been at this for weeks. Weeks, Lyle. All for a clue about some Sprite Stone.”
I crouched and started digging through the undergrowth more out of habit than hope. At this point, it felt pointless. Why had I even joined up in the first place?
Lyle popped his head out of a bush, blond hair no longer slicked back, strands sticking out in every direction.
“Spirit stone,” he corrected, brushing leaves from his shoulder. “And you might want to watch who hears you say that, Trevor.” A smirk tugged at his voice. “If Sagar catches it, he won’t be happy.”
I shot him a sharp look. “You know I don’t go by that name anymore.” My voice came out colder than intended. “That’s a life I left behind. And besides, no one’s close enough to hear me.”
I pushed through the brush again, searching for anything that might resemble a clue. The forest was thick—too thick. Everything was tangled together in layers of green that snagged at my clothes with every step.
“Isn’t Trek just a short version of your name?” Lyle asked, pulling himself free of the bush. “How do you leave your name behind while still keeping part of it?”
“Simple,” I muttered, standing and stretching out my back. “I leave the rest of it behind. Everything tied to it. What’s left is mine.”
I tilted my head back, looking through the canopy. The sun hung overhead, light breaking through scattered leaves. Off to the side, the small moon drifted across the horizon’s edge, beginning its first cycle of the day.
After a moment, I glanced around. Not that it mattered much—but I didn’t feel like drawing Sagar’s attention today.
I hadn’t been with the Nightmen long. They had already been traveling for over a cycle and two seasons before I joined. I came in just after the last season turned, when Sagar appeared in my town.
He had a way of talking—of making everything sound larger than it was. Said he traveled the land searching for artifacts that could bring peace. Peace in a world that hadn’t seen it in over a century. Long enough that most people didn’t even know what peace looked like anymore.
Back then, I was just another street rat trying to survive. Nearly a couple of cycles on my own, barely scraping by, and approaching adulthood with nothing to show for it. When he offered a way out, I took it without hesitation.
Anything was better than starving in an alley.
Now we were half a mile off the main path, not far from camp. Sagar kept saying we were close—closer than ever—to finding something that would end the war. Some artifact that would change everything. The Spirit Stone.
I wanted to believe him. I really did. But belief didn’t make the raids sit any better.
Sometimes we hit villages that refused to trade, only taking what we needed. At least, that’s what we were told. Sometimes we took more. Those were the days that stuck with me—the ones that made my stomach twist. But Sagar always said the same thing: survival left no room for hesitation.
Still… I didn’t have anything to go back to. So I stayed.
We’d been chasing lead after lead—old documents, scraps of books, half-decayed parchment from someone long dead. The latest was supposed to be the most promising yet: a hidden script pointing to the Spirit Stone’s location.
According to that scribe, the clue was hidden inside a stone somewhere off Little Rock Road. Something ordinary. Something people had searched for and never found.
We’d been looking for over twenty days. At this point, it felt like a fool’s errand.
We’re never going to find it…
“I found it!”
The shout tore through the forest.
For a moment, everything froze—then the camp erupted. People rushed toward the voice, some shouting, others pushing through the trees to get there first. A few hung back, slower, more doubtful after so many false alarms.
I didn’t wait. I moved with them, weaving through brush until I reached the man who called out.
At first glance, it looked like just a large rock. The longer I stared, the less I believed that.
It was a small container, carved to resemble roots wrapping around stone. The craftsmanship was precise—deliberate—made to disappear into a place like this. About the size of three fists, maybe a little more.
The only reason it had been found at all was the color. Slightly off from the surrounding stone. Something no one would notice unless they were already searching for it.
People crowded in behind me, nearly pushing me forward.
Carefully, it was passed around and examined. Hollow. Something was inside.
A familiar weight pressed through the crowd.
“Hand it here.”
Sagar’s voice didn’t need to be loud to command attention.
He took the container with a firm, controlled grip that reminded everyone exactly who he was. Up close, he was imposing—taller than most, built like he could end a man without effort.
And sharp. Sharper than most gave him credit for.
That was why he led. Strength helped—but it was his mind, and his words, that kept people following.
Pelts hung across his shoulders—wolf, deer, and creatures touched by Encara. The most distinct was a carved elbow of a Tirbor, shaped into a dragon-headed shoulder guard on his right side. He had taken that elemental creature down himself. Most would never have tried.
Tirbors were formed from earth and root, animated by Encara energy. Usually calm. Usually harmless. But territorial when disturbed.
The story went that the Nightmen once camped unknowingly on a Tirbor’s ground. When it returned, most of the camp broke and ran before the first real impact ever landed. Sagar didn’t. He stood his ground and met it head-on. By the time it was over, the Tirbor was down—and he walked away wearing part of its arm as it had always belonged there.
Sagar turned the container over, fingers tracing its carved surface until he found a hidden latch. It clicked open.
He pulled out the parchment and read.
For a moment, the entire group held its breath.
Then he smiled.
“Well done,” he said. “This is it.”
A wave moved through the crowd.
“You’re excused from packing,” he added to the man who found it, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him slightly. “Take your rest.”
A few groans followed—jealousy, plain and simple.
Sagar turned, voice rising.
“We leave within the hour. Move!”
That was all it took.
The camp broke into motion.
And just like that, the next leg of the journey began.
Up ahead, I caught sight of Sagar already walking, reading the parchment as he moved.
Why hide something like this so far out?
And more importantly, what made it worth hiding at all?
I still didn’t understand the plan. Not really. Find the stone. Use it. End the war between Ashir and Geld.
Sagar made it sound simple.
So we followed.
After a while, we reached the caravan. Activity surged immediately—supplies being loaded, tents dismantled, wagons packed.
The man who found the container—Armand, I learned—sat off to the side, eating with Sagar like it was just another day. Talk about good fortune.
I went back to work, securing bundles onto wagons. Around me, others carried crates, tools, and supplies. Ever since we’d taken that Geld caravan, travel had become easier. Wagons changed everything. Packing, however, never got better.
There were around a hundred and thirty of us. Mostly men, a few women. Leather armor was common—easy to replace. A few wore only cloth, usually those who stayed behind the fighting lines, like Lyle and me.
Neither of us was a fighter. I wasn’t weak, but I never had the nerve for battle. Lyle was better with wounds than weapons anyway.
As I tightened another strap, something near Sagar caught my eye.
A woman was approaching him. Confident. Direct. Unfamiliar. That alone was enough to stand out.
“Lyle… Who is that?” I questioned as i kept my eyes locked on her every move.
“Who…” Lyle cut off as he looked to see who I was talking about. “Oh, that would be Nissa. She joined up with us from the last town. Some Farmer’s daughter who wanted to run away.”
She had a lean build, sun-touched skin, and long brown hair tied back. Her eyes caught the light in a way that made them seem almost brighter than they should be.
I hadn’t seen her before. How would I have missed her this whole time?
“Sir,” she said calmly, “supplies are nearly packed. Where are we heading next?”
Others noticed her, too. No one reacted—no one stopped her.
Sagar studied her for a moment.
“The stone lies near Whitespear Mountain,” he said. “In a valley beyond it.”
Then he turned to the rest of us. “Who can work with water?” A few hands rose.
“We’ll need more,” he continued. “Snow will block the canyon pass this time of year. We head for Liandra. We’ll gather what we need there.”
Stop reading here
Story still under development.