Jasper slept lightly that night, waking up well before the others. He tiptoed quietly through the room to retrieve some leftovers from the still smoldering fire and sat back down on the edge of his bed to eat. As he brushed the last crumbs of ash cake off his finger, his eyes fell on the book he had been looking at last night. Sitting down at the desk, he flipped through its pages. The book was written in a language he did not recognize, the text composed in a strange, blocky script that vaguely resembled cuneiform. But despite his inability to read the words, the book was fascinating. Every page was filled with illustrations of grotesque monsters and deities, most prominent amongst them Selene and the strange stag god from the shrine.

Jasper did not recognize the stag deity from his time playing the game, and he wondered if he had finally stumbled upon the heresy of Als̆arratu. But, he had not sensed anything dark in the deity’s presence, so perhaps the rumors of dark sorcery in Als̆arratu had been unfounded. A cursed city of the undead was likely to spark gossip, true or not.

As he flipped through the book, a thought occurred to him. The diadem had somehow enabled him to hold the misericorde without burning; perhaps it could let him read the text. He didn’t really know how to interact with it, but awkwardly tried to send his mind towards it, imagining himself sending out a mental wave against its walls. Please, help me read this text. At first, nothing happened. Jasper was just about to give up when the diadem exuded a sense of pressure. The fire in the room flickered for a second, as if someone was rapidly flicking the lights off and on, and then it cleared.

When Jasper looked down at the page before him, adorned with a large illustration of the stag, he watched in wonder as the words slowly morphed before him into text that he could read.

The Great Stag, Ayyalu, was conceived in the time of mourning by Selene and her lover Tsiāhu. When her consort, Shamsha, returned from the land of the dead, he was angered by the child’s existence. So when the child came of age, he was banished from the heavens. But his mother watched over him, and blessed him with the divine spark.

When he first descended from the heavens, Ayyalu found himself in the land of the fey, the children of Tsiāhu by other mothers. They did not embrace him, rejecting the heaven-born, and casting him out from their lands. But because he was their kin, they did not slay him but sent him away with provisions and supplies. He wandered through the desolate lands - the world still as yet barely inhabited - until he came to the sacred mountains of the seraphs. Despite their father, Shamsha, the seraphs treated him with kindness, allowing him to remain with them for a time. But here too, he could not stay. They were of the sun, and he was of the moon.

Again he wandered the lands, meeting the Strythani, the dwarves and satyrs, and the first of Mywrani descending from the stars. Nowhere did he find a place to call home until he found the sacred lands, deep within the frozen forests. There, by the springs of ‘Amu he established his city, Ur-Sāla, and it was there that Ayyalu, the great father of the elves, created his people from the divine spark granted him. Thus it was that the elves, the children of Selene, came to claim the north as their own.

The narrative continued, leading into a hymn in praise of Ayyalu, but Jasper’s mind spun with the revelations. Selene and Shamsha were the two greatest living deities, who were respectively considered the mother of the elves and the father of the humans. But this was an entirely different origin story: Ayyalu, father of the elves, son of Selene and Tsiāhu. If this was part of elven theology, it was certainly kept hidden from the world at large. Was this the heresy of Als̆arratu, or were the elves hiding aspects of their religion?

His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle touch on his shoulder. “Ready to head out?”

Ihra’s eyes glanced curiously at the brightly illustrated pages, but showed no signs of comprehension, until they landed on Ayyalu. “Is that the stag god from the shrine?”

He nodded.

Her hand ran over the paper gently, a look of longing on her face. “It's a shame it's in the old tongue. My parents died before I was really old enough to learn much about our heritage.”

Jasper cleared his throat, about to read the entry from the page, when Aphora interrupted them. “There’s time for picture books later. Let’s go.”

They left the horses in the armory and headed up the ramp. As they cautiously stepped out into the ruined temple, there was a stillness in the air. The strange heat was almost suffocating, and Jasper found himself fondly remembering the soft snowfall in the lower regions of the city.

They stopped just a few feet away from the entrance as Aphora explained her plan. “Today, we’ll focus on the wraiths, as they’ll be the easiest to kill.” With a wave of her hand, a dagger materialized in her palm, identical to the ones they’d been given last night. “I’ll demonstrate what you need to do.” She paused for a moment, looking at them expectantly. Jasper stared at her dumbly for a second - what does she want me to do? - and then it clicked. Oh yeah, I have to be holding the dagger to see through the veil.

As his hands fell on the dagger, an intense cold seeped through his arm, but quickly faded away, replaced by a chill of fear in his heart. They were surrounded by wraiths, as far as the eye could see. The creatures were scattered throughout the temple, each one floating in a see-through cocoon that was suspended slightly above the floor.

The wraiths still resembled, in some warped fashion, the elves they had once been. Jagged and broken horns jutted from their head, transformed somehow into a clear crystal-like substance. Their hair, no doubt once glossy and silken, floated in the cocoon, the dirty and ragged tendrils wrapping around their face, which was contorted in a grimace revealing a double set of fangs. He heard Ihra gasp beside him, and could only shake his head in agreement. We’ve been surrounded by monsters with every step we took.

Aphora walked over to the closest wraith, the dagger held firm in her right hand. She made no attempt to approach stealthily. With her left hand, she drew another dagger from her belt and slammed it into the side of the veil. The dagger passed through the cocoon harmlessly, inflicting no damage. She thrust her arm into it, waving it around, with no response.

“The wraiths’ veil completely cuts them off from our world. Without the enchanted daggers, we cannot see them, feel them, or hurt them. But the reverse is true as well; they cannot perceive us when they are in the veil. Personally, I think that they are somehow retreating into the other dimension that the Queen tried to hide the city in.”

She re-sheathed the ineffectual dagger and lifted the misericorde. “This dagger can pierce the veil. But be warned, even a scratch on the cocoon will wake the wraith, and it will attack you.” She paused, fixing them with a stern eye. “Believe me, you do not want to engage in close-range combat with the wraiths. They are immune to most non-magical attacks, and their razor-sharp claws and fangs will tear you to shreds in an instant. But, if you are careful, you can kill the wraiths with a single, well-placed blow.”

She angled the blade slightly up, and with one fluid motion plunged it into the wraith. The dagger bit deep into the wraith’s chest, its forward motion stopped only by the guard. Cracks emanated outward from the blade, swiftly spreading across its body, as molten silver wept from the wounds inflicted. The process only lasted a few seconds before the wraith exploded in a shower of silver and gore, its remains splattering against the walls of the cocoon. After a moment, the cocoon melted away, disappearing into whatever void it came from.

Aphora turned back to them. “As long as you hit the heart, you won’t even have to fight.”

A few hours later, Jasper found himself desperately wishing for a fight. As it turned out, carefully stabbing unsuspecting wraiths in the chest was an incredibly boring chore. The only saving grace was that he was at least gaining some experience for it, but killing an entirely helpless enemy felt kind of cheap. His mind wandered as they slowly cleared out the interior of the temple and worked their way out into the great courtyard. What I wouldn't give to have Spotify back.

Jasper was lining up his next blow when a scream echoed through the yard. He whirled around to see Ihra pinned to the ground as a wraith pummeled her with blows, the dagger in his hand nicking the edge of the cocoon. He started to run toward Ihra, reaching for a spell, but a second later was driven into the pavement. His nose gave way with an audible crunch, the blood immediately gushing forth as he gasped for a breath. Claws raked across his back, and he bellowed in pain. Jasper tried to stand up, but was slammed back into the pavement with such force that the stones - and some of his ribs - cracked. With a scream of pain, he rolled to his left, narrowly missing another crushing blow.

Reaching out a mangled hand, one finger bent back at an unnatural angle, he screamed out Purge, remembering too late that it wouldn't work. The wraith lashed out again, the force of the blow lifting Jasper off the ground and tossing him thirty feet across the courtyard. He landed with a thud, the sheer momentum rolling him across the ground, as his ribs lit up with pain. Panting, he pushed himself with one arm, his mind reeling with shock as he tried to summon another spell.

The wraith slowly walked towards him, secure in its victory. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ihra was still pinned beneath the wraith. His eyes fell on a gleam of silver a few feet before him. The misericorde. With a cry of pain, he lunged forward, dragging himself across the ground towards the wraith and the dagger. The wraith began to run towards him when it saw the dagger, but Jasper reached it first. Snatching it up, he cast his spell. Seraph Burst.

His battered body streaked across the courtyard in a burst of flames, the great spectral wings sprouting from his back in a halo of fire. He flew past the startled wraith, hurtling towards his target. I’m coming, Ihra. He screamed as he collided with the wraith pinning her down, the spell violently twisting his body in circles as his cracked ribs gave way further. He and the wraith landed in a tangled heap, the wraith’s torso torn open by the razor-sharp wings of the spell. Somehow still holding onto the misericorde, he stabbed wildly at the wraith, raining down blows over and over again. Jasper’s frenzy was only interrupted when the wraith exploded in a shower of gore, splashing across his ruined face.

He tried to push himself off the ground, but collapsed with a scream, as his broken arm buckled beneath him. The thunder of footsteps echoed in his ears as the remaining wraith rushed across the courtyard, gobs of saliva falling from his mouth. An arrow pierced its heart, the force jolting the wraith, who turned its attention to Ihra. It paid no attention to the arrow, normal weapons unable to hurt it. But before it had taken three steps, the arrow expanded in a fiery blade that dissected the wraith in half. Its torso fell a few feet away from its legs, a stunned look permanently affixed on its face. Executioner’s Arrow, Ihra whispered.

She limped over to Jasper as quickly as she could, one leg dragging behind her. Ihra collapsed on her knees beside him, fumbling through her bag for a healing potion. She couldn’t find it. Panicking, she turned the bag over, spilling its contents across the ground. There. As she stretched for the potion, a shadow fell across her.

“Save your potions; I can heal him.” Aphora knelt down on the ground beside her.

Jasper lay in a tangled heap. His broken arm had gotten trapped beneath the weight of his body, but it was his ribs that were truly killing him, every breath causing a cascade of agony through his chest. Realizing the danger had passed, he held still. “You okay, Ihra?”

“I’m fine; hurt my leg, but you're worse off.”

Aphora cut in. “Ihra, help me flip over on his back.”

The two of them carefully rolled him over. “You might as well pay attention, Ihra. Perhaps you'll learn something about runic magic. First, we need to put his bones back into position as much as possible. We’ll start with the arm.” He gritted his teeth, choking down the screams as they twisted his arm back in place. His fingers, nose, and ribs followed, the last so painful that the screams finally forced their way out of his throat.

When they had straightened Jasper’s broken bones, Aphora drew three vials from her bag and held them up for Ihra to examine. “Then we use a powdered compound of silver, salt, and iron that isolates the patient from their surroundings, and defines the area of the spell.” Uncorking the first bottle, she carefully poured an unbroken line of powder around his body.

“Next, we add a mixture of healing herbs. You can skip this part of the ritual, if you don't have the necessary ingredients, but it significantly reduces the amount of essence needed to power it.” She opened the second vial, pouring a thin stream of dark green dust into her hands. Leaning over him, Aphora blew the powder into his face. Jasper coughed and spluttered as he inhaled the dry dust, but she pushed his head back onto the pavement. “Hold still. The powder needs to stay on your face.”

Then she retrieved the third bottle, in which a dark red substance sloshed about. Daubing her fingers in it, she drew a rune on his forehead, and then a matching one on her own. “This is the heart of the ritual, the anchor. When the spell activates, it temporarily ties the patient and healer together. For a moment, my health becomes his health, and the power of the spell is channeled into restoring the pattern inherent in him. For this reason, runic healing should not be used if you are currently injured. If, for example, you are currently missing an arm, and tried to heal someone with runic magic, the spell will try to make your health their health, and might remove their perfectly healthy arm.”

“The last step is simply to provide the power.” With her finger, she traced runes into the powder at his head and feet, and by each of his arms, feeding a trickle of essence into the runes until they lit up with a red glow. Putting the vials away, she closed her eyes and began to chant.

S̆ULLUM, AYYALU. S̆ULLUM, ILĪ. KĪMA PAGRĪ, KĪMA, PAGRŪS̆U.

A gentle light enveloped the two as Jasper’s bones slid back into place, knitting themselves back together like new. He sucked in a deep breath of air as the pain in his ribs slowly subsided. Aphora opened her eyes, and with a wave of her hand, the ring of powder was carried off by the wind. “Try to be more careful next time. Now Ihra, it’s your turn. Let’s get that leg fixed.” She repeated the process, executing the ritual with a swift efficiency that told of years of experience.

Jasper waited impatiently while Aphora healed Ihra. He kept flexing the healed arm. “I don't understand why I feel so good. The healing potions do their job, but you still feel pretty awful after you take one. But I feel like I just had the best night of sleep in my life."

A hint of a smile crossed Aphora's lips. “Runic magic is almost always better than the alternative. Unfortunately, very few people can actually use it. Perhaps after our trip to the Tower, I can test you, to see if either of you can use it." She paused, and channeled her essence into the runes. A few moments later, Ihra was back on her feet.

Aphora's eyes swept over the placza. "Were you nearly done clearing out the wraiths."

Jasper nodded. "I think so. We just had the western corner left to do."

The sun was starting to hang low over the horizon as Aphora weighed their options. "I'll help you finish. If we can get this done tonight, then tomorrow we can hunt the wights and enter the Tower.”

The next two hours passed quickly. No more mistakes were made. Despite the mind-numbing nature of the task, after their brush with disaster, the three remained laser-focused, dispatching the wraiths with clean and quiet efficiency. They crossed the threshold of the ramp just as the sun’s last rays slid behind the mountain peak, plunging the city into shadow. Jasper breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped through the protective shield. As he swiftly hurried through the shrine to Ayyalu, he could swear its head moved slightly, tracking them.

It was a long and sleepless night. The energy from the healing spell still coursed through his veins, driving all need for sleep far away from him. In the quiet darkness of the room, Jasper found his thoughts drifting back to home. Life in Corsythia was hard. Hell, he had suffered more injuries today than in his entire life back home.

He still missed Layla a bit, but in his heart, he knew their relationship was never built to last. Their interests were just too different. Those differences were intoxicating in the beginning, but by the time he had been dragged here, their relationship was just coasting on momentum, as they slowly drifted apart. He missed his family too, but again, for most of them, the relationship was more of an idea than a reality. He lived hundreds of miles away from them, and saw them rarely, if at all.

He was surprised to realize that, despite the ever-present threat of death, which, honestly, wasn’t really so bad, and despite the truly tragic absence of the internet, tv, and video games, he was actually kind of happy here. This place was starting to feel like…home.

The next morning, as he slowly dragged himself face first through a narrow tunnel buried deep beneath the plaza, all he could think was I hate this world.