“What has happened?” Taric couldn’t help but cry out in dismay.

Though he’d never set eyes on it in the flesh, every iron warrior had heard tales of the Great Tree and its awe-inspiring and fearful beauty. Awe inspiring it certainly was, but beautiful?

The twisted trunk rising up from the rich black earth was the circumference of a city. But its pale grey bark was riddled with ugly cracks that wept a viscous orange slime deep enough to drown in, emitting a foul smell reminiscent of rotting meat. A glimmering lace of light marked the glowing lattice of a thousand windows, giving proof that life went on within the tree itself. Yet great swaths were riddled with dark holes, emptied of light. 

Taric tilted his head back, and back, until the bones of his neck creaked. In the far above sky, the vast clouds were not made of water vapor, but leaves. Even there, the damage of some dreadful malady was clear. The leaves of blue and green laced with silver were blighted with brown discoloration, the flower buds dead and black. 

Despite the Great Tree’s visible distress, the wide avenue that led into the shadowy embrace of the Tree’s mountainous roots was well populated with fae of every kind, color, and size. There were mounts far stranger than Syrano’s, and creatures that even Taric could put no name to.

“A blight lies upon the Great Tree,” Syrano admitted grudgingly. Taric suspected he wouldn’t have done so if it were not so visibly obvious.

Even Taric felt the weight of such a terrible thing. The Great Tree was the heart of Underhill, its deep roots holding the reigns that united the chaotic spiderweb. It was as vital to the realms as air was for living. 

Taric pulled his flesh and blood leg closer to the polar bear’s side as a chitin covered beastie that looked like a giant, splay-legged flea skittered past, ridden by a squat green gnome with a bulging burlap sack on his back. From the sack’s cinched mouth poked the tips of a pair of -

“Are those shoes?” Taric blurted in confusion. He took a second look at the other fae on the road, and many of them carried some kind of bundle or cases similar to those strapped to the polar bear’s saddle. One, walking along the road without a mount, carried a pole full of pegs from which dangled shoes that looked as if they were made of leaves. “How many shoes does a princess need?” Or even twelve princesses.

“They are for the Eldritch King’s challenge,” Syrano said flatly. 

“Challenge?” Taric said before he could help himself. “What challenge?”

“Reward is offered to the man who can answer the question of where his daughters dance each night,” Syrano answered. “Any who would take on the challenge must bring dancing shoes for each princess, and has only until the shoes wear through to find the answer.”

“That’s why you wanted steel shoes.” Shoes that wouldn’t wear through like leather or leaves would. Buying more time to solve the mystery. 

“Yes.”

Taric glanced upward as the roots began to loom high enough to cast a shadow over the road. “Must be a hefty reward.” The stench of rot filled his nostrils with every breath.

“Priceless.”

“And if you fail?”

“I will not,” Syrano said flatly.

Taric rolled his eyes. “Spare me the hubris. What happens if -”

“Death,” the winter fae snapped. “Failure is death.”

Taric winced. “Isn’t that a bit harsh?”

Syrano twisted in the saddle to look at him, wide-eyed. “Do not question the Eldritch King in the very shadow of his palace!” The fear in his voice set a leaden pit in Taric’s stomach.

Taric held up a placating hand. “As you wish.” He may have tricked the winter fae into bringing him here, but he had no intention of deliberately causing any friction between him and the king.

Syrano turned back forward, his shoulders stiff.

As the polar bear passed under the arch of a root that challenged the size of the largest man-made railway bridge, the avenue opened up into a wide parade ground of black glass. At the far end a carved stair rose up to a huge set of double doors, opened to allow passage. Flanking on either side stood four of the Eldritch King’s infamous Raven guards, silent and still save for the breeze ruffling their feathered cloaks. Their silver masks bore the curved beaks of birds of prey.

At the foot of the stairs, Syrano dismounted and started heading upward. “Bring the cases.”

Taric dismounted with less than grace, barely managing to spare himself the indignity of a sprawl. He had to lunge awkwardly to catch and unhook the cases as as the great beast swung around to go its own way, uncaring that it had nearly lumbered off with the shoes.

He paused for a moment, looking up at the wide, gaping darkness of the Eldritch King’s front hall through the open doors. Just to think of what any human commander would have given, would have sacrificed during the war to be here, to see this. He’d never heard of any human entering the Great Tree and returning again to tell the tale. Though many had tried.

Taric glanced down at his feet out of habit, just to be sure his ankle hadn’t turned or anything, before taking up the cases properly and following Syrano up the stairs.

Passing the Raven guard was an uneasy moment, but they paid him as much mind as the wind.

Crossing the threshold brought an abrupt change in the air as the rotting stench of the Tree’s malady was replaced with a sudden wash of mint and citrus that was clearly a deliberate effort to mask an underlying taint of rotting wood.

Even so, Taric couldn’t help but stop and stare at the front hall. Above him a tangle of glowing roots and large translucent lily blossoms hung from a ceiling higher than a cathedral, Delicate traceries of green and pale blue vines marbled the walls like veins. Layers of arches, balconies, and stairs led into the labyrinth of the palace.

He’d done it. He’d made it into the king’s palace. To come this far alone was to flaunt fate.

As he stood there gaping, Taric felt a faint warmth against the back of his hand. A tiny, pale blue will-o-wisp briefly alighted on the knuckle of his thumb, light as a silk thread, before floating off again. 

Such a small thing, but it flooded him with a thousand memories. No matter how dark the nights, no matter how long a storm, a will-o-wisp always seemed to find him. To many, the wandering little lights were nuisances or dangerous lures, but to him, they had always felt like hope. That even in the most perilous places, there was always a little glint of light.

Even, it would seem, here in the Eldritch King’s hall.