They made camp at the edge of the hollow where the shard had been found, though “camp” was too crude a word. The Glimmerwood did not allow the pounding of stakes or the felling of trees; roots shifted subtly if they tried. Instead, they rested in a circle where the trees leaned back as though granting a brief reprieve, their trunks glowing with faint bioluminescence.

A fire was out of the question. The Glimmerwood’s air was already warm and shimmering, filled with drifting motes of light. So they sat in the half-light, the forest itself providing illumination.

The shard lay at the center of their circle.

The Shard Unveiled

Up close, it was not simply a piece of crystal or glass. The shard was shaped like a broken page, its edges jagged but unnaturally smooth, as though it had been torn from something greater. Within its translucent body, veins of green and gold pulsed faintly, like blood through living flesh.

Etched across its surface were runes that refused stillness. They shifted endlessly, sliding into patterns that made sense only for a heartbeat — a phrase glimpsed in a dream, a truth almost grasped, then lost again. Some were written in tongues long extinct, others in symbols that had no mortal name.

When Rael reached toward it, the runes sharpened into lines of fire: Order, Law, Balance. When Lakvenor’s fingers brushed near, they became jagged streaks of lightning, unreadable but furious. And when Sira touched it, the runes softened into curves of root and leaf, whispering in voices only she could hear.

It was not a text. It was a mirror.

Interpretations

Rael leaned back, eyes steady on the shard. “This is dangerous beyond measure. If each fragment reflects the soul of the one who touches it, then assembled together—”

“—they’d reflect all of Ayara,” Sira finished quietly. “The living record of the world itself. A codex not just of laws, but of being.”

Lakvenor snorted. “That’s poetic, but I see a problem. A book that can’t decide what it wants to be read as isn’t much use unless we know how to hold it still. Ravyn, though…” His expression darkened. “He’d know how to twist it.”

Rael’s jaw tightened. “He was once Keeper-trained. He would not see shifting truth — he would see opportunity. A tool to write his own laws.”

The shard pulsed faintly, as though listening.

Sira hugged her knees. “It feels alive. Not fully awake, but dreaming. I don’t know whether it wants to be whole… or whether it fears it.”

Plans in Exile

For a time they sat in silence, only the hum of the forest filling the void. At last Rael spoke, his voice low but firm.

“We cannot return to Solara. Calithra would paint us traitors, and blood would be spilled in our name. Exile is protection, but also prison. Yet if Ravyn gathers these shards, no throne matters — Ayara itself could unravel.”

“So we’re relic-hunters now?” Lakvenor asked, half a grin tugging at his lips, though his eyes were serious.

“Hunters, yes,” Rael answered. “But more — guardians. We must find the shards before Ravyn. Hide them, protect them, learn them. And for that, we will need allies.”

Sira lifted her gaze. “Allies who will trust three exiles branded by rumor and omen?”

Rael allowed himself the shadow of a smile. “Sky pirates have no use for thrones. Exiled angels remember betrayals well. And dragons…” His eyes glinted. “Dragons do not care for omens. Only strength.”

Lakvenor chuckled. “Finally, a plan I can get behind. Sky pirates and dragons. Almost makes exile worthwhile.”

Lingering Shadows

But as their voices faded, the forest’s silence returned — and with it, something else.

A rustling in the dark that did not belong to the natural shifting of roots. A whisper that was not the shard’s. A coldness beneath the warmth of the Glimmerwood’s glow.

Sira stiffened. “Do you hear that?”

Rael’s hand went to Flame-Edge at once, though he did not draw it yet. The sword hummed faintly, recognizing threat. Lakvenor twirled his twin-bladed staff, sparks of lightning flashing at its tips.

From the treeline, shapes watched. Not beasts of fur or feather, but figures formed of ash and bark, their limbs too thin, their faces hollow. Their eyes burned faintly with ember-light — the mark of the Ashborn.

Exiles of another kind. Remnants of those who had failed in ages past.

“They should not be here,” Rael murmured. “The Glimmerwood was supposed to be sealed.”

The shard pulsed once, as though in alarm. The runes flared, showing a single phrase before dissolving again: Ash remembers. Ash hungers.

Lakvenor’s grin vanished. “Well. Guess the forest wasn’t done testing us after all.”