A Gathering Storm

Echoes Beneath the Roots

Wren found him by sound before sight.

The notes drifted softly through the upper levels of the tower, winding through corridors of stone and shelves like threads of light. She followed them without thinking, her steps slowing as the melody grew clearer—steady, precise, familiar.

Drew.

He stood in a wide practice chamber open to the forest air, tall windows letting in bands of green-filtered sunlight. His white robes moved faintly with the breeze, the fabric no longer stiff with blood or damage, but whole again. The flute rested at his lips, and light gathered as he played—soft at first, then brightening with each measured breath.

It shimmered around him. His blond hair a halo in the morning light.

Hi magic flowed seamlessly. Not wild. Not strained.

Controlled.

Whole.

Wren lingered in the doorway, watching.

For the first time since the swamp, since the wound, since her desperate pulling him back together with unfamiliar magic—he looked like himself again.

The final note faded into the open air, dissolving into birdsong.

Drew lowered the flute slowly.

“You’ve been standing there for a while,” he said without turning.

Wren stepped forward.

“I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You weren’t.”

He turned then, and for a moment something softer flickered in his expression—relief, perhaps—but it settled quickly back into something more composed.

“You look better,” she said.

“So do you.”

A small pause stretched between them.

Wren folded her arms lightly, then let them fall again.

“I’m worried,” she said.

Drew’s attention sharpened.

“About what?”

“Reed Town. The Shadow Tower.” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Things aren’t… right there. I can feel it.”

Drew studied her more closely now.

“Feel it?” he repeated.

Wren nodded once, too quickly.

He stepped closer.

“Wren,” he said quietly, “have you been using your magic here?”

The question landed heavier than she expected.

She looked away.

Drew closed the distance between then, checked the corridor and closed the door behind her.

“Wren. Any blood magic here will get us both arrested… or killed.”

There was something new in his voice now—not anger, but concern sharpened by suspicion.

“Please tell me what’s going on.”

She exhaled slowly.

“I needed information.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Her fingers tightened slightly at her sides.

“I didn’t use anything dangerous.”

“Define dangerous.”

She gave a small, humourless breath.

“No new blood magic, nothing spilled.”

Drew’s expression hardened slightly.

“Wren.”

Silence stretched between them again.

Then she relented.

“There’s a book,” she said quietly.

“A book,” he repeated.

“In my satchel. It… it came from the tower. From before.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “It’s not something they would have taught us. Not openly. My Grandmother helped me find it…”

Understanding flickered.

“Blood magic, you’ve had this book for that long? From your grandmother?” he said.

She didn’t deny it.

Drew looked away briefly, jaw tightening.

“And you’ve been using it?”

“Carefully. ”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“I used it to heal you.”

“I know.”

“Gran helped me find it the day we left the tower, she helped me with the wards too.” she added, more quietly.

His gaze snapped back to her.

“What? Wren I don’t understand… she’s been gone for years…”

Wren, squeezed her amber eyes shut for a moment, then reached into her satchel and brought out the wood charm. A carved bird stained blood red.

“My Gran made this for me, it’s bound her spirit to me so she can help me. Its weak here and I haven’t seen her since I pulled us into the grey land to hide us before. So its not new blood magic, and the book helps me guide the shadows, use them as a ward to hide us, to hide my magic, and to use the reed pen.”

Drew rubbed his hands over his face, “Oh… Wren this is far deeper than I ever thought...”

“The reed pens.” She swallowed. “They’re linked to Emma. I’ve been writing to her.”

Drew stared at her.

“In this tower?” he asked, incredulous.

“I shielded it,” Wren said quickly. “I found a concealment spell—something subtle made of Shadow. No one noticed.”

“That you know of.”

“I was careful.”

“That doesn’t make it safe.”

Her frustration flared.

“And doing nothing is safe?” she shot back. “Drew, things are getting worse. Not rumours—worse. The creatures are more active. The healers are overwhelmed. And there’s something else moving through the swamp—something not controlled by Andra or the guards.”

He went still.

“You’re certain?”

“Emma is certain,” Wren said. “And I trust her.”

Drew paced once, tension visible now.

“You should have told me about all this.”

“I’m telling you now.”

“That’s not the same.”

“No,” she admitted, “but it doesn’t change what needs to be done.”

He stopped.

“And what do you think that is?”

“We ask the Aether’s and even the capital for help,” she said firmly. “Not just about Andra. About the tower. About Reed Town. They need aid—healers, Aethers, anything they can spare.”

“The Capital is already reviewing your claim—”

“This cannot wait,” she cut in. “If we delay, there may be a tower left to rule but my people and Emma may not survive till then.”

The words hung between them.

Drew exhaled slowly.

“You’re asking the Forest Aethers to intervene in Shadow Tower matters before the Capital decides succession.”

“I’m asking them to save lives. To go and see that Andra is not handling this…”

Another silence.

Then, quieter:

“And what happens when they ask how you know all this?”

Wren didn’t answer.

Drew closed his eyes briefly.

“That’s what I thought.”

She stepped closer.

“Drew… please.”

He looked at her again, and something conflicted flickered beneath his composure.

“I will speak to Sola,” he said at last. “We can request aid be sent to Reed Town. But this—” he gestured faintly, “—this puts us in a difficult position.”

“We were already in one.”

“Yes,” he said, “but now we are adding even more deception to it. If we push too hard here and your magic is revealed, by us or Andra, its over.”

Wren flinched slightly.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“There is always a choice.”

“Not if waiting means people die.”

That stopped him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Wren’s voice softened.

“And you,” she said carefully, “what about you?”

Drew frowned slightly.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been… distant,” she said. “Since we arrived.”

“That’s not—”

“It is,” she said gently. “And I understand. Things are complicated. But I need to know…” She hesitated, then forced the words out. “Does this mean you don’t see a future for us?”

The question lingered in the air between them.

Drew looked at her—really looked—and for a moment all the careful control slipped.

There was something there.

Something real.

But also something restrained.

“Wren…” he began.

Then stopped.

His gaze dropped briefly, as though searching for an answer that refused to come.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.

The words were quiet.

Honest.

And not what she wanted.

“I care about you,” he added, more firmly. “That hasn’t changed.”

“But?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he straightened slightly, the distance returning like a wall sliding back into place.

“I need to speak with the Aethers,” he said. “About Reed Town.”

Wren nodded once.

“Of course.”

Drew hesitated, as though he might say more.

Then he turned and left.

The echo of his footsteps faded quickly down the corridor.

Wren stood alone in the quiet chamber, the last traces of his light magic dissolving into the air.

Empty.

In the silence her stomach rumbled.

Wren found herself drawn by the warm glow and rich scents drifting from below. The kitchens were open and alive in a way that felt entirely foreign—wide wooden counters layered with fresh ingredients, baskets of strange fruits in deep reds and golds, herbs hanging in fragrant bundles from the rafters. Someone pressed a small plate into her hands without question: soft bread still warm from the oven, a spread of crushed greens and oil, and slices of something sweet and tart she could not name. It was nothing like the preserved meats and salted stores of the Shadow lands, where every meal was measured and practical. Here, food felt… generous. Alive. She ate slowly, almost reverently, letting the unfamiliar flavours settle her thoughts before slipping quietly away again, following the winding corridors upward and inward, asking once or twice for direction until the quieter air and towering shelves of the library finally closed around her.

The library was deeper in the tower than she expected.

Quieter.

Older.

The shelves here were not arranged for easy access, but for preservation—dense rows of worn bindings, scrolls sealed with age-darkened wax, records that had not been touched in years.

Wren moved slowly between them, fingers brushing along spines as she searched.

Shadow Tower.

Swamp records.

Wards.

Anything.

Most of what she found was frustratingly incomplete. References to “incursions,” mentions of “containment failures,” but little detail. Pages missing. Sections removed.

Deliberately.

Her frustration built with each passing minute.

“They never wanted this remembered.”

The voice came softly behind her.

Wren froze.

Then turned.

Her grandmother stood near the end of the aisle, faint as mist, her form flickering at the edges.

“You came back,” Wren breathed.

“Not fully,” the older woman said, her voice strained. “It is… difficult. Something resists me here.”

Wren stepped closer.

“I want to help Em.”

“I know.”

Her grandmother lifted a faint hand, gesturing deeper into the stacks.

“There are things they did not destroy,” she said. “Only hid.”

Wren followed.

They moved through narrower aisles, past shelves layered in dust, until they reached a section that seemed… wrong. The air felt heavier here, the silence deeper.

“There,” her grandmother whispered.

Wren frowned at the blank stretch of stone between two shelves.

“There’s nothing—”

“Look again.”

Wren stepped closer.

The shadows shifted instinctively at her call, brushing lightly across the surface.

Something caught.

A seam.

Hidden.

Her pulse quickened.

She pressed against it.

The stone gave way with a soft click.

A narrow door opened inward.

Beyond it lay a small chamber, barely lit, filled with older books—thicker, darker, bound in materials she did not recognise.

Wren stepped inside slowly.

“These were meant to be forgotten; I was young when I trained here and made some friends who knew the old books.” her grandmother said.

Wren reached for the nearest volume.

The title was faded but still legible.

On the Followers of Caesus.

Her breath caught.

She opened it carefully.

The pages were brittle, the ink uneven but readable.

“They fed on blood,” she read softly. “Not merely for sustenance, but for power.”

Her grandmother’s presence flickered.

“Go on.”

“They wielded dominion over death itself,” Wren continued, her voice tightening. “Healing from wounds that would kill any other. Raising what should remain still.”

Images—crude sketches—lined the margins.

Figures standing in dark water.

Eyes hollow.

Hands stained.

“There are references to a citadel,” Wren said, turning a page. “Deep within the swamp. A stronghold beyond the reach of the Capital.”

Her pulse quickened.

“They were nearly eradicated,” she read. “The Capital deployed Aethers in force. Fire. Salt. Living wood barriers.”

She hesitated.

“Weaknesses,” she murmured.

“Not all,” her grandmother warned.

Wren nodded, reading on.

“Some elders… showed resistance. Fire slowed them, but did not destroy them.”

A chill crept through her.

“Their leader—Baskus—was captured,” she read. “His followers slain or scattered.”

Her fingers tightened on the page.

“Records suggest… some may have escaped.”

Silence settled over the room.

“They opposed the Capital,” Wren said slowly. “Not just in power—but in principle. They rejected order. Control.”

“They were called agents of chaos,” her grandmother said quietly.

“And death,” Wren finished.

The words lingered.

Wren closed the book slowly.

The swamp.

The creatures.

Emma’s warning.

Something inhuman.

Her gaze lifted toward the hidden doorway.

“They didn’t all die,” she said.

Her grandmother’s form flickered again, weaker now. She nodded.

Wren stood very still, the weight of the book heavy in her hands.

Far to the south west, beyond the endless trees, the swamp waited.

And something within it was waking.