But Faelan pressed on, guided by the pale blooms that lined the path deeper into the forest. He had expected wolves, bandits, and perhaps an inconvenient amount of rain; he had not expected the road to disappear behind him.

Emerald green stretched as far as the eye could see. Moss swallowed forgotten stones. Roots rose like sleeping serpents and seemed to shift the moment he looked away. He came upon the split white oak once. And then again. His path wound back upon itself, as if the forest had no intention of allowing him to leave.

Yet the stone arch was nowhere to be found, and his compass spun uselessly. He was lost. Led astray by the elder blooms. 

Just as his frustrations flared, he heard the cry of an animal and followed it, discovering a regal white stag. Its leg was caught fast in an old hunter’s trap that had long grown tangled in vines. Though rusted with age, the trap’s teeth gleamed as sharply as if they had been set that morning. Hesitantly, Faelan approached, sensing something amiss. Still, he could not leave the animal to suffer.

He drew his father’s sword, but instead of slaying the beast, he wedged it into the trap and pried with all his might. The moment the stag leapt free, the trap snapped shut upon his blade, shattering the worn edge. Faelan stared at the broken blade; the last useful thing his father had left him. Then cast it aside. Whatever bitterness its loss stirred, he was grateful to see the stag freed. 

Strangely, the magnificent stag remained among the brush, still and watching. When it turned towards the undergrowth, Faelan followed. It led him deeper, then vanished beside a silvery pond. Faelan scanned the surrounding trees but could not surmise where the beast had gone.

The rippling surface of the pond drew his gaze, and as Faelan crept closer, it shimmered and cleared; showing him Mazerholme. His home returned to its former greatness. Himself standing at its doors, adorned in golden armour. An ornate goblet raised in his hand. Music spilled from the restored mead halls. Beyond the open doors, cups were raised beneath the Mazerholme crest, and someone called his name. 

He felt drawn to the vision, stepping closer and closer. But before his boot touched the water’s edge, he stopped. This was merely an illusion of what he desired. What he sought could only be hard-won, and his journey had only just begun. 

He stepped back, abandoning temptation to continue his search. Once again, he found himself swallowed by the verdant palace of moss and bark. Swordless and without a working compass, Faelan was back where he started.

Yet at every turn, he felt eyes upon him. Wary, he continued onward, vigilant against the forest’s tricks.

Around the next bend, he came upon the white oak again. As he approached it, an arrow whistled through the boughs, its sharpened point embedding itself in the earth near his foot.

“Another of the king’s fools come in search of treasure? You’ll find none here, boy,” a feminine voice called.

Out stepped an elven woman. Eyes the colour of a clear forest pool. Silver hair dappled by moonlight, wild waves tamed in braids of ivy.

Faelan raised his hands to show he meant no harm. “And who are you?”

“Melisara of Silverthorn. My people are the stewards of these woodlands. What is your name?”

“Faelan,” he breathed, then paused. He considered lying, saying he was a lost traveller, but the truth sat heavy on his chest. “I did indeed come searching for a way to claim the reward. I wish to use the gold to restore my home. Mazerholme.”

“Mazerholme?” Melisara lowered her bow. “I know this name. The brewers from Mazerholme once traded with my people. We taught them how to steep elderflowers in their mead…” She gave a faint smile. “I have watched you since you entered these woods. You sacrificed your blade for a suffering creature, turned away from the future you most desired, and spoke honestly when a lie might have served you better.” 

“You speak as if I was tested,” Faelan said, lowering his hands.

“You were. The stag, the paths, the pool; they revealed what manner of man had entered the forest. They did not command your choices. And there is one final test.” She drew a sword from under her cloak. The blade, dull. “This was left by someone from Mazerholme. Given to my people for safekeeping.” She held out the pommel. “Take it, if it will have you.” 

Perplexed, the young knight hesitantly reached for it. The moment his hand curled about the blade’s handle, its dull edge glittered to life, flowing with a silver sheen that caught the moonlight pouring through the boughs. 

Melisara smiled. “It seems Elderbright has found its home again.”

“Elderbright?” he murmured.

At the sound of its name on Faelan’s lips, Elderbright shone, cutting away the shadow and revealing the arch he had been searching for.

She nodded. “It does not cut flesh alone. Falsehood and enchantment cannot withstand its edge.”

Elderflowers bloomed around it, their roots shifting away to reveal a leather scroll case. The case crumbled beneath his fingers. Within lay a tattered parchment, sea-stained and torn through one corner, seemingly blank save for a mark resembling the scorch marks found on Mazerholme barrels. 

An idea struck him. He retrieved his flask and poured a drop onto the parchment. A small spark flickered, then died as it splashed against it. Faelan’s brow furrowed. Then he recalled what Melisara had said.

Cutting a sprig of elderflower from the nearby shrubs, he steeped it in his flask. The honeyed scent of the brew lifted with something floral and luminous; the brightness of summer blossoms beneath its familiar warmth. Again, he splashed a drop onto the page.

This time, the mead singed into the parchment, blooming outward into a map. The Silvani coastline wound along it, and beyond it, a mountainous island shaped like the folded wings of a sleeping dragon.

Melisara’s eyes brightened. “I know that place. No human ship can cross those waters, but I know someone who can.” An enigmatic smirk touched her lips. “The emblem does not grant gifts. It magnifies what already lies within its possessor. I do not trust your king, but the forest has judged you worthy.” She tilted her head. “I will not allow such power to reach your king unchallenged, but I am curious of what it may reveal within you. Come. Let us find our shipmaster.” 

At his side, Melisara stepped beneath the arch, and for the first time since leaving Mazerholme, Faelan did not walk alone.