For him to live, a witch must die.
Driven out of his village for the curse he possesses, Tavor is alone. With nowhere else to go, he must venture into the Eylderfell to hunt down the witch who cursed him.
But the forest is dangerous, wild with magic...
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Tavor slumped inside the tree, breaths shaky and ragged, dull pain pulsing up and down his body. Blood soaked his throat and the top of his cloak. He was fading. Each second he felt his life force trickle away from him. Soon, there'd be nothing left.
No pain. No fear, or bitterness, or longing...
It felt strangely pleasant. Behind his half-closed eyes there were shapes and colours, sounds like voices that faded in and out of perception. They washed over him in a gentle wave, lulling him further and further away.
A sudden pain twinged at his thigh, and the haze clouding his mind dissipated. Not from his wounds: that pain had faded to a dull ache.
Mustering up the lingering reserves of his energy, Tavor wriggled until he felt it: a cold, hard fragment of metal, in his pocket, strangely smooth to the touch. With effort, he managed to pull it out.
A fragment of moonstone glowed back at him. It took him a while to recognise it. The enchanted dagger had shattered back in the Tower, but somehow a piece of it had ended up in his pocket.
Groggily, a thought occurred to him. The crow had said it was an anti-magic knife. And the tree was magic, or at least powered by it.
So, in theory...
It was a monumental effort to move. But eventually Tavor managed to slip the fragment between his fingers and chip away at the tree bark surrounding him. One piece of bark flaked off. Then another.
And then the entire structure let out a long groan. Tavor gasped as he felt the branches loosen from his body. The tree creaked and splintered apart, dropping him in the clearing.
The sigil was still there, so close to being completed. He could still do it, he realised. He could follow them back to the village.
And then what?
Using the knife fragment, Tavor cut strips from his battered cloak until he formed makeshift bandages, tying it tightly around his wrist to stem the bloodflow. He kept glancing at the glyph on the ground.
It was a terrible idea. But he felt something stir within him. The faintest twinge of power, the last dying embers still flickering.
That power is yours now, Nestani had told him. And maybe he'd lost it, but that didn't necessarily mean he couldn't get it back.
He was already reaching for the scattered quartz sand, mind racing. It was a terrible idea, yes. But he had the makings of a plan, and that gave him hope.
And if that was how he was to go out, then at least he'd die at peace with himself. Knowing he'd given everything. That he hadn't backed down when it counted.
He took a deep breath, and dipped the broken yew branch into the sand. With one smooth stroke, he joined the last part of the glyph.
"One last try."
☾
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