Book 1: Gospel : Wither We Go

Chapter 4: Wither We Go

Wither Hollow, Steelwilds, 4th Age

Book of Roots, Chapter 7, Verse 9

“What was cast down still sings. The roots of the old grove grow beneath the new walls. No dogma can bury breath,And the Creator still moves through cracked stone and blood-soaked soil.

Morning had bloomed over the rooftops about an hour ago, the dew still fresh on the prayer flags by the garden fence. We stood at the gate, saying our goodbyes as the girls headed off to class.

Hayelle threw herself into my arms, a little whirlwind of limbs and laughter. She handed me a folded piece of paper.

“It’s a picture of Buggy,” she said seriously. “To keep you safe.”

I opened it to find a lovingly scribbled bug sketch—eight legs, two giant horns, and what looked suspiciously like a prayer circle drawn underneath.

“Thank you, baby,” I said, showing Izzy with pride. “Didn’t she do good?”

Izzy smiled and kissed Hayelle’s head, “Yes she did.”

Parla came next, quieter. A hug that hovered somewhere between reserved and yearning to be more.

“Love you,” she said, voice soft but steady.

“Love you too, dear,” I replied, kissing her on the cheek.

We watched them walk down the lane, Parla guiding Hayelle gently by the shoulder.

As we turned west, toward the Flame-Tail Highway, I asked without looking, “You made sure they were wearing their tether beads?”

Izzy adjusted the strap on her traveler’s bra, her posture already shifting into the muscle memory of marching, “Yes. They are locked into mine on my chaplet. We will know if they need us. Besides our neighbors will keep an eye on them.”

I nodded and slipped a pouch of snuff into my cheek,“Sometimes I still worry.”

Izzy smiled, laced her fingers with mine,“Don’t. They’ll be fine. Parla,s got a good head. And anyone who tries Hayelle…”

She glanced west, eyes sharp with a warrior’s glint,“…will learn why that’s a mistake.”

I chuckled,“Truth. She is our little warrior.”

The road ahead had been pounded flat—brown, deep, and worn smoother than any temple floor. The footsteps of hundreds, maybe thousands, over as many years had made it harder than stone. Not carved. Not paved. Just lived upon.

This was the Eastern Road.

The main artery from the eastern coast and deep interior of the Steelwilds to the Eastern Pass—the only sure, sacred way across the Elemental Mountains. It had carried caravans, missionaries, mothers, bonded pairs, and burned bodies.

So it made perfect sense that the Church had chosen this path for the transport of beads, essence, and the people who bore them.

This road didn’t just lead to the next city.

It led to legacy.

As we walked, we passed the old marker posts—simple stone columns with iron spikes driven into the top, once used to hold lanterns, now overtaken by moss and time. As time went on, the Pathfinders took to binding haloes of light on them in order to provide safer travel at night. It was much cheaper and more efficient than paying a small army of lamplighters and wick trimmers, plus coal oil though growing in popularity was still very rare.

At the bases of many were scattered relics: Broken rosaries, their beads dull and cracked. Statues of the saints, worn smooth by rain and reverence. Prayer pendants, bent or blackened. Even a few ash beads, placed like warnings—or regrets.

Mixed in among them were even older remnants: Offering bowls, rusting with age. Iron candle holders, twisted with growth. Ghosts of the Third Age, when the Circles still held sway and the Creator Gospel had not yet burned its truth into the soil.

I paused by one such remnant—-a dragon statue—half-swallowed by wisteria and honeysuckle, the stone barely visible beneath the riot of blooms. In its mouth, a small lantern still hung, clearly replaced and rehung many times.

I found myself thinking: How could something as vast, as monumental, as pivotal as the Circles have been overtaken?

Replaced by a faith of blood and biology, of beads and essence. A magic so new it was still reshaping the bones of history.

The beads had been unknown until just under fifty years ago, when the newest generation of females—my mother’s, and then mine—began producing them. Through cycles, through intercourse, through grief, prayer, healing, fear.

The world had reeled.

It had shaken every cloister, every order, every circle of power.

Until Uncle Shirokazi Flame-Tail, genius and heretic both, stepped forward with a theory:

That the ley streams had dissolved. That magic no longer flowed like rivers beneath us…But hung in the air itself. Like moisture. Like breath.

Izzy glanced at me, eyes catching the flicker of doubt or wonder that must have passed over my face,“I see those wheels turning.”

She stepped carefully to the nearest post and knelt beside a toppled candelabra, its arms twisted with vine. With quiet reverence, she righted it, placing the half-melted wax candles back on their tiny metal thrones, “I think about it too. How incredible it must have been…To be on the cutting edge of discovering the Circles.”

Her voice held a soft awe, but beneath it… a sharp edge, “The Base Elements. The Branching Circles.The Nine Primaries. How each stone was a prayer… a cipher… a story that reached all the way back to the First Age.”

She stood slowly, brushing moss from her hands. Her fingers lingered on a stone carving of a forgotten glyph, the edges worn by wind and time.

“It’s sad,” she said, voice now cool, “that the Church doesn’t seek to learn from the past. It seeks to bury it.”

She turned to face me fully “That the old discoveries of Fernweh and Ember, and the ones he uncovered—Edrion and Clara—are now called illogical fantasy. When so much of our own ‘truth’ is assembled myth, and what they call ‘myth’ might be the closest thing we’ve ever had to the Creator’s breath.”

The wisteria rustled softly around us. A single bead—dull, perhaps forgotten—rolled down the side of a moss-covered bowl and rested at Izzy’s boot.

We kept walking. She veered closer to me, “ I found one of Fernweh’s old journals the last time your mother let me pilfer her memory room. You should read it some time. It is amazing how far off the clergy has taken us from his actual thoughts.”

She took my hand and squeezed it tightly, “ I know how you feel about what your mother is doing and how you think she has taken another path, but promise me you will sit down and see what I’m talking about.”

I nodded and pressed her hand to my lips taking in the odd dark and old beauty of this road we were traveling. On one side of the road stood a weathered statue—a young boy, no older than ten, carved in the act of lighting a lantern wick, one hand pouring oil from a clay vessel, the other holding a match to flame.

On the other side, half-buried in wild grass and lichen, lay the cracked remains of a sphere —smooth black stone veined with green-gold, cracked down the middle. Old ancient glyphs spiraled from the crown around its body to the base.

I’d heard my father call it a Starborne Sphere—one of the remnants of the First Age, a relic of such dark power that Fernweh himself had destroyed it during the war with the Dark Druids.

Not much is known about them now, except for the whispered stories—that they could pull the souls of the unfaithful into infernal Hell.

Most folks laugh at that now. Say it’s just old fear wearing a new mask.

But I wasn’t so sure.

I spoke aloud, voice low with memory, “My father and grandfather always told me the Circles existed to understand the glory of the Creator’s work—not to defy it. That they were a way to map the slow unraveling of magic… through every leaf, every drop, every heartbeat of creation.”

Izzy glanced over, attentive.

I continued,“My father believed the Shards of the Verdant Heart—the stones they say hold ancient power—were somehow linked to the dragons of old. The ones they call The Mothers in their own histories.”

I looked ahead, eyes narrowing on the winding road, “He said… when a Mother dies, her blood becomes a stone. And that’s what the Shards are.”

I paused, my mind circling the thought like a hawk over prey, “Which sounds… very close to how a woman’s blood produces beads.”

Izzy let out a long breath. Not shocked. Just… awed. “You think the beads and the Shards are… echoes of the same truth?”Then she grinned, “ So I’m a dragonness?”

I didn’t answer right away.

Just watched the wind ripple the grass around the broken sphere, where symbols had been grouped and mapped together like a constellation.

“I think it’s all building,” I said softly, “on the same foundation: the Creator’s breath—scattered through time like seeds.”

Izzy glanced sideways, her pace steady beside mine, the road unwinding like a hymn, “ I guess I’m not a dragonness.”

“Our Kitsune people—especially the Light Foxes of Blackwood—have an old tale,” I continued, “They say the First Denmother stole essence from the great dragon Sylvarax—the Rootfather himself.”

Izzy huffed, “ I just can’t get you to stop can I? Do I have to undress for you to flirt with me?”

I grinned but kept going “She didn’t just steal it…She took it into her own self. Fused it with her flesh. Passed it on to her children—into the Kitsune line. And over time, it spread… diluted, married, forgotten, and disseminated through every mortal race.”

Izzy’s gaze was steady now. The breeze shifted. The beads on her wrist clinked softly.

“So by our family’s theory,” I said, “two things were passed down to all mortals.”

I lifted a hand, plucked a soft fieldflower from the edge of the path,“First: the ability for essence to crystallize in the body. That’s the beads. Second: the male—as catalyst, spark, key to unlocking resonance.”

I tucked the flower behind her ear, brushing my fingers down the curve of her cheek “Nothing is ever rejected. It all builds.”

Evening had begun to give way to the darker embrace of twilight, shadows stretching long and golden across the open fields that marked the edge of Wither Hollow. The air had changed. Cooler. Denser. As if the soil itself remembered what had once happened here.

Though it had been the site of one of Fernweh’s earliest battles during the reclaiming of the Eastern Forest, Wither Hollow had somehow resisted the full tide of mechanical progress that had swept through the Haintish cities like wildfire.

There was a modern water mill, a timber dam, a few small gold and veinstone mines, and maybe a steam-powered locomotive for hauling cut lumber…

But that was it.

No steel skybridges.

No refinery towers.

No whisperglass spires.

Wither Hollow had chosen to stay rooted.

When Fern had first come here, over fifty years ago, it had been nothing more than a Dark Druid outpost, its grove sick with Taint and bone offerings. After he defeated them, he didn’t just cleanse the place. He raised a wall around the scarred grove…

And then planted a new one.

At its center, like a heart reawakened, grew one of the very first Blackwater Oaks—the sacred kind that anchors Fern’s Treestride network.

A living conduit.

A hub of sacred travel.

And the only one known to have grown from a place where blood once ran like water. Izzy looked up at the Blackwater Oak, its wide limbs stretching skyward like arms of absolution, the last light of twilight catching in its bark like veins of silver flame.

The town guards stepped forward as we approached the gate. Their cloaks bore the crest of the Wither Tree, spears in hand, and sleek swords at their hips. They nodded at us—curt, respectful. Missionaries were allowed. Just not embraced.

Itza glanced sideways at me, voice low, “Why do they treat us so coldly here?”

She hesitated, then corrected herself, “Well… maybe not cold. But guarded.”

I let out a quiet chuckle and gently steered us to the left, where the old courier station and stables stood—brick-walled and roofed in thick, moss-tufted thatch.

“Because many of these folks come from old blood,” I said. “Dark Druids who renounced the Taint after Fern’s victory at the Battle of Stone Ring Grove. They’re grateful for freedom, sure. But not all of them are so thrilled about the religion that came with it, or the taxes.”

As we passed the main avenue, I gestured toward the market shops—their windows decorated with relics from the Third and even Second Age. A silver circlet etched with spiral glyphs. Prayer bowls of obsidian and feathered glass. An amulet humming faintly with trapped wind.

“The Steelwilds aren’t one land,” I said.“They’re four. One side uses the Circles to forward science. One follows the Gospel’s path. And one still clings to the Old Ways of the Dark Druids—cleansed, but not forgotten, and the last disavows all magic and religion for the sake of what one can dig from the earth and hold in his hands.”

Itza nodded, eyes sharp as she took it all in. I scanned the crossroad, eyes catching the curl of a carved wooden sign. A faded paintbrush script read:

“The Rowdy Stallion- Stables and Ferriers

“There we are,” I tipped my head toward it, then added,“And thankfully… if things ever go bad here, the Treestride Network lets the Grovelands garrison at Druid’s Lighthouse drop in fast.”

Itza raised a brow,“Let’s just hope we don’t need them.”

We walked up to the courier station, its brickwork crumbling slightly at the edges, the stable beside it smelling of hay, sweat, and low-burning essence coal. A young man—couldn’t have been more than twenty—was hunched over a message slate, scratching at it with a worn stylus.

I stepped forward and offered my hand, “Hello. We’re looking for a place called the Lady’s Garden Inn?”

The youth looked up, blinked, and pointed lazily to the left, “Y’go don datwey. Parse two ooses, tern rite, den ‘ed oop an’ yell see’n it ba da nort get.”

I smiled, nodded like I understood, and tossed him a gold piece, “Thank you kindly, sir.”

We started walking in the direction he pointed.

Itza leaned in close, brow furrowed,“What in the hell did he say?”

I kept my face perfectly straight,“He said you have a nice ass.”

I picked up the pace.

Itza stopped, turned, glared at the boy, then at me,“No he did not! Zeke—I’m gonna beat you.”

“Promise!” I called over my shoulder as she caught up, fists balled, but grinning.

The Lady’s Garden was the kind of place you could only describe as old-world charm that had taken one too many sips of Boreal tribal mushroom tea.

The walls were a mix of weathered red brick and flaking plaster, held together more by faith than mortar. Thick black logs—straight from the heart of some ancient grove—held up a thatch roof so intricately woven even a dwarf would’ve wept with jealousy.

A riot of color burst from every planter, bed, and balcony: Flowers of every hue. Heavily-scented herbs that danced on the breeze.

And trees that had no business growing in the Eastern Forest—fruiting, twisting, blooming like they thought this was a jungle monastery in the Petal Isles.

Jostling for space among the greenery were plaster and stone renditions of the latest saints—some reverent, some less so:

•Saint Velessa, coyly lifting her hem beneath a flowering pear tree.

•Saint Berenice of the Petals, depicted mid-ecstasy with a rose in her teeth.

•And the unmistakable form of Saint Egrigio the Engorged, draped in passionfruit vines, looking very pleased with himself.

Itza stopped at the garden gate, pinched the bridge of her nose, “Ohhhh… my eyes.”

I grinned,“Come on. At least we got sent to the brightest spot in this drab little town. Even if it looks like a gnome on SearWaste speed root designed the whole thing blindfolded.”

The delicate ring of the bell over the door was the first thing I noticed. The second… nearly made me leap out of my damn skin.

Curled by the hearth, basking in the low flicker of flame, lay a dragon—no larger than a hunting hound. Its scales shimmered silver and deep red, a color combination I hadn’t seen since my academy days.

Cinderclaw breed. Rare. Volatile. Highly opinionated.

Before I could blink, it opened one lazy eye and spoke in a smoky voice that rattled in my bones,“Tulip. Company.”

From behind the counter, a greying bun of hair bobbed into view, followed by the shuffle of slippered feet.

“Coming, coming, Decimus,” came the voice,“Would it kill you to turn mortal once or twice and help instead of lapping up the heat of my fireplace like a spoiled tabby?”

Rounding the edge of the desk came a halfling woman with oversized glasses, a cheerful waddle, and a bottom round enough to balance a wine bottle and then some.

Her apron was patterned in roses and smudged with flour. She wore three chaplets around her wrist—one pearl, one vine-carved wood, and one made of obsidian prayer stones that practically hummed.

“Good evening, loves!” she chirped,“The name’s Tulip Bumbouncer—of the Brass Tree Bumbouncers, thank you very much. Welcome to my Lady’s Garden. How might I assist you this fine, flame-kissed evening?”

Itza stepped forward, smiling softly as she reached down to stroke Decimus’s silver-red flank. The dragon snapped one eye open—molten amber with a slit pupil sharp as a knife,“Are you serious right now? You’re really going to try to pet me like a cat?”

Itza yanked her hand back,” Sorry, master, I’ve never seen one like you before. The ones from Yogunomir are black and purple and black and green.”

From behind the counter, Aunty Tulip was climbing a short step ladder, muttering as she shoved a basket of dried herbs aside, “Aye, don’t mind him love. He’s a watch dog but he does much, much more, too. Why do you think there’s no Mr. Bumbouncer around here?”

Itza blinked, looking again at the dragon. Decimus, lounging like a sin made smug, hiked one hind leg with slow precision—tail curling like smoke. He winked. He smiled, if dragons could smile.

Itza flushed beet red and spun around so fast her beads jingled.

I just whistled low, shaking my head,“Well now…”

Itza hissed at me,“Don’t you dare.”

I coughed, grinning,“Anyway, Aunty Boussom told us about you. Said the Lady’s Garden has the comfiest rooms west of Hollow Port.”

“I’ve got one suite available,” Tulip said, tapping a brass-tipped pen against her guestbook. “It’s the honeymoon suite, so it’s going to run you a hundred a night. Bed’s luxurious, sheets are enchanted, and it comes with all the trappings and restraints you’ll need.”

She didn’t blink. I looked around the completely empty inn, save for Decimus who yawned dramatically by the fire.“I see how busy you are. You sure you don’t have any… other rooms available?”

Tulip’s smile sharpened. “If you don’t want it, I’m sure you can find a room at the Red Ass Stables. Back the way you came. Smells like destiny and manure.”

Itza stepped forward, ever the diplomat, her hazel eyes softening into an almost theatrical flutter. “The room will be fine, Aun—”

Tulip raised a finger without looking up. “Call me Ms.”

Itza blinked.

“…Ms. Tulip,” she corrected, a little off-balance. “May I ask what time breakfast is served?”

“Five in the morning,” Tulip replied, already scribbling something in the margins of her ledger. “Sheets are in the closet. Don’t get blood on the mattress—unless you’re making a Legacy bead.”

She handed me the key—a delicate thing made of glass and copper, still warm from her hand,“Enjoy your night.”

The room was understated in absolutely no way whatsoever. A king-sized bed took up most of the space, draped in curtains and canopies, stuffed with goosedown pillows and a comforter that looked like it had been blessed by angels or bondage demons—possibly both.

As I opened the bedside drawer, I was greeted with a lineup of handcuffs, silk ties, and a paddle labeled “Faith.” I slammed the drawer shut.

Itza was admiring the dining table in the corner, tracing its woodwork, when her hip bumped something.

Click.

A panel snapped open, revealing more cuffs and what looked like a velvet-blindfolded Saint Velessa statue with glowing nipples.

“Why in the Seven Lights—ohhhhh, ohh—OH, CREATOR—”

She fumbled the switch, slapping it closed before more sacred secrets could emerge. We shared a look. Then walked into the bathroom, only to be greeted by a massive stone tub, surrounded by mirrors so polished you could see your soul mid-prayer. The faucet was carved in the shape of a tongue.

Itza squinted around,“She said honeymoon suite, not love dungeon.”

I shrugged, yawning,“To some newlyweds, ain’t much of a difference.”

We both began to undress, folding our missionary uniforms over a nearby chair that had a very suspiciously placed divot in the seat.

Once beneath the covers, the absurdity melted away, leaving only warmth, soft linen, and the shape of the one person whose breath always brought me peace.

I slid closer to her, kissed her neck, and whispered,“Pray with me, my love.”

Book of Saint Fernweh, Arcane Clause 13:6

“Truth that is not ratified by the Synod is heresy. Let no man reawaken the Circles. Let no woman claim blood as legacy without rite. What the Creator once scattered, let the Church now seal.”