The Warden’s Answer

To save time, they didn’t spend the night at the Morven Ox in Teranbrath on the third evening. Instead, once they were through with the market, they set off right then. By pushing hard, they covered most of the distance to Orrendale before nightfall and slept in a pass inside the canyon. Rising at dawn, they reached Orrendale while the sun was still fresh in the sky.

After passing the first and second gates –this city had two walls, the lower one outer and the higher inner– they began the long climb upward toward the center.

Though it was morning, Orrendale felt emptier than Teranbrath had, despite being much larger. The streets carried an uneasy stillness, as though the city itself was holding its breath.

Led by Bard and Cecile, they climbed into the upper districts where the public buildings stood. Yet everything there looked shuttered and closed.

“Where is everybody?” Bard muttered.

Just then, a door creaked open nearby. A woman stepped out, and Elias, too eager, startled her by blurting:

“Where can I find the Warden?”

She blinked at him, twice, clearly surprised by such a blunt question from a stranger.

Elias caught himself immediately. “Sorry!” he said, moving on quickly.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find him,” Bard reassured.

“He’s usually not going anywhere,” Cecile added dryly as they walked.

“You should be able to catch him outside the gates,” the woman’s voice called after them. “Down below the city – Eliowards.”

“Excuse me?” Elias turned.

“Eliowards! It means that way.” She pointed slightly right of where they were headed.

“Thank you!” they chorused, and pressed on.

“Eliowards?” Bard frowned.

“Let’s just keep to where she pointed,” Cecile said, gesturing toward streets hidden beyond the buildings.

“Yeah, but…” Elias turned toward Bard. “I thought there weren’t any fixed points for orientation here?”

Bard only shrugged.

They descended through winding streets, the stone underfoot worn smooth by countless footsteps. As they passed an alleyway, Cecile caught the hushed words of two women telling a strange tale to a group of gathered children of various ages. Fragments clung to her: Selora, a damsel bound in silver cords, hidden because her imagination was too strong. A strange tale to tell children, Cecile thought, her gaze lingering just for a moment before Fawks's voice cut through the air.

“There – the walls!” he pointed, and just a few passes ahead, the city walls appeared, straight down the road they’d just taken. “Once we reach the gate, we can slip outside and circle along the perimeter until we meet the Warden.”

So they did. But when they reached the nearest gate, chaos reigned. A great crowd pressed in both directions, some hesitating to enter, others to leave. Many had climbed onto the walls to peer outward.

Yet for such a throng, the noise was oddly subdued. Only a single male voice carried from beyond the walls – someone addressing the multitude.

By the time they pushed their way through, jostled and jostling, the voice had finished. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause.

Elias and the others finally made it to the front. And there, before them, stood a strange army: ranks of soldiers with bodies of stone, joints and sinews bound with living roots. Their faces were expressionless, their granite shields rough-hewn, and when they shifted, it was like wind rustling through branches.

Most of their captains were the same –stone and root– but a few were unmistakably human. Among them, mounted on horseback, stood the Warden himself. Even at a distance, Elias recognized the air of authority around him.

““Alright, let’s move!” the Warden commanded, pointing left. Instantly, the host started marching. The ground trembled faintly under their steps, a dull vibration thudding through Elias’s chest. The air thickened with the scent of churned earth as dust rose in low clouds with every step.

“There’s your chance,” Fawks urged Elias, who hesitated at the sight of so many watching eyes.

“What’s happening?” Bard asked someone nearby.

“The Warden is going to war!” said a well-dressed man, almost thrilled. “The first time since –so the stories say– he fought the Void for the Common Ground!”

“War against whom?” Cecile pressed.

“Against the shades,” a woman beside her blurted, breathless. “They’ve raised an army, can you imagine? Swept over Tarlmere and left it in ruins–”

“Red!” Elias and Fawks exclaimed together, locking eyes.

“And now,” the woman went on, “they’ve crossed into the Common Ground itself –unthinkable!– and they’re already besieging Dravenholt.”

“That won’t be easy,” Bard said with grim certainty.

“No,” Cecile agreed. “But for the Warden himself to march out with this… peculiar army…”

All of Orrendale seemed to hold its breath, watching. As the troops filed past, the Warden turned in his saddle and lifted a hand in farewell – whether to the city, or the people, none could say. He barked orders to a few high-ranking officers, then began to turn away.

“Elias!” Fawks pressed.

So Elias ran.

“Sir Warden!” he called, but his voice was swallowed in the noise of the crowd. He pressed forward, shouldering through until he was close enough. “Sir Warden!”

The Warden turned his head. “What is it?”

“I need to speak to you,” Elias said.

“Not now!”

“Please,” Elias insisted. His chest was heaving, but his eyes did not waver. “I must speak to you. It’s very important.”

At the words very important, the Warden faltered for a moment. After all – who would be so foolish as to stop him on the brink of campaign without a reason that truly mattered? Yet he reined his horse and turned toward Elias.

“I’m listening…”

“Well, where do I even begin?” Elias tried to marshal his thoughts. There were so many – questions he had longed to ask, things he yearned to say to the one who had brought all this into being.

But this wasn’t how he’d imagined it. From the moment he heard of the Warden he had rehearsed this meeting in his head, picturing himself waiting hours –even days, if necessary– for a private audience. He had hoped for four walls, a quiet chamber, doors shut against the world. Instead, here he was, exposed before a thousand watching eyes, and the moment was slipping away.

“Well, go on!” the Warden urged, his voice clipped. Time was precious, and everyone knew it.

Elias’s mouth opened –he clearly had something to say– but he hesitated again. Why knights and dragons? The question nearly tumbled out of him. But no, that wasn’t the heart of what troubled him most. He held it back. The Warden’s patience was thinning.

Then, suddenly, a strange hush fell over them. Bard, Cecile, and Fawks had drawn close, surprised along with everyone else that Elias still hadn’t spoken. Yet the Warden, that imposing figure astride his horse, waited.

“I just…” Elias’s voice broke. Then the questions burst from him like floodwater:
“I just want to know, right? What is this place? Where are we? Why is it like this? And… why are we even here?!”

Emotion surged through him, raw and unfiltered. A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd, carrying outward like a tide until it reached as far as the ear could stretch.

The Warden fixed him with a grave look, then exhaled. He didn’t seem irritated, nor dismissive—but almost understanding.

“All of this, I can answer,” he said at last. “But not now.” His head shook sadly, and he made to turn away. Already, Dravenholt might be too far gone.

For a moment Elias only stared, caught between awe at the man’s commanding presence and a bitter knot of resentment – how could they only meet under such circumstances? He then pressed after him, desperate. “Can we leave here?” His voice cracked, falling so low it was almost a whisper. “Can I wake up?”

“You must wait for my return,” was all the Warden gave him, riding on. His priorities were clear, and Elias was left staring not at him, but at the void he left behind.

He felt lost.