“Why not?” Breto chirps from the other end of the table. “Are your kingdoms truly so dispirited that you feel everyone else must be too?” He digs into his meal and nudges the man sitting next to him.

“May I remind you that most of the Florian Wood lies within Baelliles,” I say. My mother would’ve approved of my haughty, princely tone. “Idizina sits in the very Kingdom you speak ill of.”

Everyone, save my companions, howls. “Have I said something humorous?” I take a pull of ale and try to regain my composure.

Nuri waves her hands and titters. “Very humorous! ‘Tis a great joke to believe the Florian Wood belongs to anything but itself. We’re Idunns, not Baellileans. Not Verdanians and not Aeradians, no matter what imaginary lines these trees may take root on. The Others would mock you as I do.”

“The Others?” Lin repeats, eyes riveted on her.

“The Idunns aren’t the only ones who’ve made their homes here. The powerful Minea who make up the Herrah may protect us, but others are out in the Wood too. I’m sure you’ve heard of them in your stories. The tribe of white, the tribe of black...”

“And the tribe of many colors,” Lin whispers, his eyes now fixed on me. “It seems King Vaskis wasn’t wrong in his tales.”

“Oh, he was definitely wrong,” Nuri cuts in. “Those tribes don’t exist.”

“Then who are The Others?” Lin asks.

Nuri’s face grows grim, and she eyes her fellow Idunns before staring coldly at Lin. “These white and black tribes are how outsiders have come to think of the powers that live here.”

Lin eagerly leans forward, and his eyes race between hers; he doesn’t seem to notice her severe expression.

“The Herrah siphon the forest's magic to do good, to protect it. The ones who wield magic in this way are the Holders of Light. But, as I told you before, there are those who seek to disturb the network. They’re called The Others or the Keepers of the Dark…”

“They’re the followers of The Dreaded,” Rianne finishes, then closes her mouth in a thin line.

Lorna glances at her, then focuses on Nuri.

“The Dreaded?” She probes, tapping an overwrought finger against her mug. Nuri hums.

“Yes. Surely you’ve heard of The Dreaded?” When no one answers, she scoffs. “It is worse than I had imagined out there. How little you all know of your own history.”

“Then teach us more of it,” I say steadily, hard focused on her every expression.

“The Dreaded is an awful, powerful force. One that uses the forest's magic for its own sinister means.” She answers directly.

“Is that who sent the Obsidian Mist? The Dreaded? The Keepers of the Dark?” Lorna asks.

Nuri inhales deeply, stabbing at her food with a fork.