He placed a hand on the trunk of a nearby tree and felt the rough bark beneath his fingers. In an instant, the tree seemed to spring to life, letting out a long exhale, its leaves fluttering in a windswept applause. The forest began to sing, a sweet melody that Wesley was so sure he’d heard before. The branches of each shrub and tree and sapling jerked back and forth in a wave, and Wesley couldn’t help but smile.

This forest, evergreen and aglow in ancient magic, felt happy to see him. It welcomed him like an old friend.

This way, it whispered excitedly. Quickly, come this way.

The leaves of the trees, veined silver like Wesley’s staves, rustled to his left, and Wesley followed them like they were a compass. He wasn’t sure where they were leading him or why, but he didn’t care. He knew somehow, somewhere deep down, that it was taking him where he needed to go.

The clearing was sparse and at first Wesley thought that he was alone, but after a few short moments, four figures emerged from the distance.

One was Saxony, talking animatedly to an older woman on her right. The woman sighed, the man next to her shrugged, and then the three of them stopped walking altogether and formed a makeshift circle. They looked like they were arguing about something, but Wesley didn’t care enough to try to listen. His focus was pulled toward the fourth person. The girl who had broken away from them and was twirling her knives absentmindedly on a nearby log.

Tavia.

Many Gods, she was right in front of him.

Finally.

Her hair was a little longer now and still a fierce black that swung by her chin. She was dressed in gray, of course, with her sleeves rolled up to perfectly showcase the daggers of her new tattoo. A stave, of sorts. The tattoo of an ally.

Tavia looked older, in the way wisdom and death often shaped a person to be, but at the same time she looked so brand-new. The fierceness in her eyes had grown stronger since he’d last seen her, molding her into someone who felt unfamiliar.

She looked over to Saxony with a sigh and then turned to stare into the clearing.

Her eyes fixed onto Wesley’s.

Her face paled.

She stood, quick as a cat, lips parted ever so slightly.

She had never looked at him this way, like he had made the day grow brighter, instead of raising the shadows.

Tavia squinted at him, trying to make sense of him being there. Wesley was trying to make sense of her, too. Tavia’s eyes were the color of rain clouds and her lips were a thin line that held a perfect cupid’s bow when she said his name.

“Wesley.”

Her voice carried over to him like a memory.