He stabbed his fingers into the earth itself, pretending to be some creature of the forest digging for their next meal, and then pulled. His muscles bulged, strained, and then succeeded, dragging his dead legs behind him. Thrice more he completed this maneuver, until he was directly beside the damaged part of the root.

“I’m sorry old friend,” he said aloud as he got to work. He started with only his fingers, but when the root’s armored outer shell resisted his brute strength, he procured a sharp stone and used it like a knife, slicing and chopping the edges of the opening and then prying them away until the inner flesh was revealed.

It shimmered.

He dove into it like a pig in its trough, sucking and licking and even biting to try to release more of it. And when finally, after several minutes, he lifted his head again, chin smeared with that golden glow, he froze, heart pounding.

And then he stood.

When Faryon finally emerged from the forest, he expected to find a party of searchers roaming the outskirts of the town, calling his name. Instead, he found a very different kind of party.

He stared at the grand mayoral estate that was supposed to be his home, but in which, within its high walls and decorative gates, he’d always felt like a stranger. A hundred lanterns filled every window with light. Cheerful music provided the perfect accompaniment to the hum of conversation and trills of laughter.

Glasses clinked as toasts were made.

His own father’s gregarious voice rose above them all, capturing the attention of his guests, all of whom basked in the glow of his power and wealth, as if they might gain some measure of it simply by occupying the same space as him.

They didn’t even know I was gone.

That thought sinking into his gut, Faryon peered through the gates to find a space in the courtyard filled with dancers. His father led his mother on a whirling journey amongst them, their grace unmatched by any others. Not that anyone who happened to be more adept on their feet would be so foolish as to try to one-up them.

His father secured his mother’s back and dipped her.

Faryon met her eyes, upside down.

Later that night, his mother would swear to his father that she’d seen him outside the gates, a strange glow around his mouth, but that the next time she’d looked, he’d disappeared. His father chalked it up to the expensive, but strong, sweetwine she’d drunk more than her fair share of.

Both were found dead in their beds the next morning, daggers embedded in their hearts.

The assassin—for it must have been one trained in the art of killing hired by their rivals—was never brought to justice.

Faryon’s first act as head of household and Mayor of Hern was to shore up security, both for his inherited estate and for the city as a whole. The citizens lauded him for it, even as they pitied him for having become an orphan in the span of one fell night.