“Old fools,” he spat, stepping carefully over the craggy roots of a massive tree that, by his estimation, might’ve been as old as time itself. Faryon was sixteen now, taller and broader of shoulder than even his father. “They have no vision, no purpose.” The tree, one of his favorites in the part of the forest he knew so well, didn’t have a tongue to answer, but it had always been a good listener, which was more than he could say about the people of Hern.

He stuck his toe in a crevice of the gnarled, wrinkled trunk and pushed himself upward until he was high enough to reach the lowest branches. From there he climbed with an ease that came only from years of practice. Despite his natural ability and the strength trained into his muscles, he checked the security of every grip and foothold twice before reaching for the next one. This habit was a result of having learned the hard way, having fallen once after growing overconfident. A broken arm was a harsh but effective way to learn the art of restraint.

On this day, he didn’t fall, not even when a light, spring rain began to mist from the heavens, making each branch as slick as an icy path. He didn’t fall as he emerged from the foliage onto the ancient behemoth’s loftiest boughs. The rain stopped and the sun emerged, radiant and bright, warming his cheeks.

Another might’ve shaken and trembled upon seeing the forest floor so distant, but not Faryon. He embraced the feeling of being at the mercy of nature, rising to his feet, using the thin branches and broad leaves to steady himself on his precarious perch.

And then he let go.

Lostwood’s air itself seemed to hold his balance as he turned his face toward the brazen sky.

He closed his eyes, relishing the freedom, the fearlessness, like an eagle spreading his wings and catching the wind.

A shadow fell over him.

His eyes flashed open to find the sun eclipsed, a thick black cloud with no end and no beginning having filled the sky in an instant, though such a phenomenon shouldn’t have been possible, not even in a place as mysterious as Lostwood.

A gust of wind battered him even as the first drops of fat rain broke free of their tethers. He reached for something to grab onto, anything, but another blast of air hit him from a different direction, making him miss. For several horrifying moments, he seemed to hang, suspended, like a puppet teased by its master’s strings.