City of Cyme, Amazakaraan
Western Realm

Queen’s Guard Acting Commander Freyja Zyrr strides along the base of Cyme’s translucent protective dome, searching for threats, her runic axe strapped to her back, blades sheathed all over her.

Ever primed for battle, but especially so this night.

It’s balmy and quiet. Deceptive in its tranquility. Freyja peers through the dome into the dark wilds beyond. She knows the Mages are likely out there, scouting around the city. Perhaps the Alfsigr are there as well, both vile peoples wanting to consume Amazakaraan and wipe her people clear off the face of Erthia. And then there’s the Prophecy, every one of their seers unnervingly certain its time is at hand. Freyja flexes her shoulders, the weight of her axe the only reassuring thing about this night.

A rustling sounds in the trees behind her. She turns, taking in the curious forms of owls suddenly perched all over the elm grove’s branches, the night birds dimly lit by the dome’s scarlet runes and staring at her through round, unblinking eyes. Freyja pulls a shard of golden lumenstone from her pocket, its amber light suffusing both her hazel-hued hand and the dense grove. She looks back up and scans the Goddess’s night children. Three golden-eyed eagle owls, perched in a row. Two great gray owls with piercing yellow stares. Several elf owls with such ferocious expressions for their tiny size, they’re almost comical.

She lowers her gaze, taking in the two white, specter-like barn owls perched on Wynter Eirllyn’s shoulders, the Alfsigr Icaral standing in the shadows, as Freyja knew she would be as soon as she spotted the birds.

“May I speak with you?” Wynter shyly inquires, her dark wings pulled in snugly around her slender frame.

Freyja nods and waits as Wynter emerges into the narrow clearing that rings Cyme, the edge of the city’s dome rising behind Freyja. Wynter stills before her, the dome’s scarlet runes tinting Wynter’s alabaster hair a soft pink.

“I seek your aid,” Wynter says in a small, strained voice, the desperate gravity in her silver gaze portending a request sure to be monumental.

“What aid do you seek?” Freyja asks and waits as Wynter seems to wrestle with her plea, her lips trembling.

“I seek help for my brother Cael and his Second, Rhys Thorim,” she finally blurts out. “I seek help freeing them from imprisonment in Alfsigroth.” Her face tenses, as if she’s fighting mightily against some internal tide that wants to keep these thoughts bound down.