Night still clung to the Wildwood when Lira awoke to soft rustling among the ferns. Moonlight slanted through the canopy in pale shafts, illuminating the roots of the ancient oak under which she had slept. She sat up, pressing her arms around her knees, and listened. Somewhere deeper in the forest, distant water dripped, and the low hum of insects wove a lullaby.
High Warden Marek stirred beside her, rolling back onto one elbow. His face, usually stern, was relaxed in sleep. Lira smoothed a stray lock of hair from her forehead, glanced at her harpcase, then stood quietly. The memory of the Queen's spectral face at the Moonstone Shrine glowed warmly in her mind. She let herself smile.
A twig snapped, and Lira froze. Her blood hammered; she reached for the harpstring tied at her belt. The underbrush parted, and a lone wolf stepped into the clearing, pausing at the base of the oak. Its coat was deep coal, eyes like polished amber. It held Lira's gaze with calm intelligence.
She exhaled slowly, easing her hand from the string. "Easy," she whispered. The wolf cocked its head, as though awaiting a signal. Lira knelt and extended her palm. After a heartbeat, the wolf padded forward, standing a few feet away. It sniffed her hand, then pressed its nose against her palm.
Marek rose to his feet, wiping sleep from his eyes. He frowned, but did not move. "One of her guardians," he said quietly. "They watch over pilgrims to the shrines."
The wolf circled Lira and Marek, then settled on its haunches. Lira scratched behind its ears; the wolf closed its eyes, baring its teeth in a relaxed expression. For a moment, the world felt at peace.
"We should move on," Marek said. "The Ruins of Silverfen lie two leagues east."
Lira nodded. She reluctantly withdrew her hand, and the wolf padded off into the ferns. As they gathered their packs, Lira felt a new confidence: if the Queen's guardians accepted her, perhaps she truly belonged on this path.
They followed a narrow game trail that wound through stands of birch and ash. Morning dew beaded on leaves; pale light filtered through mist. The forest was quieter now, as though it, too, held its breath for what was to come.
Marek led the way, blade sheathed but at the ready. Lira noticed that he moved with ease—every step measured, every sense alert. He was a man shaped by duty and vigilance, yet she sensed a reluctant respect growing between them.
After an hour, the trail opened onto a marshy valley. Tangled reeds and shallow pools spread for half a mile, reflecting the sky like shattered mirrors. Wooden walkways—ancient and rotted—snaked across the wetlands, leading toward the silhouette of collapsed towers in the distance.
"There," Marek said, pointing. "Silverfen."
Lira breathed in the marsh's briny scent. A flock of herons rose at their approach, wings beating in slow rhythm before vanishing into the gray sky. The ruined towers, half-submerged, leaned at impossible angles. Moss and vines claimed the walls; windows gaped like empty eye sockets.
She swallowed. "What happened here?"
Marek tightened his cloak against a rising wind. "Silverfen was once a center of learning—lore, music, and magic flourished here under the Queen's rule. After the Silence, it became a refuge for scholars hunting forbidden knowledge. When Marek's predecessor drove out the renegades, the city was burned. These ruins have held the second verse ever since."
They stepped onto the first rotted plank. Lira's mare hesitated, hooves slipping on algae. Marek dismounted and led her mount by the bridle across firmer ground. Lira followed on foot, boots wet, the scroll's leather tube shaking at her side.
At the center of the ruins lay a circular courtyard, its flagstones broken and scattered. In the middle, a raised dais bore a stone basin carved with swirling musical glyphs—similar to those at Moonstone Shrine but more intricate. Vines curled through the carvings, and water pooled in shallow grooves.
Lira knelt at the dais's edge and placed her palms on the cool stone. She felt a vibration, faint but definite, as though the glyphs pulsed with impatience. She drew the scroll, unrolling it to reveal the second verse:
"Where silver waters mirror night,
And songs of old renew their light,
Let mortal voice upon the tide
Recall the queen who sought our side."
She traced the words with her fingertip, then unfastened the harpstring. Holding it taut, she plucked a clear, ringing E. The water in the basin rippled. Encouraged, she began to sing, her voice steady:
"Where silver waters mirror night,
And songs of old renew their light…"
Her melody wove through the courtyard, echoing off crumbling walls. A soft wind stirred, lifting stray notes into the air. The vines around the basin glowed faintly, and the water responded with ripples that formed concentric rings.
Lira closed her eyes, letting the tune guide her through the verse. When she reached the final line, she opened her mouth wider, pouring strength into her voice:
"…Recall the queen who sought our side."
A sudden surge of energy shot through the dais. The basin's water swirled, rising in a gentle spiral before descending in sparkling droplets. The vines quivered, shedding dew that sparkled like stars. From the ruined walls, a distant hum arose, as though hidden chimes had come to life.
Lira's breath caught. The courtyard vibrated with the Queen's power. She swallowed, continuing to play until the last note faded. Silence fell again—profound, alive.
Marek stepped forward, awe in his eyes. "You have done it," he murmured. "You awaken her not just in stone, but in water and wood."
Lira's knees shook. She sank beside the basin, watching droplets shimmer on her palms. "I— I did not know it would feel like this," she whispered. "Like the world itself is singing with me."
He offered her a hand. She took it, standing slowly. Around them, the ruins seemed less foreboding—more like living memory given breath.
"Each verse grows harder," Marek warned. "The magic will test you."
Lira nodded. "Then I will rise to its challenge." She rolled the scroll, secured it to her belt, and gathered the harpstring.
They pressed on to the edge of the courtyard, where a narrow archway led into a crumbling tower. Inside, torches flickered in iron sconces, illuminated by enchanted glowstones still faintly alive. Lira paused, studying the carvings on the arch—wolf-heads crowned with lunar crescents.
"Another guardian here?" she asked.
Marek nodded. "The silver wolves. They only appear when a true seeker completes the verse." He held her gaze. "Are you ready?"
Her heart throbbed. "Yes."
He touched one glowstone; it blazed bright, banishing shadows. They crossed the threshold, footsteps echoing on broken flagstones. Inside, the tower's spiral stairs descended into darkness. Damp air rose, carrying the scent of earth and rot.
Halfway down, Lira heard low growls—multiple voices, resonant with intelligence. She gripped Marek's arm. "The silver wolves?"
"Stay close," he whispered.
At the base, the staircase opened into a cavernous chamber. Moonlight spilled through a collapsed ceiling, illuminating three wolves—fur the color of liquid metal—lying in a triad around a stone plinth. Their eyes gleamed pale blue. Each body was sleek and powerful, ribs and muscles rippling beneath their coats.
They rose as Lira entered, fur bristling, hackles raised. She froze. The harpstring slipped from her grasp and clattered on the stones.
Marek drew his sword. "Stand behind me," he ordered.
Lira shook her head. "No. They are guardians, not beasts to slay." She stepped forward, raising her hands. "I come with the Queen's song."
The wolves paused, heads tilting. Their growls softened into low, mournful tones. Lira closed her eyes, recalling the melody she'd just sung. She hummed the first verse—soft and tentative:
"When shadows weave upon the moor…"
The wolves circled, their eyes fixed on her. Encouraged, she added the second:
"…And songs of old renew their light…"
Their hackles relaxed; one wolf padded forward, ears drooping. Lira knelt and held out her palm. The wolf sniffed, then nudged her hand. She reached out and stroked its muzzle.
Behind her, Marek lowered his sword. The remaining wolves settled, forming a protective ring around Lira and the plinth. Silence reigned, profound and expectant.
Lira rose, stepping to the plinth's edge. She placed her hands on its cold surface, feeling a faint vibration. A final hum echoed through the chamber as if the stones themselves remembered music.
"Thank you," she whispered to the silver wolves.
They slipped away into shadows, leaving her alone with Marek. He sheathed his sword. "They accept you," he said quietly.
Lira exhaled, relief and wonder mingling in her chest. "Then we have two verses—two of four. Only two remain."
Marek inclined his head. "Soon, you will face the greatest test.''
She met his gaze with unshaken determination. "I am ready."
Together, they ascended the steps, leaving the Ruins of Silverfen behind. Outside, the marsh lay silent under a waning moon. Lira mounted her mare, heart alight with purpose.
Ahead lay the eastern path to the Borderlands—and the third verse, hidden where cold winds carved secrets into stone. But she no longer feared what waited. With the Queen's song in her blood and the guardians' eyes upon her, Lira walked the path of power and promise—her destiny unfolding in every note she sang.