Phealafarian Frontiers : 25 : Mistvale Reunions
The cavern slowly exhaled.
After the violence, after the roar of the Alpha Bugbear and the thunder of collapsing bodies, Wyrmspath’s underbelly settled into an uneasy quiet. The river continued its endless babble, water slapping stone as if nothing at all had happened. Steal Team 6 slumped where they stood or leaned against crates and cavern walls, armour dented, cloaks torn, breath coming in heavy, steaming pulls. For a long moment, no one spoke.
Eventually, Tobias broke the silence with a weary breath. “Let’s… take a minute.”
They did.
When the shaking in their hands eased and the ringing in their ears faded, they turned to the practical matters of survival. Thomas and Erisa began searching through nearby crates and scattered supplies, finding small stashes tucked away, nothing grand, but enough to feel like a reward earned rather than taken. Guardian lingered near the river, eyes tracking the dark water, while Dandadan hovered close at his shoulder, watching him with open fascination.
“I go with you,” the Borglin offered suddenly, nodding toward the ladder that led back up. “He cool, I wanna hang with him.” His eyes flicked back to Guardian.
After a brief exchange of glances, Tobias agreed. Thomas joined them, and the three made their way back toward the surface to secure the horses and check the fort above.
Tosk, meanwhile, wandered into the chamber the Alpha Bugbear had emerged from. It was unmistakably a bedroom, furs layered thick across a broad pallet, trophies nailed to the walls, the sharp smell of sweat and iron lingering in the air. He rummaged with enthusiasm, uncovering small sacks heavy with coin and gems, a handful of well-kept weapons, a heavy leather belt reinforced with metal plates, and a fur-lined cloak still warm from recent use.
Then he opened the wardrobe.
Behind hanging furs and rough-spun garments sat a narrow, hidden door; locked, reinforced, and clearly not meant to be found. Tosk squinted at it, shrugged, and kicked.
The door held.
The explosion did not.
A concussive bang filled the room as a grenade dropped and detonated at his feet. Smoke and sparks swallowed the doorway, and when they cleared, Tosk staggered back out into the cavern, fur singed, armour blackened, expression offended more than injured.
“Door trapped,” he announced flatly. “Thomas. Help.”
Thomas returned below ground just in time to kneel beside the lock. With careful hands and a muttered curse, he disarmed the second trigger and eased the door open.
Beyond lay a hidden storeroom.
Iron-bound chests and wooden crates filled the space, everything packed tight and organised with military care. They opened them one by one, revealing coin, potions, lamp oil, alchemical supplies, weapons wrapped and oiled, armour stacked neatly, and tools meant for repair and trade. It was a hoard built for war and they stripped it down to what they could reasonably carry.
By the time they finished, the cavern felt emptier. Safer.
Tosk claimed the Alpha Bugbear’s bed without ceremony and fell asleep almost instantly.
Above ground, Tobias and Guardian led the animals into the fort’s stables. The space bore the scars of worg habitation, scratched walls, chewed beams, the lingering stench of wet fur, but it was serviceable for a single night. They closed the front gates and, with a shared effort, Tobias lifted the heavy crossbeam into place, barring it securely.
Then they remembered the gap in the rear wall.
With the help of a groggy, soot-streaked Tosk, they dragged a broken cart into position and patched the breach as best they could, wedging timbers and debris until it would at least slow anything trying to force its way in.
Satisfied, for now, they returned below.
Despite the newfound sense of safety, they still kept watch.
Tobias’ shift passed in silence. Guardian’s was much the same, save for the thunderous trumpet-snores echoing from Tosk’s corner of the cavern.
Erisa’s watch was broken only once, when Dandadan startled her by appearing at her side. “Frogs are sleeping,” he whispered eagerly. “We could swim across. There is treasure.”
Erisa studied him for a long moment before shaking her head. “Not now. Not without everyone awake.”
Dandadan nodded, seemingly satisfied, and wandered off to curl up again. Erisa resumed her watch, eyes never fully leaving the shadows.
Thomas’ shift ended the night. A distant, baneful howl drew him back to the caged wolf. He approached slowly, offering another scrap of meat. The wolf sniffed, then gently took it from his hand before curling back into itself to gnaw in peace.
“I’ll get you out,” Thomas murmured before returning to the others.
Morning came quietly.
The cavern stirred with the low murmur of waking breath, the river’s steady rush unchanged by the night’s violence. Packs were adjusted, wounds checked, and the faint stiffness of sleep worked from tired limbs. For a brief, fragile moment, the world felt almost peaceful.
Dandadan shattered it.
“There’s treasure,” the Borglin announced brightly, bouncing on his heels. “Across the water. I asked Pinky last night, when frogs were sleeping, but she wanted to wait.” He beamed at Erisa as though this were proof of good manners.
Erisa gave him a look that said she remembered the conversation rather differently.
The river churned between jagged banks, black and cold, its surface broken by slow, circling ripples. No frogs showed themselves now. Guardian studied the distance, then spoke up. “I can look. Just look.”
Before anyone could object, he stepped forward and vanished in a shimmer of arcane mist.
Guardian reappeared on the far bank in a narrow alcove carved into the stone. Lantern light glimmered off stacked crates, barrels, and carefully wrapped bundles. This wasn’t a forgotten cache—it was an organised reserve.
He moved quickly, cataloguing what he saw: coin piled in small chests, silver ingots stacked with care, potions stoppered and sealed. A bundle of fine parchment lay wrapped in oilcloth. Barrels of dried meat and crates of hardtack promised weeks of food. Trade goods; salt blocks, lamp oil, pitch, tar, filled the space with sharp, utilitarian scents. Racks along the wall held serviceable weapons and armour, all maintained, all ready.
And at the back of it all sat a mahogany drybox, its surface etched with fine silver engravings that caught the light like frost.
Guardian swallowed.
When he returned, reappearing in a puff of mist on the near bank, his report spilled out in a rush. The party listened in growing disbelief, then quiet calculation. Dead weight was discussed and discarded. Choices were made.
Guardian gathered what they could not afford to leave behind, filling a heavy chest until it groaned with the strain. He heaved. The chest lifted, barely, but it was enough. With a sharp intake of breath, he vanished again and reappeared moments later beside them, the chest thudding to the stone.
Tosk knelt immediately beside the drybox, hands reverent as he brushed snow and grime from the silver inlay. “This,” he said quietly. “This is the one.” The meat-smoker’s task, finally made real. Three hundred pounds of smoked meat awaited its return.
They divided the spoils with care, stacks of coin clinking softly, supplies sorted and repacked. As they worked, Tosk couldn’t help himself. He paced the cavern, cloak swirling dramatically behind him, posing atop crates and stones like a conquering hero.
Then he paused.
A subtle warmth settled over his shoulders. The cloak seemed to settle too, hugging him just a little closer. Tosk blinked, then straightened, chest puffing out.
“Oho,” he rumbled. “Yes. This feels correct.”
With packs heavy and spirits lighter, they gathered their beasts of burden and prepared to move on. Dandadan took his place at the front, eager and proud to guide them onward.
They left Wyrmspath Fort behind without ceremony.
Two days later, the mountains finally began to loosen their grip. Snow thinned. Rock gave way to patches of stubborn grass. Trees returned, their dark branches swaying gently in the open air. Ulaa’s Wall stood behind them now, its frozen teeth dulled by distance.
The Northlands spread out ahead.
And for the first time in days, the road felt wide again.
For two days they travelled beneath thinning snow, the air losing its bite inch by inch. Rock gave way to scrub, scrub to stubborn grass pushing through frost-hardened soil. The path widened, the sky opened, and the weight that had pressed on their shoulders since Ulaa’s Wall began, at last, to ease. Behind them, the mountains stood silent and unmoved; ahead, the land breathed again.
Dandadan proved a surprisingly competent guide. He knew where the wind cut hardest, where snow liked to drift, where old paths still held firm beneath ice and time. He chatted constantly, about tunnels, about frogs, about treasure that definitely existed elsewhere too, until someone told him to keep quiet, at which point he did… for a while.
Four days later, the road carried them into a small village nestled among low hills and open pasture. Halsaland was little more than ten buildings clustered around a broad, smoke-darkened longhouse, but laughter and music spilled out into the cold air. Torches burned bright, and the smell of roasting meat drifted across the green.
They had arrived on the Feast of Year’s End.
The villagers welcomed them without hesitation. Food was pressed into their hands, cups filled and refilled, benches dragged closer to make room. When Tobias offered coin for the night, the village chief waved it away with a smile. “This is a time of celebration,” he said. “Not of commerce.” They insisted anyway, leaving five gold on the table. The chief accepted it only with a nod, as though indulging them.
As the night wore on, the chief studied the group more closely. His gaze lingered on Erisa. “You’re from up north,” he said at last. “Mistvale, yes?”
Erisa blinked. “I’m not from there. But I am going up there to see someone”
He chuckled softly. “Ah right, your mother maybe? You look just like someone from there.”
Erisa’s breath caught, she nodded.
“Good woman,” the chief continued. “Say hello to Lyra for me when you arrive.”
Something warm and bright settled in Erisa’s chest at the sound of her mother’s name, so close now she could almost feel it. For the rest of the evening, her smile came easier, laughter closer to the surface.
They slept that night surrounded by song and firelight, the kind of rest that comes only when danger feels far away.
They slept that night surrounded by song and firelight, the kind of rest that comes only when danger feels far away.
When they finally set out again, the road north felt different beneath their feet, less a trial to endure, more a path inviting them onward. Mistvale lay ahead now, close enough to name, close enough to feel.
Erisa walked with her gaze fixed on the horizon, heart light and hammering all at once. Whatever waited for them there, whatever answers or wounds or truths, they would face it together.
And so Steal Team 6 continued on, leaving Halsaland’s laughter behind as the road carried them toward the moment that had been nine years in the making.
Mistvale lay quiet beneath a pale northern sky, the kind of quiet that felt earned rather than empty, yet Erisa felt it tighten in her chest, a fragile mix of hope and dread settling as heavily as the frost on the rooftops.
The village was small, but clearly lived-in: sturdy timber homes clustered close together against the cold, their roofs heavy with white. Somewhere down the lane, a smith’s hammer rang in a slow, steady rhythm, each strike echoing softly between the buildings. A nearby smokehouse breathed out a thin ribbon of grey, carrying the comforting scent of salt, woodsmoke, and curing meat. After days of wind-scoured passes and blood-wet stone, the stillness felt almost unreal, as if the world itself were holding its breath. Steal Team 6 walked the narrow paths slowly, voices lowered without thinking, afraid to disturb something fragile.
They had not gone far when Erisa stopped dead.
A woman knelt in a modest garden outside one of the houses, brushing frost from the leaves of winter-hardy plants with bare hands already reddened by the cold. She straightened at the sound of footsteps, squinting slightly in the thin northern light.
She was Erisa’s mirror.
A little taller, perhaps. Older, certainly. Time had traced its marks in fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Long blonde hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands already threaded with grey. But the eyes—the shape of them, the way they caught the light, the familiar set of her mouth when she frowned in concentration, were unmistakable.
“Mum!”
Erisa ran.
The woman looked up in confusion that turned to shock, then to recognition so sharp it stole the breath from her lungs. Tears welled as Erisa closed the distance, and they collided in a fierce embrace, arms locking around one another as though the years between them might tear them apart if they loosened their grip even for a moment.
Lyra laughed and sobbed at the same time, clutching Erisa’s face between her hands as if afraid she might vanish. “My daughter,” she breathed, voice breaking. “You’re here. I—I can’t believe it. Look at you…” She pulled Erisa close again, pressing her forehead to hers. “I dreamed of this. I dreamed of you finding me.”
Lyra let out a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I missed you,” she choked, the words tumbling out between breaths. “I missed you so much. Every winter, every birthday… I kept wondering if you were warm, if you were safe.” She clutched at Erisa’s coat, pressing her face into her daughter’s shoulder. “I never stopped missing you.”
“Why did you leave me?” Erisa sobbed, the words breaking against her mother’s shoulder, nine years of hurt spilling out all at once.
Lyra held her tight, fingers digging into the fabric of her coat as if anchoring herself to something real. Her hands trembled. “I had to,” she whispered, voice raw. “I had to… to keep you safe.”
The rest of the party approached more cautiously, hanging back to give the moment its space. Lyra wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand and looked up again, her gaze moving from face to face until it settled on Zaryth. For a heartbeat, she simply stared.
“Zaryth,” Lyra breathed, relief softening her voice. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Recognition sparked—teacher and apprentice, long parted by time and distance. Lyra smiled through tears and stepped forward to greet her, pride and relief mingling in her expression. She nodded to the others in turn and gestured toward the house. “Come inside,” she said gently. “Please. I’ll… I’ll answer what I can.”
She led them into her home, modest and warmly kept, the sort of place shaped by routine rather than wealth. It felt painfully reminiscent of another life left behind, Jarren’s Outpost, with its simple comforts and stubborn resilience. Cups were set out around the table, steam curling upward as Lyra poured, the kettle rattling softly in her unsteady hands.
Everyone received a cup.
Except Tosk and Guardian.
Tosk planted himself squarely in the doorway instead, broad frame blocking it entirely, arms folded with absolute seriousness. “To stop her running away again,” he explained, as though stating an obvious fact.
Erisa sat opposite her mother, shoulders tight, hands shaking just slightly as she wrapped them around the warmth of the cup. She drew in a breath. “Why?” she asked again, the question she had carried for nine years pressed into a single word. “Why did people call me a hag child?”
Lyra’s face tightened. She closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them again. “Because…” Her voice faltered. She took a breath, steadying herself. “Because I made a deal with one.”
The room stilled.
She spoke of desperation—of years without children, of grief that hollowed her and Erisa’s father alike. She spoke of nights spent bargaining with the gods, of mornings waking to the same ache, hope thinning a little more each day. She told of an old woman who came to town with promises, who offered hope when hope was already running thin. Only later did she reveal herself as a hag, once the bargain had already taken root.
The terms were cruel in their simplicity: twins would be conceived. One child would belong to the hag, taken away, never to be seen or heard from again.
Nine months later, Lyra gave birth to a boy.
Before his first breath could escape his lungs, the wind swept through the room, snuffing out the lamps—and when the light returned, he was gone.
Moments later, a second child was born.
Erisa.
“And why did everyone know?” Erisa asked, voice raw, eyes never leaving her mother’s face.
Lyra’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Because Morlatha is a scheming bitch.”
The name slammed into everyone like a hammer.
Guardian reacted instantly—anger, disbelief, words tumbling out in a rush as memories and rage collided—but Lyra did not respond. At first, he assumed it was shock, or grief, or simple rudeness. He tried again, softer this time, then louder, irritation creeping into his voice. Still nothing.
An uneasy feeling began to coil in his stomach.
He glanced to the others, half-expecting a look of apology or explanation, but they were focused on Lyra and Erisa, on the story spilling out across the table. Guardian shifted in his seat, then stood, clearing his throat pointedly.
“Lyra?” he said again, stepping closer.
She did not look up.
Guardian frowned and waved a hand in front of her face, close enough to feel the warmth from her breath. Still nothing. The room began to quiet as the others noticed his movement, confusion spreading from one face to the next.
Erisa frowned, following Guardian’s gaze. “He’s… Guardian’s trying to ask you something,” she said carefully, glancing between them. Lyra didn’t look at Guardian—she looked at the others instead.
Lyra’s gaze slid past Guardian entirely, settling instead on Tosk, then Eldrin, then Thomas. “Are… are you Guardian?” she asked uncertainly, a flicker of confusion and worry creeping into her voice. Her eyes searched their faces, not unkind, but frightened. “Is this some kind of game? Did you come all this way to play a joke on me? Or… or are you still angry with me?”
Erisa, shaking, slid her cup slowly across the table into Guardian’s hands. Her fingers lingered for a heartbeat, knuckles white, as if afraid to let go. “He’s right here,” she said softly, her voice tight with emotion. “Mum… he’s been here the whole time.”
Lyra saw only a floating mug “I don’t see or hear anyone…”.
The colour drained from her face. Her gaze unfocused, drifting to some distant point only she could see. “She said… she said I would never see or hear him,” Lyra whispered. “I thought she meant she would take him away… I didn’t understand.” Her voice broke. “Oh Asire. I’m so sorry.”
She folded in on herself, sobbing into her hands.
Tobias rose quietly. He moved with deliberate care, placing one hand over Lyra’s trembling fingers, then reaching out with the other for Guardian’s. Slowly, gently, he guided them together.
Lyra gasped as her hands closed around something solid—warm, real—the porcelain cup rattling softly on the table as her breath caught. She pulled Guardian into a fierce embrace, clinging to him as though afraid the world might steal him away again.
“My son.”
