Chương 101: The Riders of Hearthroot

James did the only sensible thing a man could do when a legendary water-spirit beast with a draconic skull and the attitude of offended nobility chose to acknowledge him. He stood perfectly still and tried not to look like an idiot. The smaller Cold Mistdrake Runner watched him from across the pasture, golden eyes fixed on him with unnerving clarity. It had left the other runners behind, drifting near the aether fawns with a softer curiosity than the rest of its proud kin.

White scales shimmered along its slender body, catching hints of blue and green in the morning light. Its mane moved like silver mist caught in a gentle current, trailing along its neck and shoulders without ever quite behaving like hair. The aether fawn beside it stood frozen, wide-eyed and uncertain, as if it had somehow been invited into a meeting above its social station. James took one slow step forward. The runner's ears shifted. He stopped.

Finni and Doanne stood a few paces behind him, both holding their breath with varying degrees of restraint. Tember, who had spent the last several minutes being spiritually rejected by every runner in the pasture, leaned against the fence with his arms folded and the expression of a man watching destiny make a clerical error. Lumen floated beside James's shoulder, his glow bright with interest.

"Proceed carefully," the familiar whispered.

"This is a rare moment of potential interspecies resonance." James did not look at him.

"If you make this sound academic, I will panic."

"Carefully," the familiar amended. James lifted his hand. At first, he almost reached out like one might to a horse. Palm open, fingers loose, slow movement. Then he remembered what Doanne had said about purpose and honesty. The runners responded poorly to being wanted like prizes. They seemed to read posture, breath, distance, perhaps even intent. They wanted something true. James let out a slow breath and called mana to his palm. He opened himself enough for it to gather over his skin, simple and unshaped.

Blue-white light pooled in his hand, soft and steady, threaded with the warmth of the Heartroot Tree, the cool calm of the Wellspring, the faint ember-pulse of the Emberforge, and the new river-current that had entered his senses since the Sanctuary of First Currents awakened. The glow was unmistakably his, carrying pieces of the village inside it. The runner's nostrils flared. Its head lowered by a fraction. James remained still, hand extended.

The Cold Mistdrake Runner approached with visible reluctance, as if someone had asked it to inspect a contract written by mud. It stepped past the aether fawn, hooves touching the grass with impossible lightness. Mist curled around its legs. Its long tail swayed behind it, twin fins brushing over the pasture without leaving dew. It leaned in. The runner sniffed his glowing palm. A cool breath moved across James's skin. His mana flickered in response to the contact.

For a strange second, he felt the creature's attention move through the outer shape of the mana, tasting it the way one might taste water from a new spring. It sensed Heartroot. It sensed the river. It sensed his intent, perhaps. His confusion and his awe. His fear carefully wrapped in dignity. The runner paused. Then it bumped its draconic head gently into his hand. James froze. The scales beneath his palm were cool and smooth, almost like polished stone held beneath running water.

Beneath that coolness ran motion, power, and something wild enough to make his fingertips tingle. He stroked carefully along the side of its face, just below the delicate sweep of its horn. The runner allowed it. Doanne gasped. Finni's calm broke into a bright, delighted smile.

"It accepted you." Tember pushed away from the fence.

"That was too easy." The runner's golden eye shifted toward him. Tember took one step back.

"For him. I meant for him." Doanne hurried closer, then stopped herself before she crowded the creature. Her face had gone soft with wonder, eyes shining as she watched James's glowing palm rest against the runner's cheek.

"It read your mana," she said.

"That has to be it. Your mana signature. It wanted to know what you were before it let you touch it." Finni tilted his head.

"Trust needs vulnerability." James looked at him. The boy's gaze remained on the runner, thoughtful and quiet.

"They are being asked to carry people. To let strangers sit above them and guide them. You have to show something first. Something true. Mana is close to that." Lumen bobbed approvingly.

"A good deduction. They may judge resonance, intent, emotional clarity, and the relation between individual mana and settlement anchors. That would explain their rejection of several eager candidates." James slowly lowered his hand. The runner did not retreat. It shook its mane, sending a curl of silver mist across his sleeve, then stepped beside him as if this had always been the arrangement. James stared at Finni.

"You want to test that theory?" Finni nodded at once. Of course he did. He walked toward another runner, one of the taller ones standing near the dray beast fence. This runner had longer ridges along its neck, pale blue shimmer through its scales, and a proud lift to its head that made it look as if the entire pasture existed for its mild disappointment. Finni stopped several paces away and lifted his hand. Green mana gathered across his palm.

Unlike James's mana, Finni's spread quietly, soft and living, threaded with root-growth, animal calm, and the strange patient rhythm that seemed to follow Finni everywhere. The nearby aether fawns lifted their heads. The mana wolf in the shade opened one eye, saw Finni's glowing hand, and let out a faint huff as though approving reluctantly. The runner lowered its head. It sniffed Finni's palm. A long moment passed. Then the runner inclined its head. The pasture fell into silence.

Finni stepped closer and touched its mist-silver mane. He whispered something too softly for James to hear. The runner's ears flicked. Then, without ceremony, Finni put one foot against a slight rise in the ground, caught the creature's mane with gentle fingers, and swung himself onto its back. Tember wailed.

"That is not fair!" The runner did not move. Finni settled as if he had spent his life riding spirit beasts through river fog. His posture was balanced, knees loose, one hand resting lightly in the mane. He leaned forward and whispered again into the runner's ear, patting its neck. Tember pointed at him with tragic outrage.

"How does he get a mount before me?" Finni's runner began to trot around the pasture in a graceful circle. Finni looked utterly natural. That somehow made it worse. Tember threw both hands up.

"The world favors quiet people. It's unnatural." Doanne laughed, unable to help herself. James looked at his own runner. The runner looked back. Its expression, if one could read such things on a draconic horse face, seemed to ask whether James planned to stand there all morning.

"I don't know if I want to do that," James admitted. Lumen's glow sharpened.

"Coward." James turned his head slowly.

"Excuse me?"

"You have faced goblin hordes, a rockfire elemental, diplomacy with dwarves, Marla's first attempt at pizza, and an ancient river spirit. Mount the runner." The runner snorted softly. James took that as judgment from yet another direction. Doanne moved closer, gentle and careful.

"Do not grab the horns. They may tolerate touching, but I think they dislike being pulled. Use the mane for balance, lightly. Sit forward carefully, their backs are different."

"I have never ridden a normal horse." James announced in despair. Doanne blinked. Tember brightened.

"Oh, this will be excellent." James glared at him.

"You have been rejected by fog with hooves." Tember looked wounded.

"Temporarily." James approached the runner's side. The creature stood still, which helped and also made the situation feel ceremonial. Its back was taller than James liked. The scales were smooth beneath his hand, and a faint mist gathered where his fingers brushed its side.

He put one foot up, immediately realized he had chosen an awkward angle, hopped once, nearly slid, grabbed too much mane, loosened his grip when Doanne made a strangled sound, shifted, cursed under his breath, and finally hauled himself onto the runner's back with all the grace of furniture being moved upstairs. He settled. Barely. The world looked much higher from up there. The runner's body beneath him felt nothing like he expected.

It had the shape of a mount, yes, but there was a fluidity under its skin, as if muscle and current shared the same language. The creature breathed once, deep and cool. The motion rolled through James's legs and up his spine. He grabbed the mane with both hands. Doanne winced.

"Gently."

"I am being very gentle. I think..." Tember cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Try to look heroic!" James looked at him with murder in his eyes. The runner turned its head slightly, golden eye fixed on James as if asking for direction. James swallowed.

"Let's go for a ride," he said. The runner bolted. James screamed. There were different kinds of screams in a man's life. Screams of rage. Screams of pain. Battle cries one could later pretend had contained courage. This was none of those. This was the sound of a man discovering that a water-dragon horse could accelerate like a dropped elevator with legs. The runner crossed the pasture in three strides. James folded forward over its neck, both fists buried in the mist-silver mane.

The world blurred into white scales, green grass, flying sky-quills, and the fence rushing toward him at a speed that made every architectural instinct in his body object.

"Fence," he yelled.

"Fence!" The runner leapt. The pasture fence passed beneath them. James made a noise he hoped no one would remember and knew everyone would. They landed on the other side with the softness of water touching water. The runner kept going, hooves striking the village path in a smooth, rolling rhythm. Villagers scattered. A gnome dropped a basket of roots and cheered. Two dwarves froze mid-argument. A child shrieked with laughter. Someone shouted James's name in either fear or delight.

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings. James clung to the mane and tried to remember how breathing worked. Behind him, Finni's runner vaulted the fence in a neat arc and followed.

"Relax your legs!" Finni called. James heard only fragments through terror and wind.

"Lean with it!"

"I am leaning with everything!"

"Stop fighting the motion!"

"The motion started it!" Lumen streaked beside him, flickering wildly.

"This is exactly why instructional manuals exist!" James did not dignify that with an answer, because the runner swerved around a barrel, slipped between two longhouses, and shot past the Hearth Hall. Marla appeared in the doorway holding a spoon. She stared. James, soaked in panic and dignity's ashes, flashed past yelling, "I am fine!" Marla's spoon lowered slowly. Wicksnap, standing near the Circle, lifted both arms.

"The wet thunder spirit has accepted him!" That somehow made several gnomes cheer louder. Rogan stood at the edge of the training yard, arms crossed, watching James blur past with the expression of a man updating every risk assessment he had ever made. Kerrin, in the middle of shouting drill orders, turned and forgot what he was saying. Maude and Inna laughed so hard they had to lean on their weapons. The runner headed north. James saw the river branch ahead.

"No," he said.

"No, no, no!" The runner did not slow. It reached the water and crossed as if the river were polished stone laid for its convenience. Hooves skimmed the surface, each step throwing up sheets of silver spray. The water lifted beneath it, accepting the creature without resistance. James was drenched instantly, cold river water slapping his face, soaking his shirt, filling one ear. Then they were across. James blinked water from his eyes. The runner raced beyond the plateau and into the farmland.

Elira stood among the growing rows with Ollen and three gnome helpers. All of them looked up as James thundered past on a white-scaled spirit beast, yelling less now, though not because he had become brave. Finni drew up beside James, riding with infuriating ease.

"Breathe," Finni called.

"I am busy!"

"You are turning purple." James forced himself to inhale. The runner's motion began to make sense in pieces. It did not bounce like he imagined a horse would. It rolled. Each stride traveled through the creature's shoulders, spine, and hindquarters like a wave. When he locked his knees and fought the movement, the world lurched. When he loosened his legs and let his body follow, the motion carried him instead of throwing him. He was still terrified. He was also, to his great annoyance, beginning to enjoy it.

The farmland streamed past. Rows of skystalk and vegetables blurred into bands of green and blue. The river branch glittered behind them. Ahead, the wider river flashed through the trees like a blade of sunlight. The runner's mane whipped around James's hands, cool and damp, silver strands flowing between his fingers. Its body beneath him felt powerful, alive, and ancient, every movement precise. The forest opened. The runner accelerated. James laughed.

Then immediately made a strangled noise because the speed doubled. This was a highway. That was the only way his Earth brain could explain it, except the vehicle had scales, muscles, mist curling from its flanks, and enough judgment in its eyes to make James question every life choice that had brought him here. Wind tore at his face. Tears streamed from his eyes. His heart hammered so hard he half expected it to abandon him and try its luck on foot. Finni rode beside him, calm as a monk on a morning stroll.

James hated him a little. The wide river came into view. The runners curved along its bank, hooves striking wet stone and shallow water with equal ease. Thankfully they didn't plunge into the deeper current, they just danced along the edge, where sandbars and shallow sheets of water caught the sunlight. Spray rose around them in white arcs. For a few incredible moments, James felt as if they were flying just above the world rather than crossing it. Then his mind, traitorous and useful, began calculating. Distance.

Speed. Terrain. The forest was smaller now. A journey of days might become a journey of hours. A week on foot could shrink dramatically if the runners accepted the route. Scouts could move beyond the old boundaries. Messages could travel to the dwarven mountain, the river, the mine, the farms, distant clearings. Irla could reach wounded hunters. Selathi could scout farther. Diplomacy with another settlement was no longer an impossible absence. The river spirit had given them more than mounts.

She had changed Hearthroot's map. They looped east, following the outer edge of the village's growing territory. James began to trust the runner's movement enough to look around rather than stare at its neck in terror. The trees thinned near the eastern rise. A familiar path appeared between roots and rock, leading toward the mine. Dorgrun's mining crew was at work. Dwarves hauled chunks of ore from the entrance. The second dray beast stood nearby, being loaded with sacks and rough metal-bearing stone.

Elven archers watched the tree line from elevated perches, bows ready. The entire scene held the practical rhythm of a supply line now established and guarded. Then James and Finni streaked past on mistdrake runners. A dwarf dropped an ore chunk on his boot and unleashed a string of curses so elaborate that even Lumen pulsed in scholarly interest. One elf half-raised a bow before recognition hit and the arrow lowered with visible effort.

The dwarf elder, standing near the mine platform with a hammer over one shoulder, shouted something about respecting mining roads, though the words blurred behind them. James managed one hand-lift that might have been apology. The runner seemed amused. Somehow, James felt that. They turned back toward the village. The return felt shorter. Perhaps because James no longer believed each stride would be his last. Perhaps because the runner allowed him to understand its rhythm.

By the time they reached the eastern path, James leaned with it properly, dust sprang up around them as they climbed the steep incline. He laughed as they climbed the slope toward the pasture. He laughed as they entered the village and headed for the pasture's fence. Doanne had already opened the gate. Blessed woman.

The runners entered with elegant calm, slowing to a trot, then a walk, then stopping among the others as if they had not just dragged James through terror, revelation, and half the village's entertainment needs. James tried to dismount. His legs disagreed with the plan. He slid down, landed, took one step, and nearly collapsed. He bent over with both hands on his knees, breathing hard, water dripping from his hair and sleeves. His thighs trembled like poorly mixed jelly.

Doanne hurried to guide the runners back toward the herd, murmuring softly. James noticed how naturally she moved around them. She watched ears, tails, breath, distance. She seemed to understand the beginning of their language. That mattered. Hearthroot would need someone like her. For the runners. For the aether fawns. For the dray beasts. For the sky-quills, if any sane person ever claimed to understand those feathered menaces.

Maybe even for the sanctuary's river creatures, though James suspected Wicksnap would object if anyone tried to manage his frog-nephew. Finni dismounted like a person who had just stepped off a low bench. The mana wolf immediately rose from the shade, trotted over, and rammed its head into Finni's midsection with a soft growl. Finni almost toppled backward.

"I know," Finni murmured, wrapping both arms around the massive wolf's head.

"I came back." The wolf growled again, offended. Finni scratched beneath its jaw.

"You are still my favorite." The creature, which was as tall as Finni at the shoulder and had teeth the size of James's fingers, leaned into the touch like an overgrown puppy. James stared.

"That thing is going to eat a bear someday." Finni did not look up.

"Only if the bear is mean to him." James straightened slowly, wincing as his legs remembered the ride. Decision settled into place.

"Doanne. Finni." They both turned. Doanne wiped her hands on her skirt, suddenly nervous.

"My lord?"

"Tomorrow, I'm going to bless you." Her eyes widened. James nodded toward the runners.

"Your affinity with them is obvious. Hearthroot needs someone who understands the creatures under our care. The runners, the fawns, the dray beasts, the sky-quills if the gods have a sense of humor. I don't know what the blessing will unlock, if anything, but I think you have a path here." Doanne pressed one hand to her chest. For a moment, she looked overwhelmed enough to step back. Then her eyes moved to the Cold Mistdrake Runners, and something steadied in her.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"I will do my best."

"I know." James turned to Finni.

"You're coming with me." Finni's face became serious at once, settling into quiet acceptance.

"Alright." James studied him. Sometimes he forgot Finni was still a teenager. The boy's calm, his strange connection to animals and the forest, the way he moved through fear as if it were tall grass, all made him feel older than he was. But he was young. Still young enough to have a twin loudly jealous of mythical mounts. Still young enough to scratch a giant wolf and call it baby. James felt a flicker of guilt. Then he remembered the ride. He needed Finni.

"Bring Bren, Kerrin, Selathi, and Havlik here," James said.

"I need to see if they can bond with the runners. They're the likely candidates for the journey." After changing into dry clothes, which he very much deserved and did not receive because the village still had only so many spare sets and his were currently "damp but wearable" according to Marla's ruthless textile standards, James made his way to the Greenmoss Den. The Den smelled of herbs, and a blend of strange scents that came from magical experimentation.

Its interior had grown more organized under Ilyndra's rule. Bundles of dried plants hung from rafters. Stone shelves held clay jars, small pots, and sealed pouches. The worktables were cluttered but intelligently so, divided into preparation, brewing, cooling, and testing areas. The building's magic lived in the air as a soft green awareness, nudging ingredients toward each other in ways James felt at the edge of Mana Resonance. Ilyndra stood near the central table with Onvir and Pello.

Pello was the gnome from the family rescued from the goblin cages with Onvir. He was steady, round-faced, and careful in a way that seemed almost ceremonial, unlike most of the village's other gnomes. In his hands, he held a tray of small bottles filled with dark liquid. James paused at the doorway.

"What is going on?" Ilyndra turned, and her face lit up.

"I did it." James stepped inside.

"Did what?"

"Ink." Pello lifted the tray with obvious pride. The bottles held a glossy black ink that seemed too dark for its volume. When the light touched it, faint bronze and violet undertones shifted beneath the surface.

"Using the elemental ash?" he asked. Ilyndra nodded.

"Fire ash, mostly. A little binding gum from skystalk sap. Ground charcoal. Some of the bitterroot stabilizer. The first batches clotted. The next ones faded. This one holds." Onvir held one bottle up to the light with visible reverence.

"This is high-tier ink." James looked at him.

"High-tier as in good for writing, or high-tier as in someone will accidentally summon a demon by making a grocery list?" Onvir blinked.

"Those categories do not usually overlap."

"I like to check." The dusk-kin elf studied the ink again.

"It has magical properties. I do not yet know the full range. It may preserve written knowledge more effectively. It may help maps hold mana impressions. It may prove useful for research diagrams or future spellwork. At the very least, it will make the Lorekeeper's Hall more efficient." Pello nodded eagerly.

"And paper is coming. The first attempts were ugly."

"Ugly paper is still paper," James said.

"Barely," Onvir murmured. Pello ignored him.

"Skystalk grain stalks work, but the fibers need more beating and soaking than I expected. We tried adding marsh reed pulp. The results are better, but still rough. Soon we can make enough for the researchers, at least." Onvir's expression suggested that enough paper for researchers was the difference between civilization and barbarism.

"How is Agricultural Abundance coming?" James asked.

"Progressing," Onvir said.

"Slowly, though faster with three researchers, and it will improve once we can record our findings properly. The Lorekeeper's Hall responds well to written work. The crystal seems to prefer knowledge that has been given form outside memory." James smiled.

"Ink, paper, research trees. We're getting fancy."

"We are becoming literate," Onvir said.

"There is a difference."

"Fancy literate." The elf sighed. Pello grinned. Onvir and Pello left soon after, carrying the bottles like sacred offerings to the Lorekeeper's Hall. James remained with Ilyndra while her helpers sorted herbs nearby. He leaned against a worktable.

"How are things going?" Ilyndra's eyes moved around the Den, and her expression softened.

"Fast. Faster than I expected. The Greenmoss Den helps. I know that sounds strange, but sometimes when I hold two ingredients, I can feel whether they want to be together."

"That sounds less strange than half my week."

"It is useful," she said.

"Hunters are bringing back stranger ingredients too. The forest is changing. Mistgill hare lungs, for example. Little things found near the river fog. Their breath sacs hold vapor mana. Glasshorn beetle shells stabilize mixtures better than ordinary shell. Ambercap spores warm and numb depending on how they are treated." James carefully did not mention the crystal-antlered deer. He suspected she would hear soon enough.

"I made two other things," Ilyndra said. She brought out a tiny vial no longer than his finger. The liquid inside looked dark and smoky.

"Darkfire Smoke Vial," she said.

"From the darkfire elemental remains. Remove the stopper or break it, and smoke erupts in plumes. Thick, clinging, low to the ground unless there is strong wind. It disrupts ordinary sight and seems to trouble mana sight too, though I need more testing." James held it carefully.

"Escape tool."

"Or ambush. Or retreat."

"I'll take any smoke vials you can spare for the journey."

"I thought you might." She then produced three larger vials. The liquid inside was grey-brown with tiny flecks that moved like sediment in a stream.

"This batch is imperfect," Ilyndra said.

"Minor Stoneflesh Draught. The effect is suboptimal, so the system insists on calling it minor."

"What does it do?"

"Drink it, and for several minutes, skin and muscle gain faint stone-aspected resilience. Cuts, bruises, and impacts are reduced slightly. Movement feels a little heavier. Too much makes fingers stiff. I am still improving the recipe." James stared at the vials with immediate appreciation.

"That could save a life."

"It could." Her mouth tightened.

"Or make someone sluggish at the wrong moment. Use carefully."

"I will take all three. What about health and mana potions?" Ilyndra grimaced. James winced in advance.

"I need ten of each for the trip." Her grimace deepened.

"I have twelve health potions and twelve mana potions in reserve. Most of the rest are at the Training Yard, with the hunters, or with Irla."

"I need to be prepared."

"I know." Her eyes drifted to a tray of strange ingredients waiting for experimentation. Longing crossed her face, brief and sharp. Then she squared her shoulders.

"I will refill the stock." James felt a flicker of guilt.

"I know you want to experiment."

"I do. But potions keep people alive." She gave him a small, tired smile.

"The new things can wait a little."

"Thank you."

"Come back alive, and I will consider us even."

"That seems fair." James left the Den with smoke vials, Stoneflesh Draughts, and the heavy awareness that preparation was never glamorous until it saved someone's life. He intended to head to dinner. The pasture ruined that plan. A crowd had gathered near the fence. Not a small one either. Half the village seemed to have discovered that watching people attempt to impress Cold Mistdrake Runners was better than evening entertainment. Children sat on fence rails. Gnomes clustered under the posts.

Dwarves watched with crossed arms and open amusement. Garet's family stood near Doanne, who looked equal parts proud and overwhelmed. James pushed through.

"What is going on?" The answer arrived in pieces. Selathi sat atop a runner already. Of course she did. She looked elegant and calm, one hand resting lightly in the silver mane, her posture so balanced that the creature beneath her seemed to accept her as part of the scenery. Kerrin stood beside another runner, petting its neck with cautious reverence. Havlik touched the strands of a third runner's mane with the expression of a man handling a sacred blade that might judge his ancestors. And Bren sat on the ground.

He rubbed his chest while a Cold Mistdrake Runner snorted at him with open derision and walked away. Finni stood nearby with a grin James remembered from before too much seriousness had settled over the boy.

"The mistdrakes do not seem to like our village rogue," Finni said. Bren grunted and pushed himself to his feet.

"Sorry, chief. Tried every runner. None accepted me." James looked at the half-dozen knives around Bren's belt, the easy way he stood in shadows even while in open pasture, the smile that always hid three more thoughts than it showed. He had a guess why.

"That's unfortunate," James said, meaning it. Bren would have been useful. Very useful. Stealth, knives, experience, adaptability. But if the runners rejected him, the journey could not depend on him. Laughter drew James's attention. Garet stood near one of the runners, soaked in mist from hair to shoulders. The runner lowered its head and sneezed on him again, a soft, deliberate burst of cold vapor. Livia covered her mouth, eyes bright with laughter. Heath clutched his stomach.

Doanne was laughing too, though she tried to make it look gentle. Garet wiped water from his face, smiling despite himself. James narrowed his eyes. The runner lowered its head again. Sneezed again. Garet laughed, helpless now. That was not rejection. That was play.

"Garet," James called. The young man turned, still smiling.

"My lord?"

"Bond with the dragon horse." Lumen made an offended sound.

"Cold Mistdrake Runner." James ignored him. Garet's eyes widened.

"Me?"

"Yes. You." The runner sneezed softly against Garet's shoulder. Doanne stepped closer.

"Call mana to your palm. Just a little. Let it see you." Garet swallowed. His smile faded into nerves, but he lifted his hand. Red mana gathered over his palm, warm and flickering. The runner's golden eyes fixed on it. The creature leaned down, sniffed, sneezed once more, then bumped its head affectionately against Garet's hand. Garet froze. Livia's eyes filled. Heath whispered, "No fair." James nodded to himself.

"It's decided," he called. The pasture quieted enough for his voice to carry.

"Selathi, Kerrin, Havlik, Garet, and Finni will accompany me on the diplomatic mission." Rogan stood near the fence, expression tight but accepting. Bren gave a rueful shrug, already masking disappointment. Selathi inclined her head from atop her runner. Kerrin straightened. Havlik gave James a firm nod, his jaw set with determination. Garet stared at James, red mana still fading from his palm while the runner pressed its head against him. Doanne looked toward the herd with new purpose.

The mana wolf leaned heavily against Finni's side, displeased with future travel arrangements. Lumen drifted close to James's shoulder.

"Well," the familiar said, glow bright with anticipation, "that is going to be interesting." James looked at his chosen group, the runners, the crowd, the village glowing under evening light. Interesting was one word for it.