In this, the final chapter of the first book of our tale: It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life, for our wizard, our witch, and our wild one. Far above the mist-cloaked scree of the Shroud Mountains, the Meridian flies to a daring rescue, captained by a promising, but increasingly rebellious, young wizard. Back in Toma, the Witch of the World's Heart takes care of old business and new friends. The wild one runs. As fast as he can. Don't even try to catch him. That ship has sailed.

The mountains want blood. The birds are in on it. The only way out is up. Or down so deep your friends forget your face. Just when everyone finally came together, so many people have to go.

The fog of war floats in the valleys and ravines of the Shroud Mountains like a ghost. It erases. It confuses. It hides. It lies. And through the veil, those unlucky few soldier on, to take in the view, and plan their attack, above a place so many will never leave. Anyone can turn around, but thresholds were made for crossing, and we've got business with the butcher.

Confusion is the brother of death, but my water is good and fast and clean. There is something wrong with your friend, and yet you fight alongside them. Someone will fly and someone will die on the the mountain today, when the sun is a red smudge beyond the pines. Who will it be?

The Battle of Abassin is won, but the escape, and the peace are anyone's game. Into the woods, we go, where the tall trees blind us and we cannot see the forest. The mask slips. We make monsters of men, and speak with animals. The chain of command is thus: hunger, water, music. Each family of sad adventurers is sad in its own way.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep. And within the rills and jagged boughs, a beckoning abyss drinks in the light. If you are not careful, if you do not listen, if you speak or move without thought, it will gobble you up, like a sweet tomato, or a useful child, or a secret name, or an empty boat, its lines knocking and bobbing unseen down a river, into night.

The spirit touches all things, but boots find sure footing on moss and stone. At long last, the long arm of empire legs it. The machine is repurposed. Love your mommy and listen to the mirror for once. The least you can do is ask. Finally, after such a long time in the wilderness, peace, and like a knife in the stomach, quiet. All hail the returning heroes. We're going home.

War makes strange bedfellows. Glasses clink like funeral bells. We become the fox, at last, or at the very least: we are not the sheep. Every time we step out of that door, all we have are the words of soldiers. And so many doors are open to us. You don't want this, but at last, and at the very least: in the morning, we ride. This could change everything.