Zerath had never believed in supernatural powers before coming to the Great Library.

He had been ruefully mundane, a mere boy without vision or faith, destined to live an ordinary life among commoners. But then the God of Fate found him and took him in, seeing something in the young Zerath that no one else would. The Fateweavers were hesitant at first, but they bowed to the will of their idol and patron.

One of the greatest mysteries of their order was the way in which the God of Fate chose those who were granted the power to see with more than just their eyes. There were families of Fateweavers, dynasties even, but also the most unlikely of outliers — he had been one of them. And yet, the more entitled Fateweavers could only watch as the stranger in their midst ascended the ranks and proved to be one of the elite Fateweavers of their time, entrusted with some of the most important fates of them all.

Zerath leaned back, the solid planks of the crypt bench pressing against his spine, making him feel his age. The damp cold seeped through his robes and covered his brittle lips with a wet film. He could almost feel the spirits of aeons of Fateweavers who'd come to this crypt before him, hear their echoed prayers through the shroud of time. They would seek out this silent refuge for worship, meditation, or to take from the gift that the God of Fate had bestowed upon them. It came in the form of a simple stone fountain that looked like it had been carved straight out of the mountain, throning on a small pedestal right in the center of the oval room. A dozen benches surrounded the reservoir, concentrically facing the ominous basin that was giving off a green shimmer in the glum darkness of the crypt. The surface of the emerald liquid it was holding was smooth and silky, with luminescent swirls and dotted sparkles that looked like the sky on a starry night.

No one knew when and how the fountain had gotten here. Some historical records argued that it had been here all along, even before the crypt, and way before the Great Library that sat on top of it. The latter was said to have been built here in honor of this sacred place, where the God of Fate chose to commune with humankind and grant them some of his powers. Of course, in the eyes of many Fateweavers, they were nothing but messengers, acolytes to enact what their patron demanded of them. And so he gave them what they needed to weave fate: the ability and the means. Having the gift to perceive fate was not enough if one lacked the means to record it. Maybe as a sort of failsafe, the God of Fate had decided to guard the power to enforce a fate by conceiving the ink of truth, so that only his trusted Fateweavers could make use of the powers they were given — all under his careful watch.

Zerath listened to his own breath for a while before he got up and stepped over to the basin. From the depths of his robes, he pulled out a small jar with a leather-clad lid. Using a halfway submerged silver ladle, he filled the container with a few scoops of viscous fluid, careful not to spill a single drop of the valuable substance — as always, the level remained the same after the sluggish ripples on the green surface had died down. After closing the jar tightly, he tucked it into one of his side pockets and gave it a securing pat.

Resting his hands on the rim of the fountain, he stared at the once-again smooth and shimmering surface of the green ink, marveling at the strange powers that made it replenish like a wellspring. The basin was carved from spotless marble with no gaps or cracks, no inlet or outlet. It was like the God of Fate didn't even try to conceal his act of bending natural law and man-made physics. In providing his awe-inspiring gift, he demonstrated his powers to the reverent Fateweavers who came here, making sure they would never doubt his might.

Wondering if the God of Fate was watching him even now, Zerath respectfully stepped back from the fountain with his head low, as was custom. The heels of his boots sent crisp echoes through the small room, reverberating from the bent walls. The noise felt violent, too harsh for such a serene place, even though no one else was here to take offense.

Straightening his collar, Zerath gracefully marched through the rows of benches and left the crypt through the only entrance. A staircase in a dimly lit tunnel took him back up to the lower levels of the Great Library, the temperature rising with every step he took. Like a diver emerging from the depths of a dark lake, he rejoined the buzzing of the inhabited floors, carving his way through knots of students waiting in front of classrooms and stragglers bursting around corners in a mad dash. It was past lunchtime, and the halls and corridors were buzzing with life. The distinctive smell of cured bacon wafted through the air in steady surges, and thin smoke clouds from crackling torches hung sluggishly under the ceiling. It was unusually cold for this time of year, and most students were wearing their thickest robes, paired with the occasional fingerless gloves and earmuffs — a rather non-traditional privilege they had been granted only last year, when Elder Thornec decided they should be more forward-thinking and less bent on ancient rites and customs.

Not all Masters shared his sentiment, and the sight of colorful gloves where once there'd only been the traditional orange was a thorn in many Masters' sides. Zerath had been rather indifferent on the matter. He understood that the students wanted to dress like their counterparts in the city, to express their personality by means of clothing — if that desire could be stilled in such a harmless manner, he was all for it. There were far worse outlets he could think of.

As he made his way to Master Nerina's office, he wondered how many of the students knew of the imminent events that would shape the course of history for the next years and decades. He figured most of them didn't, or wouldn't care, as long as they were let go on time for an afternoon of careless innocence.

To be young again, Zerath thought and sighed.

He walked down a long corridor with green carpet covering the floor like trampled grass. Windows along one side let in the gray light of an overcast sky, drawing soft shadows on the row of doors on the other side. Taking long, purposeful strides, he marched to the end of the hallway, where a dark oaken portal marked the entrance to Master Nerina's office. Zerath knew the martial-arts teacher rarely spent any time here, since she much preferred a sparring court over a tabletop. The preparations for her special mission, however, had forced her to leave her comfort zone and study maps and history records to come up with a strategy Thornec would approve.

Zerath was just about to lay his hand on the door handle when it suddenly swung open. Almost bumping into him, the slender figure of Master Sylvaris emerged from Nerina's office, his green hood covering most of his face.

"I beg your pardon, Master Zerath," the potion maker mumbled with his brittle voice, avoiding eye contact.

Before Zerath could respond, the skinny man had pushed past him and marched down the hallway with a fast but short stride, his emerald robe waving like the trail of a comet.

Despite being a Master, Sylvaris was not a member of the council of Masters. Partially because he showed no interest in politics and administration, and partially because his popularity was tanking ever since he poisoned a student during class to prove a point about the use of nightshade. The student had recovered — which was more than could be said for Sylvaris' reputation.

When Zerath entered Nerina's office, he found her sitting in a spacious leather armchair behind a small desk made from dark wood, with a yellowed piece of parchment hiding her face. She quickly lowered the document and glared at Zerath with her sharp eyes.

"Ever heard about the concept of knocking?" she snarled.

"It seemed like you were accepting visitors."

Zerath gave her an apologetic smile and took a seat in the armchair across her desk.

"I can't recall Master Sylvaris being part of Elder Thornec's plan," he added inquisitively.

Nerina shrugged. "I asked Thornec for some … creative freedom. Suffice to say, he was intrigued."

"Care to share with the group?"

A fiendish smile crossed Nerina's lips.

"I'll tell you when I return. If I return."

Master Nerina's office was about the same size as his, but it felt a lot more spacious. Unlike him, she didn't seem to make a habit out of collecting important books and scrolls, or mythical artifacts that required further study — and lots of space. There was only one small shelf in the room, with most of its levels practically empty. Next to it stood a rack that held a couple of fighting staves, and a cabinet diagonally across from it presented a set of intricately crafted and decorated armor pieces that Nerina would soon be wearing underneath her purple robe. Aside from that, the gray stone walls lay barren, with no paintings or ornaments to hide their jagged surface.

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"I take it the preparations are going well, then?" Zerath asked politely.

Nerina scoffed. "Here to give me advice?"

"Encouragement, if anything," Zerath said and smiled courteously.

Her cat eyes narrowed, their belligerent slits perfectly parallel to her prominent cheekbones. She looked like a true fighter, and Zerath knew she was. Only a few times had he sparred with her, but even when he was younger, he'd been no match. He admired her strength, both physically and mentally, and her iron resolve that was as firm as her callused fists.

"When are you heading out?" Zerath asked after a moment.

Nerina was still eyeing him with fierce intent. After a couple of seconds, her features relaxed, and she exhaled slowly, releasing the tension in her body.

"At sunset tomorrow," she finally said.

"You are traveling by night?"

"It would appear so."

Her voice was snippy and cool. Zerath wondered how Nerina felt about the assignment she was given. The Master of martial arts was never one to back down from a fight, but this particular endeavor must've seemed reckless even by her standards. That said, she had volunteered all the same.

"Who are you taking with you?"

Nerina started drumming her fingers on the tabletop.

"A few of my best students. Lorac, Quin, and some more that have proven their worth."

"No other Masters?"

Nerina scoffed. "Those old sacks of water won't do me any good where I'm going."

Zerath studied her for a moment. Nerina was younger than most other Masters, giving her a youthful and feisty spirit. He acknowledged that her position demanded such qualities, but that didn't mean he liked her personality much.

"Maybe you would be surprised," he said with a sly smile.

Nerina shrugged and reached for one of the documents on her desk. She pretended to study it, but her eyes didn't move as they should've. He figured she wanted him gone, but he made no move to take her hint.

"Do we know where the entrance to their underground lair is by now?" Zerath asked jovially.

Master Nerina put down the piece of paper and rolled her cat-like eyes.

"If we didn't, I wouldn't be leaving tomorrow."

"Interesting," Zerath murmured. "Mind enlightening me?"

Her pursed lips told him that she did, in fact, mind, but his station still required her to show some respect.

"From what the Dor siblings told us in their letter," she said with a flat voice, "the entrance to Morathen must be in the mountains behind Tavira."

Zerath knew that already. In fact, he'd been the first to read the most peculiar letter Kaelen and Elara had sent, detailing their rather unexpected adventure.

Nerina grabbed a large scroll from one end of the table and rolled it out in between them. Zerath recognized it as a geographical map of the Great Library of Amareth and its surroundings, painted in faded colors of orange and green with squiggly name tags in black ink. Nerina's finger scurried over the map with speed and precision, arriving at a location just south of the initial letter of Tavira.

"There is a narrow ravine right here," she said grimly. "It starts near the borders of Tavira and leads deep into the mountains, before eventually disappearing from the map."

Zerath considered the spot on the map, tracing the line Nerina's finger was drawing.

"Hm," he muttered, "what makes you so sure you'll find the entrance to Morathen there?"

Nerina's expression darkened.

"It matches what little information the siblings gave us in their letter. And it seems like a good place for a secret entrance."

Zerath raised an eyebrow, but before he could say something, Nerina added: "What's more is that I found this history record —" she pulled out a worn book from her stack of documents, titled Tales of Tavira.

"It mentions that in the last century, there has been fighting in that exact area. They say a group of bandits was hiding in these woods, fighting against the locals in long, drawn-out skirmishes — but I'm almost certain it was actually the Fateless."

"What makes you think that?" Zerath inquired with curiosity.

"It was around the same time we fought the Fateless in Tavira."

Zerath glanced at the map, where Nerina's flexed finger was still pointing at the ravine.

"That was a long time ago," he finally said.

"It makes perfect sense," Nerina insisted. "When we defeated them in Tavira, they apparently fled somewhere. If that ravine is where we saw their last resistance, it's only logical if their hideout was close by all along."

"We?" Zerath probed, making Nerina frown.

"What? You're going to play the I-am-so-much-older-and-wiser card now? Sure, I was not even alive during these events, but who cares? It's not like you were in your prime then, either."

Zerath chuckled. "No, I was not. I was a mere child then."

"Besides, I've found another record from the years after the run-in with the Fateless. It's from a man who apparently made it his business model to hike trails in the mountains and advertise them to city-dwellers upon his return to Cylion, if you can believe it."

Zerath frowned. "And people would pay him for that?"

"Apparently so. He would speak of the wonders he saw on his hikes and lay out the routes for people interested in following in his footsteps."

"Most curious," Zerath murmured, more to himself.

"Anyway," Nerina continued, "he recorded that on one of these hikes starting in Tavira, he went up this very ravine and was stopped close to its end by a group of, again, bandits. But what's interesting is that these supposed bandits didn't rob the man, but instead just forced him to turn around."

"You think those bandits were in fact Fateless?"

"I do. And if we piece the knowledge from these records and this old map together, I'm almost certain that's where we'll find the entrance to Morathen."

Her finger moved up to the end of the ravine, an unremarkable brown patch on the map.

"My, my," Zerath whispered, "we might make a scholar out of you yet."

Nerina scoffed. "You can keep your dusty books. I'll be looking forward to more … practical … challenges."

"So you are feeling confident?"

Nerina considered the question for a moment.

"Confidence will get you killed," she finally said. "I'm just aware of my skills."

Zerath smiled. "How is that different from being confident?"

"Because everyone is aware of my skills," she said dryly.

Maybe Nerina was growing on him after all, Zerath thought.

"If what you say is true, then the entrance to Morathen is not as hidden as we always thought."

Nerina inclined her head with an unreadable expression on her face. "Indeed. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

Zerath couldn't help but notice the snide tone in her voice. It seemed like she had more to say, so he gave her room to vent.

"If the Fateless are truly our worst enemy, why did no one ever bother to track them down?"

"Maybe they were not as skilled at reading historic records," Zerath said with a smile.

"I'm serious, Zerath."

Her expression had turned to stone, like it usually did in the sparring ring.

Zerath sighed and took his glasses off, pensively cleaning them with the purple cloth of his Master's robe.

"I can't speak for the time before I became a Fateweaver, but once I did, the sentiment was very much one of avoiding more bloodshed. It was believed the Fateless had learned their lesson. Maybe it was just what people wanted to believe."

"That doesn't sound like the Elder."

Zerath chuckled. "Thornec is my age, dear Nerina."

Nerina pursed her lips but refrained from making any more age-related comments.

"He might have been Elder for as long as you can remember," Zerath continued, "but that wasn't always so."

"So the last Elder was a coward?"

Zerath considered the provocative statement. Clearly, she was trying to assume an offensive stance, which he knew she much preferred over defense.

"Let's say he was more focused on mending than breaking."

"Seems like that was the wrong strategy," Nerina scoffed.

Zerath sighed. "In hindsight, it would appear so."

They fell silent for a moment. Zerath finished cleaning his glasses and put them back on his wrinkly nose. Nerina eyed him closely, like she would in a duel.

"Even so," she said eventually, her voice calmer now, "Thornec could have taken matters into his hands once he became Elder."

Zerath nodded. "He could have."

"But he didn't," Nerina pressed.

"No, he did not," Zerath agreed and nodded again.

Frustration started to show on the younger Master's face.

"Damn you old, complacent fools," she rasped. "This time, the Fateless will get what they deserve — even if that means I'll have to see to it myself."

Zerath let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.

"Whatever would we do without you?"

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