The silverwoods hummed softly as Calrin slid between the glowing trunks, clutching the glass vial to his chest. The Feymark River was just ahead, its waters shimmering with fragments of moonlight. The Elder’s words echoed in his mind: “Pour it into the source, and the plague will fade.”
A rustle behind him froze his step. He turned slowly. From the shadowed undergrowth, a mantilisk emerged, its six eyes alight with eerie amber. The beast, half-serpent, half-lion, coiled, blocking his path. Calrin couldn’t outrun it; its venom could fell armies.
His grip on the vial tightened—a second’s hesitation, then he dropped to one knee, pulling a cricketwood flute from his belt. He began to play the haunting melody of rest, a song etched into the fibers of his childhood. The mantilisk stilled, its body shuddering as the magic music latched onto its wild spirit like chains.
Beads of sweat glistened on Calrin’s forehead. The melody faltered, the spell slipping. The creature lunged—and in one desperate motion, Calrin hurled the vial past the beast toward the river. It shattered upstream, light blooming like dawn in the current.
As the water hissed and surged, Calrin stood frozen, expecting the mantilisk’s final strike. But it only blinked, as though dazed—and slithered back into the forest without a sound.
The river’s glow pulsed once more, washing over the land. Behind him, the first flowers began to bloom in months. Yet, Calrin’s flute had cracked in the effort, its magic lost forever.
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