Sylfir gazes out to the west from her window, sheltered from the outside world by the modest comforts of her room in the Weary Wanderer. The sun has long since passed above the horizon, moving lazily toward late morning, peeking between thickening clouds on its journey. Still, it has been more active than she has been this morning.

She pans her gaze toward her neatly made bed, where she has laid her armour, now properly repaired, with the claw marks stitched together. It's by no means exquisite work—emphasis has been placed squarely on functionality with almost no thought to its appearance, which is now jagged and brutally scarred where the beast carved into it. Even worse, whoever tended to her armour couldn't completely rid it of her blood. There are places where it has seeped so deep that faint, rusty stains remain.

It's ironic, Sylfir thinks, that her armour should reflect the ruined flesh it shields. As the thought soaks into the fabric of her mind, she finds it hard to tear her gaze away from the stitched claw marks, the corners of her lips slowly turning downward in a grimace with each line she traces. It makes her heart sink to think she has to wear this. She might as well scream to the world that she's a horrible mass of disfigured skin and torn muscle beneath her clothes.

Knock! Knock!

Sylfir whips around in a panic as the sound rips her from her thoughts. "Yes?"

"May I come in?"

It's Khaliss, she realises. She crosses her small room to open the door herself, but only slightly. The cleric greets her with a smile, warm and gentle as usual, if not bearing a hint of concern.

"You did not come down for breakfast. Torgrim and the others want to head west now. He has a mind to begin the ritual before noon."

"Oh." Sylfir looks back at her room, her eyes catching the scrunched and folded pieces of paper resting on her desk. She frowns. There's no time to hide them now. She pulls the door wide open and steps back to let Khaliss in.

The drow's eyes go straight to the armour resting on Sylfir's bed, and she hums. "It is good to see your armour repaired."

"As well as it can be, given the circumstances," Sylfir says, closing the door.

Khaliss turns toward her again. "This could be the day that we finally face the beast."

Sylfir sees the question buried in the lavender of the cleric's eyes and looks away. "You want to know if I'm ready?"

"Are you?"

"I will have to be."

Khaliss shakes her head. "That is no answer."

Sylfir presses her lips into a thin, frustrated line, but releases the tension with a sigh. She walks past Khaliss to return her position by the window, gazing at the lonely farmhouse to the west. To the place where the beast was last sighted.

"I will be ready... as long as I am not alone."

"You are not alone, child," Khaliss says, her voice growing soft.

"I know." Sylfir looks Khaliss in the eye, hoping that it will be enough to convey her façade of courage. "Don't wait for me. I'll get ready and make my way to the ritual site soon."

Khaliss hesitates, and Sylfir worries she will have to convince her to go, but the drow only nods. "I will see you there, then."

She turns and swiftly exits, and as she closes the door behind her, a strange silence pervades the room. Sylfir's eyes flick toward the desk once more, littered with ink-stained sheets of paper, and as her gaze settles on the only one to be neatly folded, she feels herself drawn to it.

She walks to the desk and takes a seat, unfolding it. Her eyes rake over the imperfect curves of her winding handwriting. She almost knows the words by heart from how much she's read and reread the contents of this letter. Even so, she reads it one more time.

Father,

Perhaps this letter will surprise you, given how long it has been since we last spoke. It was never my intention to go so long without contact. I hope you and Va'Haldrith can forgive me. Mal, Rava, and the children, too.

I have been quite busy these last few years. Perhaps too busy. I'm beginning to fear that I've spent too much time away. I've decided it's best that I return home. I hope to see you all in good spirits.

Love,

Sylf

The letter is shorter than all its previous iterations. In others, she mentions the details of some bounties, and in some, she writes of Summerfall and what has befallen it. In one, she even writes about facing the beast, being injured by it, and her fear that she would die alone. She thought better of it in the end. She wouldn't be home for some time once the letter reached her father, and she would not have her family worry for so long.

One thing each iteration shares in common, though, is a glaringly obvious omission.

If it wasn't for Ivan, she wouldn't even be here to write this letter. Her family would never have seen her again, and yet, she spares not a single word for him. She writes about Khaliss' composure, Old Joe's tyranny, and Annabel's kindness, but nothing of Ivan's heroism. She's almost afraid to. If she were to put what she thought of him on a page, she worries she would convey her feelings a little too well, and then it would be a little too real—real enough that whoever read the letter would catch on to forbidden feelings. And then she would be greeted with a less-than-approving family and the unbearable weight of her elder sister's condescension until she fled again like she always does.

But then where would she go? She doesn't have the heart to stay on the road for much longer. Not like this. The beast has laid her inadequacy bare, and her confidence falters.

No. It's better that she keeps details to a minimum. All she needs to do is let them know she is coming home. If they are curious, then they can ask their questions when she returns.

Sylfir folds the letter and tucks it into its envelope, sealing it tight before setting it down. She leaves the desk and puts her armour on, sliding into the worn leather with ease, her fingers brushing over the new stitches. Then she pulls her hair free, letting it tumble down her back. She spies her crown of antlers resting in a dark corner with most of her things, though she elects to leave it today. Instead, she takes only her pack at first, reaching inside until she feels the familiar curves of her small astrolabe.

She pulls it out, hanging on a thin chain of interlocking links, its brassy gold metal as pristine as the day she created. It is one of many she has laboured on, and the most perfect—the only one fit for use—a symbol of her narrow skill in metalworking and the breadth and depth of her knowledge of the night sky. Each plate—and every artistically crafted ring and engraved line found within them—is a testament to her patience, born of decades of work. This is the thing she is most proud of—the thing that makes her a member of the Circle of Stars. Today she hangs it from the belt of her loincloth.

Sylfir returns to her desk, plucking the letter from it before retrieving her spear and leaving her room. This late in the morning, most other patrons have vacated their rooms on the upper floor. She is among the last, with little more than a few roaming the corridors as she does, all of them heading for the staircase. She joins the tail of the small procession heading down to the tavern, boasting a modest patronage. It's busier than she would like, but she supposes she has no one but herself to blame for being so late.

When she arrives, she goes straight to the bar. Lorys seems to sense her approach, looking up as she wipes down its surface. She smiles, warm and welcoming as always, and Sylfir barely does the same.

"Morning, lass. Your friends left a little while ago."

"I know. Khaliss came up to my room."

"She did, did she? Don't see how she could have escaped my notice walking in those greaves of hers. Maybe I'm losing my touch." Lorys shakes her head. "Anyway, is there anything I can do for you?"

Sylfir places the letter on the bar. Lorys tilts her head like a curious cat, but she has the courtesy not to ask unnecessary questions.

"Where to?" she says.

"Perhaps you know the place. Perhaps not. A village deep in the heart of the High Forest: Relthwin Aerasumaren."

Lorys frowns. "Come again? Slowly this time."

Sylfir repeats herself, speaking a little clearer. "Relthwin Aerasumaren."

Lorys' frown persists for a moment, but then it bleeds away. She hums, brushing her jaw with her knuckles as she reaches into the depths of her mind.

"It might be that I've sent a letter that way. Maybe two. People that far into the forest tend to keep to themselves mostly—the most we'll get from them is a little trade."

"Or the odd bounty hunter," Sylfir says, a wry smile curling her lips.

Lorys laughs. "Indeed. Might be that I've got a raven who knows the way to your village. I'll see that your letter gets sent."

"Thank you," Sylfir says, pushing off the bar. "I should be going."

"Hold on, lass, you're not going to eat something?"

"I'll be fine," Sylfir says.

"Don't give me that. Just wait a minute," Lorys says. She leaves the bar, taking the letter with her and disappearing into the kitchen. Sylfir waits for a few moments until the half-elf reappears, this time with both her letter and a couple of slices of soft, fresh bread, bound in clean cloth. Lorys hands it to her.

"Take this—on the house." She leans in close, keeping her voice low. "Khaliss tells me the day the beast returns draws near. We need you at your strongest."

"Naturally," Sylfir mutters, "Thank you." She takes the bread and Lorys nods as she tucks it away in her pack. Before either of them can say another word, a patron draws Lorys' attention, heralding the end of their conversation.

Sylfir turns her back on the bar and heads for the exit, the ramshackle door letting shafts of muted daylight through its cracks. She drifts into idle thought as she weaves between the tables, and as she gets closer, she reaches out with an open palm ready to press against the flimsy wood.