Sylfir arrives at the entrance of the druid's sanctum where the eroded stone likeness of Mielikki greets her. She can barely see her visage through her tears.

She cried most of the journey here, which she has taken in her natural form instead of travelling as the raven does—on the wing. She does it to stall, of course. The idea of returning to the village in time for the celebration does not appeal to her, not when she is wallowing in this pit of anguish.

She wipes away her tears and walks past Mielikki into the sanctum, taking the winding, root-ridden path toward its centre. There, she is confronted with the statue of Silvanus once more, his depiction's majesty diminished by wind and rain, though the overgrowth of the surrounding trees and bushes seems just as fitting as the first time Sylfir beheld this place. Less fitting are the brittle, unconsolidated bones of countless animals that remain the legacy of the foul beast.

Sylfir circles the sanctum in a clockwise direction, passing the god of her people, Rillifane Rallathil, then Oberon. She stops before the god-king of the faeries, looking at the ruin of the altar and the scattered remains of the original offering she provided for a ritual that would see the forest healed. A sigh escapes her as she shakes her head.

Thinking more on it, that original offering had a better chance than the one she has now at achieving her desired goal: the restoration of this part of the High Forest. She couldn't hope to salvage the remnants—the organic constituents have long since rotted away, and she doesn't dare touch the crystals for fear she might regain the beast's corruption.

Her hand goes to her abdomen, idly tracing the stitches in her leather armour. She can see the beast swiping the offering from the altar in her mind's eye... then swiping at her. Again, she shakes her head—she shouldn't be thinking about this.

Sylfir moves on to Titania, strong and beautiful and wise, then onto the gentle but steadfast Eldath, the elusive companion of Mielikki. Her eyes linger on the rubble where she found the journal, crystal ball, and the lock of silvery hair.

Her scars ache, almost imperceptibly, but the dull pain still registers. She remembers the words of the red-eyed witch.

You'll make the perfect bait, and my pet the perfect cage to catch her with.

But now her pet is gone. The red-eyed witch, too, though not as permanently as Sylfir would like. The thought makes her anxious.

But anxiety serves her little. She tears her gaze away, then looks to the last god venerated in this ancient sanctum.

Lathander. Even in this weathered state, his radiance is apparent, with flaming hair and fire-touched feet. Sylfir goes to him.

She clears away the bones and rubble in her way before she kneels, opening her pack and taking out the constituents of her offering to him.

First, she takes out the vials of holy water—totalling two—blessed by the priests of the Lathanderian Church at dawn. Her gentle fingers grasp the golden, gilded spring flowers and a few precious shafts of wheat not fully grown from the golden crop fields next, placing them at Lathander's feet. Then, she brings forth sweet smelling incense and a collection of crystals in various fiery hues, like little motes of sunlight trapped in shards of beautifully misshapen glass. And finally, she takes out a pendant bearing the symbol of the Morninglord, blessed at dawn like the holy water. The priests told her it belonged to the first of their number who founded the church in the sleepy village of Summerfall.

She knows it is a desperate measure. The gods have fallen silent—there is no guarantee that they will hear her pleas. All hope rests in this great offering—this grand gesture of sacrificing their most treasured possession.

Sylfir places it with the rest of the items, then reaches into her mind. There are words she must recite, a prayer she memorised at the church before she left. She recalls their words as she lights the incense, then clasps her hands together and bows her head, letting her eyes flutter closed.

"Morninglord, harken to our earnest plea. A bounty born of love we bring to thee. Let the sun rise over a fertile land, that we might reap what's sown by our own hand. Let life spring forth anew from ash and bone; let your gentle light touch our hearth and home."

She opens her eyes again and fixes her gaze on the vials of holy water. She takes them, unscrewing their corks and letting their contents stain the patches of barren soil. Then, she places them back down to clasp her hands again and bow her head, but when her eyes flutter closed, she does not pray.

She breathes deep of the sweet-smelling incense and imagines the forest as it should be. Trees with strong, healthy trunks boasting bountiful sap trailing down their fissured bark. The sound of woodpeckers drilling for food and the sweet song of morning birds filling the air as the sun breaks the unseen horizon. She imagines looking upward where the dappled sunlight squeezes through a thick canopy of green leaves at the height of summer, sustaining the thick undergrowth that hides the roots of the trees.

She sees the forest's bounty in all its glory, full of life, with does nursing fawns and juvenile wolves playing in the dirt. She sees the circle of life unfold as an owlbear feeds on a boar's carcass, and mushrooms, clinging to the rotting wood of a dead oak tree, release their spores.

And finally, she sees people like her, who make their homes in places like these. In man-made settlements reclaimed by the environment, acting as sentinels who have taken it upon themselves to nurture and protect. Under their care, the forest thrives and grows.

When her eyes flutter open, the gems and pendant are gone. So too are the gilded spring flowers and shafts of wheat. All that remains are the burning incense and empty vials of holy water.

But there is something new. In the places where she emptied the water onto the soil, new sprouts have emerged. They grow taller with each passing second, and Sylfir stares in disbelief.

It worked. The sprouts grow into beautiful golden flowers that bloom with almost unnatural radiance, like a manifestation of those now missing gilded flowers in the natural world. Sylfir senses things will turn out as they should. Her work here is done.

A part of her is truly glad, but she cannot escape the tinge of sadness that colours the feeling. Now the time has come to leave this part of the Savage Frontier—to leave Summerfall.

To leave Ivan.

She feels tears well in her eyes, and this time, she does not try to stop them from falling. And why should she? There is no one to hide from here.

She rises to her feet, though her crying eyes remain on the golden flowers. She stays like that for a few moments, wallowing in her sorrow... but the feeling soon changes.

One might call it intuition. She suddenly feels anxious, and it grows strong enough to stem the tide of tears. She turns around to the statue of Silvanus. There's nothing about it that seems strange, but she could swear...

"More perceptive than the last time we met in this place."

A robed figure, slight of stature, emerges from behind the statue of Silvanus, watching Sylfir with piercing red eyes. Her heart hammers in her chest. She knows those eyes and remembers that voice.

The red-eyed witch.

The woman chuckles, the sound laced with a hint of condescension.

"That tears should streak down a face so lovely..."

"What do you want?" Sylfir snaps. She moves slowly as she turns to face the woman, her hand itching for her spear.

"I wanted to speak with you, of course."

Sylfir's suspicion almost gives way to confusion. "Why?"

Again, the red-eyed woman laughs. "You killed my little pet. I should be frustrated—furious—instead, I find myself intrigued. You are a most... persistent creature."

To Sylfir's surprise, the woman reaches for her cowl and mask, slender fingers tracing over the material. Her red eyes seem to brighten with amusement to watch the growing anticipation in Sylfir's expression, and her fingers linger as if to tease.

But finally, she relents, slowly revealing the contours of her face.

The same red eyes that once seemed so sharp seem rounder, gentler, and larger, now that they are not so obscured by shadow. Her face is youthful, but its sharp lines are striking—sharp cheekbones made more prominent by gaunt cheeks, narrow lips curling upward in a subtle smile, and a thin, upturned nose that rests in the centre of her face. Her bone white hair is wispy and flared, stopping little more than a few inches past her angular jaw, barely contrasted against her icy, blue-grey skin. She is like a dainty pixie in appearance, and the cruel curve of her smile implies she is just as playful as one.

At first, Sylfir believes her to be drow, but upon closer inspection of her stunted, leaf-shaped ears, she appears to be a half-drow. "Who are you?"

"I am many things, but for now, I am a puppet master."

Sylfir scowls. "Your puppet is dead."

"My pet? Yes. But I am nothing if not resourceful—I will find a new puppet before long."

Sylfir's frown grows more severe, turning into a sneer as the woman regards her with what can only be described as an appraising gaze.

"I am not your plaything."

"So defiant," the red-eyed woman says, "But so utterly ignorant. Your kind is always the most entertaining."

Sylfir scowls. "If you have nothing of substance to say, then leave me."

But the red-eyed woman steps closer, her smile taking on the barest hint of cruelty. "If that is truly your wish, then so be it, but you have not seen the last of me."

"Spoken with such confidence... for someone within range of my spear."

In one fluid motion, Sylfir takes her spear in both hands, raising it over her head, then thrusting forward and down at the other woman. In that split second, her red eyes betray no hint of fear, and as the tip of Sylfir's spear pierces her belly, she... evaporates.

Soon comes the sound of metal scraping against stone as the spearhead scratches against the eroded statue of Silvanus, and Sylfir's eyes go wide with surprise. Just like that, the red-eyed woman is gone. She should have known a master of illusions would not risk her hide and show her true self.

But she must be nearby. Sylfir looks around the sanctum but sees nothing and no one suspicious. Then she looks up at the trees and bushes that frame the edges of the sanctum, but again sees nothing. 

The red-eyed witch is gone.

Sylfir lingers in the silence. Whatever feeling of completion she once had now leaves her. She shakes her head—she will have to tell Khaliss. Perhaps she will even have to remain in Summerfall a while longer...

This time when she begins her journey, she lets the bliss of transformation take her, the golden wisps of her aura morphing her form into something smaller and lighter. She becomes a raven with wings as black as night, buoyed by the gentle wind as she takes flight, heading back to the sleepy village.