The sky had darkened into a threatening shade of grey by the time I finally reached the gates of Vaelmoor. A fine drizzle fell, carried by a biting wind that gnawed at my skin despite the cloak I had wrapped tightly around me. The city extended before me, tall and austere, built into the side of a hill, with its slate roofs, narrow cobbled alleys, and wooden signs creaking in the gusts. Everything here seemed older, heavier with secrets. A kind of melancholy seeped from the very stones.

I pushed open the heavy panels of the main gate, flanked by guards who showed little interest in my arrival. I said nothing to them, and that suited me fine. I had left behind the splendor of my lineage to walk through the mud of the alleys, anonymous among the passersby, my gaze hidden beneath my hood.

I had only one name: Oslow, the cartographer. And a rumor, passed to me by the tavern woman in Thatchford: he lived secluded in the northern quarter of Vaelmoor, among the time-worn houses and the forgotten archives of the scribes.

I climbed the sloping streets, asking questions to the few residents brave enough to face the damp. Some looked at me with suspicion, others shrugged. But an old apple vendor, sitting at the corner of a moss-covered staircase, eventually pointed me toward a shuttered house, its wooden walls visibly rotting.

I knocked twice. No answer. Then a third time, harder.

“It’s closed!” growled a hoarse voice from within.

“Mister Oslow? My name is Elysia. I was told you might be able to help me.”

My voice was steadier than I actually felt.

A long silence followed. Then the door creaked open painfully.

The man who stood before me was taller than I had imagined. His grey hair hung in thick strands down to his shoulders, and a magnifying lens dangled from a cord around his neck. His eyes, a pale washed-out blue, studied me with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

“You’re a noble. I can tell. What do you want from an old madman like me?”

Not knowing what to say, I lowered my head to glance at the long black cloak hiding my leather garments.

Then I lifted my chin slightly.

“I’m not… Never mind. I need your help solving a very old riddle.”

He observed me for another second, then turned away.

“Come in, then. And close the door behind you. Rain gives me nightmares.”

I followed him inside, into a dim room where the light struggled to pass through narrow windows. Shelves were sagging under the weight of books and maps, and the air was thick with the scent of old paper and dried ink. A large wooden table was covered in parchment rolls, unfolded maps, and vials—like a secret sanctuary of forgotten stories. A fire crackled in the corner, and the strange, timeless atmosphere wrapped around me instantly.

He gestured to a chair by the table. I obeyed in silence, watching his every move, every precise gesture.

“Would you care for some coffee, miss?”

Without waiting for an answer, he handed me a small steaming cup before sitting opposite me, elbows on the table, fingers laced beneath his chin.

“You have a noble gaze. The look of someone born to lead, even if you haven’t yet learned to accept it.” He tapped a stack of maps in front of him. “Your posture too. Not the gait of a peasant, even if your cloak tries to disguise it. Nobles have that… something, you see? A bearing, a way of standing that betrays their origin.”

I frowned, wary.

“I don’t understand.”

He took a step closer, tilting his head slightly.

“The way you hold your head, the look in your eyes… Your hands are not those of a farmer. No, you were raised with books, not spades.”

I stayed still. This man was neither blind nor naive. Yet I wouldn’t confirm anything. He must not know who I was.

“So… what are you looking for, stranger?”

I pulled the letter from my pocket and laid it in front of him. He froze, pushed aside a few scrolls, and picked up the letter with long, ink-stained fingers. Silence fell.

He remained motionless for a moment, eyes closed, brow furrowed as if he could feel the riddle more than read it. Then he began rummaging frantically through his archives, muttering under his breath. Scrolls flew, maps crackled under his gnarled fingers. At last, he retrieved a book and opened it carefully.

“I don’t know about the rest of the riddle, but the messengers…”

He scratched his head, then set down an old grimoire in front of me, yellowed and leather-bound. Hand-drawn sketches filled its pages: a woman seated at the center of five trees.

“A long time ago, they used to say some women had special abilities…”

“Witches?” I whispered, but he shook his head.

“Not witches, no… but they did have a gift that frightened the Kingdoms. They could communicate across vast distances, through all lands and realms. Simply by whispering… to the trees.”

I raised my eyebrows, my fingers twisting a lock of hair.

“Where are they now? Could they help me?”

“No one knows. They haven’t been heard from in centuries. But… the trees, they’ve never stopped listening.”

I finally understood.

“The trees are the messengers. So the place must be somewhere surrounded by trees.”

“A forest, perhaps,” he suggested.

A sigh escaped me. Hundreds of forests dotted the Six Kingdoms. But if the prisoner was indeed in Edaryn, that narrowed the search. Slightly. I would still spend weeks, even months, searching every forest in the second kingdom.

“Edaryn is full of forests… how can I know which one it is?”

“I can offer no certainty, miss, but if I were you, the Forest of Obscéa would be my first guess. You won’t find a throne in that forest,” he added thoughtfully. “But you may find the shadow of the one who lost himself there.”

He looked at me, his eyes gleaming with unsettling wisdom.

“But if you go there, take nothing with you that you’re not willing to lose.”