Gilthas was dying.

Against a background of purple sky, clouds drifted by, sending rain coursing down to darken the granite mountain slopes. ft was a common enough sight in Inath-Wakenti. Rain fell on the distant heights but seldom in the valley proper. As the light faded and the first stars appeared overhead, the clouds were submerged in the mountains’ dark bulk. The smell of rain lingered.

Gilthas stood atop a crude watchtower of logs and stared northwest, watching the far-off shower. The elves had constructed thirteen watchtowers, ten along Lioness Creek and three at the valley entrance. All were kept occupied day and night. But Gilthas wasn’t watching for enemies. His wife was on patrol, flying on her griffon over the silent valley. Gilthas could not be easy until she was with him again. The elf standing watch in the tower had positioned herself as far from the Speaker as possible in the close confines, motivated less by awe of her sovereign than by sympathy. His worry for his intrepid wife was obvious.

The view into the valley was unchanging: spindly trees and pale stone monoliths scattered in the distance like dice dropped by a giant. No fireflies lit the night; no frogs or crickets broke the silence.

When the elves had first reached Inath-Wakenti, they’d been overjoyed. Their constant tormenters, the Khurish nomads, would not enter the taboo confines of the place they called Alga-Mash, “Breath of the Gods.” The elves collapsed onto the sandy blue soil and rejoiced in their deliverance.

Disenchantment with their sanctuary wasn’t long in coming. The valley that sheltered them from desert heat and nomad attacks provided very little else-absolutely no animal life and precious little edible flora. Warriors and civilians alike clamored for permission to search the inner valley for food, but the Speaker forbade anyone to cross Lioness Creek, reminding them of the deadly will-o’-the-wisps encountered by Kerian’s original expedition.