Chapter Three — "A Journey Begins"
An exclusive first look at World Beyond the Unknown
A fresh wave of snow had smothered the village overnight, leaving nothing untouched by the cold. The familiar cobblestone streets had been transformed into treacherous, icy terrain. I huffed a breath into my gloved fingers, desperately seeking warmth, trying to coax some feeling back as I fastened the buckles on Buckwheat's saddle.
Uncle Jace had told me the night before that we were needed in Rin Ridge the next day. The bustling town was not far from our own little village of Berkside, but the journey through the ice and snow would take us much longer than usual.
I had awoken at dawn when the gray light of morning had just begun to illuminate the depths of night. As my uncle's apprentice, my responsibilities included ensuring his apothecary satchel stayed fully stocked with the herbs and teas, tinctures, and elixirs that he used to care for the sick and injured. My own satchel was not as well stocked as his, but I had been collecting and saving any surplus supplies for the last few years and had collected a fair amount should my uncle ever allow me to actually tend to those with the sickness.
Today, perhaps he would let me.
"Alora, my satchel?" My uncle's head poked out from the front door of our cottage.
"I have it here, Uncle," I called, pointing back behind me towards his horse, Barley, saddled and ready to depart.
"Ah, very well." The rest of him emerged from the door, closing it behind him, he secured it with a sturdy iron key.
Most mistook my uncle for my grandfather, with his graying beard and tiny gold spectacles. The scar down his cheek hinted at his past—one spent in the king’s army, long before he traded a sword for tinctures and tonics. Gruff and stubborn as he was, his heart had always been too soft to watch people suffer without trying to help.
When my parents died over a decade ago, my uncle had taken me in. I felt luckier than many. Most as young as I was, who were unfortunate enough to have not one but both parents die of the outbreak, ended up on the street—forced to beg for scraps and coppers to survive.
Uncle Jace had been more than a guardian to me, he had also been my mentor, instilling a profound respect for the delicate balance of nature and healing. Under his patient guidance, I had come to find solace in the rhythm of our tasks—the gentle handling of herbs, the precision in slicing roots, the careful measurement of liquids that could soothe a cough or lull feverish dreams into a peaceful slumber.
Every day, my fingers moved confidently over the bottles and tins and parchments listing our stores. I cataloged, mixed, and poured—with each action, I felt more confident in my skill, and my understanding of the plants and herbs deepened. The more I learned, the more the essence of my days became woven into the intricate dance of apothecary work, and lingered on my skin like the fine dust of dried lavender.
I reveled in the knowledge that my hands, stained with the green of crushed leaves, played some small part in someone's relief, perhaps even their survival. This craft was not just my duty to my Uncle, who had provided for and sheltered me—it was a calling. My calling. I only wish there was more I could do. If only my Uncle would stop being so protective of me and actually let me help.
I pulled myself up into the saddle on Buckwheat’s back, his tousled mane stretched out in front of me, and I stroked his neck affectionately. Uncle Jace turned his mount towards the road, and I guided Buckwheat around to follow him as the sun rose above the snow covered trees. We began making our way to the village gate.
"We should be at Rin Ridge by midday. You'll need to gather supplies at the market and wait for me until I'm finished making my rounds."
It was foolish of me to get my hopes up that today might be any different. Still, the same irritation burned in my chest every time I heard the word no. How was I supposed to learn if I wasn’t allowed near the people who needed help? If I could grind herbs and mix tinctures, I could just as easily administer them. But no—always too dangerous, always too risky. As if he thought I didn’t already understand the risks better than anyone. But I wasn't about to let that stop me from arguing about it for the thousandth time.
"I thought I could help you today, and I won't even go near them or touch anything. I could hand you vials and—" I babbled, trying desperately to make a case that would change his mind.
"Alora," he interrupted before I could go on, "You know you can't. The outbreak spreads too easily. I won't risk it." I sighed. Knowing what he would say before he said it didn't tamper my annoyance at never getting to actually help the sick in our village or the surrounding towns.
The outbreak started eleven or so years ago when I was still but a child and quickly overcame the entire kingdom of Fenngard. Since then, it had gotten steadily worse. Few who caught the plague recovered, and those who did, suffered its long-lasting effects.
We rode on in silence for the rest of the morning, carefully keeping our horses on the narrow road and out of the deepest snow banks. Rin Ridge wasn't far, but the roads were blanketed in snow and ice, which made us take a slower pace. The winter months were the hardest for those who happened to fall ill. Sunshine and hot weather helped some of the more resilient who suffered. But this time of year, there was little to be done.
My uncle had spent the last ten years in his apothecary's workshop, combining healing herbs with mushrooms and berries with oils and all manner of things to come up with the few things that would help alleviate the symptoms of the outbreak. It was mostly trial and error, but there was never a shortage of patients who were desperate for any relief offered by their trusted village apothecary.
It began innocuously enough, mimicking a common cold. People complained of coughs, sore throats, headaches, and fatigue. A rash would often bloom across their skin like a constellation of red stars, an irritating but harmless annoyance—at first. We did what we could for the symptoms; a tea to ease their throats, a tonic to lower their fever, and a salve to soothe the rash.
But for those who didn’t recover in the first week, something far worse took hold. Their limbs grew weak, their hands trembling too much to hold a spoon. The muscles in their faces slackened, and their words slurred as if their tongues had turned to stone. They choked on their own food, unable to swallow, and the simplest breath became a struggle.
The rash meant nothing compared to that. By the time their bodies betrayed them, by the time they could no longer speak, there was nothing left to do but wait. Some lingered for weeks, their eyes still bright with fear, trapped in failing bodies. Others slipped into a deep sleep, never waking again. Most of them died gasping for air, their lungs refusing to obey their final, desperate plea for breath.
We still didn’t know how it spread. At first, we thought it was through touch—rashes pressed against fevered sheets, sweat beading on trembling hands. But then people who had never gone near the sick began falling ill. It was in the air, the water. There was no escaping it.
When all else failed, we did the only thing we could—we tried to ease their suffering. The venom from a viper, carefully diluted, dulled their pain. For some, it let them pass peacefully, one final kindness in a cruel and indifferent plague. But for others, it was just a fleeting relief before the inevitable. The cruel and unyielding outbreak left us all grappling with a sense of powerlessness in the face of its relentless advance.
I pulled my heavy woolen cloak tighter around me. I let my thoughts wander, absentmindedly tracing the familiar contours of the ring I wore, as I twirled it around my finger—a mindless habit that had become ingrained over time. The metal warmed against my skin, but the weight of it always felt heavier in moments like this. A reminder of what I’d lost. And what I still had to do.
Faint shoots of green peered up through the snow banks on either side of the icy roads. Sweetgrass, maybe, by the faint smell of it. I knew it well, I'd spent weeks last winter experimenting with its uses in reducing patient fever. Unsuccessful, of course. Though, as I'd argued with Uncle Jace, it might have helped if I'd been able to administer it to a real patient.
By the time we rode through the gates of Rin Ridge, we'd finished eating the lunch I'd packed in our saddle bags—a meager meal of cold cheeses, dried meats, and some day-old rolls left from the baker's last delivery. It wasn't much, but it would have to suffice until we were able to return home late that night.
We made our way to the village square, where I knew we'd part ways until my uncle had finished seeing those who needed his expertise.
"I'll find you at the bookstore before sundown. We'll have to stay at the inn tonight. I fear the road home is too treacherous for us to travel after dark." Uncle Jace announced.
"I'll go to the inn and get us a room and a stall at the stable for the horses. I have a list of items to get at the market and the bookstore, of course." I hadn't expected to stay the night in Rin Ridge. The roads were dangerous enough in daylight—I knew Uncle Jace wouldn’t risk them in the dark. But another night meant another delay. More waiting. More time spent gathering supplies instead of learning something useful.
"Of course," he smiled as he handed me a handful of brass coins. "Keep your wits about you and be safe, Alora. You have your dagger with you?"
I nodded. The blade was safely tucked into my boot—not that I would need it.
"Good. I'll see you soon."
"Be safe, Uncle," I called after him as he guided Barley down the next frozen muddy road.
I pocketed the coins before turning Buckwheat in the opposite direction my uncle took. The inn would be my first stop. Uncle Jace and I rarely stayed in Rin Ridge, but this year had been a particularly bad winter, and the storms kept bringing new layers of ice and snow without reprieve. It would be better for us to stay. I left Buckwheat with the stable boy and made my way toward the main street.
My boots squelched in the mud as I made my way through the bustling open market. The first stop I needed to make was Mrs. Talle's garden stall. She always kept a fair selection of fresh garden herbs and spices that we'd run low on. Thyme to soothe the red and raw throats of those affected by the outbreak, basil to relieve some of their pain, lavender for rashes, and peppermint for their headaches. Dill for inflammation and chamomile to help them sleep.
She was a pinched, old woman with a sour mouth, but her hands tended to that garden with the utmost care, and somehow, she could grow anything all winter long. All the same, I could feel her disapproving stare settle on me as I approached her.
"A damn shame," Mrs. Talle huffed as soon as I approached. "Pretty girl like you, dressed like that." Her words stung only faintly, it was nothing less than what she usually expressed when I came to visit.
I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes. Oh, forgive me, Mrs. Talle, for not arriving in a ballgown and pearls to collect my damn herbs.
The words perched on the tip of my tongue, sharp and ready, but I bit them back. No point in arguing with Mrs. Talle—she had her opinions, and nothing I said would change them. But still, something about her words sat heavy in my chest, like damp wool pressing against my ribs. I inhaled deeply, letting the cold burn the frustration away.
"Good morning, ma'am." I forced a smile instead as she collected my order, choosing peace—for now.
Mrs. Talle barely acknowledged my greeting, her sharp eyes darting over me with the same disapproving scrutiny as always. "I suppose that Uncle of yours dresses you in his hand-me-downs, doesn't he?" she tsked, lips pursed. "It's indecent, it is."
My eyebrow twitched with the effort to keep my eyes from rolling to the heavens. Yes, because nothing scandalizes the good people of Rin Ridge quite like a woman who isn’t draped in skirts.
The mention of Uncle Jace piqued my temper faintly, but I kept my voice light. "Well, it’s a little hard tending to the sick and dying in a corset, you see."
She ignored me.
"A right shame," she muttered again, barely glancing as her nimble fingers snipped dead leaves from a bundle of parsley. Sure, why don’t we all mourn the tragic loss of my wasted beauty while people cough up blood in the streets.
I cleared my throat, desperate to change the subject. "That rutabaga of yours is really coming along—"
But she was undeterred.
"And that hair—!"
I braced myself.
Mrs. Talle sighed dramatically, shaking her head like a woman confronted with an unspeakable horror. "Why, a little rosemary oil on your scalp, and you’d catch yourself a nice young man to look after you!"
I bristled at the implication that I needed anyone to look after me—least of all the kind of nice young man she’d deem suitable.
Still, my fingers reached for my chin-length hair, unable to help myself.
I had cut it a few weeks ago—well, I'd asked Uncle Jace to cut it for me after it nearly caught fire as I brewed a fresh batch of tonic for the outbreak. I’d thought it looked nice.
Apparently, Mrs. Talle disagreed.
"You know," she continued, her beady eyes gleaming with gossip, "that baker’s boy hasn’t found himself a wife yet. I’m sure you could catch his eye if you put in a little effort—"
"Well, this has been lovely," I interrupted loudly, snatching my goods from the counter before she could dig any deeper into my lack of prospects and supposed failures as a woman. "But I really should be going. Won’t have time to catch myself a man if I’m standing here listening to your chatter."
Before she could recover, I slapped a brass coin into her palm, nestled the fresh herbs into my satchel, and turned on my heel. Behind me, I could feel her pinched expression of disapproval burning into the back of my head, but I didn’t look back.
The last thing I needed was more unsolicited matchmaking advice from Mrs. Talle.
Two stalls down, I found my next stop, Mr. Garrows's exotic wares. Most of his trinkets and oddities were far too expensive for the townsfolk here, but he stayed in business selling mugwort and mushrooms to those who sought a little escape now and then. As for me, I had no interest in the psychedelics he sold, but it was the only place I could get the exotic viper venom we used in our pain relief tincture, needed when outbreak patients took a final turn, and there was nothing else to be done beside ease their pain and their passing.
"Miss Alora, a pleasure to see you today." Mr. Garrows was a slender, elderly gentleman with a knack for hospitality and a mischievous look in his eye. I was fond of him, and when I happened to come to the market on quieter days, I could sometimes coax a story of his travels and adventures. Today, I would not be so fortunate. Three other patrons stood nearby, asking him questions about this and that. But I was a frequent customer, and he knew what I was there for. He produced a small vial from behind the counter, holding it out for me. I slipped three brass coins from my pocket and exchanged them for the vial.
"Thank you, Mr. Garrows," I called, leaving him to his other customers with a quick wave. "I'll try to come back when you're less busy." Mr. Garrows raised his hand in a quick wave before turning back to his customers at hand.
Across from Mr. Garrow's exotic wares was the beekeepers' stall. We needed beeswax and honey to make more salves and ointments. I traded another two coins and stashed everything away in my satchel, being careful not to crush the herbs from Mrs. Talle and securing the expensive viper venom vial in a loop designed to keep glass vials and bottles from rattling around in my bag. Uncle Jace would never forgive me if it were to break before we made it safely home.
I reached back into my pocket and felt the last remaining coin. Fishing it out, I ran my thumb across the embossed face of Fenngard's King. On the other side of the coin was the kingdom's mighty oak emblem. A symbol of our people, or so they said. I’d heard many grumble about it, claiming they couldn’t understand why our king would choose such an uninspiring thing as a tree to symbolize his rule. But to me—it seemed fitting. Trees endured. They rooted deep, weathered storms, and bent without breaking. In my years with Uncle Jace, treating those sickened by the illness, I saw firsthand the tenacity of our community. We were all at the mercy of the outbreak, but, like the mighty oak, we stood fast and unyielding even in the worst of storms.
I toyed with the thought of adding the coin to my savings, but I knew Uncle Jace wouldn’t want me to sacrifice such a simple pleasure as buying a book for a goal he still wasn’t quite on board with. So, without wasting another moment, I made my way through the market towards a familiar little shop at the edge of the town square. My favorite place in the entire kingdom, The Ink and Wonder bookshop.
A bell chimed as I pulled open the front door, and I breathed in the heavenly scent of books and dust and wet ink. Mr. Fitz owned the shop and never minded me spending the afternoon perusing his stacks and reading through anything that caught my eye, so long as I left with a purchase tucked under my arm. As I entered, a strange sensation tugged at me. It wasn’t unusual to feel a sense of familiarity here, but today the air felt different—like the wind had shifted. Mr. Fitz looked up from the front counter where he was hunched over a book, quill in hand, and ink speckled across his fingers. He gave me the briefest of smiles and a nod before turning back to the work before him, but I barely noticed.
The Ink and Wonder bookshop was perhaps the most magical place in the whole of Fenngard. Everywhere your eye could see were shelves and shelves of books stacked from floor to ceiling. Each room was connected by arched doorways, and a spiral staircase led to the top floor and to a basement. The ceiling was covered in colorful glass lamps shaped like teardrops, and each lamp was different and unique. An explosion of color like a stained glass window wrapped around a tiny star. Mr. Fitz had explained once that an intricate oil system connected them and allowed each to be lit from within. How any of it actually worked, I had no idea, but every time I visited the quiet shop, I was enchanted by them.
I began perusing the main level, mindlessly spinning my ring around my finger. My eyes grazed across the spines of Fenngard's histories, picking up anything that caught my eye and lazily flipping through the pages.
I made my way through an archway into the next room to find it full of ancient-looking scrolls, maps, and charts of Fenngard, the seas, and many of the closest neighboring kingdoms. There was a large table in this room with scrolls spread across the surface.
The map room was always one of my favorites. I had spent many afternoons daydreaming here, imagining what it would be like when I finally got to see the shores of the sea, the capital of Fenngard and its mighty castle, or anything really. I traced my finger across the familiar lines of our kingdom, the roads from Berkside to Rin Ridge and the mighty Rin River. A heavy leather-bound book held the edges of the map scroll flat on the table. It too was open as if someone had been here recently, studying the maps and charts. The pages of the book held a collection of maps of Fenngard and the neighboring kingdoms.
I left the book and scroll open on the table, not sure if Mr. Fitz had left them that way for a reason or if it was just the remnants of his most recent customer.
The next room was full of poetry written by the bards and playwrights for the past thousand years. In it was a spiral staircase that led to the upper level of the shop and housed books written in all the different languages of the kingdoms, and tomes that covered everything from how to read omens to the letters sent between ancient rulers. Behind it was another staircase, narrow and straight, that led down to the basement level, where every adventure story, romance, and magical journey were kept. Adjusting my satchel, I took the narrow staircase down to the lower level.
Uncle Jace knew where to find me when he came. The lower level would occupy the rest of my afternoon. The ceiling was low and every wall was lined with shelves full of leather-bound books. The afternoon sun shone through narrow windows along one wall. They were much higher up than expected and must have been boot level with the street above.
My eyes were drawn to the back of the room, where the shadows were deeper, darker than they had any right to be in the middle of the day. I shook the feeling off, telling myself it was nothing more than the winter light playing tricks on me.
Nestled in the corner by the bottom of the stairs near the overfilled shelves sat a comfortable reading chair with a small table that held a chamber stick and a single unlit candle. Two flaming sconces flanked the reading nook and helped illuminate the space.
Browsing the stacks, I pulled several titles that caught my eye off the shelf, eager to find a new compelling adventure or romance to fall in love with.
The afternoon sun began sinking low as dusk drew nearer. I huffed in annoyance as I snapped the third book closed. Of those I'd assembled, the first story was dull and predictable, the second was a romance of a silly girl without a single thought between her ears, and the last was one I'd forgotten I'd already read. None were worth wasting any more of my precious afternoon. There was no telling how long it would take Uncle Jace to finish with his patients, and when he returned, he would be eager to get to the inn for a hot meal and a restful night's sleep.
Putting each book back in its place, I decided to roam back to the furthest stacks, farther away from the windows. The candle’s flickering light barely cut through the heavy darkness as I ventured deeper into the stacks. Shadows danced across the spines of forgotten tomes, and the musty scent of old parchment clung to the air. I shivered, more from unease than the cold. Something about this place today felt… unnatural.
My fingers grazed the spines, and I made sure to keep my open flame well away from the books and their shelves. I stopped to pull out a few of the titles that caught my eye, but nothing felt like what I was looking for. It was colder down here, and I was suddenly grateful I hadn't bothered to remove my cloak earlier. I was about to leave, to return to the warm glow of the better-lit sections, when something stopped me. There it was, perched high on the shelf—black leather worn with time. It hadn’t been there before—I was sure of it.
Reaching up on my tiptoes, I pulled the book free and brought it down so I could take a closer look at it. The black leather cover was aged and worn and seemed to hum under my touch. Along the spine in gold leaf the title of the book was written in a language I didn't recognize, and on the front the leather was embossed like the shape of a heavy oak door, thick sections framing the edges and crossing the center. In the middle, a round copper button held a blue stone, the color of a robin's egg firmly set into the book's cover.
The book felt heavier than it should have. My fingers brushed against the smooth blue stone set into the center, and a strange warmth pulsed beneath my touch. It was faint, like something lie asleep deep within the stone, waiting. I'd never seen a gem like it before and I wondered if it was valuable. For some reason, I hesitated, my hand hovering over leather. Everything about it felt wrong, like a door I wasn’t meant to open. But something—deep and unwelcome—dragged me forward. As if I didn’t have a choice. And I hated that feeling most of all.
Setting my candle down carefully on the floor, I angled my body to catch the light of the flickering flame and peeled back the cover. The scent of old leather and dust rose up to meet me along with something else—a familiar scent I couldn’t quite place. I spied the same strange letters that were scrawled along the spine written again on the first page. Elegant curves and angles with dots combined into what looked like several distinct words. My fingers tingled, and a prickle of unease crawled up my spine. I should’ve closed the book right then. But, I didn’t. I thumbed through the pages and stopped as the markings of a map filtered by. I thumbed back a few pages to find it again. I didn’t recognize anything on the unfamiliar map, it looked nothing like the familiar lines and shapes of Fenngard.
My fingers traced along the curving lines of land and sea, over mountains, and forests, and across the names written in the same strange language. Along the edges of the page was a thick filigree border and along the top woven into the design were more distinct words different from the title on the other page and along the bottom looked to be strange words written in the common tongue. The letters were familiar, but the words were gibberish. I started rolling them around in my mind. My fingers trailed along the lines of the map again as I sounded the words out loud. My lips parted, the syllables forming before I could think better of it. Before I could stop myself.
"Et… et eh… mon… montos oldre… dha… iqnutos." I stuttered into the shadows around me. As I spoke, my fingers began to tingle, my hands suddenly heavy, then numb as they snapped the book closed. I tried to move, tried to take a step but the ground fell out beneath me. I gasped, weightless—and then I was falling.
My stomach somersaulted as I plummeted.
The world seemed to spin and suddenly I was falling in the wrong direction. I fell up, and up, and up—pulled along through what felt like sand or salt against my skin.
A flash of hot, white light blinded me and pain ricocheted through my bones. As the pain ebbed, a shrill echo pierced the silence, ringing in my ears like a siren’s wail.
I tried to scream, but no sound left my lips, and then, as suddenly as it had begun, everything stopped, and I landed.
Hard.
My back slammed against an unyielding force. The air in my chest wrenched free from my body. I gasped, desperate for air, as my eyes flew open and I took in the darkness around me.