Cool. So Kaelren pulled me back to the wrong village. Typical. I take another drink and look around while the bartender grunts and disappears behind the bar.
I’m about to order another mead when a massive commotion erupts outside.
The tavern doors burst open, and an angry mob pours in. And when I say mob, I mean a full-on pitchfork-wielding, torch-adjacent, somebody-is-in-deep-shit mob. There’s at least twenty of them crammed in the doorway, and they are pissed. I notice some carry long swords, while a few have something less refined, more like a hatchet.
I’m sitting there thinking whew, someone’s having a worse day than me, when one of them, a guy with a pair of shiny wings, points directly at me and screams, “There she is! The red-haired harlot!”
Um, excuse me?
I know they are not talking about me. I mean, a little respect would be nice, seeing as I’ve been stuck in literal nothingness because I saved their realm. Harlot? Really? At least go with something more creative.
I set my mead down and hold up my hands. Diplomacy. Kaelren would want me to try diplomacy. If we’re going to rule this place, I need to learn to handle situations like a leader. Although this is exactly the kind of situation Kaelren would glare his way through.
“Listen here, fellas…err, creature thingies.” Not my best opening. “I’m sure whatever is happening is all a big misunderstanding. If we can just find Kaelren, I’m sure everything will be fine. I know things are a little shaky after the destruction of the Bloom—”
I barely get the last word out before they erupt.
“She intends to harm the Bloom! The Bloom Regent was right; we have to stop her! We must protect the Bloom!”
Then there’s a collective roar as they surge forward.
Oh, hell no. I did not just claw my way back to Wynmire to get captured by an angry mob.
I dart off the stool and move to the side of the tavern, scanning for an exit. A particularly burly man sits near a back door.
“Sorry about this!”
I whip my vines around his chair legs and yank him backward. His large body, the overturned chair, a wall of tangled furniture between me and the mob.
I bolt out the side door and sprint down a back alley. I take the first corner hard, nearly slamming face-first into another group of them. We all freeze, startled. One second. That’s all I need.
Vines snap around the closest two. I haul myself onto a roof and start running.
Some of these huts are close enough to jump; others I have to bridge with vines. I scramble up a ladder into someone’s home, and a mother screams as I sprint through her living space.
“Sorry for the intrusion, you never saw me!” I yell over my shoulder before diving out the other side into the trees.
I take the most congested bridges I can find, the ones barely wide enough for one person. If it slows me down, it will slow a group of twenty a lot more. I hear them behind me, shouting, crashing, making enough noise to wake every creature in the Wyrmwood.
Finally, I reach the edge of the village and spot a bee saddled, tied to a post. Not Kevin. Too small. Wrong coloring. But beggars can’t be choosers.
“Sorry, buddy,” I say, untying the reins. “You obviously aren’t Kevin, but you and I need to go on a little adventure.”
They hesitate at first, buzzing nervously. Apparently, they don’t appreciate being chased by pitchforks any more than I do. They let out an urgent buzz, then take off.
Suddenly we’re airborne, dodging in and out of the Wyrmwood canopy. I experience a few minutes of vertigo before my body adjusts. I take one last glance back, watching the mob fade into the distance.
We fly for an hour before I feel safe enough to slow down. The forest below looks familiar. I’ve been through this area before, but like Vyn Hollow, it’s different. The forest looks wilder than I remember. The paths that were worn and well-traveled when I was here last haven’t formed yet. The undergrowth is thicker; the trails nonexistent.
We settle in a dense pack of trees, and I slide off the bee’s back, legs shaking.
What the hell happened while I was away?
I thought everyone was happy about the Bloom being destroyed. And they mentioned a regent. What regent? Are they talking about Kaelren? He wouldn’t let things get this bad. He’s broody and difficult, but he’s not the type to let his people form actual pitchfork militias.
I need to find him before I end up skewered and served at the local village feast. I wasn’t expecting a butter sculpture of myself like they did for the Founding Fathers at the farm show, but I at least expected a smile. Maybe a friendly hello.
I kneel beside a stream and wash my face, scrubbing away dirt and sweat with cupped hands. The water is ice-cold. It feels incredible.
