The Bee Dungeon

Back in Belissar’s core room, the small flask of ambrosia lay resting against the core pedestal. On the top of this flask lay a tiny, green, seed-like gem. Belissar had placed the Heart of the Forest there so that it would be easy to find, given its tiny size and the lack of furniture in the room.

A slight pulse of light moved through the ambrosia…and illuminated the Heart of the Forest for a brief moment. A tiny, nearly invisible root began to stretch out from the seed-like gem, squeezing its way past the seals of the flask.

It remained there for a few minutes until gardeners sent by the First of the Fifth flew into the room, by which point the root had receded, and all had seemingly returned to normal.

Nenavann closed his eyes, allowing the tears to fall down his cheek as he made his way back out of Tarwantrad’s dungeon. He paused for a moment, allowing his emotions to express themselves fully before he made any attempt to gather himself. The Hunger had claimed much over the years, from all who had survived it. Thus why no one was ready to forgive the people who had unleashed it.

But his tears were not purely from sorrow today. When Erynmor had entrusted him with her heart, she had made him promise that he would not hide them solely within the land of the fair. She made him promise that he would plant the hearts of her forest across the mortal realm, that if the Hunger was ever pushed back the forests she loved would again cover the world. The one he had planted in his dungeon was thus the only one that had been used so far. The rest all waited for the day he could find worthy caretakers back in the world that Erynmor loved.

Centuries had passed and that day only ever seemed further and further away. Not only had the Compact failed to push the Hunger back, they had failed to even keep it out. The Hunger pushed ever more on the gates of the land of the fair, and with each passing day their wards weakened.

Until now, when they had made contact with a dungeon master in the mortal realm. Not only had the connection between his dungeon and Tarwantrad’s reinvigorated the wards, his mere existence was proof that the mortal realm was not lost yet. And, for Nenavann, he was an opportunity to start making good on his promise to Erynmor.

Nenavann had observed Belissar’s dungeon with more than mere eyes. He watched the flows of mana as only an elder of the fair folk could, those who lived and breathed it for many mortal lifetimes. He saw traps and features and patches of flowers placed haphazardly and without consideration, their mana clashing with one another. He knew from a glance that this Belissar was no master, placing each and every feature with purpose.

But he had seen something that caught his gaze. The two fortified beehouses he had seen and the Memorial itself had all the telltale signs of it, for one who knew to look. The way the mana flowed within them, the story and the history that it told all whispered to Nenavann’s ears.