Sylyth

Artelo looked up at the cottage, quaint and simple but still perfect and all he needed. He had been too long away. He did not regret going after Argentia, but now that he had returned no summons or appeal would draw him from this place again. So resolved, he hitched his borrowed steed to the post beside the water well. He would bring her to the barn later. Tomorrow Pandaros could ride her back to Duralyn. Right now, the only thing Artelo wanted was to hear his daughter’s gleeful laughter as he caught her up and spun her about. Instead he heard silence. No birds. No sheep. No Brittyn whistling in the cottage. Nothing. Something’s wrong.... Sudden fear made Artelo’s mouth run dry. Calm down! a voice in his mind said. There’s nothing wrong.... He did not quite believe that voice, however, and he hurried up the hill, slipping twice on the snow-covered slope, catching himself with his hand, not feeling the bite of cold against his fingers or the jarring wince in his shoulder, still sore from the nearly crippling blow dealt him in the conflict on Elsmywr, desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of Brittyn in the window that would show him he was a fool to worry. He reached the hilltop. An odd snow creature—three great, lumpish balls stacked atop each other with a single stone for an eye in the topmost—greeted him. Brittyn and Aura must have built it. The creature made Artelo smile for a moment. Then he looked past it. The cottage door was hanging open on twisted hinges. “Brittyn! Aura!” Artelo drew his blade and rushed in. No one answered, but the scene screamed at him: shattered furniture, smashed pottery, and on the wooden floor Brittyn so prided herself on keeping clean, so much blood.