For a moment we stood in silence, measuring each other up and down, until finally he moved. He stepped toward me and to the side, as though he was a cat circling something of interest. His voice carried over easily.

“Sixty-nine dead before you, burned to ash by their own power. So why not you? Is your power weaker?”

I had heard the comments before. My draconic blood was just as strong as theirs had been. I spoke carefully, my voice dry and raw.

“I must be bled of my power regularly to reduce its strength. If it reaches full power, I will burn out.”

The he-drow stopped in his tracks.

“They drugged you to sleep for the journey?”

I nodded numbly. “Yes.”

He motioned to the side of the arena and my eyes followed his gesture to where a table with water barrels sat.

“Drink,” he said. “I cannot have an ill eziot.”

I moved toward the water. Was he my handler, then? I grabbed up a large stone cup and poured icy cold water into it, then took several great swallows. I felt as though I had gone without water for days. How long of a journey had it been? Had I slept the whole time?

The he-drow approached and stood not far behind me, watching me drink, until I turned around and set the cup down.

“I am Kiran,” the he-drow said. “Your handler. You will be called Ryndor.”

A name, even if it was just the seventieth. It was more than having a whole sentence as a name. I moved back into the arena and Kiran looked me over from head to toe.

“Your training notes are impressive,” he finally said. “And I hear your flames are purple. Unusual. Most eziots can produce magic, but not all can burn as brightly as the dragons do.”

I felt something close to pride rise in my chest. I had trained hard for this day to come and now it was finally here.

“What is it you want, Ryndor?” Kiran asked. “To make your family proud? To serve the Commander?”

I spoke carefully. “I want war glory…Handler,” I said.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “As do I. What do you say? Shall we give them something to talk about?”

I could not stop the smile that came over my face. “We shall give them more than just conversation material, Handler. We shall become legend.”

Kiran nodded. “Come, then. We should try melding. We will not have a full training session today, but I want to start the bond at the very least. While your power is still sleepy from the drugged journey here.”

I agreed and we moved together into the center of the training arena.

Kiran reached for a dual harness hanging from a nearby rack. It was made up of two interlocking leather-and-metal frames, etched with silver runes that caught the faelight. One half was sized for him, the other smaller for me. He slipped his half on first, buckling the straps with practiced speed. Then he helped me into mine. The leather harness settled against my worn fabric tunic and the metal plates pressed firmly over my sternum and the base of my throat. When the final clasp locked, the two halves clicked into one continuous circuit.

The first surge hit like a blade driven between the ribs.

Pain flared white-hot through both of us. I felt Kiran’s body jerk at the same instant mine did, his breath punched out in a sharp hiss that matched my own. Memories that were not mine slammed into the back of my skull: the cold precision of drow training yards, the taste of blood after a failed spell, the weight of a family who demanded ambition and success, the quiet, grinding determination that had kept him on this path. At the same moment I knew he was drowning in mine; the endless nights of being bled, the purple fire that always wanted more, the hollow ache of a name that had never been mine until now.

We staggered. The harness pulled us closer, forcing our shoulders together, our hands nearly touching.

“Focus,” Kiran gritted out through his teeth. His voice was strained, but steady. “Don’t fight the current. Ride it.”

I tried. The first attempt at joining our will went sideways; a burst of uncontrolled heat scorched the sand between our boots. The second attempt sent a jagged arc of violet light cracking against the far wall. We both cursed. Missteps piled up. Our breathing fell out of rhythm. The shared pain spiked whenever one of us pulled too hard or held back too much.

Then, somehow, the edge dulled.

The memories stopped crashing and began to settle, layering over one another like sediment. I saw the path that had brought him here. I saw endless nights studying spellwork and melding with an eziot. He saw the long road that had brought me here. The training grounds, the nights of pure exhaustion. We were no longer two separate minds colliding. We were two halves of a single unit. I opened my eyes and saw Kiran looking back at me, a haughty grin spreading across his face and I knew what he was thinking. No one melded this quickly with a new eziot, yet here we were. Melded almost completely.

Power rose from the deep well inside me, raw, purple, and hungry. Kiran shaped it with the precision of a lifetime’s training, weaving the spell-forms I had never been taught. There was no need for words. The thought formed between us as one: Release.

A controlled spray of violet fire erupted from all four of our hands, bright enough to paint the entire arena in shifting shades of amethyst and black. It roared outward in a disciplined arc, scorched a clean line across the sand, then guttered out the instant we willed it to stop. No backlash. No uncontrolled surge. Just power, shared and exact.

We stood there breathing hard, still joined by the harness, the echo of each other’s minds still thrumming in the backs of our skulls.

Kiran was the first to move. He unfastened the clasps with careful fingers and stepped back, though the residual bond lingered like a second pulse.

He gestured toward the passage that led back toward the main fortress and laughed slightly as he moved to return the harness to its hook.

“The Captain wants you field-ready before the Karon push. That means we work. Every morning before the camp wakes. I need you to take direction without hesitation, to keep your fire precise and controlled, to never put a soldier at risk because you lost focus.”

He hung the harness up and moved to leave, then paused at the passage entrance.

“You’ll be housed in the slave quarters with the other draconic sorcerers,” he said. “Meals three times daily. Training here every morning.”

I could not help but smile as I moved back towards the courtyard and the eziot quarters. I had never felt this kind of power and precision with any of the handlers who had trained me. I was dangerous and I loved it.

I walked back the way I had come. The passage opened into the main fortress yard. Evening was settling in. The faelight lanterns cast longer shadows. Soldiers moved with less urgency. Some were eating. Some were heading toward barracks.

I stood alone in the yard, orienting myself toward the slave quarters. My perception catalogued the space with trained precision: the guard stations at regular intervals, the supply yards stacked high with weapons, the water troughs, the other draconic sorcerers moving through their evening routines. The sky overhead was impenetrable darkness but high above I knew there was the ceiling to this Underdark imprisonment of my kind. One day, we would escape and return to the sunlit lands where we belonged, and our vengeance would be world-ending.

I noticed that several of the other sorcerers glanced at me as I crossed the yard toward the quarters. I was one of the new ones and therefore a point of curiosity, but I did not care. My handler and I were to become the best of all of them.

This is a report on the lecture notes of Morwen the half-elf on the history of the library, with included information about the library cats.

It reads as follows:

Lecture Notes

The History of the Library

The library was first discovered by humans not long after their arrival through the seam of the world, or, as the elves call it, The Veil. It was said the library was impossible to enter until a human wizard, the only one in history able to do this, outsmarted the warding magic and gained access. He was then able to invite others inside and in this manner, these scholars and wizards started it all.

So who built the library?

There are two minor theories. The first is that the elves built it, but that cannot be. They did not know of its existence until after the humans had access to it. The other theory is that the origin story is a lie and that the humans built it. This also cannot be, however, because the elves kept a close eye on the advancement of the human race, documenting that the humans were incapable of such creation at that time.

The leading theory is that an unknown people came from a different realm, made the library and put a lot of books in it, then left and never came back.

Note: Perhaps they were trying to secret this knowledge away from someone who wished it destroyed?

Note: The library cats have always been there!

Information on the library cats as follows:

The Library Cats

Some people say they are strangely intelligent

They hunt any pests that try to infest the library

Many scholars find lifetime companions in them

They were here in the library when it was discovered

The letter is written out below for those who need it:

To my esteemed reader,

If this letter finds you, know that I have been taken prisoner by the drow. They have locked me in the hold of their ship, jammed in with other prisoners. What they plan to do to us, I cannot say. For now, we seem to be taking an extended sea voyage in a terrible storm, for the ship rocks about like a great sea serpent and I cannot contain the contents of my stomach.

I hope they have not planned some horrible fate for us. In this terrible time I sustain myself on the hope that you have received my messages and will escape Wyndan. No peace can hold against them. They will come for the city and I would have my people safe before their arrival.

Until my next dispatch, if there is to be one,

—The Cartographer—

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In his report back to the library he made sure to include that the phoenix that he used for this sketch nearly killed him because he got too close to the nest. I should have thought he would have been more wary, going into Acwelan as he did in order to find this phoenix. But nevertheless, I suppose the adventure may have been worth it. Phoenixes are, indeed, magical creatures to behold, I have been told.

At any rate, here is the page he sent back to the library. I should hope that the next time he comes to the library in person, he leaves the dirt and leaves outside instead of tracking them inside as he is apt to do.

I woke in darkness as the wagon lurched beneath me, and I surfaced from sleep, disoriented. There was a dull ache in my body, as though I had been lying in the same position for hours. My wrists carried the cold weight of chains and the air tasted of dust and animal sweat.

My eyes adjusted slowly. There was very little light. Just a faint glow of a lantern hanging from the wagon’s frame, swinging with the motion, casting shadows that moved like living things across the close stone walls of what must have been a tunnel. The wagon creaked and groaned as the beasts pulled it forward and the sound echoed back the footfalls and the strain of the beasts.

I was not alone. There were five other bodies in there with me, some sleeping, some awake and staring at nothing in particular. There was a girl across from me, younger maybe, with a bruise shadowing her left shoulder. An older boy, or maybe a young man, was sitting very still with his chin level and his hands relaxed in his lap in a painfully calm manner. There were others but they still slept on the floor of the wagon where I had awoken.

The wagon lurched again, and I heard a widening of the sound, an opening up of space before us. The tunnel was ending.

Light began to seep in ahead, green, pink, and blue, growing brighter as the beasts continued forward.

I had been raised by the Sit’aire family since the day I was born, seventy-eight years ago. I had spent all of those years in near isolation, training and being conditioned for what I assumed was going to come next. I had been bred, like others, to be a draconic war sorcerer, or, as my trainers called me, an eziot. All I could guess was that I had been contracted out to a military faction and that is where they were taking me. Something like excitement stirred in the pit of my stomach. I had dreamed of war glory since before I could remember. It was said that the queen herself would honor great eziots for their prowess in combat.

The tunnel opened before me like a mouth opening wide for a yawn. Light flooded in, dim though it was. It came from glow crystals and mushrooms that scattered throughout the entirety of the Underdark. The light felt harsh after the darkness of the passage, and it took my eyes a moment to adjust. When at last I could see what I was looking at, I straightened sharply.

A great fortress sprawled across the cavern floor like something carved directly from the Underdark stone. Black fortress walls rose in stacked, deliberate rows. Towers nearly reached the ceiling of the Underdark, visible only because of the mushrooms that had decided to grow there. Banner-poles jutted out of the ground on either side of the gate. The silver spider on a deep blue background. The banner of the queen.

Guard towers marked the perimeter, and I could see soldiers stationed in them, watching as we arrived at the gate.

The smell of forge-smoke, sharp and acrid, reached my nose as the gate opened and we moved inside to a courtyard.

Soldiers moved in coordinated patterns across the yard, perhaps doing drills. On a daise at the far end of the courtyard where we were heading stood a tall woman in gleaming silver armor. Probably the commander of the fortress.

Smithies hammered somewhere in the distance, an endless, rhythmic sound. Supply yards were stacked with weapons and provisions.

The scorch marks on the fortress walls were old, layered, evidence of years of testing or battle or both.

One of the other slaves in the wagon, the older boy with the level chin, turned his head slightly and watched the fortress with a dull expression. “They call it Kethrall,” he said in a low voice to the girl and myself. “They say its goal is to hold the Karon Mountains from the betrayers.”

Over the wall of the fortress, I could see a great mountain range that reached upwards and locked with the ceiling of the Underdark. I had heard stories of this mountain range. It was said to be the only edge of the Underdark that could lead to freedom from this imprisonment my kind had been doomed to all of those years ago.

The wagon continued forward, deeper into the fortress yard and soldiers began to gather as we approached. Men and women in the colors of camp command, moving to intercept the wagon before it came to a full stop. One of them, a guard with a ledger in hand and a bored expression, stepped forward and spoke to whoever was driving.

I could not hear the words clearly over the creak of the wagon and the sound of the beasts, but the exchange was brief and efficient. The guard checked something on his ledger, nodded, and stepped back.

The wagon lurched to a halt and for a moment there was stillness. I realized just how much my body aches were coming from the rough ride.

Then the commanding she-drow spoke, sharp and authoritative, barking an order I could not quite make out.

The tailgate of the wagon began to lower. The older boy with the level chin stood without being told. Several others, now awake and equally as confused as me, followed.

I stood, chains chiming softly as I moved, and followed the older boy down from the wagon bed with the others.

My feet touched packed dirt. It was warmer than I expected, the ground holding the heat of the faelight lanterns, the forges, the press of bodies and movement. Around me, the other slaves were being herded into a rough line by guards who did not speak and only gestured with practiced efficiency. Point left, point right, organize the newly arrived into something approximating order.

The guard with the ledger began calling out names. Only some of the slaves got called. The others were waved toward one of the low black buildings, clearly being sorted into whatever housing existed for them. The girl with the bruise got called first, pointed toward the eastern barracks. The older boy next to me did not get called at all. He was simply waved through with a group of others, gone before I could fully register that he was leaving.

My turn came. The guard looked at his ledger, looked at me, and instead of calling a name or waving me toward a building, he simply pointed at another soldier. “Follow him.”

I stumbled over the chain dangling from my wrists and followed the soldier across the courtyard towards an open archway. I could see the commanding she-drow had come down from her daise and she stopped by the archway, watching our approach.

We came to a halt in front of her and she looked me over critically. “The Sit’Aire family, yes?” she questioned. “What do they call you?”

I nearly choked on my dry tongue before I could speak, unable to look away from the finger bones braided into her hair and realizing how dehydrated I was. How long had I been in that wagon? I spoke nervously. “They call me T’Ryndor eziot Sit’Aire,” I said, then added nervously, “Madame.” It was a general term of respect for a higher up, as I did not know for certain she was the commander and I could not afford to make a mistake.

She seemed pleased by my answer. “The Sit’Aire family really went through sixty-nine others before you were the first to survive? I expect great things from you and your handler. Do me justice in there.”

She walked off and the guard motioned me to continue following him.

The archway took us away from the main yard, through a narrower passage between two of the black barracks buildings. Faelight lanterns cast moving shadows as I walked, the chain at my wrists hanging heavy and cold. I could still hear the sounds of the fortress behind me but they were becoming distant, muffled.

The passage opened onto a smaller yard, walled off from the main compound. This space was different. Deliberate. The ground was packed dirt scorched black in places, and the walls bore old burn marks layered over older burn marks, evidence of repeated use, repeated violence, and repeated training. It reminded me of my own training ground back home.

The guard who escorted me stopped at the entrance to the yard and pointed inward, then turned and walked away without a word, leaving me alone in this space.

There were anchor rings set into the stone at intervals. Restraint posts. Many eziots had trained here, I could see.

I stepped slowly into the middle of the training arena and looked around. So this was it. The warfront at last. I was to find war glory afterall.

As I turned slowly to look around the arena, I felt eyes on me and turned sharply. At the far end of the arena, a he-drow had stepped from the shadows and was standing there, watching me in silence. His white hair nearly glowed with the light of the fae torches, glow crystals, and mushrooms but he was distant enough that I could not make out any facial features.

I swallowed dryly and stared back, neither one of us making a move.

This dance is done ritualistically under the full moon, as fae magic is of creation itself. It comes from the dirt, the leaves, the sky, the moon, etc. All fae, young and old alike, dance through the forest, renewing their magic. While very little is known of the faerie way of life, it is known to avoid the fae at all cost. They are deadly even when in the best of moods and it is said that they will hunt humans for sport if ever they manage to capture one.

Use code SUBSTACK on my Ko-fi shop for 20% off the digital background.

https://ko-fi.com/s/0c079d1cce

I thought about putting this into a series of notes, but then I decided I wanted it all in one place.

I plan to change up a few things (in a good way) on this Substack.

First and foremost, I just want to take a second to thank each and every one of my subscribers and everyone who has been involved in this. It means a lot!

Now on to the changes:

The Cartographer:

Don’t worry, I will still be doing Cartographer Field Notes! I will, however, only be doing them once a month.

Before you get disappointed, however, this is just to make room for further content that I will be posting.

The Archivist:

As you may know, I have been experimenting with the new character, the Archivist, just a bit. I plan to expand her involvement a little. Think of her like the person at the library who intakes information to be catalogued and archived. This will be anything from historical documents, story chapters, artwork, workshops, TTRPG content, and more.

I plan to rotate these things around because it’s hard for me to keep my mind focused on just one thing week after week, so rotating seems to help.

Also as part of this new content schedule, I will occasionally be posting free printables such as coloring sheets and bookmarks! I will also be adding a set selection to the welcome email.

Bookmarks preview:

Another addition will be art commissions! I want to just dip my toes in a little, so to speak. I am still working out the details but I will be trying out the idea of doing colored pencil character design art for fiction with a preference for historical, fantasy, and sci-fi designs. If I do eventually launch this idea, there will be a code for all subscribers and followers (and passing viewers) to get 50% off the first ten available slots. Paid subscribers will get 75% off for those first ten available slots. If you are interested, shoot me a message!

I appreciate your support and patience as I figure out what I am doing here! I’m super excited about the new content I have planned and I really hope it will help immerse you into this fantastic world that lives rent free in my head!

I would like to thank those that participated, were commissioned, and made submissions to this issue! I hope you enjoy it!

As with the last magazine issue, it is available here for paying subscribers but will be digitally available for purchase as a PDF on my Ko-Fi here:

https://ko-fi.com/s/2b0d7eb923

If you would like to purchase the physical copy, you can find it here:

https://amzn.to/4oWYFKx

On to the magazine! I do hope you enjoy it!

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When I was younger, I struggled a lot in the Wyndan school. Like the other students who had been sold to the school in exchange for one less mouth to feed and a sum of money, I was forced to choose a trade. I did not want to talk to people so that pretty much put most of the domestic trades out of the list, and I was afraid of horses, so I could not be a groom. My remaining options were cemetery caretaker and cartographer. I chose cartographer.

In the early years of my schooling, I stayed at the school all year round, on holidays, and when everyone else who had a family would leave to go home and visit. While I did not enjoy their company, it was certainly preferable to being completely alone in the school dormitory, which I swear was haunted.

Then one day, during the winter solstice, a kindly scholar named Gwynn took me into her home. It became a regular thing and soon, I was going to stay with her on every holiday, until I began calling her Aunt Gwynn.

When I was in Wyndan just recently, I visited her for a time, though I did not write about it in my letters. I think she worries too much for me, but perhaps she is right. I am, after all, going straight through the aftermath of a great ocean battle in which hundreds of elves were slain.

Perhaps I should have stayed in Wyndan in her little house with her, though, I worry the war will reach there too and there will by no place left to hide. I only hope she is safe. I told her to get out of the city at the first sign of trouble.

Should the drow come for the humans, we are all doomed.

Until my next dispatch,

—The Cartographer—

meg

The Sanctuary of the Glades

Join Lawrence Holloway as he sets off into the peninsula glades in search of The Sanctuary, a ruinous temple that manifests omens of the upcoming millennia, guided by his soul compass, Saint Nicholas…

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4 months ago · 5 likes · meg

To my esteemed reader,

I have somehow found myself in a strange swampland filled with towering, confining greenery. The bugs are terrible and eat at my flesh, and the air is so thick with moisture that it makes breathing heavy.

But the worst are the giant lizards. I have only seen the great beasts from afar, and I swore I saw one of them spit fire, but perhaps I am only dehydrated. I swear they are following me.

I have been paddling through green, algae-ridden water trying to find a way out, feeling utterly and completely lost.

Then the most horrible thing happened. Through the mist I thought I saw a mound of some kind, but as I got closer, I realized it was an overgrown strange pyramid of some kind, with a little room at the top. Great vines shrouded the door and it appeared to not be a dwelling where any decent person would live. Perhaps there was treasure there?

I debated getting out of my little boat and trying to climb up there to see if there was something worthwhile, but as I was trying to make up my mind, a woman, or perhaps she was a faerie, came flying up out of the vines, wielding them like great, snaking weapons. I paddled away as fast as I could but I have the strange feeling she is still watching me.

Perhaps she was a nymph or spirit of some kind that protects the temple. Either way, i plan to avoid that place at all costs.

Now I just need to escape this swamp. If only I knew how I got in here!

Until my next dispatch,

—The Cartographer—

We avoided the great storm that gathers over the veil and made our way northwards. As the sun rose that next morning, I noticed several things floating on the surface of the water. At first I could not quite tell what it was, but eventually we got close enough to it to see better.

Debris. Blood. Beneath the wreckage of what looked like a hundred ships, sharks circled about hungrily, driven mad by the scent of blood.

I wondered if this was the wreckage from one of the elven battles.

A sailor leaned against the railing beside me and looked down at a torn bit of blue fabric snagged on a broken piece of a hull.

“They say the war has lasted a decade and only now are the elves of the House of Swan losing. They say the other elves have abandoned them to their deaths.”

I had heard rumors. The House of Swan was the greatest of all the elven houses and now, after years of struggling, they were finally losing to the drow, their own kin whose bloodlust had driven them mad. No one fully knew why the drow turned on Swan, but my guess was that it had been brewing for centuries.

A shout came from up above. The lookout man had seen a lone ship on the horizon, bearing down on us as if a wind drove it wherever the captain commanded it to.

It did not take long for the pearl white ship to join us on the water, and before long, they were so close I could see the faces of the elves that looked at us with seemingly emotionless faces.

The captain told us that a great fleet of elven refugees was hunted down by the drow and slaughtered here. He had arrived too late but had managed to destroy the last of the drow ships that had survived the battle. Now he was looking for survivors, but we had seen none. He seemed grim. He warned us that the seas were unsafe now and he suggested going far away as quickly as possible.

Then they left us in a great hurry to look for more survivors. I hope they find some, but I doubt it. The battle looked as though it had been horrible.

I fear the drow will come for Wyndan soon if they do intend to continue their violent expansion. I worry now for my home country. If the greatest of all elves could not withstand their onslaught, how, then, can mere men?

Until my next dispatch,

—The Cartographer—

In a dream I saw a great black dragon soaring over distant mountains, and there was a great dread in my heart. At the foot of the mountains was a lone palace, its great stone walls feeble before the might of such a tremendous foe. I could hear the people screaming in terror as the dragon swooped, spouting fire and smoke from it’s great jaws.

Then, before me, a lone knight on a chestnut warhorse galloped towards the tree line before me. Knowing the way was treacherous through the dark forest, knowing the dragon would likely kill him, his fear tearing at his insides, his courage remained steadfast. He rode forward and I knew in my heart that he was going to his doom. Then I awakened and I was back in the ship again.

Perhaps courage is not about the lack of fear, but rather, about facing that fear in spite of it. I know not where the dream came from, but I felt that this knight was real. Somewhere, he was dying in a valiant attempt to save people he did not even know. Was there a greater sacrifice?

Until my next dispatch,

—The Cartographer—

I left the city of Wyndan on a merchant vessel bound for the human kingdoms to the north. It was one of the last ships to leave in that direction, as the fear of the war among the elves was growing closer daily. As we departed, I saw a shipload of refugees displaced by the war. I did not think they had run far enough. The drow would eventually hunger for the wealth and power that resided in the city of Wyndan.

We had to cross dangerous waters on the journey, passing by the veil. The veil is a great rift in the center of the world where storms gather, monsters hunt, and sailors die. As we skirted around this great storm, I leaned on the railing on the top deck of the ship and wondered how many had drowned there. Probably thousands. It was said that there was an elven captain that had braved the veil multiple times but that was probably just a tavern stories.

A sailor stopped beside me and asked what I knew about the veil. I gave him a brief explanation and he nodded, then said, “You know there is a hole in the middle of it that goes to other realms? They say humans sailed out of there thousands of years ago. This land is not where we come from. Of course, who knows if that is true in the slightest, though.”

I wonder if he is right. If there truly is a hole in the middle of the storm, and that humans had come from a different realm, what realm did we come from?

Until my next dispatch,

—The Cartographer—

M. J. Adkins' Substack

The Bell Ringer

We don’t speak of what we hear during the day. Whatever moves in the treeline, whatever calls out from it—these are not things that have names, and we have learned not to give them any…

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6 months ago · 17 likes · 14 comments · M. J. Adkins

To my esteemed reader,

I had been mapping a river for weeks, traveling further and further inland as I went. To the left the land smoothed into a savanna where multitudes of horned animals grazed. To the right was a looming forest that I knew I would most likely eventually have to enter if I intended to follow the river to its source.

I came at last to a small town near the edge of the forest, as the sun was nearing the horizon. The people spoke a language I did not understand, but they seemed kind enough.

The adults were winding down for the day, which seemed a bit early to me, as the sun was not yet set, and children were playing happily in the streets. Their mothers seemed to be watching them like birds of prey and I could not figure out if it was because I was a stranger in their midst or because of something else.

I had paused to sketch the tree line, as it reminded me of the forest of eyes in the Faewild, when someone rang the bell in the center of the town. To my surprise, everyone, children included, rushed for their homes. Doors slammed, toys were left in the street, and in a matter of seconds, I was left alone at the edge of the village with my charcoal still in my hand.

I heard a hiss from behind me and turned, startled, to see a man beckoning me madly from a doorway. I grabbed my satchel and booked it. As I ran, I felt eyes on the back of my head. The hair on my neck stood straight up on end and a chill ran down my back like icy fingers.

The door slammed behind me and the family stared at me, wide-eyed. The man locked the door and a woman who I guessed was his wife offered me a bowl of soup.

As we sat by the fire and ate, I listened desperately for any sound outside, but there was none. Perhaps that was how whatever they ran from hunted them.

After the meal, I took out my sketches of the forest and to my horror, a pair of eyes were sketched in charcoal, looking back at me from the darkness of the undergrowth.

I threw the sketches in the fire and hoped that whatever was out there had not caught my scent.

I have marked the forest boundary on the survey but left the monster unnamed. I do not map what I cannot see.

Until my next dispatch,

—The Cartographer—

I am leaving the great city of Wyndan tomorrow. As I sit here and pen this field note, I think back on my visit here fondly, though I am ready again for the road. They say there is no place so close to the heart as home, but I do not know if I agree. Or perhaps, in my adventures, the open road has become more of a home than Wyndan has.

As per my original course, I will be setting out to map the unknown edges of the world. Hopefully this time I do not fall through a portal into the faewild. I do believe that was the worst adventure I have ever been on, and that is saying something.

I will be leaving by ship and going to the elven lands. A journey ill-advised by most, as there is a great war going on among the elves, but I worry little. If I die, then I die. I have no need for politics or the changing times, or the blood rivalries of immortal beings. If I do survive my passage through their lands, I should make it to my original destination in a few months. I, of course, will continue to document my journey as I go and I will continue to send my dispatches back for cataloging. I do hope one day all of these maps and letters will be of use to someone.

I go now to rest up one last time before embarking on a ship at first light.

Until my next dispatch,

—The Cartographer—

To my esteemed reader,

I have been taking a short vacation in the city of Wyndan. Practically no one knows me here but it is the closest place I have to call home.

I have sketched the royal palace. I had forgotten how grand it is. The king sits upon his high throne, looking down over the city as the ruler that he is. I have seen numerous members of the royal family going about, but I have not seen Prince Ilric. I am sure he would not recognize me anyway.

I went to the market to replenish my supplies and met a kind lady who told me that she pitied me for constantly being on the road. I didn’t understand at first but I suppose I do now, after thinking about it. My only friend is my horse and I have no family. It is a sad and lonely life, but in a way, I am glad that I chose it. There is nearly no other life that shares the same freedom. I do not envy the king on his high throne, for I have the open road. No crown can buy that.

Well, enjoy my sketch. I shall stay in Wyndan a bit longer, I think. It feels good to be off the road for a bit with steady food in my belly and a comfortable bed to rest upon.

Until my next dispatch,

—The Cartographer—

Letter from the Editor:

Hello, esteemed readers! Welcome to The Wyndan Library Archive, all you Patrons, Correspondents,

Scholars, Artists, Cartographers, and Archivists! This magazine is designed to compile all of the works from the Cartographer, and to bring together the community in the Wyndan library. I hope that you enjoy the work that was done here, and will consider supporting the Cartographer and the contributors! Enjoy!

E. L. Ravenwood

The Cartographer: Letter #1

To my esteemed reader,

I write to you on a cool evening, seated among the fractured stones of a ruined watchtower, looking out over a valley where a silver stream winds its way toward a distant city. I arrived at the valley’s edge at first light, yet I did not descend immediately. Instead, I climbed, and not without a scraped knee for my effort, through briar and bramble to claim this vantage point. A Cartographer must always begin above, if possible. From height, all things reveal their shape.

As you may already know, or perhaps not, depending on whose hands unfold this dispatch, I am the Cartographer. For many years I have walked the long roads between realms: across mountain passes where the air tears at the lungs, along rivers that shift in their courses each spring, through forests enchanted by the presence of fae. I have followed streams to their hidden sources and watched coastlines crumble into the sea.

I graduated with no grandeur from the College at Wyndan, and sometimes I envy my classmates their simpler and safer lives. Leave it to me to choose a calling that drags me around and tries to kill me without even paying me very much at all.

Best not to complain, though. I believe happiness is a choice, and to be honest with myself, any other job would be torture for me.

So I write and map on. These letters I send back to the library in the city of Wyndan, in the hope that what I witness will find refuge in the library archive. So long as breath fills my lungs and ink fills my featherpens, I will continue to dispatch my observations. If ever the letters cease, you must assume I have reached the final horizon. Do not send anyone in search of me. I tread paths that resist company, and I would not have another’s blood weigh upon my conscience. Know instead that what I have seen, the wonders and terrors alike, has made every mile worthwhile.

This valley greeted me with resistance. The roadway that once connected it to the wider world has nearly surrendered to roots and bramble. Moss claims the milestones. Trees lean inward, as though conspiring to erase the passage entirely. It was there, halfway through that green tunnel, that I encountered a travelling minstrel, mud-streaked, sharp-eyed, and deeply aggrieved.

He had just departed the city below.

According to him, the people of that place hunger desperately for news of the outside world, yet fear it with equal fervor. When he first arrived, bearing songs from distant courts and markets, they welcomed him as though he carried treasure. They threw feasts in his honor, pressed coins into his hands, and begged for tales of kingdoms and wars. Admiration soured.

Then, curiosity turned to caution. Caution to suspicion. Suspicion to open hostility.

He was from beyond the valley. Therefore, he was danger made flesh.

He leaves now for the lands of his birth, vowing to sing once more for audiences who do not shrink from the sound of unfamiliar roads.

From this tower, I can see the city walls. They are tall, deliberate, and entirely intact. No breaches. No visible decay. The stream that feeds their fields glints harmlessly in the dying light. Smoke rises steadily from chimneys. It does not appear a place besieged.

Why would a city build such walls in such a secluded valley, while fostering the rumors that the outside was all evil danger? Were they once threatened by something beyond their borders?

As I sketch the curve of the stream and measure the distance between gate and treeline, these questions trouble my thoughts more than the failing light.

I confess a more mundane concern as well. My charcoal has worn nearly to dust, and my ink runs thin in its vial. After such a long trek, I am in need of a resupply. I hope the city trades in parchment and pigment as readily as it hoards rumor.

I must confess I am dreading showing myself, an outsider, in the city after what they did to the minstrel. Surely they will hate me more because I have not the looks or the winning personality of a performer. Perhaps I will stay the night here, in this watch tower, and descend in the morning.

I only hope they do not have too much of a prejudice for me. I would like to offer to map their city for a sum of gold, assuming that is their currency. It would help to fund me on my journey, keep my stores full, and feed my beloved horse, as well as myself. I have not had a good meal in weeks.

I leave you now, as I must make the fire and take the saddle and bags off of my horse.

Until my next dispatch,

—The Cartographer—

The Gossip Column:

Welcome to the Wyndan Library! In this section, I talk about the latest gossip among the archives, the scholars, and the pupils.

This issue, it is solely about the caretaker, Ms. Gruggs. She has been angry of late because some scholars are pulling too many tomes from the shelves and their asistants are not returning them to the stacks. I saw her yesterday yelling at a pupil who had nothing to do with it, and I think she made the pupil cry. I am not sure, though, as she fled before I could catch up to her.

Prince Ilric, the head librarian, reportedly talked to Ms. Grugg afterwards, but there has not been a change noted, as earlier this morning, I was told that she confiscated another pupil’s writing tools as a punishment for having too many books off the shelves.

I was also told that she is on the hunt to figure out who I am. It makes me laugh, knowing she does not know who pens these lines. Perhaps one day she will find me out, but for now, I will continue with these updates. Humans never cease to amuse me.

Until the next issue, then!

—Anonymous—

The Cartographer: Letter #2

To my esteemed reader,

Read more

The magazine is to be a quarterly magazine. It will include multiple Cartographer Letters each issue, reports from the archivist, lore dumps, and a chapter from my fantasy trilogy, in addition to submissions from you all, riddles, word searches, tips for game masters, and much more!

The digital magazine will be here on Substack for paying subscribers only, and on my Ko-Fi account for those wishing to only pay once and not pay for a subscription. The physical magazine will be on Amazon.

In the first issue, I do not have any submissions. That will hopefully change for the next issue, however.

Rules:

Any submitted work must be family friendly. However, you can submit a family friendly piece and then put something like, “follow the author of this piece for more. They normally write adult fantasy”, etc.

Membership Information:

Patron: Subscriber and supporter of the archive. The foundation of everything.

Correspondent: Active community member. Engaged, present, part of the conversation.

Scholar: A writer whose work has been accepted for publication in The Wyndan Library Archive.

Artist: A visual artist whose work has been accepted for publication in The Wyndan Library Archive.

Cartographer: A map-maker whose work has been accepted for publication in The Wyndan Library Archive.

Archivist: A paid subscriber. This includes access to more written work, artwork, behind the scenes, free printables, sneak peaks at content for future magazines, and they are able to make requests for future issues of the magazine, as well as having a chance to become a character written into the library.

When you subscribe for free, you automatically become a patron. You get to choose upgrades from there.

If you wish to support me, the editor, but do not wish to pay a subscription, you can go to my Ko-Fi account and donate!

https://ko-fi.com/elravenwood

Submissions:

Email: e.l.ravenwood@proton.me

Make the subject line in the submission email be: “TWLA Submission”

You must put your author name and the links to your Substack/socials if you want those to be tagged.

Submissions must be fantasy themed. Small exceptions may be made if the primary theme is fantasy and you wish to have some other themes mixed in, like medieval fantasy, horror, etc. Contact me for more information.

Short stories: 500 - 900 words. Only 1 short story will be published per issue.

Wyndan Library Gossip Column: No more than 50 words. This is the section where you act as though you are in the library and have some juicy gossip. Ex. “Did you hear that so-and-so spilled tea on an ancient time?”

Art: Only 1 art piece per submission. No more than 4 will be published per issue.

Maps: Only 1 map per submission. No more than 2 will be published per issue.

Misc.: Contact me for more information if you wish to submit something else!