Dual Realm Exchange System

Deep within Moonveil Forest, far beyond the paths where ordinary hunters dared to wander, Ravelhorn the Reveler sat alone beneath a tree that had been dead for nearly two hundred years.

At least, it was dead by mortal standards.

Its bark had long since turned black and silver, its branches carried no leaves, and a great hollow had opened through the center of its trunk.

Yet thin streams of pale violet light still moved beneath the wood like fading veins, emerging every few breaths before disappearing again.

Ravelhorn rested one hand against the trunk and closed his eyes.

The tree was dying, though not today, tomorrow, or perhaps even within another century, but it was dying all the same.

”So are you,” Ravelhorn murmured to himself.

The Satyr looked almost peaceful beneath the false moonlight.

His curled horns swept backward from his temples, decorated with silver rings, feathers and tiny charms carved from bone.

Dark hair fell carelessly around his handsome face, while his lower body remained that of a powerful black-furred goat, complete with cloven hooves that rested comfortably among the glowing moss.

The black flute usually hanging from his belt lay across his lap.

Nearby, several creatures watched him in silence.

A fox with three tails slept among the roots.

Two enormous moths clung to the dead tree above him, their wings patterned like staring silver eyes.

Farther away, a Moonfang Wolf rested with its head between its paws, though unlike the wolves Damian had encountered, this beast’s pupils had long since become stained violet.

There were no Dark Goblins here, and Ravelhorn preferred it that way.

Mortals spoke too much.

They required explanations, justifications, promises, and fear.

Animals were simpler.

They knew hunger, territory, pain, danger and survival without pretending those things became more civilized when written into laws.

Ravelhorn opened his eyes.

In front of him lay a shallow depression filled with silver water.

Once, the pool had been large enough for deer to drink from.

Now it barely covered the bottom.

The Satyr stared into it until his own reflection rippled across the surface.

Hundreds of years ago, there had been countless pools like this throughout Moonveil Forest.

Moonwells.

Places where the barrier between Valoria and the Deep Moon grew thin enough that Fey essence seeped naturally into the land.

The forest had once stretched far beyond its modern borders.

Humans called the region around Rosewood Town a frontier, and Ravelhorn had always found that word amusing.

A frontier implied emptiness, essentially an unclaimed wilderness waiting patiently for civilization to arrive.

Mortals were remarkably talented at naming occupied land as though nobody had lived there before them.

Ravelhorn dipped two fingers into the Moonwell and the water glowed brighter around his skin.

For a few breaths, the dying tree behind him brightened as well, then the light faded.

His mouth tightened.

He remembered when the Deep Moon had been beautiful.

A Fey realm that existed alongside Valoria, connected to the mortal world through crossings that opened and closed according to seasons, lunar cycles and ancient agreements no Human kingdom alive today remembered signing.

Ravelhorn had been born there.

He remembered silver grass taller than a Human child, forests whose trees rearranged themselves when offended, rivers that flowed uphill whenever the twin moons aligned, and beasts that could survive for centuries simply by sleeping beneath the right flowers.

His people had not ruled Deep Moon as no one truly ’ruled’ a Fey realm.

They merely belonged to it.

That distinction had taken Ravelhorn far too long to appreciate.

As a young Satyr, he had thought the abundance would last forever.

There had always been another glade, another Moonwell, and another migration path.

There had always been another crossing into Valoria where beasts could roam, Fey could trade, spirits could gather strange mortal objects, and the realm itself could breathe through the connection.

Then the crossings began closing.

Some disappeared naturally while others were sealed deliberately.

In exchange, Human kingdoms expanded as roads were built, iron mines were dug into old hills, temples consecrated ground that had once belonged to nameless spirits, settlements became towns, and towns became cities.

Old Fey paths were paved over, warded against monsters or simply forgotten beneath generations of mortal construction.

None of those actions had been evil by themselves.

That was the part Ravelhorn understood better than many Fey.

A farmer building a house for his children did not wake each morning plotting the destruction of another realm.

A village cutting trees for winter did not imagine that an ancient migration route depended upon those same roots.

A kingdom building a road did not care whether some invisible current had flowed there for ten thousand years.

Mortals did what living things always did; they expanded into whatever space allowed them to survive.

The problem was that Deep Moon had been shrinking in return.

Ravelhorn had watched the first great western grove fade, then the Silverwater Meadows, and then, the Hollow Choir.

Each loss had seemed manageable and temporary, a problem for someone older and wiser to solve.

Then came the Starving Summer.

Ravelhorn’s fingers tightened around the edge of the Moonwell.

He could still smell it.

Thousands of Fey beasts had migrated toward crossings that no longer opened.

They gathered where paths should have existed, confused and increasingly desperate.

Predators began eating prey faster than they could reproduce, herbivores stripped entire regions bare, and lesser spirits faded when the natural cycles feeding them collapsed.

In response, The Wild Court issued rationing decrees, reorganized territories, and restricted migration.

The oldest Great Fey argued that Deep Moon had survived disasters before and would adapt again.

Ravelhorn had disagreed loudly and repeatedly.

He had been young enough to believe that evidence naturally defeated tradition.

He brought dying Moonwell samples before the Wild Court, he mapped the lost crossings, and he calculated beast populations as best as any Fey could calculate something so chaotic.

He argued that the realm required reconnection to Valoria before ecological collapse became irreversible.

The Court listened, then refused.

There were treaties in place, ancient treaties.

These were oaths made after the last great conflict between Fey and mortals.

Certain crossings were never to be reopened without mutual consent, certain territories belonged to Human kingdoms, and certain Fey migration routes had been abandoned permanently in exchange for others remaining protected.

Ravelhorn had stared at the Wild Court and asked the question that eventually destroyed his life.

”What value does an oath possess when one side has forgotten it exists?”

No one answered him.... because Humans had forgotten!

The kingdoms that signed those treaties had fractured, merged, fallen and been reborn under different banners.

The Wild Court remembered every word whereas mortals barely remembered the names.

Yet the Fey remained bound because an oath did not become meaningless merely because the other party died.

That was how Fey law worked.

That was how it had always worked.

And Ravelhorn hated it.

The Starving Summer became the Starving Decade.

His younger sister died during the third year.

She simply weakened until her body could no longer maintain its Fey nature.

Ravelhorn buried her beneath a moonflower field that disappeared nineteen years later.

His father followed, then his friends.

Then, entire beast clans whose names no longer mattered because nobody remained alive to speak them.

Ravelhorn returned to the Wild Court one final time and asked permission to reopen one crossing, just one!

It was an ancient passage beneath what mortals now called Moonveil Forest.

The Wild Court vehemently refused, so Ravelhorn opened another crossing without them, and that one act earned him the name mortals now whispered with fear.

Breaker of Oaths.

The crossing collapsed after only nine days, but nine days had been enough to evacuate several thousand lesser Fey and beasts into Valoria.

Nine days had also been enough to violate six ancient agreements, provoke three Human baronies and cause a battle that killed hundreds on both sides.

The Wild Court exiled him for his actions and Ravelhorn gladly accepted the sentence.

He had never apologized for doing what he felt was right.

...

The Moonfang Wolf beside him suddenly raised its head and Ravelhorn glanced toward the eastern trees.

A Dark Goblin scout emerged several moments later and immediately bowed.

”Great Ravelhorn.”

”What?” Ravelhorn asked coldly, not liking being disturbed.

The Goblin swallowed nervously. ”Chief Varkas reports that the three raids succeeded. Food, livestock, medicine and tools were recovered. The Humans suffered many deaths.”

Ravelhorn gave no immediate response.

The scout continued carefully. ”Chief Varkas asks whether the clan should prepare another strike.”

”No need.” Ravelhorn responded with a wave of his hand.

The Dark Goblin Scout looked confused.

Ravelhorn finally removed his fingers from the shrinking Moonwell.

”Tell Varkas Blackroot to reinforce Blackroot Den, double the western watches and withdraw every unnecessary patrol from the southern approaches. The Humans will respond soon.”

The scout hesitated. ”Then... the villages were enough?”

”For now.” Ravelhorn stated noncommittally.

The Dark Goblin lowered his head.

Ravelhorn watched him retreat between the trees before picking up his flute.

Three villages had been attacked, leaving hundreds dead, including children.

Ravelhorn knew the cruelty as well as the consequences of his actions, and he was not ignorant enough to pretend otherwise.

Varkas Blackroot had hated the order because the Dark Goblin Chieftain understood exactly what those attacks would provoke.

Ravelhorn understood too, and that was precisely why he ordered them.

He had learned from his extended time in Valoria that fear moved mortals faster than diplomacy.

Burn three villages and every exposed settlement near Moonveil Forest would begin evacuating before a king finished drafting his first decree.

Merchants would reroute their caravans, farmers would abandon the outer fields, hunters would stop wandering near the old paths, and Human patrols would concentrate on defending roads and settlements rather than exploring deeper into Fey territory.

The southern region would empty enough for him to execute his plan.

The ancient crossing Ravelhorn sought was buried beneath Moonveil Forest, yet reopening it was only half the problem.

A crossing large enough to reconnect Deep Moon would not release one Satyr and several beasts.

It would release thousands, perhaps tens of thousands over time.

All of them hungry creatures, displaced spirits, Fey clans and predators whose ancestors had once hunted across lands now occupied by Human farms.

If the crossing opened while the surrounding region remained densely settled, the result would be war regardless of Ravelhorn’s intentions.

He had decided long ago that the war should therefore begin before the crossing opened.

Was it cold? Certainly.

Was it cruel? Obviously.

But Ravelhorn had already witnessed what happened when everyone waited for a perfect solution.

They died ’politely’ and ignobly.

He had no interest in repeating that mistake.

A faint tune escaped his flute, and the tense Moonfang Wolf relaxed and the three-tailed fox opened one eye.

Ravelhorn played softly, and the dying Moonwell rippled with every note.

Truthfully, he did not enjoy killing Humans.

That distinction mattered to him, even if it would matter to absolutely nobody whose family had burned in Otter Village.

He had met Humans he liked, including artists, drunkards, traveling musicians and a baker in an old border town who once traded him six honey cakes for a song, and he had even loved one briefly many years ago.

None of that changed the arithmetic.

If one forest had to be cleared so an entire realm could breathe again, Ravelhorn would clear the forest.

If three villages needed to burn so thirty more evacuated willingly, he would burn three.

If a thousand mortals had to die so ten thousand Fey survived, he would accept the hatred of every grave.

And if the numbers reversed?

Ravelhorn’s fingers paused over the flute.

That was where his philosophy differed from the stories heroes told themselves.

He would still choose his own people.

He had never claimed fairness.

Only purpose.