The road to Silvarii Hollow was a path paved with ghosts.
Every rustle of the wind through the leaves seemed to whisper Fable’s name in a voice he could no longer hear, and every ray of emerald sunlight was a painful reminder that he was, for the first time, a Silvarii with no parens, a king returning to a home where he was now an orphan.
He rode in a heavy silence, the rhythmic clopping of his steed’s hooves a monotonous drumbeat counting out the seconds until a homecoming he dreaded with every fiber of his being. Beside him, a respectful half-step behind, Martier walked. The hereman was a mountain of uneasy quiet, his massive frame an awkward presence. The silence between them wasn't hostile, not anymore, but it was thick with the weight of all that was unsaid, of a history too violent to name and a future too uncertain to contemplate.
“The air… it feels different here,” Martier rumbled after a long while. He spoke hesitantly, his voice rough, as if he was unsure he even had the right to speak at all. “All these colors… I never knew the world could be so loud.”
Fable didn't respond, but he noticed Martier's eyes seemed to hold a strange, bewildered sorrow. The man’s attempt at conversation felt like a trespass. It was a clumsy hand fumbling with the lock on a door that Fable had no intention of opening.
“Back in the city, the King… the Uncrowned One… he always said color was chaos. A sickness. But seeing it… it’s not chaos.” Martier looked out at the forest with an expression of wonder. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”
Martier is capable of seeing the beauty in the world? Fable thought. He whipped his head around, causing his crown to slip.
“He was wrong about a lot,” Martier stated, as he looked at King Fable, his yellow eyes full of disappointment.
Fable knew what it was like to have fallen for the Uncrowned’s propaganda. He too had been indoctrinated to that way of thinking. The first night that he met Jethran, he had said the exact same things that Martier was saying right now.
He understood the feeling of having his entire worldview completely taken away and replaced with a new understanding. Fable felt a flicker of something. A profound pity. He looked at this broken man, the childhood tormentor of his husbran, now stripped of his power and certainty, and saw only another victim of the Gray.
“He was wrong about quite a few things,” Fable said, “and those of us who believed his lies, we were also wrong. But we didn't know any better. We believed what we were told and we had no reason to question it. But as difficult as the truth might be for some, living it and experiencing it makes it easier.”
Fable could tell that Martier was shocked to hear him use the word we to describe the followers of the Uncrowned. Martier cleared his throat, the clumsy sound in the quiet woods.
“The boy… Jethran…” he cleared his throat one more time, “King Jethran, he’s a good colorman. Better than… than any I ever knew. You’re lucky to have him.”
It was the closest he could come to an apology, a fumbling admission of his own monumental failure.
“He’s a good King,” Fable agreed, "but he's an even better colorman." Fable's eyes then met Martier's with a pointed glare. "King Jethran faced immense cruelties in his life, he had to face them as a child. Yet he has remained compassionate and humble. He was given great examples to guide him on his path to becoming such a good colorman. He simply watched the heremen who surrounded him and he vowed to be the opposite of everything that they were to him."
Fable watched as the color drained from Martier’s face. The hereman flinched, a small, sharp movement, and seemed to shrink, the truth of the words hollowing him out from the inside. His gaze dropped, his eyes fixing on his own massive hands–hands that had once held a boy down. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
"He... succeeded," Martier murmured, his voice barely a whisper, and fell silent once more.
They continued on, the forest a symphony of life around them. Blue monarch butterflies drifted through the air, their wings a vibrant azure against the deep lilac bark of the trees. The path was soft underfoot, a dark lilac soil from which grew starlike flowers of a brilliant red.
Fable’s dread grew with every step, a stark contrast to the healthy, humming world they traveled through. He remembered the day that his husbran, in what he now knew to be Jethran's first act of love for him, had unleashed the kaleidoscopic wave that transformed the sterile monochrome of the world into a celebration of sparkled vibrance. He clung to that memory now, a talisman against the fear that his sistra’s message had planted in his heart.
Ahead, through the trees, he saw the two gnarled trees that marked the border of Silvarii Hollow. He gave Martier a final look, then stepped between the ancient trees.
The change was instantaneous and sickening. The vibrant, humming world behind him vanished, replaced by a place that was holding its breath. The air grew still and heavy with a palpable weight of tradition and sorrow. The ethereal glow was still there, but it was no longer a pure, steady light. It was a prismatic shimmer that felt weak, as if seen through a film of grease.
Fable’s heart sank. This was his home, but it was terribly unwell. The mushroom-shaped homes were still carved from a sparkly lilac wood, but the sparkle was muted, the color underneath dull and lifeless. The grass had a gilded sheen, but it was tarnished, like cheap jewelry left out in the rain. The entire village of glittery color, now looked like a beautiful thing that was inexorably fading.
Martier stepped through the border behind him and gasped, his eyes wide. He was oblivious to the sickness, to the dullness. All he saw was the magic.
“It… it glitters,” he whispered, his voice full of a childlike wonder Fable had never heard from him before. “The whole place. I thought Silvarii Hollow was just… a name.”
Fable barely heard him. His own senses were screaming. The Hum, the elemental song of the Hollow, was wrong. It was a thin whisper, frayed at the edges, full of a pain that made his own magic ache in sympathy.
He reached down and touched the petal of a once-vibrant peachbell. The flower looked merely wilted, its color faded. The moment his fingers made contact, the petal lost all cohesion, dissolving into a small puff of shimmering dust that blew away on the faint breeze.
“It used to be much brighter,” Fable said, his voice a strained whisper. “When my husbran… when he first brought the colors here, it was like a thousand jewels had been scattered in the sun. Now… it’s like the life is being drained away.”
Martier, still processing the sheer existence of the sparkle, finally seemed to notice the dullness Fable was describing. His brow furrowed.
“So that explains your skin,” he said, his voice a low rumble of dawning realization. “And why it shines so. I always thought that it was some sort of special soap that you were using to make it look that way.”
The statement was so sincere, so utterly and genuinely literal. A surprised chuckle escaped Fable’s lips despite the dread coiling in his gut.
“All Silvarii shine, Martier,” he said, a sad smile touching his face. “It’s just part of the magic that makes us who we are.”
At the edge of the village, a figure was waiting. It was Post, his form stooped with a weariness that seemed to go deeper than his bones. The sparkle of his robes and the light in his gentle eyes seemed dimmed, as if the Hollow’s sickness had taken a personal toll on him.
“My King,” the old Silvarii said, his voice cracking as he bowed. “I’m so glad that your sistra was able to convince you to move back home.”
“Post, this is Martier, my Royal escort,” Fable said, intentionally avoiding the conversation of moving to Silvarii Hollow. “If there’s anything that he needs during our time here, it is on my authority that he is to receive it.”
“Royal escort,” Post chuckled. “If you had told me that little nickel skinned sprite I had to chase out of my Silverberry Tree a dozeny-seven times would one day be King of Evenhere…” the old Silvarii paused. “I wouldn’t have doubted it for a second.”
“I don’t think that’s how many times I climbed that tree,” Fable smiled.
“No,” Post laughed, speaking now to Martier. “That was the number of times that I was able to catch him!”
Fable gently hugged his old fathru's old friend. Then their eyes met, and Fable could see the pain of loss wearing on Post.
“I’m so sorry about your mothra and fathru,” Post said as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “They were such good Silvarii. This Hollow will never be the same. But now… with you as Mayor… we stand a chance.”
“I know how much my fathru meant to you,” Fable said. “How are Peg and Spindle?”
“Peg is as sturdy as he is stubborn,” Post replied, as he laughed. “Spindle says she's going to run away to become a Colorist. But she's still there every morning. Eating my silverberries.”
Fable smiled warmly. The conversation was so familiar and simple, he nearly had forgotten why he was even there. His purpose settled back in on him with a heavy weight.
“How bad is it?” Fable finally asked.
“A quarter of our people, Fable,” Post’s face crumpled. “A quarter of the Hollow is gone. Just… dust.”
“Post, the tincture,” King Fable interrupted, his voice sharp with desperation. “The aerated root tincture, the one that makes the Fade indeterminable. Have you been giving it to the sick? It should stop the spread!”
“Oh, pencils!” Post’s face crumpled, as a look of profound exhaustion settled on his face. “We tried, my King. The Hollow Healers have been working double time, aerating the roots, boiling the tinctures until their own magic frayed. But we learned a terrible truth. The ART… It only works on the Wing FADES. It can stop a Silvarii from passing the sickness through magical intimacy, but it does nothing against this… this deeper rot. This isn't just a malady of the wings. It's attacking their very essence, their magic. Once the magic begins to fade, they become… untethered from the world. The tincture is useless against it.”
The hope in King Fable’s chest collapsed into a cold, hard knot. He felt the Hum of the Hollow. He knew with a chilling certainty that this was not the illness his husbran had taken from him. This was something new, something terrifying.
“And the Fading continues,” Post said, his voice a low, urgent murmur. “It’s faster now. Eldru Briar has been stoking the fires of fear. He’s telling everyone this plague is a punishment, a curse brought upon us by your king… by Jethran.” He looked at Fable, his eyes pleading. “He says your fathru’s traditions were the only thing keeping us safe. He was your fathru’s rival, even as a boy, always jealous of your family’s legacy. Now he sees his chance.”
He looked from Post to Martier, his voice low and hard. “Of course, it’s Briar. I remember his jealous whispers. It was always a petty rivalry with him, always coveting what my dadzu had.”
“Yes, my King. It would seem that resentment has festered into something monstrous,” Post offered.
“What of the other eldrus,” Fable questioned. “Eldru Patch, Eldru Thicket, Hyssop, Barry?”
“Eldrus Thicket and Patch care most of all about what is best for Silvarii Hollow, for protecting the Silvarii,” Post explained. “Eldru Hyssop and Eldru Barry… still follow the loudest voice in the room.”
“Where are the sick, Post?” Fable shook his head, his focus returning to the crisis at hand. “Take me to them.”
The FADES Wing of the Silvarii Infirmary was a place where silence had become a disease. The air was sterile, smelling of antiseptic moss and a faint, cloying sweetness that Fable couldn’t place. Rows of simple cots lined the long hall, and on each one lay a Silvarii, their forms flickering and translucent, their once-vibrant skin now dull and tarnished.
Their inner lights, the core of a Silvarii’s being, were guttering flames on the verge of being extinguished. A child’s carved toy lay abandoned beside one cot.
King Fable walked slowly down the aisle, Post at his side, Martier a silent shadow behind them. He saw faces he had known his whole life. Skillet, a chef whose boisterous laugh had once filled the market square during festivals, now a semi-transparent wisp under a thin blanket. He remembered her from his childhood, her hands always smelling of savory herbs. He recalled Skillet and Ladle, her wyfra, how they would laugh together as they created masterpieces of culinary joy. They were always such a colorful couple even in the silver world. Now, she was a faded ghost of both memories.
Further down, he saw Treble, a musician whose flute could make the very moonpetals tremble, now lying still, his fingers curled into a weak fist as if trying to hold onto one last note. Fable recalled the joyful melodies of the Midsummer Festival, how the slender Silvarii’s form had seemed to vibrate with the music he created. Now, the only sound was Treble's shallow breath. He felt a surge of profound guilt.
Then he saw him.
In a cot near the far wall, a familiar figure lay. His glittery skin so tarnished it was almost colorless, his breathing a shallow, rattling thing.
Fable’s heart stopped.
“Nordan?” he whispered.
He moved to the bedside, his legs feeling like lead. Nordan’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, before a flicker of recognition dawned. A ghostly smile touched his lips. Fable felt his face contort into a lie of forced cheerfulness, a performance of a joy that felt like a foreign country. The words tumbled out of him, a desperate, loving show.
“Oh, sugar! Hey, Nordan!”
“Hi, King Fable. How are you?” Nordan’s lip curled slightly.
Fable shook his head at his oldest friend, referring to him by his royal title. Humbled by the respect and love.
“I’m fantastic! Getting… getting better every day, Nordan!” Fable said.
His voice sounded too loud, too bright in the horrible quiet. He felt the lie catch in his throat. A flicker of light passed through Nordan’s eyes, a memory of an old, happy friend.
“That’s good,” he whispered, his voice fading into echoes. “See you later, King Fable.”
“See… see ya later, Nordan,” Fable choked out, his smile finally breaking.
As the last word left his lips, Nordan’s form wavered. The last of his inner light went out. His body, no longer held together by magic or will, simply… relaxed. It dissolved into a fine, shimmering pile of dust on the cot, the movement as gentle and final as a sigh. An errant breeze from the open window stirred the dust, and it eddied for a moment in the emerald sunlight before settling.
Fable stared, his mind a hollow void. He reached out a trembling hand, then pulled it back. There was nothing to touch. The world went silent, the distant sounds of the Hollow fading into a dull, high-pitched ring in his ears. He looked at the dust on the sheets where his friend had been, at the faint depression in the pillow.
“See ya later…” Fable whispered again. A life, a voice, a laugh. Now gone.
A childhood full of memories flashed before his eyes. The years that he had been gone from the Hollow, years with his friend that he could never get back, now only served as a reminder of all the people he left behind.
He felt Martier’s massive hand land gently on his shoulder and didn’t even have the strength to flinch away. The touch was clumsy, but it was solid, an anchor in the tilting moment. He let out a ragged sob, a sound of loss that was swallowed by the infirmary’s silence.
“My King,” Post said softly. “We should go.”
Fable, wrecked and raw, allowed himself to be guided out of the infirmary, his legs moving on their own, his mind still fixed on that small pile of shimmering dust. He stumbled out into the tarnished light of the Hollow, the emerald sun feeling like a mockery. And they were waiting for him. Eldru Briar stood directly in their path.
Briar was a tall and thin Silvarii with hard chartreuse skin, citrine hair, and cold teal eyes. He was flanked by Eldru Hyssop and Eldru Barry, two severe-looking Silvarii.
“Fable,” Briar said, his voice smooth and cold, devoid of any real sympathy. He gestured with a perfectly manicured hand towards the infirmary.
“A tragic loss. The whole village mourns. It is a heavy burden for a leader to bear.” Briar paused, letting the words hang in the air before he twisted the knife. “Especially a leader whose consort is the very source of the plague.”
“You will not speak of my husbran that way,” Fable looked at Briar, his grief momentarily eclipsed by a surge of cold fury.
“I speak only the truth the people are whispering,” Briar countered, his voice a silken weapon. He raised his voice for the benefit of the small crowd of frightened Silvarii that had gathered. “They say the outsider king’s magic is a chaotic thing. They say it has poisoned our Hum, and now it is poisoning our people! Your fathru, Lore, was a rock. He would never have allowed this blight to fester. And you, sonzu of Lore, return to us not with a cure, but with tears!”
“The only outsider king was the Uncrowned One,” Fable retorted. “I am the King of Evenhere, and I am the Mayor of Silvarii Hollow. You will address me with the respect that I deserve. You prey on the fear of the Silvarii because you have nothing else to offer!”
“Respect?” Briar scoffed. “Respect is earned through strength, not through sentiment. This is a time for strong leadership, not for mourning.”
“Respect is freely given!” Fable corrected. “But once it is lost it is immeasurably difficult to find again. This is a time for leadership, but also undeniably it is a time for mourning.”
Briar gave Fable one last, dismissive look. Then he turned and swept away, his two cronies trailing in his wake, leaving Fable standing in the center of his dying village, the silence of his own people a deafening accusation.
Post and Martier escorted him the rest of the way in a somber silence. They arrived at the home Fable had grown up in, the place that had once been the heart of Silvarii Hollow.
The door was cold to the touch. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The house was just as he remembered it, but it was hollowed out, an empty shell. The air was stale, and a thin layer of dust covered every surface. He could see his momra’s favorite chair, her sweater still resting on its back. He thought of how she was always so cold. He felt sad that she didn't have her sweater. He saw his dadzu’s reading stand, a book left open as if he had just stepped away.
The ghosts of a life that was gone were everywhere. He walked to the center of the room, and the crushing weight of it all. His parens, Nordan, Briar’s betrayal, the dying faces in the infirmary, the impossible weight of a six-generation legacy.
The gravity of it all finally broke him. His legs gave out, and he collapsed to the floor, a king on a hollow throne, surrounded by the dust of everything he had ever loved.