Another morning came to Illenwood.
Illenwood woke sounded normal.
Volow tightened the straps on his pack while Suki circled his feet. Marga checked the road ahead, eyes sharp, already half gone.
That's when footsteps came running.
"WAIT—!"
Taro burst out from between the roots, waving both arms like he might take off if he didn't slow himself down.
"I want to go with you!" he blurted. "I wanna see the world! Mountains, rivers, cities—everything! I won't slow you down, I swear!"
Volow crouched so they were eye to eye.
Taro's excitement was real. Bright. Dangerous in its own way.
Volow smiled, gentle but firm.
"Not yet," he said. "Where I'm going isn't an adventure. It's rough. People get hurt."
Taro's shoulders fell a little.
"But—"
"You'll go," Volow continued. "Just not now. Get stronger. Older. Learn how to survive."
He tapped Taro lightly on the chest.
"And when we meet again… we'll walk together."
Taro sniffed, then nodded hard. "I'll be ready."
From behind him, his mother stepped forward, holding wrapped cloth bundles.
"For the road," she said, pressing them into Volow's hands. "Food. Enough for days."
Marga bowed slightly. "Thank you."
The elder appeared last, leaning on his staff.
"One more thing," he said. "The man in Skytop."
Volow turned. "Yeah?"
The elder smiled. "His name is Scotch."
Marga raised an eyebrow. "what…kind of name is that?"
"Don't worry, he is a decent and respected fellow," the elder said calmly. "Follow the eastern ridge. When the town ends, look up."
That didn't sound helpful.
But Volow nodded anyway.
Illenwood watched them leave.
Suki looked back once.
Then forward.
They traveled for two days and finally reached SKYTOP.
Skytop lived up to its name.
The town clung to stone like it refused to fall.
Buildings were stacked, carved into cliffs, connected by narrow paths and hanging bridges. Wind howled through it nonstop.
People stared.
Not curious stares.
Annoyed ones.
Volow asked the first man he saw, "We're looking for an old man named Scotch."
The man scoffed. "Don't know him."
Second person:
"He's trouble."
Third:
"Forget him."
The fourth just spat on the ground and walked away.
Marga folded her arms. "Wow. Your friend is popular."
Volow looked up at the cliffs. "Elder said to look up."
They climbed.
Past homes. Past broken stairs. Past warning signs no one bothered to remove.
At the highest ledge—
They saw it.
A hut.
Barely standing. Crooked. Roof half gone. Sitting right on the edge like it was daring the world to push it off.
"…This?" Marga said. "This is where the decent, calm, respected man lives?"
Volow stared. "Either yes… or we're about to be arrested."
They stepped closer.
Volow knocked.
The door creaked open by itself.
Inside was darkness, dust, and the smell of old wood.
"…What is this place?" Marga muttered.
A voice exploded behind them.
"HEY! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
They spun.
An old man stood there—short, wild gray hair, angry eyes, clothes patched more times than fabric should allow.
"What are you idiots doing in here?!" he shouted.
Volow blinked. "Uh… we're looking for an old man named Scotch."
The man froze.
"…You are?"
"Yes."
"…And you came into my house?"
"…Yes?"
The old man stared at them.
Then jabbed a finger at his chest. "I'M SCOTCH."
Silence.
Marga looked him up and down.
Then at Volow.
Then back.
"…We expected someone taller," she said flatly.
"And cleaner," Volow added.
Scotch's eye twitched.
"Who sent you?"
"The elder of Illenwood. Isoki."
Scotch's expression changed instantly.
"Oh," he said. "Why didn't you say so?"
"…We did," Marga said.
He waved it off. "How is he doing."
They explained that they came to him to get some information.
Scotch listened.
Then grinned.
"I'll tell you," he said. "On one condition."
Marga sighed. "Here it comes."
He told them to follow him.
They stopped at a field.
The field was massive.
Dry soil. Hard ground. Sun beating down.
Scotch handed Volow a tool.
"I need this ploughed."
Marga stared. "You dragged us here… for farming?"
"I'm old," Scotch said. "And hungry."
Volow looked at the field.
Then sighed. "Alright."
They worked.
It took hours.
By the time they finished, Marga was exhausted and very angry.
Scotch took three slow steps forward, boots crunching softly against the soil.
He nodded once, satisfied.
Then he stopped.
His eyes narrowed—not at Volow's face, not at Marga—but at Volow's hand.
The ring.
The color drained from Scotch's face so fast it was almost funny. Almost.
"…That ring," he said quietly. Too quietly.
"Where did you get it?"
Volow glanced at his hand, then back up. "Pine gave it to me."
The old man staggered back like he'd been shoved.
"Pine?" His voice cracked. "You mean that Pine?"
Volow frowned. "There's more than one?"
Scotch laughed once—a sharp, broken sound—and dragged a hand through his hair.
"Do you have any idea what you're carrying?" he snapped.
"No," Volow replied. Not defensive. Just honest.
"That's why I'm here."
Scotch stared at him.
Not the ring this time.
Him.
"They say," Scotch muttered, "that whoever bears that ring doesn't belong to one side anymore."
Marga's posture stiffened.
"A bridge," Scotch continued. "Between what's buried… and what still sees the sun."
Silence settled heavy.
Then Scotch exhaled hard and shook his head.
"…You are wearing that ring," he said slowly. "And you are still alive."
He laughed again, but this time there was no humor in it.
"Of course you are."
His expression shifted—something old and bitter surfacing.
"There's something I need," Scotch said. "A text.
Underground. In a cave. Etched into a living tree. Older than the paths that lead to it."
Marga snapped instantly.
"Oh no. Absolutely not—"
"It's guarded," Scotch cut in quickly. "By people who don't want it read. I tried many times to get close. Barely escaped death each time."
Marga turned on him.
"ARE YOU SERIOUS?" she shouted.
"You selfish old man—we just ploughed an entire field for you! With our hands! Do you have any idea how many blisters that is?"
Scotch blinked.
"And now," she continued, pointing at him, "you're telling us to walk into a cave, fight unknown lunatics, and steal a magic tree message? No wonder everyone in Skytop hates you!"
Volow rubbed his forehead. "Marga—"
"Oh no, let me finish," she said. "This man doesn't want help. He wants free labor and an early grave."
Scotch opened his mouth. Closed it. Then bowed deeply.
"You're right," he said. "I am selfish."
That shut her up.
"I've searched for that text my whole life," he continued quietly. "And I know now… I can't reach it."
He straightened, eyes settling on Volow's hand.
"But you can."
Silence fell.
Volow exhaled slowly.
"…You really know how to ask for favors," he said.
He stepped forward—and then, shockingly, bowed.
Low. Deep.
"Please," he said. "Bring me a print of it."
He started begging them.
Volow watched him for a long second. Confused.
Then he sighed.
"…Alright, but after that you will help us, right?"
Scotch straightened slowly, eyes shining with something close to relief.
"You bet," he said. "I will do anything I can."
The wind shifted.
They hadn't stepped into the dark yet.
But they were walking toward it.