Only a few hundred meters from where they had battled the Wraithmist, Gwayne found the ruins of the cabin.
It lay collapsed among the trees, a blackened skeleton of scorched wood. From the burn patterns, it was clear the fire had erupted from within. Yet strangely, the blaze had not spread to the surrounding forest—perhaps a timely rainfall had spared the woods from destruction.
Ser Byron carefully inspected the ground around the ruins, tracing faint scorch marks and debris. "The fire must have happened over half a month ago," he concluded.
Meanwhile, Hestia detected faint remnants of magic lingering in the area.
"We must have seen a shadow—a reflection," Gwayne said thoughtfully, gazing at the collapsed hut in the clearing. "That hedge wizard must have lived here for years. It's beyond the bounds of any lord's domain, so isolated that even hunters would rarely pass by. No one would have known a recluse lived here."
"But the real question is..." Hestia frowned, tapping her staff against her boot, "what caused the accident? This place has only a weak magical nexus, and the wizard was barely an apprentice by proper standards. Even if one of his experiments went wrong and destroyed his home, it shouldn't have been enough to manifest a long-term projection in the Shadow Realm, let alone spawn a Wraithmist strong enough to nearly kill us. The magic required would be far beyond his reach."
"Maybe this will explain things," Gwayne said, pulling a battered notebook from his cloak and handing it to her.
It was the journal they had recovered from Betty during their journey through the Shadow.
Following Gwayne's nod, Hestia flipped to the latter half of the journal and began reading carefully.
"Year 729 of the Andraste Calendar, Firemonth, Day XX.
I've lived here for half a year now, at the very edge of the Seawright lands. I found a minor magic nexus—far weaker than anything near the Tower Cities—but stable enough for my experiments. The elemental forces here are singular and steady. Anne's illness should ease in this environment.
"Year 729, Harvestmonth, Day XX.
Anne's condition seems to be improving. It's unclear whether it's the magic here or my rituals and potions helping her. The nexus is weak—too weak. Even with amplification arrays, my rituals suffer diminished effects. Perhaps I should revisit the formulas they all mocked at the Arcanist Brotherhood... but I've left that place. Their laughter matters little now.
"Year 730, Mistmonth, Day XX.
The formulas work! The predictions are accurate. With the new amplification method, the magic flow has vastly strengthened. Now I can proceed with the next stage of Anne's treatment. Though she hasn't suffered a relapse in months, she must still be cured. She's too fragile to endure another bout.
"Year 731, Frostmonth, Day XX.
Anne was able to get out of bed today! She even cooked a meal—sausages and vegetable broth. It's been a century, it feels, since I tasted anything so delicious... even if she burned the sausages and forgot the salt. My methods are working. So long as the nexus holds, Anne's recovery is within reach.
After that, the journal turned to day-to-day musings: small, tender records of their quiet life.
Hestia skimmed quickly until the script grew frantic and chaotic near the end:
"Year 734, Frostmonth, Day XX.
Anne relapsed. Damn it!
"Year 734, Frostmonth, Day XX.
Everything was proceeding correctly—rituals, potions, arrays—nothing had failed before! But Anne's condition has worsened, more severe than ever. I must find the flaw. I must... I must.
"Year 734, Frostmonth, Day XX.
Anne is not recovering. New treatments are useless. She's fading—physically and spiritually. I can see her hands turning translucent. Blisters forming on her face. The world itself is rejecting her. She's being pulled toward the Shadow.
"Year 734, Mistmonth, Day XX.
The damned sun mocks me with its crimson scars! I finally see the truth, but I have no way to fix it. Elemental fluxes are rising uncontrollably. The nexus can no longer contain the overflow, even with the arrays dismantled. Anne's bond to this place, the magic sustaining her life... is also killing her.
"Year 734, Mistmonth, Day XX.
The entire region's magic has gone mad—like a sea in storm. I can't undo it. Anne's body is already halfway into the Shadow Realm. This morning she said she saw the house turn black and white.
"Year 735, Firemonth.
The preparations are complete. Anne is at the limit of her strength. This is my only chance.
If she cannot survive in the material world... then we must find a new one.
The ritual of Shadow Conversion—it is possible, though it demands unimaginable power. But perhaps... with the reinforced formulas, the amplified arrays, and the surge of wild magic in the land... perhaps it can be done. Today, when the sun stands highest, I will attempt the transition.
Hold on, Anne. Father will save you. I will come with you. We will live together in the Shadow Realm, and you will suffer no more.
The journal ended there.
Hestia was about to close it when Gwayne pointed to a smudged corner on the final page. "There's more," he said.
Leaning closer, Hestia realized what she had assumed was an ink spill was actually writing—hastily scrawled, blurred by clumsy fingers:
"Magic overflowed... the sun is red..."
Hestia frowned, repeating the words under her breath. "The sun... red? What does that mean?"
"Could it have been during the last sunspot surge?" Rebecca chimed in, thinking aloud. "It was about half a month ago. There were a lot more sunspots than usual... Maybe if he was delirious, the sun might have looked red to him."
Hestia blinked, considering the explanation, and slowly nodded. "It makes sense. That would match the timeline..."
She shook the journal. "At least now we can piece things together. A hedge wizard, desperate to save his daughter, constructed massive magical arrays and tried to shift them both into shadow to escape death. But when the magic flux surged beyond control, everything collapsed. It triggered the fire, the Wraithmist... and the haunted cabin we encountered."
"No," Gwayne said sharply, cutting her off. "You're missing the true danger."
Hestia and Rebecca stiffened at the gravity in his voice.
"You both noticed the recent surges in magic, correct?" Gwayne asked. "Regional mana fluctuations across the Seawright lands?"
The two mages exchanged uneasy glances and nodded. "Yes... but magic surges aren't uncommon," Hestia said. "They happen. The sun's constant energy drives the flow of magic. Lately, the fluctuations have been a little more frequent, but nothing alarming."
Gwayne's expression darkened. "Then listen carefully..."
"In the Year 1736 of the Gondor Calendar," he began slowly, "records noted widespread crimson scarring across the sun's surface. In 1738, the largest sunspot surge in recorded history was observed—half the sun's face marred by red stains. That same year, twenty-six imperial provinces reported magical turbulence. No great disasters occurred immediately. Instead, that year was hailed as the 'Magical Dawn,' as a massive number of newborns exhibited natural elemental affinity."
"But," Gwayne continued, voice like steel, "also that year, the Deep Blue Wellspring—the Empire's largest magic energy core—exploded. Its containment arrays failed under an overwhelming flood of chaotic magic."
He fell silent.
Hestia, pale as ash, finished the thought in a whisper:
"And in 1740... the first Magic Tide struck. The Gondor Empire—the greatest empire of mankind—fell within months."