Dear Diary,
We are packing up an entire village to move it into another dimension. If I write it down, it doesn't sound any less insane.
I spent the week buried in whatever research I could salvage or recall about shifting large, physical landmasses into the Feywild. The texts were not encouraging. There is a cosmic friction—a strange, violent interference from the universe trying to stop you when you break the rules of reality on this scale. I found numerous historical reports of arrogant mages attempting similar feats, only for them and their followers to simply vanish into nothingness. Erased.
It's the Summer Solstice. Normally, Tarn would be celebrating with bonfires and wine, but the streets are mostly quiet. A few people put up modest decorations, but the looming dread of the planar shift has swallowed the holiday.
And then, Gael broke the world.
We were meeting with Myrrdin to finalize the logistics when Gael started stressing about the preparations needed to keep his girlfriend, Dynia, safe. Myrrdin was confused—why would a simple elven servant girl need such specific, high-level wards?
And Gael, our stoic, tight-lipped ranger, simply let the greatest secret in Keralon slip from his tongue.
Dynia isn't just a random servant we rescued from the Feywild. Her memories and identity were magically sealed away. She is the daughter of Titania. The Heir to Immerglade.
The moment he spoke the words aloud, a massive, physical shockwave of raw magic rushed over Tarn. The seal was broken. The universe recognized her.
Gael sprinted for his keep with Liliana right behind him. We followed as fast as we could. When we arrived, Dynia had fainted, and Gael had already teleported inside to revive her. But waiting at the threshold was Vivienne. The cruel fey who had enslaved Liliana for five years.
Vivienne was furious, accusing us of keeping secrets, though she surprisingly gave Liliana a pass, realizing she had been kept in the dark too. When we rushed into the room, Vivienne was shocked to see Gael had already awoken Dynia with a restorative spell.
Then, Hayley sighed that she had known Dynia's true identity since our time in Immerglade. Typical Hayley. Terrifying, brilliant, secretive Hayley.
Vivienne didn't attack us. The politics have shifted. She coldly informed us that because of the magical shockwave, High King Ulther now knows exactly where - and more importantly who Dynia is. The full, combined force of Keralon and Neverhold is going to come crashing down on Tarn.
Hayley immediately cast *Nondetection* on Dynia, which Vivienne begrudgingly praised as smart. "We are on the same side now," the fey snapped, "but I wish you had been more subtle."
"I wished for the same," Hayley shot back, pointing out she had kept the secret perfectly fine until Gael opened his mouth.
(As a side note: I thought *my* infatuation with a captive fey was complicated. Gael is dating the heir to a lost fey kingdom. We really need to stop falling in love with these people.)
We had to move. Now.
We dragged Myrrdin to the village square to start the ritual immediately. As he stepped into the center of the massive, chalked circles, he leveled a dead-serious glare at me. "Do *not* let your magic intersect the ritual lines. No fireballs." I felt personally attacked with that last statement.
He began the incantation. The world immediately started to shift. The air dropped to freezing, carrying a cold, unnatural wind that made my skin crawl. It felt intrinsically wrong, like we were tearing the fabric of a painting.
Myrrdin’s magic was triggering the interference I read about. Ileas, Hayley, and Gael gasped, clutching their heads. They heard voices echoing from the ether—wardens of the planar boundaries. A young voice claimed the old rules didn't apply anymore. An older one argued that they still remembered, and they still guarded. A woman's voice whispered that others had tried this and failed.
Then, the wardens materialized around the circle. Undead.
They rushed the ritual lines to stop Myrrdin. Gael drew first blood, putting an arrow into a rotting, leathery undead witch. Liliana charged a flaming skeleton, striking it hard, but the creature violently burst apart, coating her and Rhyme in clinging, dark, necrotic flames.
I aimed a *Firebolt* at another skeleton, but the flames just washed over its bones without leaving a scorch mark. Immune.
Adjusting tactics, I slammed my hands down and summoned a massive Earth Elemental, ordering it to pound the skeleton into dust. It worked beautifully for about three seconds, until a towering, cloaked undead raised a skeletal hand, cast a high-level *Dispel Magic*, and unraveled my elemental back into the dirt.
The leathery witch raised her arms, and a thick, dark fog billowed across the square, blinding us. The sounds of Alistan’s sword ringing against bone were terrifying when I couldn't see him. Gael reacted instantly, casting *Gust of Wind* to tear the fog away.
With the witch back in my sights, her tattered robes whipping in the wind, I didn't bother with fire. I reached out with my magic and violently assaulted her psyche, boring into her ancient, rotted mind and ripping at whatever consciousness remained. The psychic trauma made her stagger wildly, dropping her guard just long enough for Alistan to step in and decapitate her with a clean strike.
An ancient elven archer was pinning Alistan and Rhyme down with deadly, armor-piercing arrows. I focused my magic, targeting her form, and cast *Polymorph*. The undead archer shrank, twisted, and fluttered into the air as a harmless, delicate butterfly.
Without missing a beat, Hayley snatched the butterfly out of the air and cast *Flesh to Stone*. The petrified insect hit the cobblestones with a heavy *clink*. (My sister is a terrifying woman, and I am so glad she is on my side).
The cloaked spellcaster was locked in a brutal melee with Liliana and Alistan, holding its own against their combined divine might. I found an opening between their swinging blades and unleashed a high-level barrage of *Magic Missiles*. The unerring bolts of pure force slammed into the undead caster, ripping its physical form to shreds.
We mopped up the stragglers, panting and bleeding. The wardens were dead.
But as I looked at Myrrdin's ritual circle, my stomach dropped. The chalk lines were glowing with sickly, corrupted colors. The dark flames, the toxic fog, the chilling winds of the wardens—the ritual had absorbed their essence.
It is tainted. Saturated with necrotic, poison, and cold energy. The reality is moving, but it's warped. If we don't balance the arcane equation and purge the corruption right this second, Tarn isn't going to teleport to Immerglade. We are going to be thrown into a dead dimension, or the Abyss, or somewhere far, far worse.
We need to fix the math.
That’s always fun to do when the spell is already activating.
— Luke