Nightfall, the time Aefanyl has been patiently waiting for has come. He gently pulls aside the curtains of black silk—woven by his mother and the elders—around his small bed. He takes a while to get dressed, then quietly leaves the bedroom. He silently walks through the long stone corridor, across the open courtyard and road, and past the flickering candles and lights that stave off the darkness. On his way to the river, the oblique moonlight and faint firelight behind him cast a spattering of vague shadows around his feet. Everything around him becomes a part of the child's night adventure. During the day, when the sun's not hidden behind clouds, the Banshees will take the young and carefree Aefanyl to wander through valleys and fables. In the light-dappled woods, beneath the gaze of the towering mountains in the distance, they sing ancient epics and extol life's brilliance. Aefanyl, clad in splendorous robes, dances to the songs of the elders. Through these cadences passed down from thousands of years, he hears the footsteps of ancient heroes on their faraway journeys and the breathing of new shoots as they sprout from the trees. His thoughts rise and fall with the sun: this land is an extension of the Convallis, home to laughter and melodies without end. A cry draws his attention and jerks him back to reality. On the other side of the river, several tuskbeasts are dragging a cystybeast into the forest's depths, vanishing before he can take a good look. He hears his own panting, along with several strange sounds mixed with the gurgling of the river, as if something is being torn apart, then broken. It is a new language that Aefanyl has never heard before. It seems to contain certain emotions and connotations he has never experienced, and it begins to fill him with confusion. He takes out the bone pen from his breast pocket—his birthday gift—and draws simple symbols in the air. They look like words but are little more than scribbles. He has his own way of recording this new language. 'Our little hero's great adventure thus reaches its end.' The young Banshee turns his head and sees the dresses of the Banshee elders fluttering in the night, shimmering with the silken strands they had woven themselves. 'Do you remember what we agreed upon, Aefanyl?' 'I am not to use Arts while I am alone.' 'Wonderful.' An older Banshee gently cups Aefanyl's chin and rubs his face with the base of her palm. 'Why, then, did you do what you just did?' 'I wanted to understand, what the cystybeast was saying just now...' Aefanyl lowers his head, his right hand sliding behind his back as he grips the pen, gently pressing his thumb against its tip, as if trying to conceal it within his palm. 'If I could figure out what it was saying, would that have prevented it from being taken away by the tuskbeasts? If I understood what it was saying, how it felt, would I have been able to help it and stop it from making that sad sound? I want it to know that someone cares.' Aefanyl recalls what he had just seen. Confusion becomes pain, and from pain comes a wish. In an instant, everyone becomes quiet, and a breeze stirs. 'From now on,' the Great Banshee Laqeramaline breaks the silence and steps forth from the crowd, 'our Aefanyl is free to go where he pleases, and practice as he pleases.' 'However,' his mother continues, 'it is now time to go to bed.' 'Mother...' Aefanyl approaches his mother, and her hand lovingly clasp his. The Banshees return the way they had come. Along the way, moonlight elongates Aefanyl's thin figure. They walk in silence, while the leaves of beech, fir, and pine trees rustle softly in the wind. Beneath the deep blue night sky and the misty gray clouds, the river quietly carries the floating light forward, like a crack of luminous light from a black valley, from which a gentle pulse of courage emerges.