The road to the south curved and maneuvered like a river of stone, weaving through fields of gold, which whistled with the morning breeze. Lucian went on ahead, boots sweeping the soft grass that grew on the edges of the trail. His hand was still benignly glowing — not to see by, but to hold on to.
Serakha walked by him, hood low about her features, eyes gazing to the horizon with peaceful curiosity. Arden moved behind in slow, patient steps, ever listening, ever feeling the ground under their feet.
Tirnen disappeared behind them, not as a place that was forgotten, but now as a place of light. A place breathing again.
Lucian clutched the little wooden carving received from the old woman, rivers of fingers tracing the frayed edges of the symbol. He could still sense the memory in it though as in a faint voice calling from somewhere distant but familiar.
