Elandor was to stay for nearly two weeks at the Rustwood Inn. He said his men were taking three wagons of cargo to a noble estate in a nearby city—though Ryan never caught the name, nor did he care to. What captured his imagination was something far more incredible.
A ship.
Not just any ship—a massive, mountain-like vessel of dark metal and carved oak, docked at the ragged port like a beast among rats. It was unlike anything Zeronthal had ever seen. Elandor called it a Dwarven marvel—crafted by their hands and shipped across seas and rivers to serve Caelondian merchants. Ryan could barely believe it. Dwarves? Building something this massive? In Zeronthal, Dwarves were treated like vermin—barely allowed to live in the outer slums, often forbidden from human towns entirely. So were most non-human folk.
Not that life was fair for commoners either. But at least Ryan had a bed, parents, and some roof above his head. That ship… that ship told a different story. One he wanted to read.
Other than the ship—he noticed his parents behaved differently around Elandor.
Harwin had been wary from the start. He didn't like foreigners—especially not ones who mentioned Caelondia or magic. Mira, on the other hand, while cautious, was willing to let the man stay. She said he seemed respectful and trustworthy—and the silver coins helped too. Elandor had subtly mentioned he was avoiding larger Zeronthalian cities to stay away from "noblemen and the dogs of Aldric." The way he said it was calm, but there was venom behind it. Even Mira had flinched slightly.
Ryan didn't push his luck. He listened to his mother and kept his distance.
At least, until the third evening.
He had gone to the courtyard to refill a bucket of water when he stopped short. Elandor stood by the edge of the stone path, gazing out at the sea—and that ship—hands behind his back like a prince admiring his kingdom.
Ryan froze.
"You admire the ship?" Elandor asked suddenly, without turning.
Ryan hesitated. "Yes, sir," he said quietly, stepping forward.
"It's a work of the Dwarves," Elandor continued. "Would you believe that every plank of its hull was carved by hand? No magic, just skill. Centuries of it."
"I overheard you say that… when you first came in," Ryan admitted. "You said it to one of the curious travelers."
Elandor turned to him now, smiling. "Good ears. And sharp eyes, too." He tilted his head. "What's your name, boy?"
"Ryan."
"Ryan," Elandor repeated with a respectful nod, like they were two merchants striking a deal. "A good name. And what do you want to become, Ryan? A fisherman? Innkeeper like your father?"
Ryan looked down. "I don't know yet."
"That's a clever answer. Most children your age would say knight or hunter, not I don't know."
"I'm not most children," Ryan replied softly.
Elandor raised an eyebrow. "No. No, you're not."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You watch more than you speak. That's rare. And valuable."
Ryan didn't respond. He didn't want to give anything away. Not about the book. Not about the dreams. Not yet.
Their conversation was cut short by the sound of footsteps.
Harwin.
He stepped into the courtyard with his usual limp and a scowl etched into his face—not outright hostile, but skeptical, protective. Elandor gave him a courteous nod, but Harwin barely returned it.
"Ryan," Harwin said plainly, "your mother needs help with the hearth."
"Yes, Father," Ryan answered quickly. He turned to Elandor with a respectful bow. "Thank you, sir."
Elandor smiled. "Any time."
Ryan turned and walked back inside. But his mind stayed in the courtyard.
Something was changing. He could feel it.
Like the first crack in a frozen lake.
From that day forward, Ryan began having quiet conversations with Elandor whenever the chance presented itself. Nothing too obvious—just questions slipped between refilled mugs and firewood runs, shared glances across the courtyard, or whispered words as Elandor leaned on the rail of the inn's creaky porch.
It was through these moments that Ryan learned just how different the world could be.
Caelondia wasn't a single kingdom like Zeronthal. It was a vast continent of many nations, each with its own customs, rulers, and laws. In some places, leaders were chosen by vote. In others, they weren't even human—elves, dwarves, and even beastkin held thrones and council seats. There were still problems, Elandor admitted, but people had rights. They could learn, grow, and choose their own paths. Education was for everyone. Magic wasn't a crime—it was a craft. A profession. A part of life.
"You'll find it everywhere," Elandor had said once, speaking in the low voice he used when the halls echoed too much. "Magic to shape steel, magic to till soil, to mend wounds. It's not about privilege over there—it's about what you can do with it."
Ryan could hardly believe it.
To hear that potions and enchanted tools were made by common craftsmen—people like Mira, or the village tinker—and sold in open markets was like listening to a bedtime tale. In Zeronthal, even speaking of such things too loudly could land someone in a dungeon. Yet the nobles bought those same enchanted wares—secretly imported from Caelondia. They wore cloaks stitched with fireproof spells, healed wounds with foreign potions, and still denied their own people the right to learn magic.
"The worst part," Elandor had said, voice dry, "is that they pretend their power is sacred. As if they earned it, rather than bought it."
Ryan noticed how even Elandor, despite being a merchant who profited from those noble deals, spoke with disdain. When Ryan asked him why he still worked with them, Elandor had only smiled and replied, "A true merchant brings change slowly. Through trade, through ideas. Sometimes, that's all you can do."
Ryan didn't understand it fully. But the words settled in his chest like stones in a pond—rippling outward, stirring something deep inside.
He thought about it often, especially in the quiet moments before bed, when the cellar candle flickered beside the hidden book. Caelondia sounded like a place where a boy like him could become something. Maybe even someone who understood the pages of that book.
And slowly, a feeling grew in him. A certainty.
The life he wanted… wasn't here.
Not in Dunlowe. Not in Zeronthal. Not in a kingdom where truth was feared, and learning was a crime.
He didn't understand how far Caelondia was, or how dangerous the journey might be. Could a child even travel there? Was it foolish to dream of such things?
But the feeling didn't leave.
So one evening, after wiping down tables and closing the shutters, Ryan stood near the fire while Mira stirred the last of the stew. The room was quiet, flickering with candlelight.
"Mama?" he said softly.
She looked over her shoulder. "Yes, love?"
He hesitated. "Can I… ask you something? Something important?"
Mira turned fully now, sensing the weight in his voice. "Of course, Ryan. What is it?"
He glanced toward the darkened window, where the sea whispered in the distance. Then he looked back at her—eyes steady, heart pounding.
And asked the question that would change everything.
Ryan hesitated for a moment, then asked quietly, "Mama… can we move to Caelondia?"
The words hung in the air like smoke—weightless but choking.
Mira froze.
For a moment, she didn't know whether to laugh or scold or cry. The question was so... innocent. So impossible. And yet something in Ryan's voice made her pause. This wasn't a passing fantasy or a child's dream. It was something deeper.
She crouched down slowly to face him. "Why would you ask something like that?"
Ryan looked her in the eyes and said softly, "Because… I don't think I can become anything here."
Mira's breath caught.
She stared at her son—only nine years old—and saw in him not the spark of childish wonder, but the quiet weight of a boy who had already looked too far ahead and found nothing waiting for him. It broke something in her. She was stunned, not just by his words, but by the truth behind them.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Neither of them noticed Harwin standing by the archway, halfway through the kitchen door, a small bundle of firewood in his arms. He had heard everything.
His steps had frozen the instant he heard Ryan speak, and now he stood there—silent, unseen. The logs in his arms felt heavier than they should. His heart heavier still.
Ryan. His son. His little boy, who wiped tables and listened to stories and dreamed quietly in corners… was already losing hope in the land he was born into.
Harwin swallowed hard.
He had always known that Zeronthal offered little. But to hear it from his own son—so plain, so full of sorrow—struck deeper than any insult ever had. He felt a strange mix of shame and awe. Shame for not giving his child more. And awe at the boy's strength to see through the lies of the world so soon.
He looked up—and there, across the room, stood Elandor by the window, watching the distant glow of lanterns outside.
For a moment, their eyes met.
And in that glance, something passed between them. Not words. Not understanding. But a possibility.
Harwin didn't believe in many things. But he did believe in doing whatever it took to protect his family.
And maybe… just maybe… that meant letting go of what he thought was most precious to him.