The wind moved softly through the ruins of dawn.
A pale sun had just begun to rise above the eastern hills, casting long slanted light through the trees of Verdelune. The leaves glistened with dew; their trembling mirrored the hush of a world waiting for something unnamed. In the stillness, Lyrian walked as if part of that light—quiet, burdened, and older than the hour deserved.
He had traveled without rest since morning's edge, not from urgency, but from something more fragile: the kind of longing that slips beneath armor and silence alike.
He was used to being followed.
Shadows had trailed him across centuries—specters of duty, memory, and war. But these footsteps were different.
They were hesitant. Young.
And far too loud.
He paused at a fork in the woodland trail and spoke without turning.
> "You've been walking behind me since the watchtower."
A gasp. Then silence.
Mira stepped out first. Her silver eyes were unreadable, but her hands clenched and unclenched by her sides as if magic still hummed under her skin. Beside her, Thorn emerged from the underbrush, a half-eaten pear in hand and mud streaked across one cheek.
> "You weren't exactly subtle either," Thorn mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. "You drop your steps like you drop prophecy."
Lyrian turned, slowly. His expression unreadable.
> "Why?"
It was Mira who answered. "I dreamed of a tree," she said softly. "A tree older than the stars. And someone walking toward it. I didn't see your face then. But when I saw you at the tower, I knew."
She looked up at him, not defiantly, but with a kind of quiet certainty that did not suit her age.
> "I think I'm supposed to follow you."
Thorn shrugged. "I'm here because she'd walk into a dragon's mouth if no one stopped her."
He kicked a stone.
> "And, well... I'm tired of running the same circles. Maybe it's time we try a different kind of lost."
Lyrian stared at them—these two mismatched children, bound by threadbare hope and too many scars. In their eyes, he saw a fragment of something he thought the world had buried long ago: the refusal to give up.
> "There's no glory in where I'm going," he said. "No reward."
> "Good," Mira said. "I don't want to be a hero."
Lyrian blinked. Slowly. As if something ancient in him stirred.
> "Then walk with me."
No fanfare. No ceremony.
Just those four words.
And with them, something subtle shifted—like the forest exhaling, like time bending slightly toward a new chapter.
---
By midday, they had reached a forgotten causeway: stones cracked and sunken into moss, once a road between outposts of a kingdom that no longer ruled anything but memories.
Lyrian walked ahead, speaking little. Mira trailed a few steps behind, her eyes wandering—not from inattention, but wonder. Thorn strayed more, scavenging occasionally, muttering about edible roots or coins others had dropped in haste.
It wasn't until they crossed the remnants of an old stone bridge that Lyrian spoke again.
> "You said you saw the tree in a dream."
Mira nodded. "It was taller than mountains. Its branches looked like rivers of light. But the roots… the roots were bones."
Lyrian was quiet for a long moment.
> "It's called the Eldertree," he said. "If it exists, it lies in the heart of the forgotten lands, where time unravels and memory walks like men."
> "Sounds cozy," Thorn muttered. "Can't wait to visit."
Mira frowned. "Why are you going there?"
Lyrian stopped.
And for the first time, he let them see something of the weight he carried—not in words, but in the way his shoulders sank and his gaze lowered to a horizon only he could see.
> "Because I lost someone," he said.
> "Someone you loved?" Mira asked quietly.
Lyrian nodded.
> "She was the best of us. And I was too slow to stop the world from taking her."
They said nothing after that.
Not because they didn't know what to say.
But because some silences are meant to be shared, not filled.
---
As twilight approached, they came upon the ruins of a small watchpost—circular stone walls collapsed inward, its banner long faded to threads. Birds had made a home of it. So had lichen and time.
They camped within its remains.
Mira gathered sticks for fire. Thorn, for once, prepared salted meat and root mash with decent skill. Lyrian sat with his back to the wall, his sword across his knees—not drawn, but not forgotten.
Eventually, as embers cracked and the scent of warm food mingled with dusk, Mira sat beside him.
> "You said we should walk with you. But you don't talk much."
Lyrian gave the barest smile. "I talk when it matters."
> "Then maybe now's a good time."
He looked at her.
> "Tell me your story."
Mira's gaze drifted to the flames.
> "I was born in Meridale. During the last war. My father was a soldier. My mother a healer. Neither made it to the end."
Her hands curled into fists.
> "When the capital fell, I hid under floorboards for two days. A merchant found me and sold me to a scholar. Said I had 'aptitude.'"
She looked up.
> "I broke his arm on the third day. Ran. Lived in slums. Begged. Stole. Learned to control magic by accident more than study."
Her voice didn't tremble. But there was steel in it.
> "I survived because no one expected me to."
Thorn whistled softly. "Guess I'll go next."
He stirred the pot, not looking at them.
> "I was born on the road. Parents were caravan folk. Merchants, scavengers, whatever kept food in the bag. They got caught in a border purge when I was ten."
He tapped the spoon against the pot edge.
> "After that, it was me and a dozen others in the ruins of what used to be 'home.' We built things. Broke things. We survived, too. Until they didn't."
A pause.
> "And then I met her. And here we are."
Lyrian studied them both.
And for the first time in decades, he spoke not as a warrior, nor a relic—but as something closer to a mentor.
> "You are both braver than most kings I've known."
They said nothing. But they didn't look away either.
The embers of the campfire had long since faded to ash, but their warmth lingered in the hollow between three resting souls. Above, the sky shimmered with stars ancient and unmoving. Lyrian sat in silence, his gaze fixed on the horizon, where dawn hesitated just beyond the mountains. Thorn and Mira lay nearby, blanketed in cloaks too thin for the cold, their breathing steady.
But Lyrian did not sleep.
He had not slept since the funeral.
Their stories had been like opening old wounds—slow, cautious, painful. But in those truths, he had glimpsed the shape of something fragile yet forming: a bond not yet named. Or perhaps a thread he had not realized he needed to grasp.
He had buried a thousand companions over the centuries.
But these two… they were still in the bloom of their sorrow. The world had not yet finished teaching them how cruel it could be. And yet, they had chosen to follow him.
Why?
A dream?
Hope?
Or something older, quieter—the soul's instinct to seek out the broken parts of itself in others?
He stood and walked a few paces from camp, to where a ruined stone outcropping stood—a forgotten mile-marker from an age when this road had meant something. His fingers brushed its face. The inscription had long since faded.
But he remembered.
> "To Caer-Luthiel. Eight leagues.
Glory to the House of Merynth."
The house was dust now. And Caer-Luthiel a ruin.
And still, the roads remembered.
---
He heard movement behind him.
Mira.
She approached barefoot, her hair uncombed, silver eyes still shadowed with sleep. But she walked like someone who had risen before the sun many times before—out of hunger, out of fear.
"You didn't sleep," she said.
He shook his head.
"I dream better when I'm awake."
She tilted her head. "I dream worse when I'm alone."
He looked at her then, truly looked—at the cracked lips, the faint bruises that never fully faded from thin wrists, the fire behind her restraint.
"You followed me," he said softly. "Not because of Thorn. Because of what you saw."
"In the dream," she said. "You stood beneath the Tree. You weren't crying, but it felt like you had. Like you had been crying for a very, very long time."
"And yet," Lyrian murmured, "you came."
"Maybe," she whispered, "because I've been crying too."
They stood in silence. Wind rustled the canopy. The stars gave way to light.
Behind them, Thorn stirred and muttered something about cabbage stew.
Then the stillness broke.
Hoofbeats. Not one. Many.
And shouting.
---
Lyrian's eyes narrowed.
From the northern slope, along the old imperial road, came riders—armored, green-cloaked, the crest of a golden lion stamped on their shields. Six men. One woman. The sigil marked them as soldiers of Lord Ebran of Daelmar, a minor noble in the fracturing southern provinces.
They carried no banners of peace.
Their horses were burdened with sacks too heavy for patrol. And their swords—unstrapped, unsheathed—hung loose, ready.
Mira stepped back instinctively. Thorn was already on his feet.
"Trouble," Thorn said.
"No," Lyrian replied calmly. "Greed."
The riders pulled up, forming a rough semicircle around the camp. The leader, a man with salt-gray whiskers and a nose bent twice by war, spat into the grass.
"Well now. Ain't this a lovely morning. Three travelers on royal roadways without sigils or writ. Looks like a fine for vagrancy."
"We're not vagrants," Thorn snapped.
"Oh?" the man smirked. "You got coin, then? I'd hate to confiscate your… meager belongings."
Lyrian stepped forward.
He did not raise his voice.
"You have no right to levy tolls on a free road. Not unless Daelmar has declared war on the Crown again."
The soldiers tensed.
The leader's eyes narrowed.
"And who in the blighted hells are you to lecture on rights, eh, old man?"
Thorn reached for his knife. Mira's fingers twitched with light.
Lyrian raised a hand. Not in fear. In patience.
"I am one who remembers when this road was paved. When your lord's ancestors groveled at the gates of Caer-Luthiel for grain and aid."
The man dismounted.
"You talk high for a drifter. Maybe we take what you have. For justice, of course."
He drew his sword.
The others followed.
Thorn stepped in front of Mira.
And Lyrian—moved.
Not fast.
Not loud.
Simply… moved.
In one breath, he stood between the children and the soldiers.
In the next, the light changed.
The sun pierced the trees just so, and his cloak fluttered open—and beneath it, silver runes glimmered faintly on his armor. Not modern. Not royal.
Elven. First Age. Forged in starlight and sorrow.
The soldiers froze.
One of them dropped his blade.
Lyrian's voice, when it came, was soft.
And terrible.
"I have spilled blood on fields your ancestors don't remember. I have buried kings who fought for less than you threaten now. Turn away."
The leader trembled—but fury makes fools of men.
He lunged.
Steel flashed.
And Lyrian caught the blade in his hand.
Barehanded.
The metal shrieked—and cracked.
The blade fell in two.
And then, for a single breath, Lyrian let it show.
The power beneath the calm.
His eyes blazed—white, ancient, vast.
The grass around his feet grew taller in an instant.
The birds fell silent.
Even the wind stilled.
Mira gasped.
The soldiers stumbled back, scrambling onto their horses.
Only the leader remained—on his knees, gasping, the hilt of his broken sword in his hands.
"I—I didn't know—"
Lyrian bent slightly, speaking low.
"Then let that be your lesson."
---
They fled.
All but the leader.
He remained where he was, shivering.
Lyrian turned back to Thorn and Mira.
"Are you hurt?"
Thorn shook his head. Mira was pale, but steady.
"What… what are you?" she asked.
Lyrian exhaled slowly.
"I am a memory," he said. "But I would like to become something else."
He turned back to the kneeling man.
"Go," he said. "Tell your lord this road is watched again."
The man fled into the trees.
---
They returned to the fire in silence.
After some time, Thorn cleared his throat.
"So… that was… something."
Lyrian looked up.
"I don't wish to frighten you."
"You didn't," Mira said. "Well, a little."
"You're strong," Thorn added. "But not cruel."
Lyrian said nothing for a while.
Then he drew a folded scrap of parchment from his cloak—the same letter. He stared at it for a long time.
"You followed me because of a dream," he said. "But you stayed because of truth. That matters more."
He looked at them both.
"I don't
know where this road ends. The Tree—Eira believed in it. I… want to believe too."
He stood.
"I'm going west. Through the Wyrding Hills, across the riverlands, toward the edge of maps. I seek the Tree of Eternity."
He extended a hand.
"I would not mind the company."
Thorn blinked.
Mira smiled, slow and bright.
And without hesitation, they took his hand.
Together, they broke camp.
And stepped into the dawn.
---
(To Be Continued)