The wind smelled of bark, bread, and distant rain.
They had been walking together for four days now—three wanderers bound by circumstance, memories, and a dream too strange to ignore. The trail curved through low hills and whispering grass, where autumn clung to the trees in flickers of red and gold, and where laughter sometimes managed to echo, if only briefly, before fading into the vastness of the road ahead.
"Do you always walk this much?" Thorn asked, adjusting the straps of his too-loose pack. "I mean, have you heard of horses? Wagons? Flying carpets, maybe?"
Lyrian didn't turn. "The feet carry what the heart accepts. Flight, too soon, skips the learning."
Thorn sighed. "And there it is. Another wisdom-cookie baked fresh from the oven of your ancient soul."
Mira chuckled under her breath, silver eyes catching a beam of late sunlight.
Lyrian allowed himself a small smile.
It was their third town that week—a sleepy village called Reeding Hollow, nestled between a crumbling aqueduct and the edges of a lake too shy to appear on most maps. Its people were kind in the way people often are when strangers arrive with coin but no swords.
They had earned a few silver pieces fixing fences, hauling sacks of grain, and—at Mira's insistence—healing an old woman's knee that "clicked like a rusted hinge." Lyrian watched silently as Mira repeated the old chants her mother had taught her, her hands glowing with mana she still didn't fully control.
"You're improving," Lyrian had said afterward, beneath the elm tree where the trio had shared bread and apples.
Mira had looked down, brushing grass from her robe. "I keep hearing the wrong syllables. It's like… someone else's voice slips in when I try to cast."
"Maybe it's someone else's memory," he said.
She'd blinked at him. "Like Eira's?"
He had not replied—but she saw it, the flicker of grief and recognition that passed like a shadow across his face.
Later that night, under the faded stars and a few borrowed blankets behind the village inn, Thorn lay on his back with his hands behind his head, staring into the open sky.
"You think the stars know who we are?" he asked.
"No," Mira replied. "But I think they remember who we used to be."
Lyrian, sitting with his cloak pulled close, did not interrupt. He simply added more kindling to the fire and listened.
---
They wandered.
And the road began to soften between them.
In another town—a riverside port whose name none of them caught—they painted shutters and helped an innkeeper carry buckets through the flooding. Thorn somehow charmed two peddlers into giving them sweets in exchange for "heroic stories," which he entirely invented. Mira helped organize the healer's den, correcting a sick child's misaligned mana flow with quiet precision.
"You're sure you've never trained formally?" the village healer had asked.
Mira smiled. "Not formally. But… my mother was a healer. And she taught me all she could. And once… she showed me a diary."
"Diary?"
"It was written by someone named Eira."
The healer had looked up sharply. "The Saint of Feldreath?"
Mira had shrugged, but Lyrian had turned his head, just slightly.
After they left that village, Mira walked beside Lyrian in silence for a time. Then, under the shadow of pine trees, she spoke.
"My mother said Eira was kind. But tired. She said her eyes were always looking at something no one else could see."
Lyrian didn't answer at first. The road crunched beneath their boots.
"She did," he finally said. "She saw what people could be. And it hurt her, sometimes."
Mira looked at him, then ahead. "She left you letters."
"Yes."
"She knew you'd be lost."
A pause. "She knew I'd be wandering."
---
One night, after a warm bathhouse (paid for with Lyrian's carved trinkets sold at the market), they found shelter in a highland hamlet—just five stone houses and a windmill.
Inside a modest inn with only three beds and an oil lamp that hissed gently in the corner, they laid out their gear. Mira rubbed her feet, then stood and peered through the fogged window.
"Lyrian," she said suddenly. "Can I ask you something?"
He looked up from checking the map.
"Why did you leave the Hero's Order?"
Thorn sat up. "Wait, what?"
Lyrian met Mira's eyes. "You already know, don't you? In the dreams."
"I see pieces. Never whole."
He turned the map over, staring at the blank canvas of mountains.
"I left… because the world didn't need me anymore. Or so I believed."
Mira stepped forward, her brow furrowed. "But it did."
"Yes. And it still might."
They stood in silence.
Then Lyrian added, "It's dangerous to carry the past too close to the heart. It makes your hands tremble when you need them steady."
Mira took this in.
"Can you teach me?" she asked quietly.
He looked at her again. "To stop trembling?"
She shook her head. "To shape mana. To not fear it."
Outside, snow had begun to fall—barely more than frost in the wind, but soft and glimmering under the moon.
"Yes," he said. "Tomorrow."
---
The next day, Lyrian led her to a field rimmed with stone ruins.
They sat across from one another. Thorn lounged nearby, throwing rocks at a stump.
"Mana," Lyrian explained, "isn't power. It's memory. The world's memory. And your body is only a reed through which it sings."
"I'm tone-deaf," Mira muttered.
"You're afraid."
She didn't argue.
He had her breathe, center her thoughts, and call upon the most still moment she could remember.
It took time—but when she whispered the chant, this time, the spell didn't spark violently. It held. Soft and pulsing in her palm.
Lyrian smiled. Not with his lips, but with his eyes.
---
Their travels continued.
More towns. More faces. A broken well repaired. A band of miners guided through a collapsed path. A group of orphaned children given food and stories in exchange for songs.
Their coins grew, their packs heavier.
And then, in the mist near a noble-controlled outpost, came trouble.
A group of soldiers, clad in green-and-bronze cloaks, intercepted them just outside the gates.
"You three. Show permits," the leader barked.
"We're travelers," Lyrian said.
"Everyone's a traveler when they don't want to pay the toll."
Lyrian's eyes narrowed. "What toll?"
The man grinned. "Whatever we say it is."
They tried to push past, but one of the soldiers grabbed Mira's arm.
Before anyone could react, Lyrian moved.
It wasn't loud. There was no blaze of glory.
Only pressure—sudden, immense. A wave of mana surged like thunder held beneath glass.
The soldier froze. His arm fell away.
And all five men stumbled back, staring at Lyrian like he had become something not wholly human.
"Leave," Lyrian said.
They fled.
---
That night, in the shelter of a hayloft, Mira whispered, "You could've killed them."
Lyrian nodded. "I could have."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because restraint… is also a kind of strength."
Thorn stared at the rafters. "I want to be strong like that."
"You will be," Lyrian replied, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"You don't know that."
"I do."
They lay down.
And above them, the stars—mute and merciful—watched three wanderers dream.
The sky had begun to turn when they left the sleepy hamlet of Lornstead behind. Clouds drifted in from the north like spilled ink, smearing the gold of twilight into ash. The fields around the village were quiet—too quiet. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Lyrian felt it first. That subtle shift in the air, like a melody gone sour. Thorn noticed next, squinting up at the hills with a frown.
"Something's off," the boy murmured.
Mira didn't speak, but her eyes had already dulled to silver. She stood still, lips pressed tight, fingers twitching at her side as if trying to capture something just out of reach.
"I had a dream," she whispered.
Lyrian turned to her.
She didn't look at him. "There was fire… soldiers… and a voice saying, 'Run.'"
Lyrian's gaze sharpened. "How many?"
Mira blinked. "More than before. And someone else. Someone who wore a crest shaped like a bleeding rose."
Thorn paled. "That's House Draeven. They're one of the high seats in the Eastern Circle. My village—before it burned—was under their claim."
Lyrian nodded once. "Then they've sent someone to tie loose ends."
He looked west, toward the rising path that cut through the trees—where the air had grown too still, too deliberate.
"We don't run," Thorn said quietly. "Not this time."
Lyrian placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "No. But we don't rush into a blade either. Stay close."
They made their way toward a narrow ridge that curved like a spine across the hillside. And that's when they saw them—armor glinting in the last of the daylight, banners flapping, a squadron of nearly twenty riders, armed with swords and spears, backed by more men on foot. At the front rode a man cloaked in red velvet, trimmed with gold.
His horse was black and cruel-eyed. His crest—a silver rose bleeding down its stem—gleamed on his chestplate.
The man halted and raised a gloved hand.
"So the fugitives do not flee," he called.
Lyrian stepped forward.
"We are no fugitives. Only wanderers."
"Wanderers?" the man echoed with a mocking tilt of his head. "One of you crippled a patrol. Another carries banned magic. And this one—" He pointed at Mira. "—matches the description of the girl who burned through a checkpoint wall in Celdon Pass. You're thieves. Vagrants. And worse."
"I'm not a thief," Mira said, stepping forward. "I only took what I needed to live."
The commander's eyes narrowed.
"You'll speak when spoken to, witch."
Before Lyrian could reply, Thorn surged ahead.
"You call her a witch, but you wear velvet while children starve in your fiefdom. You call her a thief while you squeeze taxes from widows and burn homes for lumber! I know who you are. My village bled because of men like you!"
Gasps stirred in the ranks behind the commander. Lyrian heard one soldier murmur, "The orphan from Stonebrook?" before being silenced.
The commander's face remained cold.
"Then we finish what we should have finished when you were a babe in rags. Archers!"
He raised a hand.
Lyrian's cloak stirred before the arrows flew. The moment the commander's fingers twitched downward, he moved.
The arrows never touched the ground.
They floated—paused in air like frozen tears—then turned to ash.
Mira stared in wonder. Thorn stood still, jaw slack.
And Lyrian, cloak fluttering like wings behind him, eyes faintly glowing, stepped forward.
"I give you one chance," he said softly. "Leave."
The commander's lips curled. "So the ghost of the Hero's Order still breathes. You're a relic. Your war is over."
Lyrian did not answer. Instead, he raised his left hand—and the earth itself trembled beneath the hooves of their horses.
Rocks lifted. Roots split the soil and curled upward like serpents, throwing riders to the side. A shockwave of pressure swept across the hill—no flame, no blood, only power so vast it left silence in its wake.
The soldiers fell back.
Only the commander remained upright, though his horse reared and nearly threw him.
"You think that frightens me?" he spat.
Lyrian walked slowly toward him.
"No. But the choice you make next will haunt your bloodline."
The commander drew his sword. "I won't be threatened by an elf who hides behind children."
Before he could strike, something cracked beside him.
It was Mira.
Silver fire glowed at her fingertips. Not wild. Not chaotic. Controlled—barely—but shaped.
"Don't call us children," she said, voice shaking. "You're the one who's afraid of anyone who dreams of something better."
And she sent a bolt of light into the sky—so blinding that it stunned the entire field.
When vision returned, the commander was on one knee, blade dropped, smoke curling from his armor.
When Mira's silver fire struck the commander, searing across his chestplate and hurling him from his horse, the line of mounted soldiers behind him surged as one.
They charged.
Twenty men, blades drawn, cloaks whipping in the wind, voices raised in a battle cry. Thorn stepped in front of Mira, dagger trembling in his grip. The earth shook beneath the hooves of warhorses.
But Lyrian did not flinch.
He stepped forward—once, slowly.
And then he looked at them.
It wasn't rage that poured from him, nor fire, nor storm. It was silence. Absolute, suffocating, ancient silence.
The air cracked.
In the span of a heartbeat, every rider was lifted from their saddle by an invisible force—swept from the ridge like leaves before a hurricane. They didn't fall. They flew—spiraling, tossed across the hillside and into the distant trees like puppets whose strings had been cut.
Not one of them touched the ground with their weapons.
Only Lyrian remained standing. Cloak still. Eyes glowing faintly with moonlit silver. He stepped toward the commander, who was still kneeling, armor scorched, breath shallow.
The man tried to rise—tried to find his sword—but his limbs wouldn't obey. Something in him knew he was already dead.
"You speak of law," Lyrian said, voice low and deliberate. "But you've killed innocents. You've burned villages for profit. Extorted children. Starved the sick."
The commander spat blood, growling, "You… have no authority…"
"I was there," Lyrian said, "when this kingdom was born. I stood at the side of the man who raised it from ash. I watched him dream of peace while men like you whispered poison behind closed doors."
The commander raised his eyes, hatred burning. "I serve House Draeven. I fear no fallen elf."
Lyrian's expression didn't change. "You should fear the justice of those you wronged."
Then, with a single motion—a flick of his hand, as gentle as brushing away dust—the commander froze.
His armor cracked. His eyes widened, not in pain, but in sudden stillness. Then he crumbled—not bloodily, not gruesomely—but like smoke unraveling into the wind, his existence reduced to memory and silence.
"Only his sigil remained, charred into the stone. The remaining foot soldiers stood paralyzed, having glimpsed the ancient terror that could befall them should they take another step."
Mira and Thorn stood in silence.
Neither cheered. Neither moved.
And Lyrian turned back to them, his voice soft but firm.
"Let's go. Others will come."
But the wind did not rise again. It only carried away the last breath of a man who had ruled by fear—and met one far older than any fear he could imagine.
And with that, he turned his back.
---
They walked for hours after, not speaking at first.
The night was still warm, though the breeze carried a hint of river-cold. Trees leaned inward like quiet sentinels, and the stars overhead were clear—scattered across the sky like chalk marks drawn by a careless god.
Lyrian walked ahead, silent but alert. Mira followed at his heels, arms crossed over her chest, her silver eyes distant. Thorn trailed behind them both, occasionally kicking stones into the brush with unnecessary force.
None of them said it, but the weight of the execution still hung between them.
The commander's death had been swift. Merciful, perhaps, compared to what the man had done to others. Yet Thorn had flinched when the body fell. Mira had stood motionless, eyes fixed on Lyrian—not in fear, but in something quieter. Wonder. Unease.
They had not spoken since.
But now, the silence broke.
"I didn't think you'd actually do it," Thorn muttered, barely loud enough for the others to hear.
Lyrian didn't stop walking. "He made his choice."
"So did we," Mira said softly. "We followed you."
A long pause stretched between their footsteps.
"Why?" Lyrian asked.
Mira hesitated.
"In my dreams," she finally said, "I saw you. Before I ever met you. You stood beneath the Tree of Eternity. You didn't look like a hero. You looked… tired."
Lyrian glanced back, but said nothing.
"And I saw myself there too," she added. "With you. Not fighting. Just… walking. So I followed. That's all."
Lyrian turned to Thorn.
The boy kicked a rock harder than necessary. "Don't look at me. I don't have weird prophetic dreams or anything. I just figured… no one else has ever looked at us like we mattered. So yeah. I followed."
He looked embarrassed after saying it. Mira smiled faintly.
They reached a shallow stream cutting across the path and stopped. Fireflies drifted lazily over the water, and moonlight painted the trees in silver outlines. A small grove stretched just beyond, sheltered and soft.
Lyrian stepped into the mossy clearing and knelt, pressing his hand to the earth.
"This will do."
With a slow breath, he raised one hand—and a ring of stones shifted from the soil, forming a perfect firepit. He swept his fingers and kindling drifted in from the underbrush like leaves caught in a breeze. A final flick, and flame sparked to life—quiet and controlled.
Thorn stared. "Showoff."
"You want to try lighting it by hand?" Lyrian offered.
"No, no, this is fine," Thorn said quickly.
They sat around the fire, the warmth softening their silence. Mira tucked her legs beneath her, eyes watching the flames. Thorn pulled out the small wooden knife he'd been whittling since they left town, carving it idly against a strip of bark.
After a time, Lyrian broke the stillness.
"There are ways to teach mana control," he said. "Not tricks. Just patience. Breathing. Intent. Mira—show me the way you channel."
Mira blinked. "Now?"
"You have raw power," he said. "But it's like a river without banks. You'll drown yourself if you're not careful."
Mira nodded and extended her palm. A faint blue glow emerged, flickering and unstable. It pulsed erratically, like a heartbeat under duress.
"Too much pressure," Lyrian murmured. "You're trying to force it."
"I thought I had to."
"No. Magic listens when asked. Not when demanded."
He moved beside her, gently guiding her hand with his own. "Try again. But think of something that calms you. A memory. A sound. The feeling of stillness."
Mira closed her eyes.
The light returned—fainter, but steadier this time. Less a flame, more a glow.
"That's better," Lyrian said.
Thorn clapped once. "Alright, showoff number two."
Mira rolled her eyes, but smiled. "You want a turn?"
"Please, the only thing I can channel is sarcasm."
They laughed. And the laughter, even brief, warmed more than the fire.
Later, as the stars deepened overhead, Mira lay back on the moss. "Is it true?" she asked. "That you were part of the Hero's Order? The one from the books?"
Lyrian stared into the flame. "Yes."
"What was it like?"
"Like trying to hold back the tide with your hands. Victory never feels like it does in stories."
There was a quiet beat.
"Did you love her?" Mira asked. "Eira?"
Thorn sat up sharply. "Mira—!"
"No," Lyrian said. "It's alright."
He gazed into the stars. "I loved her. Yes. Not in the way you think. She was… the first person who ever believed I could be more than a weapon. When she died, it felt like the world got smaller."
Mira looked at him for a long time. "She left behind more than memory."
Lyrian raised an eyebrow.
"My mother," she said, "was a healer. Once, when I was little, she showed me a diary. She said it belonged to a friend of hers. A woman named Eira. It was filled with notes. Spells. Letters that didn't make sense."
Lyrian's breath caught.
"She gave it to me before she died. Said it would help someday because I have the same future sight eyes as her. I didn't understand it then. But now…" She met his eyes. "I think it was meant for you."
The fire crackled softly.
"May I see it?" Lyrian asked.
Mira nodded and pulled the old, worn leather journal from her bag. Lyrian opened it with reverence, flipping slowly through pages penned in Eira's familiar script.
To Thorn and Mira, it looked like ink and old paper.
But to Lyrian, it was like hearing her voice again.
"She left this for me," he said. "Forty years ago. And still thinking ahead."
He closed the book.
"She always saw further than the rest of us."
They sat in silence then, listening to the fire and the stream and the soft, slow rhythm of the world turning.
A single comet streaked across the sky, unnoticed.