The forest was quiet in the wake of thunder.
They walked for hours, not speaking—each of them wrapped in the hush that follows when death has passed too close. The path underfoot was soft with fallen needles, and the canopy above kept the stars mostly hidden, save for the few that blinked through the trees like the watchful eyes of spirits.
It wasn't until the moon had risen fully—silver and solemn in the sky—that Lyrian finally slowed. He paused at the edge of a clearing where fireflies hovered like drifting memories, their soft glow brushing against the mossy bark of trees and the pale stones half-swallowed by roots.
"There," he said gently. "We'll rest here."
Mira sank down near a fallen log, her legs folding like a puppet whose strings had grown tired. Thorn dropped beside her, quieter than usual, his hand drifting to the fresh bandage on his arm—reminder of the day's encounter. Lyrian remained standing for a moment longer, staring into the dark like someone listening to ghosts.
Then, with a wave of his hand, branches gathered from the forest floor and stacked neatly in the center of the grove. Another motion, and fire sparked to life—no grand flash, just a soft breath of warmth in the cold night.
It crackled low and slow. The flames danced gently, like they too were weary.
---
"You were going to leave us."Mira's voice broke the silence like the first raindrop before a storm.
Lyrian glanced over at her, then at Thorn, who was poking at the fire with a stick but saying nothing.
"I saw it," Mira continued, eyes fixed on the flames. "In a dream. You were walking away alone. And… I felt something. A shadow trying to pull you back. I didn't understand what it was, only that we had to follow you."
Thorn added, not meeting Lyrian's gaze, "We thought we'd just watch from afar. Just for a while. Until she had another dream… and then…"
"And then Caldrith burned," Mira finished quietly.
The silence stretched. Lyrian leaned back against a tree trunk, his eyes reflecting firelight.
"I wasn't trying to abandon you," he said at last. "I just… thought it would be safer. You shouldn't have to carry my past."
"But we do," Mira whispered. "We already are."
A long moment passed before Lyrian spoke again. "What did you see in the dream, Mira? The one that made you follow me?"
She hesitated, fingers fidgeting in her lap.
"I saw a tree," she said. "A great silver tree growing in a sea of stars. And you were standing beneath it… alone. Crying. But the world around you was frozen. And your tears were the only thing still moving."
Lyrian said nothing for a long time.
Then: "That tree… may be real."
Thorn looked up.
Mira blinked.
"It is said," Lyrian murmured, "that far beyond the known realms, there exists a place where time breaks. Where death has no meaning. Where a single wish may bloom like a flower in winter. It's called the Eternity Tree."
"And you want to find it?" Mira asked.
Lyrian's answer came after a pause. "I once did. Now… I'm not sure if I'm chasing it, or running from what I've lost."
---
They sat in silence, each digesting that in their own way.
Then Thorn changed the subject—awkwardly, but sincerely.
"I've been wondering… about your sword," he said. "You barely use it. Even when you could end a fight in an instant."
Lyrian looked to the long blade at his side, half-hidden in shadow.
"I made a promise long ago," he said quietly. "That I would only draw it when no other path remained. It was a weapon of salvation once. But it has also been used for… terrible things."
There was more behind those words, Mira knew. She glanced at him, curious—but said nothing.
Instead, she asked, "Can you teach me more about mana? I've been trying to control it, but it slips away. Like… like trying to hold water with my hands."
Lyrian nodded, and the rest of the night was spent in gentle instruction.
He taught her how to feel the flow of energy not just within herself, but within the world. How to breathe with intention. How to let the magic come rather than chase it.
"You don't command mana," he said softly. "You invite it."
---
When they finally lay down to rest, Mira curled near Thorn on a bed of soft moss. Lyrian sat with his back to a tree, still as a statue, staring into the fire. The flames flickered in his silver eyes.
Above them, the stars had gathered like old friends, scattered across the sky.
And in that quiet, Mira whispered one more question.
"Did Eira… ever see the tree too?"
Lyrian closed his eyes. The fire crackled. He didn't answer.
But Mira, hearing that silence, understood more than words could say.
---
Time skip — A few days later
The trio reached a small hamlet tucked between hills, its cottages moss-roofed and smoke rising peacefully from crooked chimneys. Chickens scattered in the dirt road as they passed, and the scent of bread drifted from an open window.
The people here stared a little at first—but not with fear. Just curiosity. Travelers were rare, and even rarer were those who looked like walking legends.
"Wait here," Lyrian said as they passed a tailor's stall. He stepped inside and returned with two bundles—new clothes for Thorn and Mira.
"These are for you."
Thorn blinked, stunned. Mira reached out slowly, holding up a simple but beautifully made travel cloak.
"They're enchanted to resist wear," Lyrian said. "And warm enough for the mountains ahead."
Mira smiled. "Thank you."
"I look like a prince," Thorn muttered, examining his new tunic. Mira laughed.
They stopped at an inn that night—nothing fancy, but warm, with a hearth and soft beds and a kindly woman who served stew thick with mushrooms and root vegetables. Mira ate with both hands. Thorn inhaled his food. Lyrian merely smiled.
Later, while Thorn helped the innkeeper's boy carry firewood, Lyrian sat beneath the stars with Mira on the inn's balcony.
"I had another dream," she whispered. "Not of the tree. This one was… of fire. Of soldiers. Of a city burning. But… it wasn't real. Not yet."
Lyrian's gaze narrowed. "Can you describe the city?"
She nodded. "White stone. A great gate shaped like wings. And banners bearing a sun crest."
"…Eldenhar," he said. "The capital."
She looked up. "Is that where we're going?"
"Eventually."
Mira hesitated. "If I'm Eira's disciple… then why can't I control my dreams the way she did?"
"Because she learned to listen. Not to command. Like with mana."
Mira pulled out the leather-bound diary from her satchel and set it gently beside her on the moss. The firelight shimmered across its worn surface.
Lyrian glanced at it, his gaze lingering—not with surprise, but with memory.
"You carry it carefully," he said softly.
"Every day," she replied. "Since I showed it to you in the cave… I've been trying to read more of it. It's hard sometimes. The handwriting fades. But it feels like… she's speaking to me."
Lyrian nodded. "Eira always wrote like her soul was ink."
Mira smiled faintly. "Do you think she knew I'd read it? That one day, her words would end up guiding someone like me?"
He looked into the flames. "She didn't write for the world," he murmured. "She wrote for those who needed her. I think… that includes you."
A quiet breeze stirred the leaves. Mira held the book close, her fingers brushing over Eira's name carved faintly into the back.
"I want to become someone worthy of this," she whispered.
"You already are," Lyrian said, almost inaudibly.
"Embers Along the Path"
---
The fire crackled low, casting a warm halo of light that danced in their eyes. Thorn had fallen asleep first, wrapped in his new cloak, face pressed into the crook of his elbow like a child unburdened by the weight of the world. Mira sat beside him, cross-legged and awake, her thumb still resting on the edge of Eira's diary.
Lyrian watched the fire in silence.
"Is it hard?" Mira's voice was quiet. "Living so long?"
He didn't answer at first. Not because he hadn't heard her—but because it was a question that demanded honesty, not habit.
"Yes," he finally said. "Harder than most things. You outlive the places, the people, even the stories. Eventually… the silence becomes the only thing you trust."
Mira looked over at him. "Then why do you keep walking?"
Lyrian's eyes didn't meet hers, but there was a shift in his voice. "Because someone asked me to."
Mira didn't press further. She didn't need to. Something about the quiet—cracked only by the rustle of leaves and the chirp of a distant night bird—made his meaning sacred, too intimate for further questions.
Instead, she asked, "Will you teach me more tomorrow? About mana?"
Lyrian nodded. "We'll begin at dawn."
---
The Next Morning – On the Road
The sun rose slow and mist-laced, casting the trees in amber and bronze. Dew clung to their boots as they walked the narrow forest path that threaded between silent oaks. Thorn rubbed sleep from his eyes with a grunt, half-listening as Mira peppered Lyrian with questions about mana threads, spell anchors, and the limits of healing enchantments.
"You said mana is like breath," she recalled.
"It is," Lyrian answered. "But it's not just something within you—it's also around you. You must learn to feel it, not just force it."
Thorn blinked. "So… magic is like fishing?"
Lyrian chuckled, genuinely. "In a way. Some fish you guide gently. Others… you let go."
They paused by a shallow creek for water, and Mira took the moment to try casting a minor spell Lyrian had shown her: calling a tiny flame into her palm without burning the air.
She tried three times. The first fizzled. The second sparked too bright and nearly singed her sleeve. The third... held.
She beamed. "I did it!"
Thorn clapped. "We're going to be unstoppable soon."
---
Arrival at a Small Hamlet – Greymoor's End
By afternoon, they emerged from the trees into open meadows and winding stone fences. A short distance down the road, a small hamlet rose from the hill: Greymoor's End, a cluster of thatched rooftops and wooden signs, barely two dozen buildings deep.
A quiet kind of charm lived here. Smoke curled from chimneys. Chickens wandered unattended. A weathered old man sat on a stool carving flutes from hollow bark.
As they passed into the village, Lyrian motioned to the others. "We'll stay here tonight."
"An inn?" Thorn asked hopefully.
Lyrian nodded. "And clothes. We'll need better ones before the rain season."
---
Warm Hearth and Changing Threads
The inn was quaint—The Hollow Lantern, run by a kindly middle-aged couple with a snoring dog in the back room. The woman fussed over Mira's tangled hair, tsking as she served stew and bread. Thorn devoured his bowl in seconds.
After they'd eaten, Lyrian left briefly and returned with fresh clothes from the tailor across the square—simple but well-made: a forest-green tunic for Thorn, a soft lavender cloak for Mira, and belts with small pouches for herbs and stones.
"These are beautiful," Mira whispered, brushing her fingers along the lining. "Thank you."
Lyrian only nodded. "You'll need them."
---
That Night – Under Stars
Later, they sat just outside the village on a grassy hill where the stars blinked through the night sky like a scattered mosaic. The moon was high and silver, and the world felt impossibly vast.
Thorn leaned back with his arms behind his head. "You ever think about the stars, Lyrian? Like… what they are?"
"They're stories," Lyrian said. "Old ones. Some true, some not. All waiting for someone to listen."
Mira whispered, "Do you have a favorite?"
Lyrian paused. "Yes. But it's not written in the sky. It's a memory. Of someone who once tried to bring back a fallen star."
Silence followed, soft and reverent. Mira leaned her head against Thorn's shoulder, and the boy went stiff for a moment, unsure, then relaxed.
The moment held. Briefly. But in its stillness, something else began to shift.
---
Side Quest – The Broken Cart
The next morning, as they prepared to leave Greymoor's End, a boy came running from the village's far edge, breathless.
"Please—someone, help! My pa—his cart flipped on the ridge road! He's trapped beneath!"
Lyrian didn't hesitate. "Show me."
Together, the three followed the boy up the steep path that wound into the forest's edge. There, an overturned cart lay across the trail, one of its wheels shattered, and beneath it, a man groaned in pain.
Thorn and Mira moved instantly to help clear the logs. Lyrian crouched, hands glowing faintly, and whispered words in a tongue Mira didn't understand. The cart lifted—not by strength, but by will—and the man was pulled free.
His leg was crushed. Lyrian's hands moved fast, glowing with a healing warmth that shimmered like sunlight beneath water. Mira watched, memorizing every movement.
When it was done, the man blinked, groaned—and sat upright.
"I… I can feel my foot again," he breathed.
The boy hugged his father, weeping. "Thank you. Thank you!"
Lyrian said nothing, simply helped the man to stand. Mira looked at him with new reverence.
---
That Evening – Deeper Questions
As they set up camp again, Mira was quieter than usual. When Thorn had fallen asleep, she finally spoke.
"You always help people," she said. "Even when they don't know your name."
Lyrian stirred the fire with a stick. "Names don't matter. Choices do."
"But… why don't you tell them? Who you are?"
He stared into the flames. "Because I'm not who I used to be. And the stories told about me—they belong to the dead."
Mira frowned. "That's not fair to the living. To people like me. Like Thorn."
A pause.
"I want to know," she said gently. "I want to know the real you."
He looked at her then, and for a moment, the mask of centuries cracked.
"I was once a boy," he said quietly. "Taken from a forest not unlike this one. Given a sword too heavy for his hands. I believed I could save the world."
He dropped the stick into the flames.
"But saving it… meant losing too much."___
It had been four days since they'd left the hill-country inn behind. The road had faded into a dirt path, then to winding grass trails that had no names. Morning mists clung to their cloaks and the scent of damp earth followed them as they walked beneath vast canopies of green. Thorn had grown quieter with each mile, more thoughtful. Mira, in contrast, seemed to be watching the world with wide, searching eyes—almost as if trying to peer beyond what was visible.
Lyrian noticed this change. He knew it for what it was.
Magic was awakening in her.
Not just the kind that danced at one's fingertips, but the deeper kind—the quiet magic of memory, of fate, of echoes.
That evening, the trees parted before them to reveal a wide, slow river. Its waters ran pale gold under the late sun, and dragonflies flitted above the reeds. Mira stepped to the edge and touched the water like it was sacred. Thorn tossed a pebble that skipped once, twice, then sank with a soft plunk.
But Lyrian… froze.
He stared across the riverbank—at an oak.
Not the largest tree in the grove, nor the oldest, nor the tallest.
But it was the first.
He remembered it at once, though it had been nearly nine centuries. It stood alone back then—when he, young and uncertain, had knelt to cradle its battered sapling form in cracked hands. The earth was scorched then. The war had just ended. The land bore no green. And yet this single tree, defiant, had tried to grow in a world that had forgotten life.
He had poured healing magic into it, not out of duty—but because he couldn't bear to see something else die.
He whispered to it that day, thinking no one would remember.
Now, it stood proud—its roots thick as barrels, its leaves a canopy of life itself. It was the heart of the forest he hadn't known had grown around it.
"Wait here," Lyrian said quietly.
He crossed the shallow stones barefoot, cloak trailing in the water. Mira and Thorn watched him go without speaking.
He touched the trunk.
And there, half-buried beneath moss and centuries, was a mark.
His master's mark.
Burned into the bark.
It was no ordinary glyph. The spiral was layered over itself seven times—an ancient sigil of temporal concealment. He leaned in, brushing aside growth and grime, and saw words beneath, scorched with fingertip precision into the wood.
"If you are reading this… then you are still walking. Good. Cast the root-call. It is time."
Lyrian exhaled shakily.
His master. The one who had taught him not only magic but restraint. The one who had walked with him across the corpse of empires. The one who vanished, leaving only the memory of laughter by the fire and scrolls full of riddles.
He had been here.
"Root-call," Lyrian murmured.
That was a spell he hadn't touched in centuries. He remembered it—of course he did—but only barely. It was forbidden magic in some courts. Most mages today wouldn't even know it existed.
He knelt before the oak, pressed both hands to the ground, and whispered the words in the old tongue:
"Saen'var dūne, saen'val luthiel."
The earth trembled.
Mira gasped.
Roots uncoiled themselves like fingers, ancient and groaning. The ground around the oak split open like a blooming flower. From beneath moss and stone, wood shaped itself with creaking grace, forming a spiral staircase descending into the dark.
The forest hushed. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
"What… is that?" Thorn said, taking a step closer.
Lyrian turned to them, his face unreadable in the half-light.
"My master's vault. One of the last."
He took a breath.
"You can come. But be silent. What lies beneath… was not meant for many eyes."
---
They descended slowly, the moss-draped roots weaving around them like protective sentinels. The stairwell opened into a wide, circular chamber carved into the base of the tree itself. There were no torches—only veins of glowing amber flowing like lifeblood through the wooden walls, casting the room in gentle gold.
In the center, atop a pedestal shaped like an unfurled flower, rested a single book.
It was wrapped in layers of protective binding—arcane locks, sacred thread, and even a ward that hummed with power so old it made Mira dizzy just standing near it.
Lyrian stepped forward.
"This…" he whispered, his voice barely audible, "...is the last written memory of the Nightmare."
Thorn blinked. "The Nightmare? The… the archmage? The first mage? The one who—who erased a whole city with a single word?"
Mira's lips parted. "I thought he was a myth."
"No," Lyrian said. "He was very real. And he was my friend."
That silenced them.
Gently, he undid the bindings. Each thread melted beneath his touch. Each glyph responded as if recognizing him. The book unfurled itself with a slow breath, its pages ancient, yet perfectly preserved.
Its cover bore no title—only a single name.
One Mira could not read.
But Lyrian could.
"Aeltherion,That was his name. Before the world called him Nightmare. Before they feared him. Before they forgot," he said this to himself.
He flipped the first page.
Ink scrawled by an unsteady hand filled it, and even Lyrian paled as he read.
The Nightmare's final spell.
The first true spell.
Written in a language lost to history—one not of words, but of intent. Of will.
"It's not just a book," Lyrian whispered. "It's a seed."
"A seed?" Mira asked.
Lyrian looked at them both.
"He left this behind for someone who could understand it. Who would dare to look deeper—not at power, but at purpose."
He looked at Mira.
Then to Thorn.
And slowly, he smiled.
"Maybe it's time the world remembered where magic truly came from."
___Lyrian turned the ancient pages with care, each one a breath from the past.
The ink had not faded. The language was neither Elvish nor Human, but older—etched in spirals and lines that mirrored flowing mana itself. Mira and Thorn stood nearby, quiet in the hush that followed the spell Lyrian had cast to unearth this forgotten place. Their eyes stayed fixed on him, and on the book that pulsed