After our conversation, I was granted a cabin on the outskirts of the village, near the shadowed edge of the Dark Forest.

  Dorien gave the order without hesitation.

  “Malena,” he said, “escort the young man to the cabin we will assign to our new explorer. See that he is properly settled.”

  “Of course, Father.” She turned to me with composed grace. “Please, follow me, Sir Valdor.”

  We stepped back into the streets of Tufnar.

  The village was already stirring with purpose. Hammers rang against stone. Timber was carried across shoulders. Colored ribbons and woven streamers fluttered between rooftops in preparation for the Rite of Winds of Eryion. The southern sea lay two days away, yet a faint salt-kissed breeze reached the valley, softening the air.

  It felt different from the north.

  Lighter.

  As we walked, villagers greeted Malena warmly. She answered each one with a smile that did not feel rehearsed or political—it was genuine. Children ran toward her, laughing, tugging at her sleeves before darting away again. A fruit seller pressed a small basket into her hands; she insisted on paying, and he refused with a grin.

  She was not merely respected.

  She was cherished.

  We left the busier market roads and approached the village’s outer boundary. The Dark Forest loomed not far beyond—a silent wall of ancient trees watching from a distance.

  The cabin stood slightly apart from the others.

  Broad, sturdy logs formed its walls. A stone chimney rose along one side. A generous garden stretched before it, soil freshly turned. It was larger than I expected.

  Inside, the space was simple yet welcoming. A sturdy wooden table. Chairs. A hearth. Shelves stocked with basic provisions. Two modest bedrooms. A cellar below.

  I turned slowly, assessing the beams, the construction, the thickness of the walls.

  “This is… quite a generous dwelling,” I said. “Very welcoming, wouldn’t you agree, my lady?”

  Malena walked through the main room, fingertips brushing lightly over the wooden surface of the table.

  “Yes,” she replied thoughtfully. “It would make a fine home… one day.”

  There was no teasing in her voice. Only quiet certainty.

  The words lingered longer than they should have.

  Home.

  The winters would not be as cruel this far south. The walls were thick. The marine breeze softened the climate. It was the kind of place meant for permanence.

  “Does it suit you?” she asked.

  “It does,” I answered after a pause. “As I mentioned before… I hope it may become my new beginning.”

  “I am glad.”

  She stepped toward the door.

  “I will return in the morning to provide further instructions. Rest for now.”

  She offered that same warm smile before leaving.

  When the door closed, silence settled around me.

  I unpacked what little I possessed. My belongings were few—necessities only. The pantry contained dried grains, herbs, root vegetables. I brewed a modest tea and allowed myself to sit without armor pressing against my ribs.

  For the first time in years, I did not sleep with one hand near my blade.

  —

  I awoke abruptly.

  Not to noise.

  To scent.

  Rich. Savory. Familiar.

  For a brief moment, my mind dragged me back to monastery halls—the aroma of venison stew carried through stone corridors on winter evenings.

  My eyes opened sharply.

  Someone was in the cabin.

  Before I fully registered the scene, my hand moved instinctively toward where my sword should have been.

  It was not at my bedside.

  I rose quietly.

  In the kitchen stood Malena.

  Her long dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders as she stirred a pot with calm assurance, as though she had always belonged in that space.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “Well,” she said without turning, “you slept longer than I expected, Lord Draven.”

  I exhaled slowly, tension easing but not entirely fading.

  “There is no need for formality,” I said evenly. “Valdor will suffice.” I studied her for a moment. “Though I must ask… why are you here at dawn, cooking in my cabin?”

  She turned, resting the ladle against the pot’s rim.

  “In that case, you must call me Malena.” A faint curve touched her lips. “My father sent provisions. I thought it best to prepare something myself. Venison stew—with forest mushrooms and herbs. Potatoes grow particularly well in this soil.”

  There was no embarrassment in her posture. No hesitation. She moved through the cabin with quiet authority.

  Her presence was steady. Assured.

  And strangely… familiar.

  The scent thickened in the air, and my stomach betrayed me with a low rumble.

  She ladled stew into a bowl and placed it before me.

  I noticed she had not served herself.

  “It would honor me if you joined me,” I said. “Please.”

  For a heartbeat she studied me—measuring perhaps whether it was courtesy or obligation.

  Then she smiled and filled her own bowl, sitting opposite me.

  The broth was rich, layered with depth. The venison tender. The herbs subtle yet precise. It stirred something long dormant—memories of brotherhood, of laughter in colder times.

  “This is excellent,” I admitted. “You have my gratitude, Malena.”

  “I appreciate the compliment,” she replied. “My father favors this dish. We prepare it often.” She set her spoon down. “He asked that you visit him once you are ready. I must attend to matters at the merchants’ guild. Perhaps we will speak again later.”

  There it was again—that warmth.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly. “May your day be a good one.”

  “And yours, Valdor.”

  When she departed, I finished the meal in silence.

  Then I dressed.

  Breastplate secured. Sword fastened. The blue cloak draped over my shoulders—the last remnant of Eddrem.

  Outside, the market was alive even at this early hour. I felt the weight of eyes upon me as I passed.

  Not fear.

  But caution.

  A mother subtly drew her child closer as I walked by. An older man watched with narrowed eyes before returning to his work. Warriors were uncommon here. Or perhaps their memories of them were not pleasant.

  I reached the sage’s house in the center of the plaza.

  “Good morning, Sir Valdor,” Yliena greeted politely. “Lord Dorien awaits you in his office. You may enter freely.”

  “Thank you, Yliena.”

  I walked down the corridor and knocked once upon the heavy door.

  “Enter.”

  As I pushed it open, I was met with the warm aroma of freshly prepared tea.

  Dorien Aldur sat at his desk, and unlike the grave composure of the previous night, there was something almost youthful in his expression.

  Two cups were already poured.

  Steam rose steadily from both.

  He had not simply expected me.

  He had been waiting.

  Dorien clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing before I had fully taken my seat.

  “Welcome,” he said briskly. “Would you like some tea? No matter—I have already poured it. Today, Valdor, I have much to share. What I have discovered is… remarkable.”

  He could barely contain himself.

  The elderly scholar moved across the room with restless energy, robes brushing against shelves heavy with manuscripts. His hands traced invisible shapes in the air as he spoke, as though he were rearranging the past itself.

  “Where should I begin?” he murmured. “When I was still an erudite in the capital of Agnorag, I gained access to restricted archives. Manuscripts so old they nearly dissolved at the edges.”

  He paused and looked at me directly.

  “They were written in Draconic.”

  The word lingered between us.

  “I had to learn the language to decipher them. Years of study. The author… lived during the Ancestral War.”

  A witness.

  Few survived long enough to write of it.

  Dorien’s voice lowered, reverent.

  “This was not the account of a distant historian. It was written by someone who saw the colossi with his own eyes.”

  I lifted the cup of tea he had prepared. Steam coiled upward, fading slowly into the air between us.

  Dorien resumed pacing.

  “These writings do not merely describe the colossi,” he continued. “They speak of ancient pacts—agreements forged between races in desperation. Oaths sealed not in ink, but in blood.”

  He stopped at the window, staring beyond the glass toward the distant line of forest.

  “They detail secrets that were deliberately buried when the war ended.”

  He turned back to me.

  “The kind of secrets that reshape how we understand our own origins.”

  Silence stretched.

  “If what is written there is true,” he added quietly, “then much of our accepted history is… incomplete.”

  He let that settle before continuing.

  “And incomplete history,” he said, “is dangerous.”

  The shift in his tone was subtle—but unmistakable.

  “If such knowledge were to fall into the wrong hands…” He did not finish the thought.

  He did not need to.

  “That is why I need people I can trust here in Tufnar,” he said firmly. “The Theocracy does not know what we study. There are no sanctums here. Only scholars. And now, you.”

  I held his gaze.

  “I understand.”

  And I did.

  This was no quiet village of curious academics.

  It was a frontier of forbidden memory.

  A place where knowledge could become a weapon.

  A faint, satisfied smile appeared on his face.

  “The reason we require an explorer,” Dorien continued, his energy returning, “is that the Dark Forest and the slopes of Druraran are not merely wilderness.”

  He unrolled a map upon the desk—marked carefully with annotations and sigils.

  “They are archives.”

  He tapped the parchment.

  “We need samples. Leaves from the oldest trees. Soil from deep within the forest. Ash carried down by the winds from Druraran’s peak.”

  His expression sharpened.

  “The ash carries more than heat.”

  The words were almost absent-minded—but deliberate.

  “My alchemists and I will examine everything you bring. The scrolls I discovered are not fully deciphered. Certain passages are written in a language older than Draconic. I cannot identify it. It may belong to a race that vanished during the War of Conquest… or perhaps something older still.”

  His gaze grew distant for a moment, as if he were staring beyond time itself.

  “It unsettles me,” he admitted softly. “But it compels me even more.”

  He folded his hands behind his back once again.

  “There is another matter. When you are not exploring, I ask that you assist the hunters. The beasts within the forest grow restless as the seasons shift. A capable protector may mean the difference between a safe return and a funeral pyre.”

  A protector again.

  So fate was not finished with me.

  I inclined my head.

  “You will have both my blade and my vigilance,” I said. “Your research will continue uninterrupted. And your hunters will not stand alone.”

  For a brief moment, something unspoken passed between us.

  He was not merely hiring a swordsman.

  He was entrusting a secret to a survivor of a fallen order.

  Dorien nodded slowly, satisfaction in the measured movement.

  “Good.”

  He returned to his chair, though the fire in his eyes had not dimmed.

  “Understand this, Valdor. What we are building here in Tufnar may one day matter far beyond this valley. Beyond the forest. Beyond the volcano.”

  His gaze lingered on me.

  “And when that day comes… we will need more than knowledge alone.”

  He paused, fingers resting lightly against the desk.

  “And I fear,” he added quietly, “that day may come sooner than we think.”

  The steam from the tea had faded entirely.

  Outside, beyond the walls of the sage’s house, the wind shifted.