The cold was returning in the northern plains—not yet the suffocating white of deep winter, but enough to taste on the breath. Enough to leave fingers stinging, even through cloth. It was early winter in the northern town, and frost had begun to creep in, quiet and unseen—subtle, without snow, but with the kind of cold that lingered low and dry in the breath.
Rowe had no chores that day, he was wandering without purpose. He had already done more than most children his age were expected to do, Just the usual: small errands, carrying bowls, passing messages. Tasks he could manage with the quiet competence he always carried.
Today was one of the rare days when no one asked anything of him. So he had walked down into the town on his own.
His feet traced familiar paths between quiet homes and shopfronts, the worn wooden signs creaking as the breeze shifted. Cloths flapped from high windows. Smoke curled from chimneys in calm spirals.
He passed the bakery; warm air spilled from the half-open door, thick with yeast and rising dough. The cobbler's bell rang behind him as someone entered. He paid no mind and kept on drifting through the streets.
When he reached the tavern, he paused. It sat like a low-slung giant at the bend of the street, with its heavy beams and wide front porch. A large, square opening on the side—a wide wooden shutter pinned open—revealed flickers of movement and voices within.
"Rowe!" a voice called.
He looked up. Inside, behind the counter, stood Nire—the tavern's mistress. A beautiful mid aged woman with sleeves rolled up and hair tied back, always moving, always loud in a warm sort of way. She leaned out the side window and waved him closer.
"Come on in, little guard," she said, grinning. "I've got something for you."
He stepped inside quietly, letting the heavy door creak behind him.
"You helped me a great deal yesterday," Nire said, handing him a wrapped loaf still warm from the oven. "That gaggle of spice-sellers nearly stole my counter. If you hadn't sat there when I was sorting stock, they'd have eaten my patience raw."
Rowe accepted the bread with both hands. "Thank you."
"No thanks," she replied, patting his shoulder once. "You helped. That's enough."
He sat near the end of a long table, where the light from the open window spilled across the wood. The loaf was rough but soft at the center. Warmth spread through his fingers.
He took the bread and climbed onto one of the stools around the table near the window. There, he sat. Eating. Slowly. Eyes half-closed. Thinking. It was only after the second bite that he began to notice something strange.
... something... felt different.
Outside the tavern window, the street was busier than it should have been.
People. But not the ones Rowe usually saw.
They moved in groups today. Strangers. Not the usual faces.
Quiet, stiff-backed men and women with unreadable faces and their clothes were thick and travel-stained, rough with strange cuts and heavy boots that clinked faintly when they walked. Some had faint scars along their faces, some had walking staves strapped with iron ends, others had belts filled with tools—or weapons. Boots too clean for farm work, too dusty for town labor. Faces inpecting the surroundings, some had their faces turned inwards, like their thoughts were heavier than their equipments.
Rowe watched.
They didn't look like farmers. Didn't act like shop owners. Not townsfolk. Not traders.
In his mind, something flickered.Memories... Not from here, but from before.
They reminded him of things he didn't fully remember—Men in uniforms.
Boots on concrete.
Metal frames.
Tension behind silence.
But not quite.
His memories didn't give names. Only... impressions. Concepts. They were the type who returned from places others didn't go. Or the type sent toward something dangerous.
They moved in groups—strangers with staves and blade-scarred belts. Not farmers. Not traders.
Private security? Like contractors from documentaries in his memories. But their gear screamed medieval.
Soldiers? the word floated up.
That's what his mind whispered. But the word felt misplaced.
They didn't move in unison. No formation. No colors. Not soldiers in the way he remembered them. If anything, they moved like people returning from something unfinished. Or people preparing for something they couldn't fully name. More like...
He paused.
No, he didn't know what they were.
But they weren't here for something as simple as to just look around. That was something he coud feel intuitively.
Something... was coming.
And Rowe knew—without knowing how—that it was not something small.
Rowe was halfway into finishing the bread. He ate leisurely, his eyes were measuring the streets.
Things about today were… erriely different.
He had noticed it in the streets already—faces unfamiliar, movements taut with purpose. Some now, seated here within the softly humming walls of the tavern, he noticed the change with unknown concern again.
A group floating through the crowded streets was now moving towards the tavern.
Four figures stepped through the tavern doors with unhurried steps—markedly unlike the locals. Their presence did not shout. It settled. Like a weight quietly placed on the air.
Waking at the front of them was a young girl.
Young—though much older than Rowe—she had a bow strapped across her back, and a pair of slender daggers secured at her thighs, one on each side. Her gait was steady, her eyes scanning the room with her head covered in a lowered broad hood. Calm. Balanced. Wary.
Beside her walked two young men.
The first looked in his late-twenties , he had hair the color of northern dusk—light pink, dusted by travel. He clutched a thick, leather-bound book as if it were something living. His expression was unreadable: serious, composed, mildly distant.
The second had the unmistakable look of someone who had only just stepped into adulthood—bright, red hair like fire under sunset, and a smile that curved too easily, too often. Two crescent-shaped blades rested at each hip. He looked like someone who enjoyed causing small trouble and then laughing about it.
Trailing behind them was an older man, mid-forties perhaps—broad-shouldered, with the quiet stillness of someone who'd seen too much to be startled by much else. His face looked worn, but full of vitality.
Their clothes were unfamiliar—not the loose wool and patched linen of the townfolk. Layers, straps, weapon holsters, travel gear balanced just enough for speed or defense. They looked… purposeful.
Rowe's eyes narrowed slightly.
They're don't look anything like the ones outside, he thought.
Then, his thoughts were interrupted when he noticed. The weapons. The leather grips, the weighty blades, the steel buckles. He stared.
Blades and bows. *Did firearms exist here?* If so, they hadn't reached this frozen corner. Cold weapons. Not guns. No signs of machinery. No firearms.
The thought pulsed in his mind.
What kind of place uses swords in the era of metal and fire?Did I reincarnate into… an older world? A different era entirely? or something like a fantasy world? what are these thoughts I'm having ...
His thoughts were broken when the group slowly made their way toward him. The tavern had few large tables free at this hour of the evening, and Rowe, sitting alone at one such table, was the quietest corner they could find.
The older man stepped forward first.
"Excuse us, young one," he said with a respectful dip of the head. "May we take these seats?"
Rowe looked up. Measured them in a glance. He saw no danger—only strangers with a path of their own.
He nodded. "Yes. Go ahead."
The group sat. Rowe introspected, Their manners look foreign and they are being so polite to a child.
The older man smiled. "Thank you. I'm Zeirn, I'm the acting guardian to these three on their journey. We are on our route to the northern town—Eiraeth."
Rowe blinked.
The name meant nothing to him.
Seeing his reaction, Zeirn continued, "Perhaps you know it by a different name… Edge of the Dream Forest?"
That struck a note.
Dan… had said something about forest along the lines in the passing.He couldn't remember the context. Only the name. Dream Forest. It left a curious feeling in his chest.
"…I see," Rowe said softly.
The girl, still hooded, gave a polite nod. "You may call me Aenra. Apologies if we interrupted your meal."
Rowe shook his head. "You didn't. I was about to finish anyway"
Next was the quiet one with the book.
"Elar," he said, barely glancing up. His voice was smooth, neutral.
Rowe found his gaze drifting to the thick book in Elar's hand—its spine embossed with strange symbols, edges worn from use.
Elar noticed.
"You like books?" he asked.
Rowe gave a small nod.
"When you're older," Elar added with a faint curve of his lips, "you'll have chances to read many like this."
"…What is it?" Rowe asked.
Elar tapped the cover with two fingers. "Too complex for your age. But… if I had to explain—this one discusses the nature of Nae. I think they teach these things at the Academy these days"
Rowe blinked.
"…Nae?, Academy?..."
A new word. Completely foreign. He stored it away.
Before he could ask more, the fiery-haired young man leaned forward.
"I'm Torin," he said brightly. "If you're ever bored, come to the inn upstairs. I'll teach you some fun stuff."
Rowe looked at him carefully. Torin reminded him of sun through red leaves. Loud, warm, fleeting.
"Alright," Rowe said.
And then, quietly, Rowe stood up.
He gave a slight bow—carefully measured, neither submissive nor proud. "I'm Rowe. I live at the orphanage… the one on the hill you could see it from the town square."
Zeirn nodded. "It's kind of you to let us share your table, Rowe."
Rowe gave one last glance to the group, then the bread in his hand, now down to the last bite. He finished it. Brushed his fingers. Wiped the crumbs neatly from the table into a napkin. And left.
As Rowe was near the gates Torin shouted waving goodbye to Rowe "we'll be resting here for the next four days remember to come find us, I find you quite likeable how about being my little brother...."
Rowe glanced and moved on, In the people left behind Zeirn and Torin had a good laugh "HAhaha haha ha" at the seriousness and politeness of this little bird like child.
He walked back into the street without looking back.
But his thoughts were louder than ever.
New names. New words. Nae. Eiraeth. Dream Forest.
Things that do not belong to the world I thought I woke up in.
He kept walking, deeper into town. The mountains loomed behind him like a silent audience.
The sun had slipped lower by the time Rowe stepped out. A pale light rimmed the eaves of the buildings, and the wind had sharpened its voice—still not biting, but colder than before.
He wandered, not in haste, just letting his feet find the stone and soil of the town's narrow veins. People moved past, most not seeing him. That suited him fine.
But it wasn't silence that filled the town today. It was murmurs.
He heard them in passing—snatches of talk drifting from corners, from open doors, from the shaded gaps between barrels or beneath overhangs. Words, unfinished, spoken low. Voices old and young.
"Things are shifting again."
Rowe turned his head, quietly, as a group of peddlers passed him by. One of them—a broad man with sleeves rolled up and boots cracked from travel—was whispering urgently to another:
"They say it's starting soon. The mountain are going to be in turmoil. The four year time is up again, It sounds like—"
But the words cut off as they passed, lost to the shuffle of others.
He paused by a stone well. Smoke from chimneys curled above in crooked threads, as if trying to speak a language of their own.
He was noticing it now—how, many travelers kept glancing eastward, toward the horizon where white peaks rose like sleeping beasts. The snow mountains. And how all of them looked somewhat excited yet somewhat troubled.
They observed a little, then looked away.
Rowe felt it too. A faint itch at the base of his spine. Not fear. Not yet. But unease. The kind that doesn't come from knowing, but from almost knowing.
He remembered Zeirn's words.
"Eiraeth."
"Edge of the Dream Forest."
What kind of place lies on this edge of the dream forest? And what kind of forest touches snow yet is surviving at its finest ? He turned to look toward the mountains. The sky above them was pale. No fences. No roofs. Only white and silence.
And just for a moment—He saw something—he thought he saw something. A flicker of dark on the pale. Movement, distant. Impossible to name. There and gone again. He blinked. Nothing remained.
Just snow.
Just mountain.
Just wind.
Before entering back to the orphanage Rowe has a thought Looks like these snow mountains might have an exciting event happening a slight lift appeared in the corners of his mouth on his little serious face.