There was no sound.
No warmth.
No breath.
Only silence… and stars.
I stood barefoot on a vast lake of black glass. The sky above me swirled in constellations I did not recognize—runes etched in starlight, pulsing faintly in slow rhythm, as if the heavens themselves were breathing.
The water beneath my feet rippled—but did not break. Each step echoed like wind through forgotten halls.
I looked down.
No reflection.
Only darkness.
Then—
A bell.
A chime, high and sharp, like silver against bone.
The stars blinked.
And suddenly the lake fractured, revealing a tapestry of visions rippling through the cracks:
Flames devouring scrolls.Clawed hands etching runes into frozen stone.A winged shadow circling a mountain peak.And—
A woman.
Cloaked in layered robes of moon-thread and deep ink.
Her face was hidden beneath a veil of pale silk.
But her presence—immense.
Not god.
Not mortal.
Just old.
Timeless.
She stood upon a mountain wreathed in cloud and mist—where moonlight never died, and strange stars hovered near the horizon like watchers.
The wind shifted.
And though she did not move her lips, I heard her voice ripple through the dream:
"North… where the Celestial Order forgot its gods.Where star meets silence.There… I remain."
I tried to move closer, to speak, but my voice caught in my throat.
The stars pulsed brighter—
And the world shattered.
I woke with a gasp, cold air filling my lungs.
The forest greeted me with the soft rustle of leaves.
The winged wolf stirred beside me—its body no longer trembling, its silver eyes now open, watching me carefully.
Still silent.
Still wary.
But awake.
I pressed a hand against my chest, the locket warm against my skin.
"I saw her…"
My voice cracked with awe and disbelief.
"The Great Sage…"
I turned my gaze northward, toward the far peaks barely visible through the treetops.
"…in the mountains of the Celestial Order."
That was where my path now led.
The morning mist clung low to the forest floor, veiling the undergrowth in pale silver.
I stood at the edge of the clearing, cinching my satchel tighter across my shoulder. The locket around my neck pulsed softly—calm, but steady. My mother's comb still rested firmly in my hair, tucked with care behind my ear.
My cloak smelled faintly of ash and moss.
But the blood had dried.
The tears had stopped.
And my feet were ready to move.
Behind me, the winged wolf stirred.
It stood now—unsteady, but tall. Taller than I expected. Its silver eyes caught the filtered sunlight through the trees, glinting like mirrors to another world.
It didn't growl.
Didn't bare its teeth.
It simply watched.
I met its gaze.
"You don't have to follow me," I said quietly, placing my hand over my heart. "You owe me nothing."
It took a step forward.
Then another.
Wings dragged slightly behind it, still too damaged to stretch—but no longer limp with death.
It came to my side.
Stopped.
And sat.
"…You're really coming, aren't you?"
It blinked slowly. No response.
But it didn't move.
Didn't turn back to the woods.
It had chosen.
I reached into my satchel, pulling out a strip of cloth from my spare tunic. I wrapped it gently around the worst of its wounds—nothing permanent, but enough to protect it for the road ahead.
"You need a name," I murmured, fingers brushing the fur behind its ear again.
It leaned slightly into the touch.
"…But I suppose you'll tell me in time."
We began walking north.
No fanfare.
No farewell.
Only the soft crunch of leaves beneath our steps, and the distant call of birds echoing through the woods.
The path to the Celestial Order lay far beyond these trees.
Beyond rivers.
Ruins.
And stories waiting to be unearthed.
But I wasn't alone anymore.
And though I still bore the ashes of the dead…
This time, I walked with the living.
The forest slowly thinned as the afternoon sun broke through the canopy.
Beyond the treeline, I caught my first glimpse of the road—cobbled unevenly, cracked in places, but walkable.
And just beyond it… a village.
Small. Modest.
Built around an aging well and a crooked wooden post with weather-worn signage:Graye Hollow.
Its homes were thatched and timbered, some with ivy creeping up the sides. A few fields stretched just beyond the houses, golden with harvest. Smoke rose gently from chimneys, mingling with the scent of baked bread and drying herbs.
It was the kind of place where time moved slower. Where strangers were noticed.
Especially ones with crimson-threaded cloaks and a winged beast at their side.
As I entered the village, eyes turned.
Doors didn't slam, but they creaked shut.
Children stopped playing to stare.
A farmer lowered his tools, gaze narrowing at the sight of the wolf beside me.
I said nothing.
Nor did the beast.
We simply passed through.
At the edge of the main road stood a tavern—its sign half-faded, carved with the shape of a lantern and a sleeping fox.
The Rested Flame.
The door creaked open before I could touch it.
An elderly woman stood there, wrapped in a thick shawl of wool and moon-patterned embroidery. Her hair was silver, wild but neatly tied back. Her eyes were sharp—a piercing steel gray—but not unkind.
"Well," she said, her voice warm and rasped by age, "that's not a sight we see often."
Her gaze lingered on me for a breath, then dropped to the winged wolf.
"And that's not one I've ever seen at all."
I bowed slightly. "I'm just passing through."
She chuckled.
"Everyone says that. Until the cold comes, or the road breaks their boots." She stepped aside, motioning in. "You look like you haven't eaten a real meal in days. And your friend looks like he could use a fire and floor."
I hesitated.
But the scent of soup and roasted root vegetables drifting from within broke my pride.
"…Thank you."
The inside of the tavern was quiet. Cozy.
Wooden beams. Fire crackling in the hearth. A few travelers sat in the corners, murmuring in low tones. No one looked long.
The wolf stayed close to my side, alert, but calm.
I took a seat near the fire. The old woman returned minutes later with a bowl of stew and fresh bread, placing it before me gently.
"Name's Mira," she said, settling into the chair opposite mine. "And you look like a girl who's either seen too much… or about to."
I glanced up from the bowl, meeting her gaze.
"I suppose… both."
I had barely taken my third spoonful of stew when the tavern door creaked open once more.
A man stepped inside, dust-covered from travel, his scarf damp from mist. He stomped his boots gently by the door and nodded toward Mira.
"Evenin'. Any warm stew left?"
Mira smiled, rising with ease. "Sit down, Caleb. I'll fetch you a bowl. You look half-frozen."
He sat near the hearth, not far from me, glancing briefly at the winged wolf resting behind my chair.
"You weren't joking, Mira," he muttered, smirking faintly. "Strange travelers and stranger beasts."
I said nothing—only kept my eyes lowered to my food.
As Mira handed him a bowl and fresh bread, the man leaned back with a grunt and shook his head.
"Word's spreading fast from the south roads. A kingdom fell."
The tavern grew a shade quieter.
"Crimson-towered place—old vampire hold. Gone. Ruined. Said it burned for days before the smoke even reached the trade routes. No survivors."
I froze, the spoon halfway to my mouth.
My grip tightened.
He went on, casual, as if speaking of weather.
"Some say it was internal. Betrayal. Others claim something old came for them. With claws and runes." He sipped the broth. "Can't say I'll miss the blood courts. But still… tragedy's a tragedy."
Mira let out a quiet sigh as she placed a small bowl of meat scraps near the hearth.
"For your friend," she said gently, glancing toward the winged wolf, who perked up faintly at the offering. "He's still mending, isn't he?"
I nodded, eyes lingering on her.
She turned back toward the room, lifting her voice just slightly.
"And to the rest of you—settle your stares."
A few eyes diverted elsewhere quickly.
Mira's tone softened again as she sat beside me. "It's been a long while since we've had… strange company. You'll have to forgive them. Folk here are kind, but caution comes easy after a long war."
She stirred her tea, quietly. "We know what loss feels like too."
I looked down at the stew again. It had gone cold.
But I swallowed the last bite anyway.
"I appreciate the food," I murmured.
She glanced at me over the rim of her cup.
"You've got the look of someone running from ghosts, child."
I didn't respond.
The winged wolf, having finished its meat, rested its head beside my boot.
For the first time in days, I felt something soft nudge the inside of my ribs.
Not grief.
Not rage.
But weight.
The weight of being alive when others were not.