Chapter 3) The Road Begins
Morning crept in gently, unfolding across old stone walls and creaking floorboards with the lazy grace of sunlight not yet warmed to its peak. Through the open window, a golden hue spilled into the room , soft and sleepy, enough to rouse even the most stubborn dreamer. The air carried the scent of dry grass, road dust, and something freshly baked , someone nearby had risen with the dawn to knead dough into bread.
The light touched Caelum's face, and he flinched, blinking it away with a groggy scowl. He stretched, joints whispering the dull ache of yesterday's preparations, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Outside, the leaves whispered with late summer fatigue , the kind of rustling that spoke not of breeze, but of trees grown weary of sun, not yet ready to shed their crowns. Birds sang lazily, not in chorus but in scattered solos, as though they, too, understood , today was a day of departure.
Barefoot, Caelum stepped out onto the porch. The soil beneath his feet was cool and damp, grounding. His uncle stood by a worn wooden post, cradling a mug of bitter brew, the steam rising like a silent signal. His face bore the usual morning sternness, but the eyes, half-shadowed, held a flicker of warmth.
"You're up," he grunted, still watching the sky. "Today's the day."
Caelum nodded, heart thudding with a quiet tension. He gathered his things , a travel bag, a weathered but sturdy cloak slung over one shoulder, and the food his uncle had packed the night before with quiet efficiency.
"Good luck out there," his uncle said when Caelum slung the bag onto his back. "Write if you can. Five days will pass quickly , or not at all."
Their handshake was firm, fingers calloused, the kind of farewell that held no dramatics, only a quiet weight , the sense of a road being taken that one would never forget.
The village of Liswood still slept in soft shadows. The stones beneath his feet still held yesterday's sun. From open windows came the creak of buckets at the well, distant voices, and the sudden yowl of a cat. Life was stirring, slowly, reverently.
At Syrex's door, Caelum paused. He didn't even raise a fist , the door swung open first.
"I thought you'd overslept," Syrex smirked. His dark hair was still tousled, though his pack was already slung over his shoulder and that familiar air of confidence danced across his face.
"I'm not the one who's late," Caelum grinned.
"We'll see who lags on the way back," Syrex shot back, giving him a firm clap on the shoulder.
They walked side by side through the awakening village, the path winding past Fences draped in vines and garden beds still heavy with dew. The sun climbed steadily, washing the road in amber as they approached the modest home of old Fenn. Smoke curled above rooftops , someone boiling soap, someone drying herbs, someone frying fish. Liswood, in its morning hush, was a painting: quiet, steady, half-asleep but content.
Fenn was already at the cart, struggling to hoist a heavy sack onto the back of the wagon. His silver hair glinted in the morning light, and his knitted vest clung to the curve of his shoulder.
"Later than the damn sun," he grumbled without real heat. "Well, don't stand there gawping. The cart won't load itself."
They rolled up their sleeves and fell into rhythm. Caelum passed the bundles, Syrex tightened the straps, Fenn inspected the axle with a veteran's eye. And in the space between their words , the glances, the nods, the shared breath , Caelum felt it. This was real. Not preparation, not talk. They were leaving.
And so the road began.
The wheels creaked, old but oiled, singing softly against the packed earth. The cart rolled on, heavy with supplies, its shadow stretching behind them over the gently sloping hills. The sun warmed the backs of their necks. The air was rich with crushed grass, wild herbs, and the earthy tang of stirred-up dust.
Caelum dangled a leg over the edge, boot tapping the wheel's rhythm. The breeze tousled his hair, and that small smile from the morning still clung to his face. Syrex leaned back beside him, chewing a blade of grass, cracking jokes at old Fenn, who sat up front, reins in hand and eyes sharp despite his years.
"You know," Fenn called over his shoulder with a wheezing laugh, "back in my day, I could throw a knife ten paces and hit right between the eyes."
"On a barn door, maybe," Syrex deadpanned. Caelum burst into laughter.
Time passed beneath them. Trees gave way to open meadows, then returned in scattered groves. When the sun began to press down and the shadows shrank, they reached a lazy river threading between hills like a silver ribbon.
"Break," Fenn called, reining in the horses.
They dismounted and made their way to the shade of leaning willows by the bank. The water was clear , so clear you could count the stones at the bottom, polished smooth like glass. Dragonflies flitted above the reeds, a hawk circled far above, and somewhere nearby, a heron shrieked into the silence.
Fenn laid out food on a woven cloth: rough bread, dried meat, shriveled plums. Caelum sat cross-legged, eyes drifting to the rippling light on the water. Syrex splashed his face, shook the droplets from his hair, then returned with a grin.
"I swear, Fenn, were you once a court jester? No normal man has that many stories."
"I was married once," Fenn replied, folding his arms behind his head. "That's story enough."
Syrex choked on his water. Caelum laughed until his ribs ached.
Then the air shifted.
Faint, but clear , the sound of hooves.
All three turned.
A carriage crested the bend in the road , and not just any carriage. Its dark wood gleamed like polished obsidian, inlaid with gold, intricate carvings running along the doors. At the center, the unmistakable glint of a crest , a crown above a mirror. Four stallions drew it, their coats sleek, their movements precise. A fifth rode behind, saddled but without a rider.
The driver , poised, gloved, dressed in noble-cut fabric , sat in total stillness, the brim of his hat casting his face into shadow.
They watched in silence as the carriage passed, dust trailing behind, carrying with it the faint aroma of lavender, spiced with something... arcane.
Syrex whistled low. "That a royal carriage?"
Fenn snorted. "Close. I saw one like it at the midsummer festival ten years back. Nobles riding high and ignoring us common folk."
"But not the king himself?" Syrex asked, eyes still fixed on the vanishing wheels.
"No. Not quite. But someone important. Advisor. Prince. Someone who doesn't want to be seen , or doesn't need to be."
Caelum's voice was quiet. "The crest was Astarian."
Fenn nodded. "That's ours. No mistaking it."
The carriage vanished over the next hill, leaving behind only the marks of its wheels in the dust and the strange hush that followed in its wake , like a breath held, a moment folded in on itself.
As the evening stretched long and the stars blinked into being, they made camp beside a crooked tree just off the road. The fire crackled low, casting flickering shadows across their faces. Crickets sang. An owl hooted once, far away.
Caelum reclined against his pack, staring into the dark. "I like this part. When you're tired, but not too tired. When everything slows down."
"Easy to say when you haven't lifted a finger," Fenn muttered, already half-asleep.
"Hey, talking is labor. Do you know how many calories jokes burn?"
Syrex chuckled and rolled over. "Let's tell stories. The kind no one's heard."
A silence fell.
Then Fenn's voice, low and steady: "When I was a boy, I thought fireflies were souls. Tiny ones. Lost. Wandering the dark."
Syrex murmured, "That's... poetic. And mildly terrifying."
"I used to think," Caelum whispered, eyes on the sky, "that if you stared at the stars long enough, you'd fall into them. Just disappear. Quietly."
They fell silent again. The fire flickered. The night deepened. And in the hush between breaths, they felt it: the bond that only forms on the road, far from home, where fire, bread, and company are enough.
Tomorrow would bring more miles. But tonight, they had peace.
And somewhere far ahead, Elventaria waited.