Chapter 3 – The Feather and the Ledger
He strode across the room, bread forgotten on the table.
The morning sun streamed in through the kitchen shutters, dust motes drifting in lazy spirals. Everywhere, the evidence of home—Mira's handwoven rugs, a chipped mug with steam stains, the half-eaten loaf of rye on a wooden board—seemed to wait patiently. Leo hardly noticed.
His gaze was fixed on something on the floor.
Sunlight glinted off an ivory feather, delicate and impossibly light. It lay at odd angles, as though it had fallen from the sky and rolled just once to rest before him. He knelt, heart pounding, and lifted it between fingertip and thumb.
It pulsed faintly, like a tiny heartbeat. The air around it hummed, not with wind, but with expectation. Leo felt warmth seep into his palm, as though the feather carried hidden embers. When he inhaled, he caught a scent that was not woodsmoke or river mist, but something ancient—like ozone after a storm and jasmine at midnight.
This feather was not from Greystone. It was not from any world he knew.
And with that simple, shimmering proof, Leo realized he could no longer ignore the pull of the Whispering Stones—or the truth about who he had become.
Mira had slipped away at dawn for her expedition to the ruined watchtower. That left Leo alone with silence, sunlight, and his own restless thoughts—questions circling his mind like crows over fresh hoofprints.
He rose and climbed the narrow stairs. Each floorboard creaked a familiar welcome. Dust motes drifted through a half-open window, carrying the scent of honeysuckle and dew. At the hall's end, a plain wooden door stood slightly ajar—his room, Mira had said.
His hand hesitated on the cool, worn handle. He didn't remember this room... but it remembered him.
He pushed the door open.
Inside, parchment and bound volumes lay in quiet disarray. A desk bore ink stains and tattered maps. A chipped quillholder sat empty, as if waiting for a new stroke. Rays of sunlight carved a path across the desk, illuminating a lone feather resting atop the open journal. Dust danced in the glow.
Leo set the newly found feather beside its counterpart, as though they were bookends of two worlds. Then he opened the journal.
Coordinates, hastily sketched symbols, half-written reflections, the ink smeared where hands had trembled—all spoke of urgency and obsession. And in the margins, written large enough to tremble off the page:
memory bleedanchor point lostsister holds the key
His heart thundered. Sister. Mira.
A flush of heat rose beneath his skin, and the room tilted.
A sudden halt.
His breath caught.
The world snapped out of focus—the shadows stretched and twisted—and then, like a lightning strike through his mind, memories shattered the present.
He was pounding through a forest at night. Black bark reached for him, tearing at his sleeves. The undergrowth snagged his boots. Moonlight cut through mist in fractured blades. Behind him, voices yelled in a tongue he half-knew—half-forgotten, half-etched into bone.
In his hand, the ivory feather, its quill stained dark as wet clay. Blood.
A lantern bobbed ahead, swinging to an unseen rhythm. At its edge, a figure halted him—Mira, older, her armor etched with sigils that flickered like embers.
"Leo, you can't go back. Not after this."
Her words hammered inside him, and then the memory shattered like ceramic.
He snapped back to the desk, gasping. His knuckles bit into the leather cover. His chest heaved. Before he could think, his mouth moved:
"I have to leave. I have to leave."
The words were ragged. Both alien and intimately his own.
He squeezed his eyes shut. The panic threatened to rise again—like a beast in a cage—until he forced clarity through clenched teeth. Slowly, the storm quelled, and fragments of his life drifted back:
My name is Leo.
I've walked battlefields under foreign suns. Bartered secrets in shadowed alleys. I've laughed in this room with people who trusted me.
I've sought the truth behind the Whispering Stones.
He was not Liam. Liam had died at dawn. He was Leo Vale—and he would stop fleeing the past he had reclaimed.
He left the journal open, the two feathers forming a silent X across its pages. Then he descended the stairs.
Outside, Greystone glowed in late-morning light. Smoke curled from stone chimneys. Children's laughter danced from the schoolhouse yard. The river to the south whispered against reed beds. Berries ripened on hedges. Every breath Leo drew tasted of home and possibility.
He followed the cobblestone path toward the village heart. The air thrummed with life: a smith's hammer rang sharp, clattering against an anvil; the baker's son carried crates of fresh loaves, the yeast warm under his arm; a merchant's cart rattled, piled high with apples, sending crisp perfume into the air.
This is my world, Leo thought, my life.
A sudden voice jolted him from reverie:
"Leo! You alive, or just sleepwalking through breakfast?"
He turned. Jack loomed—towering, irrepressible—grinning like sunrise itself. Jack's leather training vest was still damp with sweat from the yard. His dark hair clung to his forehead, and his every breath carried the scent of pine resin from his sparring gloves.
Beside him stood Ralph, the quiet counterpoint. Pale and lean, with silver hair that caught every slant of light. His grey eyes were keen as a hawk's, and a leather notebook dangled from his belt. He exuded calm calculation.
"You're late," Ralph said with dry humor. "We nearly debated staging a rescue."
Leo only had time for a short nod before Jack's hand thudded into his back, nearly sending him stumbling forward.
"Market first—then the notice board."
Leo exhaled, letting Jack's easy confidence wrap around him like a blanket.
They turned onto the main road out of Greystone. Golden fields stretched either side, each stalk of wheat shimmering like spun bronze. A lazy breeze carried the faint cry of gulls from the river delta, mingling with the drone of bees in the hedgerow.
Farmers on wagons waved, loaded with hay and squash. Jack waved back with theatrical flair; Ralph offered a polite nod.
Jack's voice bubbled over: "You should have seen me at dawn—I bested the upperclassmen in sword drills. A dozen of them."
Ralph winced, but only slightly. "He exaggerated by at least three," Ralph corrected, sketching arrows in the dirt with a stick.
Leo smiled. This was the banter he'd missed: Jack's booming laughter and Ralph's precise, amused retorts. They weren't just friends—they were constants in a life that had fractured and reformed in shadow and stone.
The path dipped, unveiling the market town—stone ramparts ringed around bustling streets. Towering flags of navy and gold snapped overhead. The open gates spilled merchants, farmers, and travelers into a tableau of color: scarlet silks, saffron spices, green gourds piled high.
Inside, the marketplace pulsed with energy. Leo inhaled deeply: roasted chestnuts, spiced meats, sweat-scented leather from passing horses, the musky sweetness of incense from a wandering acolyte. Sunlight gleamed off polished copper pots at one stall; a seamstress pinned vibrant cloth on a line; a street minstrel's lute sang sorrowful tunes that twined through the chatter.
Jack nudged Leo. "First round's on you. We've been stranded in that old ruin far too long."
Ralph raised an eyebrow. "A tactical resupply, not a tavern slug-fest." He pocketed a handful of coins.
Jack feigned shock. "You're no fun, Ralph."
Leo chuckled and handed the stallkeeper a copper coin for two loaves of freshly baked bread. The vendor's smile was as warm as the loaves. Leo bit into one: the crust cracked, revealing a soft, steaming interior. Butter melted into every crevice. The taste grounded him: earthy, rich, real.
"It's good to be back," he said, though his voice trembled with memory's aftershocks.
Jack clapped him on the shoulder. "You hear that? Our Leo is back—real and breathing."
Ralph offered a rare grin. "And apparently eating like a champ."
They continued weaving through stalls: a potter offered a delicate cup; a cloth-dyer displayed brimming jars of indigo; a butcher trimmed meat with precise strokes. Leo touched each surface: the rough clay of a jug, the soft fibers of dyed wool, the cold steel of a dagger blade. Each sensation anchored him deeper.
As they approached the notice board—a tall oak slab outside the barracks—Leo's pulse quickened. Rows of parchment fluttered with the newly posted training rosters for the military exam. Banners from different divisions noted names: archery, infantry, and engineering.
Mira's name topped the officer list again: "Commandant Mira Vale"—the words glowed in gold ink. Leo felt a surge of pride and something else: awe tinged with uncertainty. His sister had become a legend.
Jack nudged him. "You going to check your own listing or stand there gawking?"
Leo stepped forward, lips parted. His name was there, too—just below the engineers' roster. "Infantry Candidate: Leo Vale" it read.
He swallowed. This was no longer a foreign name on a foreign body. This was his name, stamped in ink for all to see.
He felt the weight of possibility settle on his shoulders—both thrilling and terrifying. If Liam had died for this life to begin, Leo would honor that sacrifice.
Ralph stepped beside him. "You ready?"
Leo looked at his two friends—Jack's eager grin, Ralph's steady gaze—and nodded.
"Ready."