The forest whispered of old battles. Charred trees rose like tombstones, their blackened roots clutching the earth as if unwilling to release the memories buried beneath. Through this wasteland trudged Lynor, his armor dulled by dust, his humor somehow intact despite the ruin stitched into every step. Behind him, Rhazor carried the faintly breathing body of Elira, her hand limp against his shoulder. They had wandered for nearly six weeks since the fall of Dravencourt, the war-torn kingdom Lynor had brought to its knees.
"Any more forests, and I'll start naming trees," Lynor muttered, kicking a root out of the path.
"Name this one hope," Rhazor grunted, adjusting Elira's weight. "Because it's the last we'll find."
The others followed in silence — Thorn, ever watchful, his blade never far from his hand; Maurice,the eldest and most serene, his pale eyes glimmering with quiet knowledge; Seren, eyes tracing every motion like she was painting it in her mind; and Kael, head bowed beneath guilt that even time hadn't softened. Together they were a patchwork of the broken and the brave — survivors of a war that had cost them everything but breath.
As twilight bled across the canopy, the scent of fresh water reached them. Then — like a dream rising from fog — the forest parted to reveal Aether's Rest, a village of lightstone and gentle fires. The air was cleaner here, as if the wind itself refused to carry the stench of war.
"This… is untouched," Lynor whispered, awed. "Aether's Rest… so it does exist."
At the far corner, a new figure had joined them silently — Vaeth, the quiet scholar of the village, whose eyes glowed faintly with knowledge no outsider should possess.
Vaeth stepped forward, his calm presence halting the group. "Stay still," he said softly. "Let me see you."
He closed his eyes, his mind slipping through theirs like mist over glass. When he opened them, a faint smile touched his face. "Lynor — humor wrapped around fire. Rhazor — loyalty on the verge of something darker. Elira — purpose lost, but not gone. Thorn — suspicion sharp enough to cut truth. Kael — the past still bleeding. Seren — the artist who sees more than she should."
Lynor raised an eyebrow. "You can read minds, and that's what you came up with? You sound like a poet."
Vaeth chuckled, ancient and amused. "Better a poet than a fool in a world built on ruins. Come — Aether's Rest welcomes you."
---
The village glowed warmly as night deepened. Children peeked from behind wooden posts, their parents whispering of the newcomers — warriors marked by dust and legend. In the heart of the village stood a long stone hall where the scent of roasted boar drifted through open windows. Lynor's group was ushered in by quiet maids, their movements graceful yet cautious, as if hosting gods they didn't believe in.
The dining room was a miracle of peace. Candles burned steady, gold light catching the steel of their weapons stacked against the wall. Elira, now awake, sat beside Rhazor — the silence between them louder than the fire's crackle. Her eyes wandered, landing on the feast before them: firegrain bread, steaming stew, and mugs of spiced mead that glowed amber under torchlight.
"Rhazor," Elira said softly, staring out the narrow window, "the smoke from Dravencourt hasn't cleared in our minds yet. That battle… it changed more than the land. Some of us won't escape what it did to us."
Rhazor frowned. "You think something worse is coming?"
"No," she whispered, "I think it already began."
Kael sat apart, staring into his cup. Vaeth joined him, folding his robe neatly before sitting down.
"You still carry the weight of your mistakes," Vaeth said quietly.
"I burned a village," Kael muttered. "Mistakes are small things. Mine was not."
"Then make something larger than it," Vaeth replied. "Redemption always costs more than guilt."
At the far end of the table, Thorn leaned toward Vaeth's seat, his tone laced with distrust. "You talk like you've known us forever, old man. What's your game?"
Vaeth smiled. "Perhaps I simply listen better than most."
"Or you already knew we were coming," Thorn countered.
Lynor cut in, grinning as he tore into a chunk of bread. "He probably saw us from his mind tower or spirit cave or whatever he meditates in. Let's eat before he starts predicting our futures."
The laughter broke the tension. Even Elira smiled faintly, though her gaze lingered on Rhazor.
"You haven't changed," she said softly. "Still trying to prove something."
Rhazor sighed. "And you still think strength is a sin."
"No," she whispered. "Only when it replaces the heart."
Lynor clapped his hands suddenly, drawing all eyes to him. "Alright, wise ones and broken hearts — since our telepath friend here already knows everything, let's make this easy. You want to know who we are, Vaeth?"
Vaeth nodded slowly. "Tell me, even though I already know."
The hall quieted. Even the fire seemed to still. Lynor leaned forward, his grin fading into something colder — something that carried the weight of fire and steel.
"We came from Dravencourt," he began. "A kingdom ruled by King Varyn, a man who chained his people and burned villages to keep his throne bright. We fought through his legions for three months. Lost friends. Lost our homes. And when I stood in his courtyard — beneath his burning sigil — I drove my blade through his chest. I told his soldiers their chains were broken. The city burned behind us, but the people walked free."
The silence that followed was sacred. Even the villagers standing by the doorway lowered their eyes.
Vaeth finally spoke, his voice like wind across old graves. "Then perhaps you've come not to find peace, but to learn what to do with it."
Lynor looked up, the firelight dancing in his eyes — half fury, half hope.
"Maybe," he said quietly. "Or maybe we came to make peace fun again."
And somewhere outside, the bells of Aether's Rest tolled — the sound of a new beginning wrapped in the echoes of war.