Torren remained on the ridge long after the voice first spoke.
The wind swept across the stone, tugging at the fur cloak around his shoulders while the valley below sank deeper into darkness. The fires of the Painted Dogs flickered faintly between the trees, and somewhere in the distance a wolf howled across the mountains.
For several moments Torren said nothing.
He listened.
But the voice did not speak again.
The silence made it worse.
Torren shifted uneasily on the cold rock, glancing over his shoulder at the empty slopes behind him. The mountains were nothing but jagged shadows beneath the night sky.
His heart was still beating faster than normal.
He had heard stories around the campfires his entire life. Stories of spirits that wandered the high passes and demons that whispered to travelers before leading them off cliffs into the dark ravines below.
Slowly he formed another thought.
Are you still there?
The answer came immediately.
Yes.
Torren flinched slightly.
The voice was calm again, exactly the same as before. It did not sound angry or cruel, but that somehow made it stranger.
He swallowed and looked out across the valley.
If you're real… tell me something.
The response came without hesitation.
Your father is in the camp below.
Torren frowned.
Doing what?
He is sharpening his axe beside the fire.
Torren shifted closer to the edge of the ridge and leaned forward slightly, trying to see the clearing where the Painted Dogs camp lay far below. The fires were small from this height, but one of them burned brighter than the others.
He watched for a moment.
A figure sat beside the flames.
Even from this distance Torren recognized the shape of his father's broad shoulders.
The man moved slowly, drawing a whetstone along the edge of an axe.
Torren stared.
The voice had been right.
He sat back again, uncertain what to think.
Can you see everything? he asked after a moment.
There was a brief pause before the voice answered.
No.
Torren waited.
The voice continued.
But there are many things connected in this world.
The boy frowned slightly.
Connected how?
Through memory, the voice replied. Through the roots of the weirwoods and the stories that grow around them.
Torren glanced toward the dark mountains surrounding the valley.
Somewhere among those slopes lay the Weeping Grove.
The thought made his skin prickle.
The voice continued calmly.
The weirwood trees remember many things. The past leaves marks within them.
Torren did not fully understand what that meant, but the words made the silence around him feel deeper somehow.
He sat quietly for a while, staring at the stars above the mountains while the wind moved through the pines below.
Finally another thought formed in his mind.
Maybe you aren't a demon.
The voice did not interrupt.
Torren hesitated before finishing the thought.
Maybe you're one of the Old Gods.
The wind rushed across the ridge again, carrying the smell of pine and snow.
For a moment the voice did not respond.
Then it spoke again, calm as ever.
I am not a god.
Torren frowned.
Then what are you?
The answer came slowly this time.
I am something created to guide you.
Torren hugged his knees tighter and looked out across the endless mountains of the Vale.
The voice did not feel cruel.
It did not try to trick him or frighten him.
It simply… answered.
The boy remained on the ridge for a long time after that, asking small questions the way children do—simple things about the camp, about the road below, about the mountains that surrounded them.
And each time, the calm voice answered.
When Torren finally climbed back down toward the Painted Dogs camp, the fear that had filled his chest earlier had faded.
Something strange had happened that night.
Something he did not understand.
But one thing had become clear.
The voice in his mind was not trying to harm him.
And for now, that was enough.