The last night within the walls of the "Old Pine" was endless and restless. The gray, colorless sky before dawn seemed to reflect the mixed feelings in their hearts—a mixture of hope and sorrow. A chill hung in the air, smelling of damp earth and rotting leaves, the scent of departing autumn and impending change. They stood at the orphanage's threshold, so familiar and suddenly alien, with homemade packs on their backs. Inside them lay all their meager wealth: a crust of black bread each, a slice of hard cheese wrapped in cloth, and a change of underwear, worn thin but clean.
Miss Elira, her face etched with wrinkles seeming to hold all the world's weariness, silently watched them. In her eyes was neither approval nor condemnation—only a boundless, quiet sadness and a drop of pride she dared not express. She didn't cry. Tears would have been a luxury they couldn't afford. Instead, she straightened Kaedan's collar, then Ulvia's, her fingers lingering for a moment on Gil's shoulder, and finally, she touched Dur's cheek, the youngest, the most defenseless.
"May the road be kind to you," she whispered, her voice faltering, forcing out the only possible prayer. "Don't trust the road to the first passerby. Trust only the ground beneath your feet and the stars above your head. And... remember your oath." These words sounded like the last, most important lesson. They nodded, words stuck in their throats, choked by the lump of farewell to everything they knew.
They walked out the gates without looking back. To look back would be to cry, to lose strength, to stay. The sun was just beginning to rise, its slanting rays piercing the mist, painting the world in liquid gold. They walked through the dew-wet grass, their long, ghostly shadows stretching ahead, as if urging them on. The Whispering Trunk Forest silently saw them off, only rare birds breaking the silence with their calls.
The road led them to the old fork, marked by that very boulder they had called the "Sleeping Giant" in childhood. Here, their paths were to diverge. Four directions, four unknowns. They stopped, looking at each other, and a sudden, soul-chilling silence hung between them. Gil's map, that naive web of guesses and rumors, lay in her hand, suddenly seeming laughably small and useless.
Kaedan was the first to break the silence. He stepped forward, his red hair blazing in the morning light, unwavering determination burning in his orange eyes. He hugged Ulvia, feeling her slender, supple body tense for a moment, then return the embrace. "The South awaits you, wild one," he said hoarsely. "Find your forests."
"And you don't freeze in your North, you oaf," she replied, and in her voice was both laughter and tears.
Then he turned to Gil. She looked at him with her clear, analytical gaze, but unshed sadness stood in her brown eyes. "Keep your eyes open, strategist," said Kaedan, placing his large, strong hand on her shoulder.
"And you don't go looking for trouble, you big lug," she retorted, her lips twitching into the semblance of a smile.
Finally, he approached Dur. Dur stood, slightly hunched, his black hair falling over his forehead, his blue eyes full of that very fear he had tried so hard to hide. Kaedan didn't utter empty words of encouragement. He just hugged him so tightly his bones creaked. "See you, Dur," he whispered. "See you," Dur breathed out, barely audible, feeling the familiar warmth of friendship momentarily banish the cold of fear.
Then the girls hugged each other, both Ulvia and Gil, so different, were united in this farewell. Then each of them hugged Dur, and he felt his loneliness recede a little under their onslaught.
No one said another word. Everything had been said. Everything was decided. For the last time, they stretched out their hands in the center of their small circle—four hands, four destinies, four parts of one oath. Then, with one last, long look, full of all the love and pain of their shared childhood, they broke the circle.
Kaedan spun sharply and strode north, his straight back disappearing around a bend in the road. Ulvia, sighing deeply, moved south with a determined air, towards the thicket of the forest. Gil, adjusting her pack, chose the path west with cold concentration, her dark figure dissolving into the morning mist.
And then only Dur remained. He stood alone at the fork, the wind tousling his black hair. The East. His path lay east, to where the sun rose, to where, he vaguely felt, there couldn't be large amounts of water. He felt fear gripping his legs, the obsessive whisper of the nightmare about the chilling abyss sounding again in his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ward off the visions.
And then he remembered. He remembered their room, the warm light of the candle, the laughter. He remembered the oath under the Old Pine. He remembered the faces of his friends. They believed in him. They were waiting for him. He couldn't let them down.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold morning air. His fingers clenched into fists so hard his knuckles turned white. He forced himself to raise his head and look at the eastern road disappearing into the misty distance. It was as unknown and frightening as the dark waters of his dreams.
But he took a step. The first step. Then a second. His legs were heavy as stone, but he moved. He didn't look back at the orphanage, at the Sleeping Giant, at the fading shadows of his friends. He looked only ahead, towards his fear, towards his fate. His path, the longest and hardest, was just beginning.