They walked in silence, the sun a memory slipping behind the hills. A gold-ember glow softened the world, painting every edge in hues of twilight. Above, trees arched, their leaves a chorus of whispered secrets on the wind. Birds called from the thickets, a final exchange of riddles before night's hush.
Allan led, his steps steady yet heavy, each footfall a tangible weight. Canya followed, a pace behind, her gaze flicking between the narrowing path and the reddening sky, still calibrating to the rhythm of leaving.
Neither looked back.
The road ahead tightened, flanked by dry grass that rustled like old parchment. Stones began to litter their way, a clear sign: farmland giving way to scrubland. The wild was returning, just as they were abandoning everything familiar.
"I don't know exactly where we are," Allan confessed at last, glancing at the reddening sky as if it might offer a map.
Canya offered a faint smile. "That makes two of us."
They shared a small laugh – dry, uncertain, but profoundly honest. The kind that didn't seek joy, only truth.
They walked on.
It had been a month since they'd left her father's home. A month since they'd walked away from Thomas Kent's heavy silence, from her grandmother's knowing eyes, from the breathing shadows of a legacy Canya never asked for but always felt on her neck. Her grandmother's words still echoed: "Child, this gift we hold is a curse. I hope he will bring light to your path so that you are not lost like your mother and I."
Their destination was Saniya, the place Allan had left the South West to reach. Debora's farewell whisper, soft as smoke, also resonated: Saniya awaits, but the road will find you first.
So far, the road had offered only questions. Yet still, they walked.
"Canya," Allan said quietly, slowing his pace until she could walk beside him. When she matched him with a nod, he continued, "You know, the picture I saw of you – it's starting to make sense."
"The one where I was crying by a fallen tree, holding a black staff and walking into a storm?"
He nodded. "Yes. That one."
She glanced at him. "What do you understand from it now?"
"You're the last of your kind – whether by your father's bloodline or your mother's. Those are your roots, the fallen tree. A legacy that stood for ages, now broken. And by making this choice…by leaving…you've walked away from that tree."
She didn't answer, her fingers brushing the edge of her satchel where the small, carved piece of wood, her grandmother's gift, lay hidden.
"The staff," Allan went on, "I think it represents the choice. The beginning of a new path. And the storm…it's what lies ahead. The unknown. The trials. Whatever prophecy or power waits for us—"
"—will not come gently," she finished for him, the weight of her own words settling like mist.
Suddenly, a sharp gust of wind swept down the path, snatching leaves and dust into a spiral between them. Canya's cloak snapped against her legs. The trees stilled, holding their breath. And then—voices.
Whispers.
They weren't birds. They weren't wind.
Both of them froze, eyes darting to the thickets.
"Allan," she whispered, her voice barely a thread. "Did you hear that?"
He gave a curt nod. "I thought it was just me."
The whispers swelled, grew clearer. Words that belonged to no known tongue, yet pulsed with meaning – like memory, like warning. The sound slid into their bones, cold and searching.
Then, just as quickly, silence fell again.
They waited.
A hare darted across the path, chased by nothing. The birds had stopped singing altogether.
"I think," Allan said slowly, "we're being followed."
"Not by something," Canya murmured, touching her satchel. The carved piece inside – her mother's, her grandmother had said – felt warm against her fingertips. Real or imagined, it steadied her. "By someone."
"We need shelter," Allan urged. "And not just any kind. Somewhere old. Protected."
"There's a grove not far from here," Canya said, surprising even herself. "I saw it in a dream, days ago. Stones set in circles, a stream running through them. It felt…safe."
Allan didn't question her. He simply nodded.
They turned from the path, plunging into the deepening gloom of the trees. The land sloped downward, the forest thickening into ancient woods. Roots curled over the ground like sleeping serpents in the twilight. Yet, Canya led with the certainty of one who had walked this place before – at least in dreams.
Then she saw it.
Nestled in a hollow was the grove – just as she'd dreamed. Five stone pillars, worn smooth by eons, stood in a rough circle. A shallow stream trickled through moss-covered rocks. Despite the deepening dusk, the grove seemed to glow faintly, as if remembering the sun.
They stepped into the circle. The air shifted.
No birds. No wind. Only a profound stillness.
Then, the stones began to hum.
It wasn't sound so much as vibration – low, steady, ancient. Canya knelt and touched the moss at the foot of one of the pillars. It was warm. Alive.
"Allan," she whispered, "I think this place remembers."
He crouched beside her. "What does it remember?"
"Everything," she said. "Before the bloodlines broke. Before the seers fell silent. Before the storm."
As she spoke, the air shimmered. A ghostly figure – not quite solid, not quite light – appeared before them. A woman in a dark robe, her hair braided with silver leaves, eyes piercing yet kind.
Canya gasped. "Mother…"
The figure did not speak. She simply lifted her hand, pointing toward the path they had left. Then, her gaze turned to Allan – and she nodded, slowly, solemnly, as if entrusting him with something fragile and fierce.
Then she was gone.
Canya's breath came in short, stunned bursts. "Did you see—?"
"Yes," Allan said. "I think she showed us that we're not walking away from your roots, Canya."
"We're carrying them forward."
The hum faded. Night settled gently over the grove, no longer frightening but full of promise.
And somewhere, deep in the dark ahead, the storm waited.