Morning broke, a hesitant gold filtering through the high boughs of the ancient grove. The stones lay silent now, but the night's vision still clung to the air—a scent unnamed, a memory refusing to fade. Allan stirred first. Sleep had eluded him, replaced by the grove's subtle current, a liminal space between waking and dream.
Canya still slept by the stream, a tight curl of limbs against her satchel. The early light softened her face, erasing the haunting of her mother's ghost, settling it into understanding rather than fear.
Allan rose, stretched the stiffness from his bones, and walked a slow circle around the silent stones. The forest beyond felt different; or perhaps, he did. No longer an intruder, he also felt no welcome. Only a lingering sense of being watched.
By the time Canya woke, the morning mist had lifted, leaving the grass glistening, and the birds had reclaimed their songs.
"We should keep moving," she said, her voice quiet after a brief, silent breakfast. "The dream was a warning, not just a memory."
Allan nodded. "Agreed. But we're not just running. We're walking toward something."
Toward Saniya, yes—but also toward whatever storm her mother's eyes had seen brewing in him.
They exited the grove via the northern slope, the ancient forest gradually thinning into a sun-dappled path, a mosaic of roots and old stone. The air was warm, rich with the scent of trees and damp earth. For hours, they moved in a synchronized rhythm, little need for talk. There was a fragile peace in the quiet.
Then, they rounded a bend—and nearly slammed into a man perched atop a massive rock, furiously scribbling in a frayed, leather-bound journal.
"Oh!" he yelped, scrambling to his feet, eyes wide. "Travelers! You startled me half to death."
Allan's hand instinctively moved, positioning him between the stranger and Canya. The man was a broad presence—shoulders and belly equally ample, layers of patched linen and wool hanging loosely. Wild brown tufts of hair exploded around his ears, leaving the crown of his head bald and gleaming like polished bronze. His eyes, though, were too keen, and his smile too warm.
"Forgive me," the man said, tucking his journal awkwardly under one arm. "I rarely encounter company this deep in these woods. Name's Henry. Henry Joel. Scholar, linguist, part-time cartographer, and a full-time believer in the old truths."
Canya stepped forward cautiously. "You know these woods?"
"Oh, yes," Henry replied, patting the rock fondly as if it were a loyal pet. "Spent three months mapping this very region. I was hoping to reach the Circle a few leagues east—if the old markers still stand. But I've clearly taken the wrong turn again." He laughed, the sound like gravel stirring in a bowl. "Terrible sense of direction. Exceptional sense of history."
Allan didn't relax, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. "The Circle—you mean the ruins near the river bend?"
Henry's eyes lit up, almost manic. "Yes! You know it?"
"Only by mention. Someone close to us spoke of it in a dream."
"A dream!" Henry Joel clapped his hands, a sharp, surprising sound. "Marvelous. Dreams, my dear boy, are the unedited footnotes of fate. Unreliable, yes—but often illuminating." He tilted his head, a scholar's calculating gaze now fixed on Allan. "You're not from here, are you?"
"No," Allan said. "Southwest town. Canya's from the valley below the old hills."
Henry's attention shifted to Canya, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes softened—not with kindness, but a deep curiosity thinly veiled by politeness. "And you, young seer?" he asked, a low hum in his voice. "You carry something ancient with you. I feel it humming beneath your skin."
Canya's fingers tightened on her satchel, her knuckles white.
"Forgive me again," Henry said with a slight bow, sensing her discomfort. "I don't mean to pry. Only to marvel. The world is changing, and the old bloodlines stir once more. I study such things."
"What kind of things?" Allan pressed, a prickle of unease at Henry's unsettling perception.
"Oh, relics, mostly. Lost languages. The migration of symbols. Stories that weren't meant to survive." Henry's voice dropped, growing almost reverent. "Lately, I've been hunting something older—an arc believed to be broken long ago: the Script, the last voice of the earth before silence took the seers." He paused, savoring the words as if they were a rare delicacy. "I believe it can still be found."
Allan felt the hook, sharp and immediate. He couldn't help it. "What would you do with it if you found it?"
Henry Joel's grin widened, a flash of teeth. "Decode it, of course. Understand it. Power means nothing without comprehension. And if comprehension gives power…" He shrugged, the gesture unsettlingly casual. "Well, that's only natural."
They shared a short meal on the roadside. Henry offered dried berries and some roots; Allan shared some of their remaining bread. Conversation flowed easily, surprisingly so. The man was clever, charismatic in his strange, bumbling way. Even Canya, though mostly silent, watched him with a focused interest.
But something… didn't sit right.
He never asked where they were going. Never questioned their weapons or their tired, dust-streaked faces. And when he laughed, it was always a second too late—as if he were waiting to see if the moment allowed it.
As the sun reached its highest point, Henry stood and brushed dust from his coat with a flourish. "Well, if you're headed north, we may as well walk together. Safety in numbers and all that. Besides, I'm far more interested in people than ruins today."
Canya looked at Allan, her gaze questioning.
Allan hesitated, a brief battle playing out behind his eyes. Then he gave a curt nod.
"Just for a while," he said, his voice flat. "Until the next fork."
Henry Joel's smile stretched impossibly wide. "Delighted."
And so, the three of them set off again, deeper into the hills where the wind no longer felt quite like wind—and the shadows grew long before the afternoon had even begun to fade.