Chapter 1 #2
And then, I fall.
The world reforms in pieces. Mist. Stone.
A narrow path winding through a forest I don’t recognize but feels like I should. Silver-veined trees. Glassy leaves. Branches that seem to breathe when I’m not looking.
I keep walking—I don’t know why, I just know I have to.
Then I see her.
At first, I think it’s another thread, another memory. But she turns—and I freeze.
She looks like me, but not exactly. Her hair is longer, loose and wild around her shoulders.
Her skin glows faintly. Her right hand is marked with veins of gold light that pulse, as if something sacred is stitched beneath her skin.
Her eyes are the same shape as mine, the same color brown—no.
Brighter. Like firelight reflected in dark water.
She stands barefoot in the clearing, her hands lifted, palms open to the sky. The ground around her is cracked open in a perfect circle—earth, wind, flame, water, and something else all swirling in motion at once, controlled and effortless.
And then she looks at me.
And the world stills.
Something inside me aches. A longing so deep it feels like remembering something I lost before I was born. I don’t know who she is. But I know she’s me. Or who I’m meant to become.
I take a step forward—and she vanishes. The light breaks, the forest collapsing into darkness.
And I wake—gasping.
We work the fields early, load the wagon, and ride for the village.
I’m riding ahead on Solara.
She was born the spring I turned eleven—legs too long, ears too big, stubborn from the start. I raised her from a foal, to turn on a breath, to come when I whistled. And today, she senses my excitement. Her ears flick forward, hooves light on the packed dirt road; she’s eager to get there too.
Behind me, my parents ride in the wagon, the back stacked with sacks of grain, root vegetables, and jars of dried herbs for barter.
I tucked a couple of books under a folded blanket—stories I’ve already read and set aside for Lyra.
She devours anything with magics and swordfights, even if she always complains about the heroines falling in love too fast.
The hills rise and fall like slow breaths. This land steadies me.
An hour’s ride, that’s all it takes—but I always feel the shift when we get close.
The fields give way to cobbled lanes. The wildflowers along the ditches are replaced with trimmed hedges and stone markers.
Fences grow taller. Trees are more ornamental.
Smoke drifts from chimneys, carrying the scent of bread and roasting meats.
And then I hear it—cart wheels over stone, the rhythmic clatter echoing between the buildings.
The low murmur of voices, laughter, bells.
We’re close now.
Lyra’s house sits just off the main square—a two-story home with flower boxes in every window and a door that never stays closed when she’s home.
I sit straighter in the saddle, a smile tugging at my lips.
Tonight we’ll have dinner with her family, and spend the night. In the morning, Mother will head to the market while Lyra and I slip away to walk the square and listen to fresh town gossip.
As the road bends toward the shops, something pulls at me. The light. The women. The girl who looked like me. The dream rises like pressure behind my ribs. A hum I can’t shake.
I blink and the vision is gone.
Solara snorts and tosses her head—the village rises ahead.
The square is already bustling with late-afternoon chatter.
We guide the wagon past the fountain and toward the stables tucked just beyond the bakery.
It’s a wide yard, shaded by a long wooden awning, the air thick with the scent of hay, leather, and horse.
Dozens of mounts are tied off beneath the beams, tails flicking lazily, some dozing in the golden light.
A stable hand jogs over as I dismount. He’s younger than me, freckles scattered across his nose, straw sticking from his shirt sleeve.
“Need the mare brushed down?” he asks, already reaching for Solara’s reins.
“She bites,” I warn, giving her a pat on the neck. “Only if you assume you’re in charge.”
He grins, undeterred. “Good thing I always ask permission first.”
My parents pull the wagon into the shaded clearing, unhitching the horse while another attendant brings fresh water. The stable hands are quick and practiced, and in moments, our cart is parked and the horses seen to.
I linger for just a breath longer, fingers brushing Solara’s muzzle before I turn toward the square.
The sky is beginning to deepen, streaked with the soft lavender of approaching dusk. Lyra’s house is only a few streets away now.
And still . . . that pull lingers in my chest, quiet and persistent. Like something is waiting.
I shake it off. Just a dream. But gods, it clings like mist—refusing to lift, even in daylight.
We gather our things from the wagon—sacks, bundles, the wrapped parcels—and begin walking toward Lyra’s house.
The square hums around us, lanterns being lit, shopkeepers calling their last bargains of the day.
Solara’s hooves fade behind us, swallowed by the lull of the stables and the scent of bread drifting from the bakery hearth.
Raised voices grab my attention as we pass through the market. I slow my pace, taking in the exchange.
A sharp voice cuts through the din.
“I won’t pay full price for that,” a gruff older man snaps, hand clenched around a small grain sack.
“These are the prices,” the seller replies, jaw tight. “Same for everyone.”
The older man snorts. “Won’t matter soon. Not when the clans finally turn on each other.”
I freeze for half a breath.
The seller doesn’t respond right away—just watches the man walk off, muttering. His hands tremble slightly as he restacks the sacks.
Mother clasps my arm firmly.
“Come,” she says gently, guiding me forward.
The smell of fresh bread usually reminds me of comfort, but it doesn’t quite reach as we walk away.
We’re halfway down the main street when a voice calls out—low, certain, edged with disbelief.
“Well I’ll be godsdamned. Branik!”
My father goes still, then turns. Mother and I look in the direction of the voice calling Father’ name.
A woman stands near the well, arms crossed, her stance steady as an old oak tree. Her braid of light brown hair is streaked with silver, but her presence is anchored, commanding. Earth Clan, without question.
“Aiel,” Father says, a slow smile breaking across his face. “Didn’t think I’d see your face again.”
She strides forward in three long steps and pulls him into a hug that nearly lifts him off his feet.
“You stubborn ox,” she mutters. “You disappeared.”
“You told me about Liora,” he says. “Said it was quiet. That it was enough. Poof! Gone.” He gestures like a peddler doing a disappearing act.
“I didn’t think you’d actually listen.” She leans back, giving him a once-over. “You look good. Softer. Not softer-soft, but . . . settled.”
“I am.”
Her gaze shifts, landing on my mother.
“And this is?”
Father steps aside, placing a gentle hand on my mother’s back.
“Aiel, this is my wife—Mira Thalor.”
He glances at her affectionately before turning back.
“Mira, this is Aiel of Stonebridge Hold. We served together in the infantry—met during recruit training.”
Before he can say more, my mother cuts in. “Took him ages to ask me to dinner. But he got there eventually.”
Father exhales through his nose, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
Aiel’s eyes narrow slightly as she studies my mother, then nods in approval.
“You chose well.”
“I got lucky—she chose me,” he grins.
Mother smacks him lightly on the arm and rolls her eyes. Watching my parents, I can’t help but smile.
Then Aiel’s attention turns to me, her appraising gaze lingering.
“And this one?”
“Amara,” I answer. “Their daughter.”
She continues her assessment of me, like a measurement of my worth.
“You carry yourself like a Thalor,” she says at last. “Steady. Like the ground doesn’t get to decide where you stand.”
I blink—caught off guard by her forwardness. “Thank you.”
She nods with approval, then turns back to my father.
“When did you move here?”
“Right after I left the infantry. When my service ended,” he replies. “Figured I’d had enough of blood and battle. Wanted something quieter.”
Aiel folds her arms, one brow raised.
Mother asks gently, “You’ve been here this whole time?”
“No. Just returned,” Aiel says. “Retired a few months ago. Spent the last decade near the northern highlands. Wasn’t sure I’d come back.”
A pause. Then—
“But I wanted quiet too. Not many places left that still know what that means.”
Mother smiles, resting a gentle hand on Father’s arm. He turns to her, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders softens. He smiles back, then turns once more to Aiel.
I feel the pull in my chest once more. I inhale deeply, trying to loosen the sensation.
My father’s voice lowers, drawing my attention back.
“How are things, Aiel? Really.”
Aiel stands like she’s weathered storms no one speaks of. A force of a woman that has seen things—stood before things—that didn’t break her. The kind of person who plants their feet and dares the world to move first.
But she doesn’t answer right away.
“We’ve heard rumors,” he adds. “From travelers passing through, traders and scouts. Things are getting worse along the borderlands, aren’t they?”
Aiel’s mouth presses into a thin line. She glances around the square—at the lanterns being lit, the children chasing each other near the fountain, the bakery glowing warm in the golden dusk.
Then she looks at us.
“They’re not rumors,” she says quietly.
Something settles in my chest, cold and still, like the earth pausing beneath my feet. And this time, it doesn’t hum.
I glance at Father. His jaw is tight, eyes shadowed—the look he gets when storms roll in from the east.
Aiel continues, voice low and certain.