A brilliant flash tore through the darkness, and Joran collapsed into the forest floor with a ragged gasp. He hit hard—elbows scraping through leaf-litter and moss, body twisting as momentum carried him into the base of a gnarled tree. Dirt caked his palms as he lay there, face down, panting like a hunted animal. Every breath burned in his chest, and his limbs trembled from the effort it had taken to tear himself from that nightmare.

  Above him, the canopy stretched like a fractured ceiling—branches tangled high above, their dark silhouettes swaying gently in the night breeze. Gaps in the foliage allowed moonlight to pierce through in soft beams, casting silver pools across the forest floor. Twin moons hung in the sky—one pale blue, the other bone white—gazing down in eternal silence. The scent of damp bark, old rain, and wild earth filled his lungs.

  He didn’t know where he was. The trees here were taller than those in Lothara, ancient things with bark thick as stone and vines that hung like forgotten banners. The air was cooler, wilder, untouched by civilization. He had crossed a vast distance—but to where, he couldn’t begin to guess.

  Joran groaned and rolled onto his back, wincing as the motion sent knives of pain through his ribs. His cloak clung to him, soaked through with sweat, and the cold night air only made his skin feel clammy and feverish. He blinked up at the starlit sky, his vision swimming with exhaustion and the aftershock of the teleport.

  “Please…” he whispered, his voice hoarse, cracked. “Let Druna have escaped… let her be safe…”

  He didn’t know if the words reached any gods—but he spoke them anyway.

  A strange, numbing sensation began to tingle along his left arm.

  Joran’s breath caught.

  He lifted the limb slowly, already knowing what he would see. The illusion he kept so carefully maintained—the spell that concealed the scar his past had branded into him—was unraveling. The skin from his hand to his elbow shimmered, flickering like a candle struggling against wind. Beneath the wavering veil, the jagged, spiraling scar was starting to show—angry, warped, too unnatural to be mistaken for an accident. It pulsed once, almost as if alive.

  “No… no, not now…” he muttered.

  He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist, forcing more magic into the illusion. His vision blurred as the effort dragged what little strength he had left from his mind. Slowly, reluctantly, the scar faded again from sight—but he could feel it. Feel how unstable the spell had become. The price of that teleport—wild, distance-untethered, cast in desperation—had drained more from him than he thought. It hadn’t emptied his magic reserves entirely, but the sheer stress of it had fractured his focus and overextended his body.

  His entire frame trembled, every muscle aching, every nerve raw. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t healed. His body had been beaten, cut, burned, drained—and now stretched thin by reckless magic.

  He couldn’t collapse here. Not yet.

  Joran pressed his hand into the damp soil, the effort shaking him to his bones. With slow, deliberate motion, he traced a rune into the ground—a curved sigil of healing. Light spilled gently from the lines, golden and soft. The forest around him seemed to pause as the magic took hold.

  A warm glow bloomed outward from the rune, forming a quiet dome of restoration. It wrapped around him like a shell, pulsing gently, soothing the worst of the pain. The wind beyond the barrier whispered through leaves and distant underbrush, but inside, there was silence. Peace.

  Joran’s breathing slowed. His eyes grew heavy.

  The last thing he saw was the moonlight filtering through the trees above him, and the faint shimmer of the healing dome holding the night at bay.

  Then, the world faded into darkness.

  Midday

  Joran woke with a sharp gasp, the remnants of his nightmare slipping away like shadows fleeing the sun. He sat up slowly, heart still racing, his cloak rumpled and dusted with pine needles. But despite the dream, he felt rested—truly rested—for the first time in days. The healing spell had done its job, and his magic had fully returned, humming steady and strong beneath his skin.

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  The brook nearby whispered to him, the soft babble of water over stone calling his attention. He rose with only a slight groan, the soreness in his body now a dull echo rather than a scream. Crossing the clearing, he knelt at the water’s edge, scooping up a handful and splashing it over his face. The cold jolted him awake, clearing away the last traces of sleep and fear.

  He drank deeply, letting the crisp, clean water cool his throat.

  “Lovely spot, isn’t it?”

  Joran flinched, spinning around as a voice broke the quiet.

  A man stood on the opposite bank of the brook, leaning casually on a walking stick. He wore plain traveling clothes—dusty and weather-worn—but his presence was anything but ordinary. His hair was streaked with gray, his skin tanned and lined with age, and a jagged scar ran across his left eye. And yet, there was something strange about him. His smile was warm, but behind it, something unreadable stirred.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man added, raising his free hand in apology. “You looked peaceful, and I hate to interrupt peace. Hard thing to come by these days.”

  Joran’s hand had gone to the hilt of his sword out of reflex. He relaxed slightly when he saw the stranger had no weapons. “It’s fine,” he said warily. “I just wasn’t expecting company.”

  “Most people don’t, when they’re in the middle of nowhere,” the man chuckled. “May I rest here a while? Only for a short bit. The brook’s calling to me.”

  Joran hesitated. Then, with a small nod, he gestured to the open space beside the water. “Sure. Just… stay on your side.”

  “Of course, of course,” the man said, grinning as he stepped lightly across the rocks—his movements surprisingly agile. He settled near the brook with a satisfied sigh, dipping his hands into the water and drinking deeply. “Ahhh… nothing like the taste of wild water. Untouched. Free.”

  Joran watched him silently, still unsure what to make of him.

  “Do you have anything to eat, by any chance?” the man asked, glancing over with a sheepish look. “It’s not that I’m helpless, I just… prefer company when I eat.”

  Joran eyed him a moment longer, then pulled a wrapped bit of dried meat and a small loaf of bread from his belt pouch. He tore off a portion and held it out. “Here.”

  The man accepted it with a grateful nod. “Kind soul,” he said, taking a small bite. “Kindness is rare these days. Especially from those who’ve been hunted.”

  Joran’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “I can see it in your shoulders,” the man went on, not unkindly. “Tension like that doesn’t come from walking too far. It comes from looking over your shoulder too many times.”

  Joran looked away. “It’s complicated.”

  “It always is.”

  The man leaned back on his elbows, chewing slowly, his expression unreadable. “Trouble comes in many forms. Sometimes it chases you. Sometimes it wears a familiar face. And sometimes, it’s not even trouble at all—it’s the world telling you to move.”

  Joran raised an eyebrow. “You speak like a philosopher.”

  “Do I?” The man smiled, eyes twinkling. “Maybe I’ve just seen a lot of roads. Walked more than most. I’ve met people who ran from justice… and people who ran from injustice. Both left deep footprints.”

  “And you?” Joran asked. “What are you running from?”

  The man laughed, not bitterly but softly, like someone who’d had the same question asked a thousand times. “I’m not running, boy. I’m watching. Waiting. Hoping.”

  “Hoping for what?”

  The stranger didn’t answer right away. He gazed into the brook, the flowing water reflected in his eyes—eyes that looked far older than his body.

  “For someone to rise,” he said at last. “Someone who sees beyond bloodlines and crowns. Someone who understands what it means to be more than human… or mythic.”

  Joran’s breath caught, just slightly.

  “I think,” the man continued, “you’re heading somewhere important. And I think if you keep moving east, you’ll find what you need.”

  “East?” Joran frowned. “What’s that way?”

  “Everything that matters.”

  Joran studied him closely. “Who are you?”

  The man’s smile returned, patient and wide. “A friend to those who walk alone.”

  He rose to his feet, dusting off his trousers and tossing the last bite of bread into his mouth. “It’s a good thing, you know—holding on to hope, even when it hurts. The ones who keep walking despite the weight on their back... they’re the ones who change the world.”

  Joran blinked. “That’s... oddly specific advice.”

  The man winked. “All good advice is.”

  Joran turned toward the treeline, then back to ask another question—but the man was gone.

  Not a sound. Not a footstep. The space beside the brook was empty.

  Joran stood there a long moment, scanning the trees, the rocks, even the sky.

  Nothing.

  He tightened his grip on his cloak and glanced toward the east, heart still pounding from the strange encounter.

  “…Right. East it is.”

  And with that, he began to walk.