Ma’an had never expected to come east of the mountains of Miranitia, but in the winter of 3119, over four years after his departure from home, he did so.

The Land of Waai on their west side had proven far too dangerous, and there was no way of going back to his homeland across the sea. Thus, he came into lands he had never even heard stories about. 

But it was populous, and roads were paved, so he dared to take the risk. 

The hills were peaceful, though cold. 

The edges of rivers were frozen and a howling wind pierced through the thick bushes. 

The trees did protect him from the light snowfall, but eventually the flakes would leak through the bare branches. 

・・・

On a particularly frosty night, Ma'an's heart sank into his boots. 

He had been walking for days, and there was no sign of life anywhere. 

Birds were silent, and no buildings to be seen. 

Only the shallow valleys filled with trees. 

As the sun set, the wind grew stronger, and more snow started to fall. 

The safety of the forest was threatened now as the storm penetrated it. 

He slowed down as the cold got through to his bones. The desire to sleep taunted him. His mind knew resting and making a fire was the best idea, but he could not find the energy nor the shelter. 

He sat down against a tree, not knowing where he was even going. His journey seemed pointless against this dark backdrop, and he wished to be home again, in a small town almost forgotten, if it still even existed. 

The determination and ambition he had felt the past months had left him alongside the blood from his injuries, and now all left was him and a body he could barely feel anymore. 

He closed his eyes and fell asleep. 

Perhaps he knew a certain peace was around the corner.

・・・

Ma’an was not as far from civilization as he thought, though he could not possibly have known this in the snowy night. 

He had entered the country of Doku, one of the northernmost countries in eastern Miranitia, and a small town by the name of Kitu Tarhayn was no more than two kilometres away. 

Even so, there was someone closer.

A man named Yorell was gathering spare wood at the very moment Ma’an sat down by the tree. 

Yorell was perhaps just as peculiar as Ma’an, living by himself in an old, ruined fort within the growths. 

In the dark shadows, he felt a presence. 

Yorell was, in fact, a wizard as well, though magic was still in a very premature phase in Miranitia compared to that in Peijh, where Ma’an came from. 

Yorell approached the presence, and soon found the young man lying among the tree roots under a blanket of snow. 

Ma'an was a small human compared to the Dokian. People from Miranitia were generally bigger than Peijhans. 

Yorell put the lantern on the ground and crouched by the masked stranger. 

'Are you okay?' he asked softly, but it was largely lost in the whistling wind. 

Yorell touched the mask. It was a bright turquoise with a dark blue star on the forehead. 

Since the whole body was covered, it was hard to see its condition, but as soon as he slightly moved the mask, Ma'an jerked. 

Both men were frightened and stood up. 

Ma'an instantly drew his small sword but stumbled and had to clutch his side in pain.

The lantern's light shone on the sharp blade. 

Its glow was magical, but its user was without a doubt too weak to wield it. 

Yorell saw this and quickly composed himself. 

He firmly gripped the axe he had with him. Much larger than Ma'an's weapon, but its artisanship could not be matched.

Frankly, the mask scared him. Its eyes had an unsettling darkness to them.

'State your name,' Yorell demanded. 

Ma'an did not understand the tongue spoken and stood frozen – almost literally.

'Take the mask off!' Yorell shouted when he got no response. 

The snow was settling on his shoulders and hood, and his fingertips were starting to hurt. 

In a swift movement, he stepped closer and lifted his axe with both hands. 

‘.........’ Ma’an realised he did not stand a chance and dropped his sword by his feet.

Yorell took a slow step closer, then kicked the sword a couple metres away. 

Its strange glow glued his gaze to it for a moment. 

He then returned his attention to the stranger in front of him, who did not seem to move.

'Take the mask off, stranger,' Yorell repeated, but Ma’an did not do anything. 

Yorell sighed. ‘What in Yaut’s name are you doing here…’ He started to wonder if he was seeing a ghost of some kind.

‘Go! Go away!’ he yelled at the stranger, gripping his axe and swinging it back. 

He was ready to slash one of Ma’an’s limbs clean off. 

'.........'

Ma’an stumbled back and collapsed, which scared Yorell even more at first. 

When he realised Ma’an had stopped moving, he lowered his axe. 

He kneeled beside him and lightly shook his shoulder, not knowing whether to expect a surprise attack or simply the touch of a lifeless body. 

He got the latter. 

Then carefully, he pulled the mask off his face, which revealed to him a young but mature face, difficult to see in the dim light. 

There was dried blood on his brow and nose, his eyes were barely open anymore, haunting…

Yorell scanned his surroundings in fear to be ambushed, but there was not a single sign of life other than his own and Ma’an’s. 

He was unsure what to do, until he felt the cold biting into his face and the snow slowly seeping into his clothes.

‘The kid will die, Yorell… Let’s go,’ he said to himself. 

He put his axe back in the bag he was carrying and pulled Ma’an up by his coat. 

Yorell didn't bother speaking anymore and plainly threw the young man over his shoulder to get him out of the roaring storm. 

In his free hand, he took the lantern and the small sword. 

It was a ten-minute walk back to the house.

Up a slightly upward slope was a pebble path hidden under the snow, but marked by the bushes on either side. 

It led to a roofed porch lit by the small window in the front door. 

It was of newly painted wood and had seemingly been built long after the rest of the building, for the other walls were of century old stone covered in moss and ivy. 

There were cracks everywhere, corners were rounded by weather, and at least half of the building was simply gone. 

Yorell put him down on the wooden porch and patted the snow off their coats before taking him inside. 

The warmth surrounded Ma'an, making him even more tired. 

His fingers and feet hurt, and now that his mask was gone, his cold forehead gave him a headache. 

The door closed behind him, but he couldn't care less. There was heating here, and that’s all he wanted. 

Normally, he would shun the strangers that he came across, or they would shun him. But this was the first time in these years that he had truly felt lost, and the world had finally overpowered him.

Yorell put his coat on the rack to dry before helping Ma'an do the same. 

He was surprised by the clothing he wore; he had never seen anything like it. 

Ma'an wore the same clothes he had worn since his departure from Peijh: a generic broken white shirt under a corset-like jacket with strange patterns in many colours, mainly dark green and orange. 

It stunned Yorell for a moment – this stranger clearly came from faraway lands beyond Dokian imagination. 

・・・

Ma'an was taken further into the house. 

A fire was crackling gently in the hearth, filling the home with a joyfully dancing light. 

The shadows of the expensive furniture swayed along. 

The house was strange, so large and high. 

Multiple painted screens had been used to divide the space into rooms, which had made it rather cosy. 

There were all kinds of things laying around – from books and paper to candles, trays, vases, and boxes – but it all seemed organised. 

Ma’an had no time to look at it, however, because his head fell forward and his eyes closed. 

The weariness settled in now that he felt safer.

・・・

'...!' A hand on his side startled him awake.

'Easy. Lay down,' Yorell said, and he made Ma'an lay on his back on the couch. 

He undid the corset, accompanied by weak struggling from Ma'an. 

He then pulled up the bloody shirt and looked at the deep wound. It contrasted the purple bruises around it sharply.

'I'll fix it, don't worry. I'll be right back.' 

He fetched the linen bandages he had and warmed some water in the kitchen. 

Yorell cleaned and bound the wound patiently. 

The warm water on his side made Ma’an shiver. His breathing was heavy but stable. 

Yorell covered the cut with a thick bandage and checked for other injuries – fortunately, no more than a couple of abrasions. He then undressed him, for his clothes were slightly wet and his dark skin was almost purple.

'Hey, here, put this on,' Yorell said as he lightly shook Ma'an awake and gave him one of his spare tunics. 

Ma'an took it and held it in front of him, disoriented by the soft bandages around his waist and this newly found silence. 

Without thinking, he put the white tunic on, which fit him more like a dress. 

Yorell wrapped a thick blanket around him and gave him warm bread to eat before standing up straight and crossing his arms as if he were about to berate a student.

'So, it's about time you tell me who you are and what you are doing on my terrain,' he said.

Ma'an looked at him for a while. 

The smaller man had a strange gaze from which Yorell couldn’t look away. The eyes looked keen, much older than the rest of the figure.

'My name is Ma'an Tsueih, Evergreen Stargazer of the Astral Order. I come in peace, though I have lost my purpose a long time ago. I am travelling northwards,' Ma'an spoke in an unknown language. 

Yorell understood his words, yet he had never heard them before and could not reproduce them. 

Ma'an's voice was deep but soft and weakened by exhaustion. ‘As you can surely see, my travel has not been without peril. I thank you deeply for bringing me to safety and tending my wounds. I do not want to disturb you further, but I'm afraid I have lost much of my strength. Is there any place nearby where I can seek recovery?' 

'...??' Yorell's eyes revealed his shock and confusion.

'Heavens…! You must come from incredibly far lands– How did I... understand what you said?? I- I don't speak your language–' he stumbled over words. 

He bent into his knees and crouched by the small table by the couch.

'I'm afraid I do not know your tongue, but I am positive you know mine, though you may have never heard it before. It is a language from the East and is universally understood if I’m correct… Few people can speak it still, but it comes in handy when travelling,' Ma'an chuckled weakly. He rubbed his eyes, teary from the wind.

'I see... Talking does not help me much, then,' Yorell muttered.

'I have picked up a little Dokian here and there the past days, so perhaps we can communicate somewhat effectively if you speak slowly.' 

Yorell nodded and did just that, 'All right. Ma'an, is it? I am Aya Yorell. Please call me Yorell. I am relieved you seem all right. I was very worried to find someone wounded in these woods.'

'Yorell, nice to meet you. Again, thank you for taking care of me.' Ma'an lowered his head, a foreign gesture in Miranitia.

'Nice to meet you too. Please, eat. You need to strengthen. I will make a bed ready for you so you can sleep soundly tonight. I will ask about your purpose tomorrow...'