The letter arrived borne by a magpie that refused bread crumbs but accepted Vesta’s ladybug as toll. Freyr unfastened the oak-leaf envelope and called for Akio with a tremble he misread as fear—until he recognized Liora’s looping script. The leaf edges shimmered with living runes; each glyph nudged the tissue to resist brittleness, a clever enchantment that would keep the note fresh until read. Liora wrote of Ardenfall’s rune-spheres—courtyards where sculpted oaks twisted into three-dimensional sigils, each knot containing a spell. She described streets humming with sorcery: cobblestones that glowed beneath too-drunk travelers, fountains whose water refused to drown coins tipped by children, libraries catalogued by whispering leaves.
The apprenticeship invitation, she admitted, frightened her. “But fear,” she wrote, “scares me less than moss growing on my dreams.” She vowed to return with stories vast enough to test the limits of Akio’s curiosity. At the bottom she drew a spiral in sap, still tacky—her pledge to stay tethered across miles. Akio read the letter twice more in private. Pride bloomed, entwined with a fierce loneliness; he had half expected Liora would outgrow Rathvale, yet seeing it inked felt like hearing a door click forever shut.

Departure day sun sank in syrupy oranges. The freight cart creaked under rune-scribed lumber; its driver popped knuckles as if impatience might spur the mare faster. Liora stood beside trunks bound in vine-woven rope. Her cloak, dyed forest-green, glimmered with faint sigil veins: a goodbye gift from Timory. Akio arrived clutching a fist-sized piece of ironwood he had carved for days into an uninterrupted spiral. The surface bore wax polish that caught the sunset. He pressed it into her palm; she responded by tapping the mark on his arm—“Your turn next,” she said. Words jammed behind teeth. Thank-you felt inadequate, farewell too final. Instead he quoted her own riddle back: “In what place does time fear to walk? Maybe where dreams sprint.” She laughed, eyes watering. Their hug felt like rope pulled taut, neither willing to let slack fall. Cart wheels finally churned gravel, stirring willow leaves. Akio paced beside until the curve obscured her; a last wave, then only dust motes dancing in fading light. He stayed until night insects replaced birds, each chirp a new kilometer stretching between them.

The orchard bore early apples dusted with silver fuzz. Akio plucked one, expected sweetness, found sharp tang. He chewed anyway, jaw working through both fruit and emotion. Without Liora’s riddles, the place sounded too quiet—no arguments with gravity, no laughter spooking crows. He hunted for her practice runes, found them nearly swallowed by bark. Growth can look like erasure, he mused, carving dates below her glyph so future passersby would know a druid once learned here. Storm clouds darkened; wind tousled branches. For a heartbeat he pictured abandoning the orchard as she had done—just picking a direction and walking until sunrise belonged to different hills. But commitment to his family, to Vesta’s cloud names, held him tethered. A tether can be cage or anchor. He walked home uncertain which one he wore.