The road east wound like a scar through the land.

Once, merchants had traveled it with laughter and song; now, only the wind dared to sing.

Eiden and Mira walked in silence.

The air smelled of wet stone and faint smoke — the kind that never truly leaves after a fire. The world felt hollow, and every step away from Vale seemed to weigh heavier on their hearts.

Mira glanced up at him. “You’re bleeding again.”

Eiden touched his arm — the golden marks beneath his skin still glowed faintly, but the veins around them were red and swollen.

“It’s fine,” he muttered.

“It doesn’t look fine,” she said softly.

He gave a small smile — not to comfort her, but to convince himself. “It never does.”

---

By evening, the sky had dimmed to purple. They found an abandoned carriage by the roadside, half-sunk in mud. Eiden gathered dry wood and started a small fire inside the broken shell.

Mira curled up near the flame, her eyes heavy. “Will they follow us again?”

“Maybe,” Eiden said. “But we’ll keep moving. We have to.”

As the fire crackled, a faint sound drifted from the distance — a melody.

Low, slow, sorrowful. A single note carried by the wind, as if the night itself was humming.

Eiden’s hand went to the dagger at his belt. “Stay here.”

He stepped out of the carriage, following the sound through the trees. The melody grew clearer — a flute, playing an old Lumen hymn. One his mother used to hum when she thought no one was listening.

Then he saw him.

A man sat on a fallen tree, cloaked in tattered green, a flute pressed to his lips. His hair was white at the edges, eyes bright and amused — too calm for the ruins around him.

When he noticed Eiden, he lowered the flute and smiled.

“Didn’t mean to frighten you, boy. Hard to sleep without music these days, don’t you think?”

Eiden didn’t answer. “Who are you?”

The man chuckled softly. “Ah, introductions. How old-fashioned. Let’s just say I’m a traveler who walks where stories end.”

“Traveler,” Eiden repeated warily. “That doesn’t explain how you found us.”

The man shrugged. “The road whispers if you listen long enough. It spoke of two lost souls running east — one touched by light, the other by fate.”

Eiden stiffened. His hand tensed around the dagger. “You knew?”

“I know many things,” the man said, standing slowly. “Including what hunts you.”

He looked directly at Eiden’s glowing arm. “That’s not power, child. That’s a promise made by something that doesn’t forget.”

The firelight flickered across his face — and for a heartbeat, Eiden saw something shimmer beneath his skin.

A mark — silver, not gold — running faintly along his neck.

“You’re one of them,” Eiden whispered.

“Not quite,” the man said. “The Empire calls me a Warden. I prefer… storykeeper.”

He stepped closer, eyes kind but sharp. “Your light burns louder than you know. If you don’t learn to hide it, it’ll bring the hunters — and worse.”

“Worse?”

“The ones who used to follow the gods,” he said softly. “And still remember their scent.”

Eiden felt a chill crawl up his spine.

He wanted to ask more, but Mira’s voice broke through the night. “Eiden?”

He turned back. “It’s alright, Mira.”

When he looked again, the man had lowered his flute and smiled faintly.

“Head east, toward the capital’s shadow,” the man said. “You’ll find a place called The Hollow Step Inn. There, you’ll meet someone who remembers the dawn.”

Eiden frowned. “Who?”

But the man only raised the flute again. “Ask her about the Twelve Flames.”

The melody returned — slow, haunting, echoing through the woods.

When Eiden blinked, the man was gone. Only the faint trail of silver dust remained where he had stood.

---

Back by the fire, Mira looked up as Eiden entered. “Who was that?”

He sat beside her, silent for a long time.

“Someone who knows more than he should,” he said finally. “And maybe… someone who’s still watching.”

Mira hugged her knees. “Do you trust him?”

“I don’t trust anyone,” Eiden murmured. “But I believe the road meant for us to meet.”

They sat together, listening to the last echoes of the flute fade into the dark.

When sleep came, Eiden dreamed — of twelve burning torches circling the world, and a voice whispering through fire and ash:

“When the last flame falls, the dawn will remember its name.”

---