Year 5221 After the Mists, Fourth Month of the Dew Season
Three years had passed since the last breath of war faded from the northern battlefields. The world no longer trembled beneath the clash of steel and magic. One by one, the cities regained their pulse, as if an ancient civilization—once on the brink of extinction—had begun to crawl out from its ruins.
But not all that returned carried light.
Some brought the mist.
Mist unseen... yet always lurking.
In the heart of Mireladis, a bustling port city, nestled in the lower district known for its scent of brine and its bent reputation, stood a tavern as old as half-forgotten songs. The Hollow Thistle—a haven now for drunk veterans, reckless bounty hunters, failed poets, and the shady dealers of forbidden knowledge.
That evening, a fine veil of mist clung to the damp cobblestones outside, while the screech of a poorly tuned three-string guitar grated from a cramped corner stage. Inside, the bar pulsed with noise—raucous laughter, sloshing mugs, and war tales retold with exaggerated valor.
Amidst them all sat one figure who did not speak.
A man cloaked in deep gray, hood drawn low to hide his face entirely. Broad-shouldered, posture straight, he hardly moved. In front of him, a glass of sereth mead remained untouched, even by condensation.
He had been there for more than an hour. Watching. Listening.
His name was Alaric, or so the whispers in the shadow market claimed. But to himself, even that name had begun to feel distant. Over the past three years, he had shed many things—his noble garments, his family crest, even the smile that once graced his lips.
Only one name remained, etched like a scar:
Vaeloria.
A place—or perhaps a person. A trace of the past that lingered not in memory, but in marrow.
"You are getting closer."
That voice again. Without a mouth. A presence inside his mind.
"But are you ready for what you'll find?"
Alaric breathed in the air thick with cheap liquor, herbal smoke, and human sweat. Around him, the world reveled in the Eastern Faction's final victory. Songs of triumph rang out nightly in cities like this one. But none of them knew what had truly been lost to win that war. What—and who—had vanished without a sound.
From the table across, two old men were bickering in hoarse, drunken tones:
"I swear, the ruins at the Isarel Slopes opened again! My friend saw glowing purple stones—some kind of writing, ancient and unreadable!"
"Bah, you're drunk. Children's tales, that's all. Vaeloria's a legend! And even if it were real—why now? Why after peace finally settled?"
Alaric raised his head slightly, just enough for one pale blue eye to peek from beneath his hood. The flickering lantern light caught in his iris like lightning on frozen glass.
Isarel Slopes. Purple stones. Ancient script.
Not the first whispers he'd heard—but slowly, they were forming a map in his mind.
"Pssst… hooded man,"
murmured a young barmaid, approaching with an empty tray, her tone hesitant.
"The guy at the far end… the one with the owl tattoo… says he's been near those ruins. But his mouth doesn't open cheap."
Alaric turned just slightly, enough to reveal the hard line of his jaw—a jaw that had once led armies. He nodded, drawing a single copper coin from within his cloak. It bore the symbol of a fractured sky—a currency no longer minted, but still respected in back alleys.
The girl took it and vanished into the crowd.
Alaric resumed his silence, fingers resting gently near the hilt of the sword hidden beneath his cloak. He did not come here to fight. But true information seldom came without a price… or blood.
Outside the bar, night had fallen. The moon Eirael—the Watcher's Moon—rose slowly behind scattered clouds, its light slipping through the cracked windowpanes like a breath held by the stars themselves. It watched, distant and patient, as if awaiting something yet to arrive.
Alaric exhaled slowly.
"Vaeloria…" he whispered—
not a declaration,
not a plea,
but a prayer long forgotten by the gods.
The creature tucked its wings in silently, nestling deeper into the shadowed folds of Alaric's cloak. Its small body felt nearly weightless, yet warm—with a faint pulse, like a heartbeat or the thrum of ancient, unnamed magic.
It had never spoken in words. But its presence was another kind of voice—deeper than echoes, softer than whispers.
They had been together for three years.
Three years since that cold night in the forest, when Alaric nearly died and the winged creature emerged from the mist, wounded, bathed in a faint red glow. From that moment on, they had never been apart.
"Don't linger here too long," the voice crept into his mind.
Not a man's voice. Not a woman's. Not human at all. More like a plucked string deep within the soul.
"They can smell you."
Alaric gently touched the inside of his cloak, as if calming something. "I know," he whispered. "But we need the next piece."
The guitar on stage quickened its rhythm. Laughter echoed louder.
But amid the noise, a figure approached Alaric's table: the man with the owl tattoo. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. His face was scarred, as if sliced by fire.
"I heard you're looking for ruins," he said flatly, pulling up a chair without invitation. "And you carry old money. Sky-fracture coins. Only northerners bring those."
Alaric didn't respond. But the look in his eyes was warning enough.
The man grinned, then leaned in. His voice dropped to a low whisper:
"Vaeloria isn't just a lost place, friend. It's cursed. There's a door there… and something waiting behind it. You think you're searching for it. But maybe—it's the one searching for you."
"I made it close once," he continued. "Just a few steps from the main ruins. But that night… the sky opened. And the stones began to whisper."
"My companions started vanishing, one by one."
Alaric remained silent, yet beneath his cloak, the winged creature gave a slight shiver. He could feel it—in the delicate tremble of its feathers—the creature did not like this tale.
As if it remembered the place.
Or worse: came from it.
"I can show you the path to the Isarel Slope breach," the tattooed man offered. "But that kind of knowledge comes at a price. And if you dare go… steel your soul. In that place, time and names can disappear."
Alaric nodded once. Then placed an object on the table.
Not a coin.
Not a map.
But a small piece of glossy black stone, etched with faint blue glowing runes.
The man froze. His eyes widened. His lips moved—but no sound came. Then, slowly, he backed away—like a beast sensing the presence of a predator.
The stone pulsed once, briefly.
But it was enough to send a message:
Alaric was no ordinary seeker of ruins.
And Vaeloria… was no ordinary place.
The man vanished into the crowd without another word, swallowed by music, laughter, and smoke. Alaric remained still, eyes half-lidded beneath his hood, fingers loosely curled around the edge of the table. His mind, however, was racing—sifting through fragments, whispers, and echoes older than memory.
"He knew too much," came the soft voice again. Not alarmed—just aware.
"And too little."
Alaric allowed himself a faint smirk. "Most who speak of Vaeloria do," he murmured.
He stood, letting the folds of his cloak settle. The winged creature shifted slightly, as if sensing motion in the air—not outside, but within.
There was no time to waste.
He moved through the tavern like smoke, weaving past dancers, drunkards, and mercenaries. Outside, the wind had changed direction, carrying the smell of rain—and something else beneath it: iron, old earth, and dreamfire.
In the alley behind the tavern, a figure was waiting. A young woman with a brass monocle over one eye, her gloves stained with ink and oil. A cartographer. A rare kind.
"You got it?" she asked without preamble.
Alaric pulled a cloth pouch from his belt and handed it to her. She opened it and inhaled sharply.
"Is this... Isarel blackstone?" Her voice trembled, half in awe, half in dread. "Where did you—"
"I need a map. Not questions."
She swallowed hard, then nodded. "It'll take time."
"You have until dawn."
She looked like she wanted to argue, but something in his tone made her fall silent. She turned and disappeared down a side corridor, her boots echoing like soft hammers on stone.
Alaric stood alone once more. The winged creature stirred.
"The door is stirring too," it whispered.
"Can you hear it?"
He could.
Far away—in a place no longer marked on any map—something ancient had begun to awaken.
Lir drifted silently beside him, wings barely shimmering in the morning light.
Alaric watched the little creature for a long moment—its small, glowing body hovering just above the moss. The soft pulse of golden light beneath its translucent skin, the curved horns that caught the sun like frost-touched crystal... there was something familiar in the way it moved, the way it looked back at him with quiet, knowing eyes.
As if this had all happened before.
As if they had walked together, not just for hours—but for years.
> "Have we really just met?" he asked under his breath.
Lir tilted its head slightly, the corners of its almost-invisible mouth tugging into what might have been a smile.
The forest around them was hushed, and for a heartbeat, time felt thinner.
Alaric's gaze softened, caught in a pull he couldn't name. He blinked—and memory rushed in like a tide.
Three years ago.
There had been a light.
Not bright—no, not blinding—but gentle, warm, like a breath in the cold. Alaric had drifted in and out of darkness, wounds torn deep, breath shallow, the scent of blood and smoke thick in his throat.
But then, a whisper. A pulse.
He wasn't sure if he had seen a figure or dreamed it—a soft glow, wings like mist, horns like crystal, and golden eyes that watched from the quiet.
A feeling lingered, even after the vision faded: he wasn't alone.
---
Now.
Mist still clung to the forest floor, but the air had grown clearer. Each breath was easier.
Alaric walked with slow, steady steps. At his side, that same small creature floated soundlessly. Its presence didn't disturb the forest—it became part of it. As if it belonged more than he did.
He glanced toward it.
It was no taller than his knee, its body shimmering faintly with moonlight and dew. Curved horns swept back from its head, and translucent wings pulsed behind it like breaths of fog. It said nothing aloud, yet he could feel it listening.
He spoke quietly, more to himself than to the creature.
"I feel like I've met you before."
The creature turned slightly, its golden eyes glowing with soft recognition.
"You have," came the voice—not through ears, but within his mind.
"Even if you no longer remember."
They stopped beneath a large tree, the roots arching like ancient ribs over moss-covered ground. Light filtered through the canopy above.
Alaric studied the creature closely. "If you're going to stay with me," he murmured, "I can't just call you 'you'."
A pause. Then the voice returned, gentle and knowing:
"I had a name once. But I've forgotten it—perhaps because you forgot it first."
Alaric smiled faintly, something bittersweet flickering behind his eyes.
His fingers brushed the stone pendant at his neck—cool to the touch, familiar in ways he couldn't explain. He closed his eyes briefly, letting the silence around them seep into his thoughts.
Then, softly:
"Lir."
The creature blinked slowly.
"What does it mean?"
Alaric opened his eyes and looked skyward, as though searching for something far beyond the leaves.
"It's the sound of water between stones.
A voice you can only hear when you're quiet enough to listen.
To me… it means peace.
And something I lost—long before I knew it was gone."
The creature—Lir—hovered closer, golden eyes shimmering.
"Lir," it repeated.
"I like it."
Though it had no arms, no form built for touch, its presence pressed against Alaric's soul like an embrace.
Night fell like a heavy blanket, bringing an odd kind of stillness. Outside, the city hadn't fully gone to sleep—music from a bar echoed faintly, laughter bouncing between alleys. But inside the small inn room, Alaric sat with his back to the window, staring at a piece of black stone laid on the table.
Beside the bed, Lir curled up in the folds of a hanging cloak. His wings were folded, his small body unmoving—but Alaric knew he wasn't asleep.
"Still restless?" Alaric asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Lir didn't answer with words. But the air around the stone shifted. Cold. Still. And then—the stone vibrated.
Alaric tensed. Pale blue light spread from the thin cracks across the surface, forming lines—like ancient letters. But not any human script.
"That language…" he muttered, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "I've seen this… near the Arkan ruins."
Lir uncurled, floating gently down beside the stone. His golden eyes shimmered in sync with the glowing lines. And as he reached out—
A voice spoke inside Alaric's mind.
But this time it was different. Not just feelings or echoes. This was Lir, speaking in a forgotten tongue, each word like a note in a buried melody.
"Na'shya vel aran… ilun farathi."
Alaric pulled back, breath caught in his chest. "What was that? What did you just say?"
Lir met his gaze. A long silence stretched between them—filled with something ancient.
"I don't know where those words came from," Lir answered, this time in a softer, clearer thought. "But they… feel like mine."
Alaric slowly sat down, his eyes locked on the small creature. The pulse of magic stirred in the air—real, undeniable. For the first time, he truly saw Lir.
"You're not just a strange creature who saved me in the forest," he said quietly. "You're part of something bigger. And this stone… it reacts to you."
Lir looked down. There was sorrow in his face—or maybe weight. A burden long carried.
"Maybe I am the key," he murmured. "Or maybe… I'm the door itself."
Alaric fell silent.
Then, slowly, he rose and approached, his expression gentle, almost reverent.
"For three years, I've called you by a name you never rejected. But tonight... I feel the need to call you that name with intention."
He touched the stone, its glow softening beneath his fingers.
"Your name is Lir. In a tongue I don't remember learning... it means echo—a sound that remains when all else is gone, still searching for its source."
Lir closed his eyes. For a moment, the soft blue light wrapped around him like a mantle.
"Lir," Alaric whispered again. "My friend. My key. And maybe… the missing part of myself."
The creature nodded.
"I am Lir," he replied—and this time, the voice wasn't just inside Alaric's head. It echoed softly in the room.
"And I will lead you to the door you once shut… and forgot."
---
he first light of dawn slipped through the curtains, painting golden strokes on the stone walls. Alaric had not slept since the night before. He stood at the window's edge, eyes scanning the sky as it slowly lightened. The morning breeze carried the scent of wet earth and dew-kissed leaves.
Lir sat quietly atop the wooden table, small legs dangling off the edge. His wings were folded neatly behind him, yet his glowing eyes remained alert—calm, as though something unspoken had settled within him during the night.
A soft knock broke the silence.
"Alaric," came the Cartographer's voice from behind the door—level and polite. "The map is ready. I'll wait downstairs."
Alaric gave a slow nod, though it couldn't be seen, and turned to Lir.
"It's time," he said, voice raspy from the sleepless night.
Lir leapt lightly onto his shoulder, as he always did.
"The Slopes of Isarel?" he asked, curiosity and wariness blending in his tone.
"Yes. The ruins there might hold fragments of the past. Yours… and mine," Alaric replied.
Lir nodded, gaze drifting toward the window.
They descended the creaking stairs. The Cartographer—an old man clad in a robe sewn with pockets and scrolls—unrolled a parchment and handed it to Alaric.
"This location won't appear on common maps," the old man explained. "But according to an ancient manuscript from the Western Library, this place was once known as Salurah—a haven of the stargazers."
Alaric studied the map. The path wound through jagged rocks, misty valleys, and narrow cliffs.
"Something's watching us," Lir whispered within his mind.
Alaric straightened. His eyes scanned the room.
For a fleeting moment… a chill clung to the air behind the inn's door. Nothing visible stirred, but the feeling—that instinct buried beneath lost memories—bit into him like frost from crumbled ruins.
"We have to move," he murmured. "Before shadows begin to shift."
"Shadows don't always come from darkness," Lir said softly. "Sometimes they grow from the light we let burn for too long."
Together they stepped outside as the sun crested the horizon. A map in hand. Wind at their backs. And footsteps soon to trace a road older than memory.
Far behind them, atop a cracked tower at the city's edge, a pair of unblinking eyes watched them go.
And beneath a shadowed hood, a thin smile appeared.
"At last," the figure whispered. "They begin to move."