Dawn broke with a pale warmth, peeling away the mist that clung to the trees like forgotten whispers. Alaric stood near the wooden gate of the cartographer's home—a moss-covered house with stone walls and weathered maps clinging to every surface. Lir perched quietly on his shoulder, her small wings shivering slightly in the morning breeze.
Before he could even knock, the door creaked open.
"HAH! Knew you'd show up early! You're the impatient type, aren't you?"
A raspy, spirited voice greeted them. An old man with a feathered cap poked his head out—his eyes narrow but sharp, as if he'd been counting the minutes since nightfall.
"Come in! Don't just stand there like a stone sentinel. Hm, did you bring provisions? No? Bah, doesn't matter—I've got blue-root tea and some tough bread. We'll need the carbs before climbing those cursed stones at the Isarel slopes!"
Alaric gave a small nod. Lir remained silent.
The old man walked briskly inside, chattering without pause as he rummaged through drawers crammed with brittle scrolls and half-finished maps.
"Listen, lad—paths to the ruins change every season. The rocks move, you know? Sometimes what's a flat trail today becomes a pit by morning. But I know the one that stays. Between the twin leaning fig trees. Careful of the red moss, though—it'll make you hallucinate for three whole days."
Alaric breathed deeply, his eyes following the rough map the man spread across the wooden table.
"And don't trust the blue lights! Not a traveler's torch—those are cave beasts' eyes. If you see two lights… run. Three? Pray. Hah! I once escaped with a twisted ankle and an empty purse. You look stronger—you'll probably do better!"
The old man turned and poured tea, still rambling.
"You know, they say the ruins are from the Cloudborn people. Not many know this, but they stored—eh…"
He froze mid-pour.
A few drops of tea spilled onto the map as his eyes finally caught the tiny winged figure resting calmly on Alaric's shoulder.
"W-What is that?! By the stars! Are you—did you bring a FAERIE?!"
Lir turned slowly toward him, her eyes glowing softly.
The old man stepped back, not in fear, but in utter disbelief.
"By all the old maps and dragon toes! I've never seen one up close! They always hide, always disappear between shadows! I thought they were extinct—or bedtime tales!"
Alaric glanced at Lir, then back at the cartographer.
"Her name is Lir," he said calmly.
"She's… more than a travel companion."
The old man leaned in slowly, then let out a quiet laugh.
"Ha! The world really is changing! A human with a faerie—heading to the old ruins! If this isn't the start of legend, I don't know what is!"
Narration flowed softly between his wheezing laughter. This world was, indeed, full of races. Humans were the most visible, but not the only ones. Stonefolk dwelled beneath the earth, river-souls drifted through the deep waters, forest-spirits whispered through leaves, and the fae—the Lightborn—once lived in the space between waking and dream. Most believed they had vanished, or returned to the wild.
And yet, here was one.
Silent. Still. Gazing at a map of the world with golden eyes.
"We'll need to be careful, lad," the old man said at last.
"If those ruins really belong to the Cloudborn… then Lir's presence might awaken things long asleep."
Alaric simply nodded.
Their journey had not yet begun in earnest. But this morning—with blue-root tea, dusty maps, and trembling teacups—was a threshold.
Alaric took a sip of the lukewarm blue-root tea, then set the wooden cup down with a quiet tap.
"Let me see the map again," he said.
The cartographer's eyes lit up.
"Aha! That's the spirit! Finally showing some real interest!"
He unfurled the brittle map again across the table, smoothing its creases with the care of a father dressing a newborn.
"Now, look sharp—this is no marketplace stroll. First, we'll take the winding trail eastward from here, through the old pine hollows. That's where the bark glows faint green at night—don't ask me why, it just does. If the light turns red, we run. No questions."
He jabbed his finger at a faded circle.
"This here's the Stoneback Bridge—used to be whole, now just three slabs of rock across a stream that talks to itself. If it starts mimicking your voice, don't panic. Keep walking."
Alaric nodded slightly.
Lir remained perched on his shoulder, unblinking.
"Once we cross that, we enter the Ridge of Hollow Owls. Not actual owls, mind you—more like echoes that pretend to be them. Creepy little tricksters. They like to whisper riddles and make you walk in circles."
He traced a jagged line with his nail.
"Then we reach the Glade of Seven Stones. You'll see a tree with silver moss—turn left, not right. Everyone always goes right. You do that, you end up in the Quagmire of Regret. Not as poetic as it sounds."
Alaric raised an eyebrow.
"That's... an actual place?"
"Oh yes! Sticky mud, voices from your past, headaches. Nasty business. Happened to a merchant once—kept apologizing to his dead mother for hours. Left his boots behind."
He paused, letting the silence settle.
"Now, from the glade we descend to the actual slopes of Isarel. That's where things get tricky."
The old man's tone dropped a bit—less theatrical, more serious.
"You'll see ruins. Big ones. Broken columns. Vines that bleed blue sap. But under all that, the real path continues. Down into the buried sanctum. The one no map shows anymore."
He tapped the map gently.
"That's where I stop. You understand?"
Alaric nodded again.
"And if the stone reacts again," he added, glancing at the dark crystal in his pocket, "we follow where it leads."
The cartographer gave a crooked smile.
"Hah... And here I thought this would be a simple guide's job. Alright, lad. We leave at dusk. You better get some rest before we start dancing with ghosts."
Lir's wings fluttered once, barely a breath of motion.
Alaric didn't reply.
He just leaned back, eyes on the trail ahead, already forming in his mind.
The sun was still low when they began their trek, following a narrow trail that gently ascended through mossy ground and damp leaves. The old man's map was tightly rolled and tucked into his worn leather bag. He led the way with a wooden staff, balancing himself as he walked, and—true to his nature—he didn't stop talking.
"I tell you, lad, that place isn't just any ruin. No, no! The first time I went there—ah, maybe twenty years ago?—I was a younger man, for sure. Still strong, no knee problems, and this hair wasn't as white as the northern snow!" He laughed heartily, his voice echoing lightly between the trees.
Alaric walked behind him in silence, eyes fixed on the path ahead. Occasionally, he gave a nod. Beside him, Lir floated gently, barely touching the earth, her misty wings blending with the morning air.
"Back then, I had three companions from the west—ruin diggers and a hired guard, if I remember right. We found part of a stone wall buried in soil, about chest height, covered in strange carvings. Old writing, something I'd never seen before. Not human, I'd say. Maybe... elven, like your tiny friend here?" He glanced at Lir, then quickly looked away, chuckling nervously. "Ah, forgive me, little sir. No offense meant."
Lir glanced at him with calm golden eyes but said nothing.
"Well then," the man continued, undeterred, "we spent the night there. And strange things began to happen. Footsteps when everyone was asleep, whispers inside the mist—though there shouldn't have been mist that time of year. One of us... the hired guard... disappeared. Only his sword belt was left."
Alaric frowned. "And you still chose to return?" he asked plainly.
"Of course!" the man said with pride. "What's life without a little mystery? Besides, I'm not alone this time, am I?"
He patted his own shoulder and gave a wide grin over his back. "There's three of us. The map's better now, and I have a good feeling about this."
The trail continued in silence for a while, broken only by birdsong and the soft crunch of wet leaves. After about an hour, they reached a flat clearing—firm ground, surrounded by giant tree roots that rose like natural pillars.
"We stopped here before," the man said, lowering his bag. "Best resting spot before we hit the real slope. Beyond this point... well, let's just say it's not for the faint of heart."
He sat on a massive root, pulling out a waterskin and a chunk of dry bread. "Hungry? We should eat. There's still a long way to go. And I'm not done telling my story, you know…"
Alaric sat without a word, sipping from the waterskin. Lir perched on a small rock, looking around as if she could hear something beyond normal human senses.
The old man sighed contentedly and resumed his tale—of strange symbols he once copied, of shadows seen among the ruins, and of a bell sound with no source that rang during the darkest hour of night.
Alaric listened. Sometimes he nodded, sometimes he merely closed his eyes for a moment, trying to grasp something half-remembered.
Beside him, Lir remained silent. But the soft glow of her small body pulsed gently, as if responding to stories long forgotten by the world.
The journey had only just begun.
Just as the old man finished the tale of the bell, a sudden hush settled over the clearing.
The birds quieted, as if something unseen had brushed against the very fabric of the forest. Alaric opened his eyes slowly. He didn't speak, but his fingers moved instinctively toward the hilt of his blade. The tension passed quickly—like a gust that came and went without stirring the leaves—but Lir was already standing, her eyes locked on the dense treeline to the east.
The old man noticed the change in the air as well, though he tried to wave it off. "Forest tricks," he muttered, mostly to himself. "This place has always had a way of... listening."
He stood with a groan, brushing crumbs from his tunic. "Well then. Enough sitting. The slope's ahead, and the path gets tricky from here. Watch your step—roots tend to move where you least expect them."
They continued on, this time with fewer words. The forest grew darker as the canopy thickened, sunlight filtered in patches like fragments of a dream. The air turned cooler, damper, tinged with the scent of stone and old earth.
Soon, the trees began to thin, replaced by weathered rocks and narrow ridges veiled in lichen. Climbing was harder now. Alaric offered a hand once when the old man slipped, but otherwise, the three moved in their own rhythm, spread across the path like beads on a string.
Then, just past a fallen cedar, the path opened to a cliffside view.
They stood upon a high ledge, overlooking a vast sea of mist below. Between the drifting veils, one could glimpse distant towers—ruins perhaps—rising like broken fingers from the forest's embrace. And there, far ahead and half-hidden by fog, a darker shape loomed—jagged, still, ancient. A remnant of something larger than mere walls or stone.
"There," the old man whispered, as if speaking too loud might wake something. "Isarel. Or what's left of it."
Alaric stepped forward, staring at the distant silhouette. A strange pressure gathered in his chest, not fear exactly, but something colder. Something familiar. He didn't know how or why, but the shape in the distance stirred the edges of a memory not yet recovered.
Lir floated closer to him. Her wings dimmed slightly, and her voice—small, barely a murmur—finally broke the silence.
"...Do you feel it too?"
Alaric didn't answer. His jaw clenched. The wind tugged at his cloak, and far in the valley below, a deep, faint hum seemed to echo.
A call, perhaps.
Or a warning.
----
By the time the sun began to slip beneath the horizon, the sky behind them had turned the color of burnt copper. They'd descended from the cliff and followed a slanting path along the edge of a ravine, until the trail grew too dim to trust.
"This is as far as we go today," the old man said, brushing sweat from his brow. "Wouldn't want to stumble into something unfriendly in the dark."
They set camp beneath a sloped outcrop, its stony overhang providing shelter from the damp air. Alaric gathered what dry branches he could find while the old man prepared a small fire pit. Lir didn't help—but not out of rudeness. She remained motionless, staring at the distant silhouette of Isarel still barely visible through the mist, as if drawn to it by something deeper than curiosity.
The fire was small but steady, its warm flicker dancing across their faces. The old man passed out bits of dried meat and softened roots, then poured hot water over crushed herbs from a pouch he'd been carrying. The smell was earthy and calming.
Alaric chewed in silence, his gaze lost in the firelight. "You said there were symbols," he said suddenly. "The ones you copied."
The old man, mouth full, nodded and reached for his bag. He pulled free a thin leather-bound journal, its pages fragile with age and use. From it, he slid out a sheet of parchment. Carefully, he unfolded it.
Ink had faded in parts, but the markings were still legible—spirals, sharp slashes, and symbols that seemed to shimmer slightly under the fire's glow.
"They never made sense," the old man murmured, tapping one with a calloused finger. "But I kept dreaming about them for weeks after. Sometimes… I still do."
Alaric took the page in his hands, brows furrowed. There was something haunting in the shapes—not in their design, but in how they made him feel. His chest tightened, his breathing slowed, and for a brief moment, the sound of the forest disappeared completely.
Lir moved closer, her eyes fixed on one particular symbol in the bottom corner—a curved mark crossed by three vertical strokes. She reached out, almost touching the parchment, and whispered:
"...That's not writing."
The old man blinked. "What do you mean?"
"It's a seal," she said. "Or was. A broken one."
Silence followed her words, like the forest itself was listening again. The fire popped, sending a tiny spark skyward.
Alaric looked at her. "How do you know?"
But Lir didn't answer. Her eyes had gone distant, golden light pulsing faintly at her temples.
The old man gave a nervous chuckle. "Well now, that's enough bedtime stories for me." He folded the parchment again and slipped it back into his journal. "Let's get some rest. We'll need sharp eyes and steady feet tomorrow."
One by one, they settled—Alaric against the stone wall, sword close; the old man bundled in a patchwork blanket; and Lir perched atop a flat rock, staring into the mist that drifted like breathing across the land.
Sometime in the night, Alaric stirred from sleep. Not because of noise. But because of silence.
Too perfect.
Too complete.
He sat up slowly. The fire had died. The forest, still.
Lir was no longer on her rock.
And from the direction of Isarel, there came a sound—a soft, metallic chime. Like a bell.
Ringing once.
Then again.