The mist hung thick among the trees. The world felt like it was wrapped in a soft white veil—still, quiet, unfamiliar.
Alaric stood alone in a forest he did not recognize. The air was too calm. The leaves did not move. No birds. No breeze.
Only the voice.
"...You can hear me, can't you?"
The sound was soft, like a whisper pressed directly against his chest. He turned in every direction, but the woods remained silent.
Then came footsteps. Light. Small. Like a child running through damp grass.
"Who's there?" he called out.
No answer. But a strange scent drifted into his nose—sweet, unfamiliar, sharp like memory.
Suddenly, the mist ahead trembled and parted, forming the faint silhouette of a child. Hair white as snow. Eyes... too distant to see clearly.
"Are you—"
Before he could finish, the ground cracked beneath him. The mist swallowed everything.
And Alaric—
---
He woke up.
His breath came fast, chest rising and falling with a racing heart. Cold sweat clung to his brow. His eyes searched the ceiling of the modest tent above him.
Dark. Still too early. The air was damp, and the crickets hadn't stopped chirping.
He turned to his right. His uncle was still sleeping, snoring softly beneath a worn-out cloak.
Alaric sat up slowly, trying to calm himself. But that scent... the same floral scent from the dream... lingered faintly in the air.
And somehow, he felt closer than ever before.
Alaric rose slowly, careful not to wake his uncle. He grabbed his cloak and stepped out of the tent, slipping quietly into the cold air that greeted him in silence.
The sky had not yet brightened—only a faint dark blue stretched beyond the treetops. The morning mist had begun to descend, thin as the remnants of a dream not yet gone.
He stood there for a moment, closing his eyes.
And once again, as if from a distance... the voice returned.
Not a whisper this time—but more like a song. Soft and barely audible, yet guiding. Alaric turned his head, his steps moving slowly toward the sound, passing through bushes and roots he was certain hadn't been there the night before.
Something had changed in the forest.
A white flower drifted down from the sky, though there was no wind. He caught it. He didn't recognize the flower. Its scent... was exactly the same as in his dream.
Alaric's heart beat slowly. There was no longer any doubt—the dream wasn't just a passing illusion. Something was trying to reach him.
And he intended to find out what it was.
He stared at the white flower in his hand for a while, then exhaled. He clenched his fist and let the petals fall to the ground.
"That's enough," he murmured. "It was just a dream. Just a foolish dream."
But the voice—and the faint image of a child in the mist—wouldn't leave his mind. He felt as if something unseen was chasing him.
With firm steps, he returned to the tent. He picked up the sword leaning in the corner. The steel felt cold in his grip, offering a bit of calm.
His uncle was still asleep. Alaric looked at him briefly and whispered, "I'm just going out for a bit, Uncle. Not far."
He threw his cloak over his shoulders and headed west—toward the quieter, lesser-traveled part of the forest.
The sky was beginning to fade into orange. The mist still lingered, making every step feel like entering another world.
In a slightly open clearing, Alaric stood. He took a deep breath, then drew his sword from its sheath.
Shhht!
The air parted with his first swing. He stepped forward, turned, sliced to the left, slashed to the right—moves flowing from the muscle memory of his body, not from the chaos in his mind.
Swiiishh!
Each swing came faster, stronger. It was as if he were fighting against his own fear. Against the voice. Against himself—not knowing what was truly happening.
"I'm not someone who'll be controlled by dreams!" he shouted—at the air, at the mist, at whatever might be listening.
His blade halted, barely a breath away from the trunk of a large tree. The steel vibrated slightly. Alaric's hand trembled.
He stood there, breathing hard.
But deep in his heart, he knew—he was preparing not just for an enemy he could see, but for something far greater... something not yet fully revealed.
The fog was thinning as Alaric lowered his sword. His breath came heavy, but his body slowly calmed. He stared at his palm—cold sweat soaking through the leather gloves he wore.
Birdsong echoed faintly from afar, a sign that morning was truly arriving. But peace still eluded his heart.
He sheathed his sword and looked up at the sky, now painted with hints of red behind the bare branches.
"I can't keep doing this..." he whispered. "If that wasn't just a dream, then I need to know why."
His steps traced the path back, pushing through brush and twigs. Now and then, he glanced behind him, half-expecting something—or someone—to emerge from the fog. But only silence and dew-laden leaves answered him.
As he neared the tent, a soft cough sounded from within. Uncle Darion was awake.
Alaric lifted the canvas flap and stepped inside. Darion sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"You're up early," the older man muttered, his voice rough. "I figured you didn't sleep well."
Alaric gave a faint smile, setting his sword down by the small fire pit.
"Another strange dream?" his uncle asked, eyes sharp despite his drowsiness.
Alaric hesitated. "Yeah... but this time, it felt more real."
Darion inhaled deeply, then reached for the water jug to fill a small pot. "Dreams that return again and again—they're no coincidence, boy. Sometimes the world tries to speak when words are no longer enough."
Alaric said nothing. His uncle's words only deepened the weight in his chest.
"You're still planning to chase it?" Darion asked, lighting a small flame beneath the pot.
Alaric watched the fire flicker to life. "I don't know. But I feel like… if I ignore it, I'll lose something. Something important."
Darion didn't answer immediately. He stirred the water with a wooden spoon, letting the silence speak first.
At last, he said softly, "If you must pursue it, then do so with a heart that's ready. But don't forget where you come from, Alaric. And who you're meant to return to."
Alaric lowered his head. Those words struck deeper than he expected.
He knew that in the end, his search might lead him to the truth… or to loss.
Alaric slowed his steps and sat again by the small fire just starting to crackle. The flames flickered weakly, reluctant to rise, and a soft warmth began to seep from the pot hanging above.
Darion sipped his freshly steeped tea, then glanced sideways at the young man beside him.
"If that dream of yours is real," he said quietly, "what do you expect to find at the end of it?"
Alaric shook his head slowly, eyes fixed on the bottom of his empty cup. "I don't know. But when I saw that child… even if it was only a shadow… it felt like I knew them once."
Darion didn't answer right away. He tossed in a pinch of dried leaves, and a bittersweet aroma filled the air. "Plenty of things in this world come without explanation. But if we keep our hearts still long enough to listen… sometimes the answers are already there."
Alaric looked up at him. "Have you ever felt it? Like the world is calling—but you can't tell what it wants from you?"
A faint smile touched Darion's weathered face. "More often than you'd think."
Silence fell again. The mist outside still hovered in the trees, but the sky was growing lighter—clearer, more honest.
Suddenly, the sound of a twig snapping echoed faintly in the distance.
Both men turned. Darion narrowed his eyes.
"A bird?" Alaric murmured.
But the sound came again. Closer this time. Footsteps—light, quick. Not the tread of any wild animal. It sounded… like someone playing hide and seek with the mist.
Alaric stood at once, reaching for his sword.
Darion raised a hand. "Wait."
The footsteps stopped.
And then—a voice. Barely a breath. Almost a melody:
"It's not a dream, Alaric. You just haven't fully woken yet..."
Alaric froze. That voice. Gentle. Deep. But now… closer. So much closer.
He stepped out of the tent, scanning the clearing. Nothing. Only the mist, rolling slowly like the breath of a world holding onto secrets.
But there, on the ground just in front of him—a single white flower. One he had never seen before. Waiting silently, like an unspoken message.
And Alaric knew.
His search hadn't begun yet.
But he... had already been chosen.
Alaric bent down, picking up the white flower. Its petals were still fresh with dew, as if it had just bloomed—despite the cold air and the silence around them.
Darion stepped out of the tent behind him. "You saw something again," he said, not as a question, but as a quiet statement.
Alaric didn't answer right away. His eyes were locked on the flower, on the drops of water clinging to its edges, catching the morning light like tiny mirrors.
"I think it's leading me somewhere," he said softly. "But I don't know if I'm meant to follow."
Darion folded his arms. "You came to this forest for a reason, didn't you? Maybe this is it."
Alaric turned to face him. "You don't believe in fate."
"No," Darion said, glancing at the mist. "But I believe some roads don't let you turn back once you've stepped on them."
A cold breeze passed through, parting the mist just enough to reveal a narrow path between the trees. A path that hadn't been there the day before.
Alaric's fingers tightened around the flower.
"Did you see that?" he asked.
Darion nodded slowly. "I did."
The silence between them thickened. Alaric took one step toward the path, then stopped.
"If I go," he said, "I might not return before sunset."
Darion's eyes narrowed slightly. "I wasn't paid to chase ghosts. But I'll wait here. One night."
Alaric nodded. That was more than enough.
He tied the flower gently to his belt, next to the hilt of his sword, and stepped forward.
Each footfall seemed to press into something older than soil—like the forest remembered. Like it had been waiting for someone to walk this path again.
And behind him, the mist slowly closed.
The mist thickened. The cool air clung to his skin like unseen fingers, soft and damp. Trees loomed tall and silent, their shadows fading into the endless white.
Alaric stopped. His breath was slow, but heavy.
Beside him, wings shifted gently, making a soft sound—like feathers brushing against cloth.
"Don't go too far," said a voice.
Lir.
He stood to Alaric's right, as always. No footsteps, no warning. He was simply there. Like the mist itself—as if this world belonged to him.
"I have to know what that is," Alaric muttered, eyes fixed on the shifting fog ahead.
Lir tilted his head. His gaze—too deep to be human—rested calmly on Alaric.
"Voices in a place like this don't always offer answers," he whispered. "Sometimes... they just want to be remembered."
Alaric tightened his grip on his sword. "But I feel like... they're calling me."
Lir didn't deny it. His wings moved with a slow rhythm, like breathing with the fog.
"You've always been bound to them. Long ago."
Alaric turned to him. "What do you mean?"
But Lir only stared ahead—toward something Alaric could not see. Silent. As if watching something that could only be felt.
The mist swirled gently around them. The world seemed to shift. Alaric stepped forward, and Lir walked with him, soundless, like a shadow that already knew the path before the world chose its shape.
The mist had thickened, far more than before. Trees loomed like shadows in a faded nightmare, and the ground beneath Alaric's boots began to reflect a creeping dampness that soaked through the soles.
Their footsteps no longer echoed. Every sound felt muffled. Only the beat of his heart, his breath, and… occasionally, the rustle of wings.
Lir flew low beside him. Her wings, thin as the fog itself, flickered gently—stirring no wind, making no sound. She was nearly indistinguishable from the forest's breath.
"We've gone too far," Alaric muttered. "I don't even know where north is anymore."
Lir turned her gaze to him, those soft yet piercing eyes watching his face carefully. "I still know the way. But this place… it's changing. Slowly. As if it's watching us."
Alaric exhaled through his nose. "So you feel it too?"
She nodded. Lir rarely spoke—especially when the forest grew this quiet. But her presence kept him grounded.
Suddenly, from a distance, a rustling sound broke through. Not footsteps. Not an animal. It was like something dragging itself through the underbrush.
Alaric froze. His hand moved quietly toward the hilt of his sword. But Lir raised one wing—her silent signal to stay still.
Moments passed. Then, the sound was gone.
"Those trees…" Lir whispered. "I'm certain the one on the right wasn't growing there before."
Alaric turned his head. The tree she pointed to was old, bent, and covered in bluish-green fungi. Something about it felt... off. Familiar, somehow, though he didn't recall ever passing it.
He stared harder.
"Don't speak too loud," Lir murmured. "This forest… it can hear."
Alaric gave a subtle nod. He didn't know what lay deeper within—but one thing was certain. This was no ordinary forest.
The fog thickened, as if the forest refused to let them go so easily. Each step grew heavier—not from exhaustion, but from the strange tension that hung in the air. Something unseen, yet undeniably present.
Alaric stopped walking. He turned to his side. Lir was still hovering close, her wings barely moving, just enough to keep her small form afloat. Her eyes were fixed forward—sharp, alert.
"We should go back," Alaric murmured at last. His voice was quiet, but firm. "Whatever's here… isn't ready to be found."
Lir gave a slow nod. She didn't speak, but her gesture was enough.
They turned around. Strangely, the path they had taken felt different now. The tree roots seemed wilder, and shadows between trunks moved as if with a will of their own. This forest… was alive. And it was displeased.
Lir floated closer to Alaric's shoulder and whispered, "Don't look back."
Alaric held his breath for a moment, but didn't ask. He knew Lir never gave warnings without cause.
They quickened their pace. More than once, Alaric nearly slipped as the earth grew slick beneath his boots. The fog thickened even more, clinging to them like wet cloth. But after what felt like hours, a faint light finally appeared through the mist—the small fire they had left behind.
The tent still stood. Thin smoke curled up from the pot hanging above the coals.
Derion sat nearby, chewing something dry. He looked up as Alaric emerged from the haze.
"Well, you're still alive," he muttered flatly. "I figured the woods had swallowed you whole."
Alaric didn't answer. He just dropped beside the fire, pulled off his damp gloves, and held his hands out to the warmth. Lir floated down onto a nearby rock, silent, but her eyes kept sweeping the forest behind them.
Derion raised an eyebrow, watching them both. "You see something?"
"I'm not sure what I saw," Alaric replied quietly. "But the forest… it didn't want us there."
Derion nodded slowly. "That's why most don't come back from the western stretch. It's not always about getting lost. Sometimes… you're just not welcome."
Alaric stared into the flames. He said nothing. But deep inside, he knew—this journey was far from over. It just wasn't the time yet.
Derion yawned widely, then stood up while patting the dust off his trousers. He reached for the leather pouch hanging from his belt and pulled out some hard bread and a sour-looking apple.
"Eat first, both of you," he said, tossing a piece of bread toward Alaric. "It's unwise to travel far on an empty stomach."
Alaric caught it with one hand. Lir, who had been sitting on a rock staring at the trees, turned his head and shuffled closer.
"You too, Lir," Derion added, tossing the apple to him. "I don't want to hear your stomach growling through the fog."
"I don't growl…" Lir mumbled quietly, but he still took the apple and bit into it slowly.
They ate in silence, accompanied only by the distant songs of birds. The morning mist was slowly thinning, though the chill still hung in the air.
After finishing the bread and taking a few sips of water, Alaric stood and brushed off his pants. "We should go. There's still a long way ahead."
"Easy, boy," said Derion as he packed up his things and nudged the dying embers of the fire with his boot. "But you're right. The earlier we move, the easier it is to navigate these woods. Delay too long, and you'll be walking in the arms of the fog."
Lir didn't say anything, but he was already on his feet before the others, his eyes fixed on the dim outlines of the trees ahead.
"Westward path, right?" Alaric asked, glancing at Derion.
"Right. We'll cross a small river first, then head for the guardian stone. If the fog's kind, we'll reach it before the sun's at its peak."
They began to walk—steady, unhurried steps—following a barely visible trail. The dim morning light filtered through the canopy, casting long, strange shadows across the damp ground.
And though none of them said it aloud, each of them knew… this would be a long day.