Rowan latched the door and stepped outside with the same quiet assurance he'd shown since they arrived. The latch clicked into place and the little house inhaled the evening like a creature resettling after a storm. Inside, the hearth's glow threw a warm rectangle over the floorboards, but the three strangers at the table still sat stiff and reluctant as if they hadn't yet earned the right to relax.
Elias, Daren and Lyra hovered near their bowls more than they ate. The broth steamed, promising comfort, yet each spoonful felt like a permission they had to accept. They were exhausted in the way of people who've been stripped of certainty: their hands trembled a little, laughter felt thin, and every creak of the house made them glance up. Rowan had gone out; the room felt smaller for it.
An old man rose from the corner, moving with a careful economy as if every motion had been practiced a thousand times. He wasn't large — slender, really — but he wore an air of someone who had weathered seasons the way others collect memories. When he sat opposite the three of them, the room quieted as if a signal had been struck.
"Eat," he said simply. "You'll think better with food in your bellies."
The blunt kindness of it was exactly what they needed. Daren dipped his spoon and drank the broth with grateful noises. Lyra picked up a piece of bread warily, bit into it, blinked, and then ate with more conviction. Elias nursed his bowl as if it were a small, fragile anchor.
The old man regarded them for a long moment, fingers steepled on the table. His eyes were the color of weathered iron — steady and telling. Finally he spoke, choosing each word like a stone laid on a path.
"In the three of you," he said, "I see one who stands out." He paused, measuring the reaction. "Elias — you are the most promising of the lot."
Lyra's fork hit the wood with a clipped sound. "What? How do you know that? He's basically useless half the time," she snapped, equal parts jealousy and affection in her tone. "He trips over his own feet."
The old man gave a short, dry laugh. It wasn't unkind. "Time will show. It always does. People who seem small in one moment grow large by the next."
Daren shifted, curiosity mixing with caution. "How do you know this? You speak as if you've seen a great many things. Does this world even have a history?" He looked genuinely baffled; the idea of a history bigger than their own lives seemed foreign.
Lyra echoed his confusion with a slow nod. "Yeah. Stories beyond the trees? We never learned them."
The old man's mouth softened into a patient smile. "Of course this world has a history," he said. "Everything does — not only what's written in books, but what the land itself remembers. But before I tell you of that history, there are other things I must clear up."
He studied Daren and Lyra now, his gaze sharpening like a craftsman examining grain. "It seems you two come from deep within the forest, don't you? No wonder your knowledge is mostly of spells and tracks."
Lyra bristled, then flushed, a mixture of pride and annoyance. "How do you know that?" she demanded.
"Observation," the old man replied simply. "The way you hold the spoon, the way you flinch at wind in a particular way — those are small things, but they say where you were raised. The center and the fringe raise different habits. That's all. We'll talk about it later."
He turned his attention back to Elias and narrowed his eyes slightly as if trying to peer through something invisible. "You have powerful potential," he said softly. "But there is a complication: I cannot read your past." He tapped the table with a bony finger as if that fact itself were an oddity. "That is… unusual. For reasons I do not yet understand, your history is closed to me."
Elias felt a chill that had nothing to do with the snow against the windows. A half-relief hovered there — not being read — and a swell of unease. He had learned to live with secrets; the fact someone else could not see them made him both lighter and lonelier.
The old man cleared his throat, a small, weary sound. He straightened, the lines in his face hardening with a seriousness that drew their attention like a hand on the shoulder. He rested his palms on the map spread out beside him — a battered sheet marked with places and lines that looked old enough to have their own legends.
"Very well," he said, his voice settling into the rhythm of one about to open a long-closed book. "I will tell you the history. There are things you should know if you walk the paths of this land. But first—" he glanced at Daren and Lyra with a hint of a smile that was not unkind but firm — "tell me plainly where you came from. The history will make more sense that way."
They all watched him. Snow hissed against the eaves. The lamp's flame trembled once and held. The old man's face, lit by the fire, looked like a map of seasons. Elias swallowed, set his bowl down, and listened.
"Then I will tell," the old man said finally — and for a heartbeat the three of them held their breath, ready to receive whatever story the snow had brought with it.