Dawn found them on a narrow slope overlooking a stretch of uneven plains. The hills that had guarded the Root's approach now receded behind them, their silhouettes pale and distant in the early light. The world ahead was vast—too vast for the quiet in Aarinen's bones.
Rafi stood beside him, shivering in the cold air. "It feels different," he murmured. "Like the forest is gone but still… staring at us."
"The forest is only the first thing watching," Aarinen said.
Rafi grimaced. "That isn't comforting."
"It was not meant to be."
They adjusted their packs. The air carried a sharp bite, tinged with dust and distant hearth-smoke. Aarinen scanned the horizon. A road—more suggestion than structure—wound across the plains. Its edges were eaten by wind, and patches of dry grass clung to its corners like frail memories.
Rafi squinted. "Is that a settlement?"
Far ahead, faint shapes lined the horizon: wooden posts, low rooftops, smoke-trails rising. A small town. In most worlds, such a place would be unremarkable. But here, settlements near the Root did not survive by accident.
"We will reach it by midday," Aarinen said.
He started down the slope. Rafi hurried after him.
As they walked, the plains buzzed with a life the forest had suppressed—distant birds, tiny insects skittering across dried earth, wind rustling through brittle grass. Yet underneath the surface noise, Aarinen felt a strange pressure, like a hand pushing against his back.
He glanced behind.
Nothing.
Only the hills. Only the Root's buried heart. Only memory—his and not his—swaying like tall grass in the wind.
Rafi noticed. "You felt it too?"
"Yes."
They did not speak again until the sun climbed higher.
The Town by the Old Gate
By the time they reached the outskirts, the sky had warmed to a pale gold. The town was neither poor nor wealthy—simply tired. Fences leaned. Doors sagged. The smell of grain and stale wood filled the air.
A sign, hanging crooked above the entrance gate, bore a name almost erased by sun and wind:
Thale's Rest.
Rafi read it aloud. "Rest? Doesn't look rested."
Aarinen stepped through the gate. "Rest does not always mean comfort."
Inside, townsfolk moved cautiously, their eyes darting to strangers then away. Aarinen felt the scrutiny settle on him like thin dust. Not fear. Not suspicion.
Recognition.
He moved toward a well in the center square. A woman drawing water froze when she saw him. Her grip tightened around the rope.
"You," she whispered before she realized she had spoken.
Aarinen stopped. "Do you know me?"
Her eyes widened. "No. But… you look like—"
She caught herself and turned away.
Rafi tugged his sleeve. "This is making my skin crawl."
"They have heard something," Aarinen murmured. "A rumor. A name."
"Your name."
He did not deny it.
They found a small tavern—worn wood, cracked windows, muted voices from inside. Rafi looked at Aarinen. "We should eat. I'm starving."
"And information travels fastest where bread is stale."
They entered.
The Tired Table
The tavern was narrow and dimly lit. A handful of locals hunched over their meals, speaking in low tones. A heavyset man behind the counter glanced up, froze briefly at the sight of Aarinen, then forced a greeting onto his face.
"Travelers? Haven't had many since last winter."
Aarinen nodded. "Two meals. Whatever is warm."
The man wiped his hands on a cloth. "Take a seat anywhere."
They sat at a corner table. Rafi leaned forward, eyes scanning the room nervously.
"Everyone keeps staring," he whispered. "Is it because of the Root? Because they know people don't climb out of it often?"
Aarinen shook his head. "It is my name."
Before Rafi could reply, an older man from a nearby table stood and approached, carrying a cup half-filled with something dark.
He stopped before Aarinen. His hands shook slightly—not from age, but from restraint.
"You are him," the old man said.
Aarinen met his gaze. "Who?"
"The wanderer who laughs at fate."
Rafi stiffened.
Aarinen stayed still. "And who told you this?"
"Travelers from the south," the man said. "They spoke of a youth who survived the Root's testing. Said he carried laughter in his breath where pain should be."
Rafi whispered, "Aarinen…"
Aarinen spoke calmly. "Rumors twist easily."
The man leaned closer. "These did not sound like rumors."
He stepped back and returned to his table without waiting for a reply.
Rafi exhaled shakily. "This is bad."
"It is inevitable."
Their food arrived—a thick broth and coarse bread. Rafi ate quickly, but Aarinen barely touched his bowl. His senses were tuned to every whisper, every shift of air.
When they finished, the tavernkeeper approached their table with a hesitant expression.
"You should leave by dusk," he said quietly. "Night is… less forgiving to certain names."
Rafi bristled. "What do you mean 'certain names'?"
The man lowered his voice. "There are watchers near the Old Gate. They ask questions. They carry papers with sketches. Last week, they asked if we had seen a youth with a scar under his eye."
Aarinen touched the faint line beneath his right eye. "When were they here?"
"Two days ago. They said they would return."
Aarinen stood. "Thank you."
The man nodded and returned behind the counter, relief loosening his shoulders only after Aarinen turned away.
Rafi whispered urgently, "Those sketches—they're looking for you."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because someone wants what I carry."
Rafi swallowed. "The Root-memory."
"Yes."
They left the tavern.
The Watchers Near the Gate
The wind had grown sharper. Clouds gathered above the plains.
As they neared the northern exit of the town, Aarinen spotted movement—a trio standing near the old wooden gate. Their cloaks were plain, but too uniform to belong to simple travelers. And each bore a thin metal clasp shaped like a downward-pointing crescent.
Rafi's breath caught. "Who are they?"
"Not Dawn," Aarinen said. "Not Dusk."
"What then?"
"A faction that prefers names to remain unwritten."
They approached slowly, speaking to townsfolk one by one. Each interaction left the locals tense and silent.
Aarinen motioned to a narrow alley between two houses. "We go around."
Rafi nodded, heart hammering.
They slipped through the alley, emerging behind a stack of abandoned crates outside a closed workshop. From here, they could hear fragments of the watchers' voices.
"He is close," one said.
"Check the far side of the well," another replied. "The boy might be with him."
A third voice, calm and cold: "He cannot have gone far. Those who leave the Root do not wander aimlessly."
Rafi grabbed Aarinen's arm. "They're talking about us."
Aarinen's eyes narrowed. "They should not know about you."
"What does that mean?"
"That someone else is watching too."
He scanned their surroundings. Paths branched in three directions: north toward open plains, east toward a cluster of farms, or back into the heart of town. None were safe.
Rafi whispered, "What do we do?"
Aarinen steadied him. "We do what all wanderers do."
"Run?"
"Choose a road no one sees."
He guided Rafi toward a section of the town's boundary fence that leaned outward, broken halfway. Beyond it lay a slope leading to a thicket of shrubs.
Aarinen crouched and slipped through. "Stay low."
Rafi followed, nearly tripping but catching himself silently.
Behind them, the watchers' voices grew sharper.
"He was seen entering the tavern," one said.
"Spread out—"
Aarinen and Rafi slipped into the thicket just in time.
The Path Between Worlds
They moved quickly but quietly, weaving through the shrubs until the ground leveled into dry soil. The plains opened before them again.
Rafi gasped, "We made it."
"No," Aarinen said. "We only left the first circle."
They walked northward. For a time, neither spoke.
Then Rafi murmured, "Who were those people? Not Dawn. Not Dusk. Not Veylan."
"Those who erase traces," Aarinen said. "They exist between factions. They silence what they fear may disrupt the balance."
"Balance of what?"
"Stories. Histories. Names."
Rafi looked troubled. "Why would they fear you?"
"Because the Root gave me something it had not given anyone in generations. And because those who wish to write the world fear the ones who might rewrite it."
The wind picked up. Dust spiraled across the path. Clouds grew heavier, hinting at rain.
Rafi kicked a stone away. "Then where do we go now? There's nothing here. No towns, no roads—just open land."
Aarinen looked ahead.
"The world begins where the land looks empty," he said. "That is where its truths hide."
"But which truth are we supposed to find?"
Aarinen did not answer.
Because the truth he feared most was the one he carried inside him—a memory he did not fully remember, a burden he had not asked for, and a destiny whispered by strangers on roads older than kingdoms.
A shadow passed overhead.
A bird, circling.
No—too low. Too silent.
Aarinen grabbed Rafi's shoulder and pulled him under a low ridge of earth.
Rafi's breath hitched. "W-what—"
"Quiet."
The shadow moved again.
A glider—a silent contraption of stretched cloth and thin timber, drifting with controlled precision. Its pilot wore dark leathers and a cloth mask over their face.
The glider tilted, scanning the plains below.
Rafi whispered, "They're searching from above."
Aarinen nodded slowly. "Which means they know we left Thale's Rest."
"How fast can news travel?"
"When the world wants something found," Aarinen said softly, "news outruns horses."
The glider drifted toward the town they had fled, then banked westward.
When it vanished behind a cloud, Aarinen stood.
"We move now."
Rafi scrambled after him. "Where?"
"To a place where even gliders fear to fly."
The plains sloped downward, revealing a distant line of jagged rock formations—unnatural, uneven, shaped by something older than wind.
The Grey Reaches.
Rafi froze. "Aarinen… no one goes there."
"Exactly."
"But—people say the Reaches swallow men. That they echo with voices."
Aarinen walked forward. "I have heard echoes all my life. A few more will not harm me."
Rafi hesitated, then followed. "What about harming me?"
A faint smile tugged at Aarinen's lips—not amusement, but a tired acceptance.
"I will not let them swallow you."
They pressed onward.
Behind them, the wind shifted direction.
A sound carried faintly across the plains.
Not the glider.
Not the watchers.
Another voice—too distant to make out, too calm to be pursuing.
But familiar.
A voice Aarinen thought was gone.
The wind warped it, but one word reached him clearly:
Aarinen.
He stopped.
Rafi looked up, confused. "What? Why did you—"
Aarinen's jaw tightened. The wind died abruptly, leaving the air hollow.
He turned slowly, staring back toward the hills where the Root lay buried beneath stone and memory.
The voice did not speak again.
But the world had changed direction.
And someone he thought he had left behind was no longer behind at all.