After the whisper, I couldn't stay in the house any longer.
The air felt too tight.
Dinner tasted like dust.
Every time I moved my right hand, I half-expected the skin to split and a voice to spill out.
So when the dishes were done and Zinaro turned away to rinse the last pot, I wiped my hands, grabbed my cloak, and said the first excuse that came to my tongue.
"I'm going to see Eimeh."
Her family's farm was just past ours.
Every step I took, memories tried to rise—running barefoot through wheat, braiding wild roses into each other's hair, hiding from the summer heat under the old swing between the trees.
Tonight, none of those memories fit right. It all felt… thinner. Like someone had taken a piece of the world and quietly cut it out.
By the time I reached their door, the sky had drowned in blue-black.
I hesitated a heartbeat. Showing up this late wasn't exactly polite.
Then the whisper echoed again in the back of my mind—
You have not heard me yet…
No. I needed a normal voice. A normal night. A normal friend.
I lifted the knocker.
The door creaked open, and there she was.
Eimeh.
Tall, dark hair falling almost to her waist, skin sun-kissed from the fields, eyes deep and steady like late-night sky. The small scar on her right cheek caught the candlelight, a pale curve from a childhood fall we never stopped teasing her about.
"This late?" she asked, blinking. "Did you see the time? Did something happen?"
So my timing had been as bad as I feared.
"I'm fine," I said quickly, before she could work herself into a proper scolding. "Really. It's just… you weren't in Varien's last class. Neither was Ayri. And Varien was in one of her serious moods again."
My lips twitched. "Rasaz did her usual—ruined the whole moment, of course."
For a flicker of a second, her shoulders relaxed.
"Of course he did," she muttered.
I swallowed. The words I really wanted to say tasted heavier.
"Honestly… even if I'd known how late it was, I would've come anyway. I… needed to talk to someone."
Eimeh glanced over her shoulder, into the dim hallway behind her. She knew—just as I did—that this wouldn't be a short visit.
"Come in, Sibefer," she said more softly. "Just keep your voice down. Mother's asleep. Father… not really."
Inside, the air felt old and worn. The wood of the walls had bent a little under years of damp. The only light came from a five-branched candleholder on the table—an heirloom, Eimeh once told me. Shadows stretched long and thin across the floor.
On the narrow bed by the far wall lay a man.
Rema.
Eimeh's father, once strong enough to carry three sacks of grain at once, now barely strong enough to lift his head. His hair, what was left of it, lay white and tangled on the pillow. His breaths came slow and heavy, like each one had to be pulled up from a deep well.
I stepped closer, forcing a smile.
"Uncle Rema… you look better tonight," I said gently.
He knew that was a lie, but he still gave me a small, tired smile.
"Welcome, girl. It's been too long."
"I know," I said, sitting at the edge of the bed. "I've been helping Varien… and still trying to finish my studies. Even though it's been six months since the war with the Fenatores ended, Mythandri still hasn't recovered. We Myth have a duty to build the land again, right?"
A bitter curve touched his mouth.
"Not just the people's duty," he murmured. "It's the king's, too. This is his realm, his home. He should fight for it as much as any of you. In just three years, we've had what—nine, ten wars? I can't remember the last time we had a few years of peace."
His words were heavy. They weren't just his; they belonged to half the throats in Mythandri.
Varien would say: until every class stands together, no peace will hold.
"I know, Uncle," I said quietly. "But I can at least start here. If I can carry even a corner of the weight, it's something. And you—" I forced my voice lighter. "I'm waiting for the old Rema. The one who dragged us all the way to Mount Berda and made us sit in the fields until we were sick of fresh air."
For a heartbeat, his eyes glimmered.
"Mythandri…" he sighed. "I used to call it one of the most beautiful corners of the world. Green, resting against Berda Mountain, endless fields, golden wheat, flowers in every color… Now look."
His voice cracked. "Not a single fresh leaf in my own fields."
The ache in his chest slid into mine.
Sometimes, other people's pain hurt more than our own.
"I'm going to fix our fields," I said quickly, before the silence swallowed us. "I've already planted so many flowers. I planted orange nasturtiums next to the white narcissus so the colors mix. Violets, and roses—yellow, white, red, both wild and cultivated. This spring, I want our farm to look like a dream."
He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes.
"In summer," he whispered, "plant irises for me. Only irises."
His eyelids drooped. Within moments, his breaths evened out again.
But as he slept, something tightened in my chest again—
a feeling I couldn't name, like the start of a storm no one else could see.
The air outside couldn't fix anything, but I needed space—before that feeling from last night found me again. That weight hadn't left me.
Eimeh and I slipped out of the room on quiet feet.
"Let's go outside," I suggested. My chest felt too full for four walls.
We stepped onto the small porch. The yard opened toward the fields, and the smell of old wood and last winter's firewood lingered. Two tree trunks had been set against the wall to serve as stools; a tired mat leaned against them like it had given up on being straight.
And there, between two old oaks, hung the swing.
Our swing.
Eimeh returned with a tray—cool drink and a few chocolate biscuits already half-cracked.
"So," she said, setting it down on one of the trunks, "what happened?"
I grabbed the ropes of the swing and sat down, letting it sway just a little. The night pressed close around us. My right hand tingled where the rope dug into my skin.
"Nothing… and everything," I said. "Varien told us it's time. Time to choose what we're going to do with our lives. Maybe we'll only meet like this once or twice more. After that… it's all on us. No more hand-holding. No more 'this is right, this is wrong.' Just… decisions."
Eimeh stayed quiet long enough that I glanced at her.
She looked thoughtful, not surprised.
"In times like these," she said slowly, "with everything falling apart, who really gets to chase a 'dream job'? I think we'll just end up like our parents. I've been thinking about it a lot. Every time I try to plan something, my thoughts just… fly away. All that's left is a blank page."
Of course. That was exactly what I'd expected her to say.
Usually, I could accept it. Tonight, I couldn't.
My grip on the ropes tightened. I pushed off the ground, making the swing rise higher.
"That's it?" I asked.
"That's all you have to say? I came here so we could figure things out together, not so we could surrender. I don't want a life that's the same as everyone else's, Eimeh. Grey and small and tired. Yes, things are hard. But if we think like that, who's going to rebuild Mythandri? If you mean the state of the land, then there are only two options: close your eyes and accept whatever comes… or run."
I kicked off again, the world tilting around me.
"I'm not running. I'm not leaving like the ones who packed up and disappeared. Even if the enemy comes to our doorstep, I'd rather stay and fight. I want peace, yes—but not just the memory of peace from fifty years ago. I want it here. Again."
Eimeh's voice sharpened.
"Fifty years, Sibefer. That 'peace' you talk about is older than both of us. What's so wrong with living like our families? We're not that different from them. No matter how hard we pretend, in the end we all go back to our roots. I'm already grateful we're not like Cabe, Rolas, or Nybi—dragged into war. Have you seen them lately? How quiet they've become? How they don't look anyone in the eye?"
The name hit me like a stone dropped into deep water.
Cabe.
My fingers slipped on the rope. For a second, I felt the pull of the mark beneath my skin—hot, then cold.
"We're still in our own homes," Eimeh went on, not noticing. "We can sit here and talk and complain and dream. That itself is a blessing. Sometimes… maybe running isn't so bad. Look around, Sibefer. What's left here that's worth bleeding for?"
"Staying home won't fix anything," I snapped. "If everyone thinks like you, Mythandri will never climb out of this. What, are you going to marry one of the Revarto boys and spend the rest of your life raising children? Or be like Jinnia and dump everything on time and hope it magically fixes itself?"
The words tumbled out, sharper than I meant.
The swing slowed. My breath didn't.
"Even if all of that happens," I said, voice low, "there might not be any land left for your kids to play on. No field to plant. No word like 'home' that still means something. Just a ruined—"
The last word refused to leave my throat.
My heart pounded. Suddenly I could barely hear Eimeh over the rush in my ears.
"I can't be like you," she said quietly. "You're the only child of the Melanos family. Of course you can talk like that. But me… I can't. I just can't."
Her voice wavered, but I was already slipping away.
I jumped off the swing, boots thudding against the packed earth.
"A little ambition isn't a crime, Eimeh," I said, turning away. "Run if you want. Just… make sure you like where you end up."
I didn't wait for an answer.
The night swallowed me as I walked back—past the old woodpile, past the trees, past everything that used to feel safe.
Somewhere above, branches tangled against the sky like black veins.
For a heartbeat, they looked like the outline of a tree I didn't remember meeting.
I blinked, and the branches shifted—or maybe the shadows did.
Something was there.
Not a shape. Not a person. A feeling.
A weight, waiting for me to notice it.
My right hand twitched inside my sleeve.
The tingling from before sharpened into a pulse—slow at first, then quicker, like a heartbeat that didn't belong to me.
Sibefer…
The whisper slid under my skin. It didn't sound like a voice anymore—it felt like my name being remembered by something I'd never met.
My breath broke. The night seemed to lean closer, listening.
"No," I whispered. "I don't want this."
But the darkness didn't care what I wanted.
The mark flared—hot, then cold—like a blade dipped in fire and drowned in ice.
A second whisper followed, softer… but certain:
You will.
My knees nearly gave out.
I staggered back, clutching my wrist, terrified that if I looked down, I would see the skin open and something crawling out of me.
The wind died.
The world paused.
And in that silence, I understood something I didn't have words for yet:
Whatever was calling me wasn't done.
It had only just begun.