The Flute in the Woods
Zarek had seen cities built by gods.
He had walked on marble that reflected the sky like water. He had ruled over lands where towers pierced the clouds and rivers obeyed the will of his hand. He had watched civilizations rise and fall like tides.
But nothing prepared him for the Lost Lands.
He expected ruin.
He expected the bitterness of a people hardened by centuries of war.
He expected suspicion, fear, hostility.
Instead, the moment he passed through the massive stone gates after the long screening, he felt something he did not recognize at first.
Peace.
Not the fragile kind. Not the silence that follows destruction.
This was living peace.
The gates were carved from dark stone veined with silver that caught the sunlight in thin, glowing lines. Symbols ancient and foreign spiraled across the surface like stories too old to remember. Guards stood on both sides tall, muscular men with disciplined posture and calm eyes. They did not look tense. They did not look paranoid.
They looked like men who believed their home was safe.
Zarek walked past them slowly, his expression neutral, his steps measured. He answered their questions with the ease of someone who had mastered deception long ago. A traveler. A wanderer. A man looking for work.
Not a fallen god searching for the most powerful artifact ever created.
Inside, the city opened like a carefully painted dream.
Wide stone streets, clean and neatly laid, stretched between buildings that curved elegantly with balconies draped in flowering vines. Glass windows reflected the afternoon sun in warm gold flashes. Market stalls were arranged in tidy rows, their owners chatting lazily, not shouting over each other in desperation.
Children ran freely.
Women walked in pairs, laughing softly, their dresses flowing around their ankles in gentle fabrics of blues, creams, and soft browns. Their hair was braided with beads and small charms that clicked faintly when they moved. Their faces glowed with life untouched by constant fear.
The men were equally striking. Broad shoulders. Firm arms. Relaxed strides. Their clothing hugged bodies built by work and discipline. They spoke with confidence, not guarded caution.
Everything was… organized.
Orderly.
Alive.
Happy.
Zarek felt nothing.
His heart was colder than stone. Harder than the devil's own forge.
He did not come to admire.
He came to reclaim.
He wandered without purpose, but his mind was sharp. Observing. Measuring. Listening. The Orb was here. He could feel it faintly, like a whisper brushing against his senses every now and then.
By late afternoon, he checked into one of the most elegant inns overlooking the town square.
The floors were polished marble. The air smelled faintly of incense and warm bread. His room had a wide window that looked down at the growing crowd below.
He stood there for a long time.
Thinking.
Not because he was tired.
But because strategy required stillness.
As evening fell, the square transformed.
Lanterns glowed softly overhead. Musicians played gentle strings in the corner. The aroma of rich soup and roasted spices drifted through the air, wrapping around people like comfort.
Zarek sat at a wooden table outside a tavern, watching.
Three women danced in the center of the square. Their feet moved gracefully against the stone, anklets chiming softly. Their bodies flowed with the rhythm of the music, smiles bright and easy.
People clapped lightly, enjoying the moment.
Zarek barely watched.
Until they left the stage.
And she walked in.
She wore silver.
Not bright silver.
Moonlight silver.
The fabric clung softly to her waist before falling in layers around her legs. Her hair was long, dark, and free, brushing against her back like liquid night. She carried a flute in her hand.
And when she raised it to her lips
Everything changed.
The first note slipped into the air so gently it almost went unnoticed.
But then it settled.
Deep.
Inside the chest.
Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Laughter died quietly. Even the breeze seemed to pause in respect.
The melody was soft.
But it carried something ancient inside it.
Something that did not belong to this time.
Zarek felt it like fingers reaching into his ribs and pulling on something buried there.
His eyes fixed on her.
She played with her eyes closed, face calm, lost somewhere far beyond the square. She wasn't performing.
She was remembering.
The final note faded slowly into the night like mist dissolving into air.
And for a moment, nobody moved.
Then the applause came loud, thunderous, sincere.
She bowed slightly.
No smile.
She stepped down and walked away.
A black horse waited at the edge of the square. She mounted it effortlessly and rode into the dark streets beyond.
Zarek's gaze followed her.
And then he heard the whispers.
"She fought in the Shrouded war."
"They say she killed three generals alone."
"She's not fully human."
"She saved an entire battalion."
Reverence filled their voices.
Fear too.
Zarek stood without realizing he had made the decision.
He borrowed a horse from a distracted passerby with quiet authority and followed.
She knew.
He could feel it.
Her pace quickened slightly before she turned into the woods outside the city.
Zarek followed.
The deeper they went, the quieter the world became.
Tall trees rose on both sides, their branches intertwining overhead like ancient fingers. The moonlight filtered through in thin, pale streaks. The forest floor was layered with dry leaves that muffled every sound.
The half-moon hung dimly above, watching.
The air felt thick.
Heavy.
Zarek slowed his horse.
Something was wrong.
Too quiet.
Too still.
A sudden whoosh cut through the air beside his face.
A shadow moved behind him.
Before he could turn
Cold steel pressed against his neck from behind.
"Who are you?"
Her voice was low. Controlled. Deadly.
Zarek felt it.
Not fear.
Shock.
He had not sensed her movement.
At all.
Slowly, he raised his hands.
"I mean no harm."
"Turn around."
He did.
And saw her properly for the first time.
Her beauty was sharp. Striking. Unforgiving.
High cheekbones. Eyes that reflected the moonlight like polished glass. Lips firm, brows slightly drawn in suspicion.
No warmth.
Only calculation.
Zarek stared.
Longer than he should have.
Her eyes held his.
And for a brief second
He forgot what he intended to say.
"Who sent you?" she asked.
Zarek laughed softly.
Not mockingly.
Amused.
She did not like that.
She pushed him hard. He fell to the forest floor. Before he could rise, her knee was on his chest, blade at his throat.
Zarek stared up at her.
Even like this, she was breathtaking.
Her hair fell around her shoulders. Silver fabric catching stray moonlight. Her eyes burned with cold intensity.
"I only followed because of the flute," he said calmly.
She didn't believe him.
He could see it.
He moved suddenly grabbing her wrist gently, twisting.
She reacted faster.
Pinned him again.
Harder.
Her strength shocked him.
She wasn't just skilled.
She was dangerous.
Zarek stopped resisting.
On purpose.
If he fought seriously, she would know.
And he was not ready.
Idril studied him closely.
Breathing steady.
Eyes searching.
"Stay away from me," she said coldly. "If I see you again, I will kill you."
She stood.
Mounted her horse.
And vanished into thin smoke.
Like she had never been there.
Zarek lay on the forest floor staring at the moon through the branches.
A slow smile spread across his face.
Not anger.
Not irritation.
Curiosity.
Deep.
Dangerous curiosity.