The wind coiling around the battlements of the Northern Peaks carried a faint lament, like the sigh of something ancient preparing itself. Forty nights had passed since Eryndor's arrival at the Northern Peaks, and other, more urgent matters crawled through his mind. It was the night of his departure, though no one in the citadel named it so, for he had his own ways and days to come and go.
Lady Serenya lingered beside the high arch of the eastern hall, her cloak pulled tight around her shoulders, though the fire at her back still danced with a warm glow. The hall was half-lit, shadows stretching like conspirators along the carved walls. Her gaze remained fixed on the man before her—the Wanderer—leaning carelessly against a column, as if no weight in the world laid claim to him.
"You have a strange way of saying farewell," Serenya said, her voice low, tinged with amusement. "Most men leave with oaths, or at least with a bow. You, on the other hand, smile like a cat that has already drunk the cream."
Eryndor's smile widened, sly as the edge of a blade hidden beneath velvet.
"And would you rather I wept, my lady?" he replied, a spark in his eyes. "Tears are poor companions to memories. Unfortunately,"—he added, still smiling — "they tend to last far longer."
"Or rot you," came Lord Taelthorn's voice from the steps of the dais. His shadow fell over the chamber like the beat of a hawk's wings. With arms crossed and a face hard as ice, he regarded the Wanderer with that unyielding steel gaze that had earned him as much loyalty as fear. "Some smiles sour until they turn to poison, and you traffic in both equally."
Eryndor inclined his head in feigned respect, as if receiving praise.
"Poison and wine are brothers, my lord. One is slow and the other is not. It all depends on which cup you drink from."
Serenya stifled her laughter, though her lips betrayed a faint curve. She stepped closer to the column, her ash-silver eyes narrowed in curiosity.
"And whose cup have you been filling, Wanderer? Mine… or his and with what?"
The question hung like incense in the air, sweet and impossible to ignore.
Taelthorn's jaw tightened, but he did not speak. He watched the exchange with the patience of stone.
Eryndor spread his hands, palms open.
"I offer only words, Lady Serenya. You decide whether they turn to seeds or smoke. Do not place on me the burden of your own imaginings."
His gaze gleamed with mischief bordering on insolence, yet beneath it Serenya sensed the challenge: he had indeed planted something, and he enjoyed watching it grow.
Something stirred within her—a restlessness he had awakened days ago when he spoke of Aelestara, a city woven of light and singing gardens. The desire had not faded; it coiled tighter each time she looked upon the barren frost of the Northern Peaks.
"Seeds only sprout when the soil is ready," she replied, a sharpness in her voice she had not intended to show.
Eryndor tilted his head, contemplative.
"And yet even the most stubborn earth can surprise us when the right season comes."
Then Taelthorn moved, descending the steps until he stood between them. His presence was iron, his voice tempered steel.
"Enough. Serenya's mind is her own. It is no stage for your riddles. If you intend to leave, do it with dignity."
Eryndor offered a bow, though his was the very picture of mockery—low, graceful, irony painted in every gesture.
"As you command, my lord. But I fear dignity has never been my traveling companion. Mischief is lighter to carry… and far less dull."
Serenya's laughter escaped this time, sounding in the hall like a silver chime. Taelthorn shot her a look, but she did not restrain herself. For an instant, her eyes met the Wanderer's, catching in them a deeper glimmer… something unsaid.
Eryndor straightened, then slipped a hand into his cloak.
"Before I vanish like snow in spring, a gift, my lady. A keepsake, though I doubt you will forget me so easily."
From the folds of his cape he drew a small gong, no larger than a plate, forged from dark bronze that seemed to shimmer with bluish gleams. Intricate engravings ran across its surface, trapping the light in a hypnotic dance, as if the metal itself pulsed with life. He offered it with both hands, to Taelthorn as much as to Serenya.
She hesitated, glancing at Taelthorn, then took it with careful fingers. The gong was heavier than it looked, its weight settling into her arms like something alive.
"What is this?" she asked, her voice caught between caution and curiosity.
Eryndor's smile softened, almost sincere.
"A sound that wakes what sleeps. When someone far away truly seeks you, the gong will sound for you. It needs no strike; it is enough to press this crystal at the base, and the gong will let you know."
His words layered over one another, thick with obvious meanings… and others buried.
Taelthorn's eyes narrowed.
"Baubles and riddles. Is that all you bring?"
The Wanderer shrugged.
"Sometimes the smallest gift holds the strongest echo. Perhaps one day you will understand."
Serenya brushed the engravings with the tip of her fingers, feeling a faint warmth beneath the metal. A spark of intuition stirred in her chest, yet she could not name it. Something hidden… something waiting. She glanced at Eryndor, but he only smiled, his eyes alight with unspoken secrets.
"Until we meet again, Lady Serenya," he said in a softer tone, almost a whisper. "May your citadel rise as something more than stone. May it remember warmth."
He turned to Taelthorn, bowing just enough to avoid offense.
"And you, my lord… guard her flame well. The world has curious ways of testing those who bear fire."
With that, he backed away into the shadows, his cloak catching the light like threads of molten metal. In a single breath, he was gone: no doors, no footsteps… only the faint trace of smoke and spices lingering in the air.
The hall no longer breathed the same after his departure. The shadows, though unmoving, seemed now to stretch farther. Serenya lowered her gaze to the bronze gong in her hands, its dark surface alive with veins of cobalt that shifted as the fire stroked it from different angles. She tilted it slightly, testing its weight; and though the metal should have felt cold, it throbbed with a gentle warmth, as if the gong preserved the memory of days beneath the sun.
"A strange gift," she murmured, unable to keep the thought from escaping her lips.
Taelthorn's frown deepened.
"A strange man. This is not a gift, but a tether. He delights in leaving behind objects that bind the mind when the hand touches them. You must be careful, Serenya. Not everything that shines comes from fire."
She smoothed her fingers over the carved grooves.
"You always want to read between the lines, Taelthorn. Perhaps he was testing me, not you."
The gong seemed to vibrate under her touch, a low murmur so faint that neither air nor ear could truly claim it. Taelthorn stiffened, his hand clenching before he let it fall.
"Then do not read what is not written," he ordered. His voice rang with the metal of command, though Serenya caught the muted note of weariness beneath it. For all his iron, Taelthorn too felt the weight of the Wanderer's absence.
Serenya pressed the gong against her chest, her pulse racing without knowing why. Taelthorn set a firm hand on her shoulder, but his gaze remained fixed on the darkness where Eryndor had vanished.
"Seeds and smoke," he murmured with a smile.
"That is all the expert maker of mischief leaves in his wake."
Together they left the hall, while silence spread behind their steps, waiting to be filled with what lingered with in.