Alaric halted as the light faded from the chamber. His breath caught, not from exhaustion, but from something deeper—an ache that had no name. His gaze was fixed on the wall where it was carved.
Vaeloria.
Derion stepped closer. "Why that face? Do you know her?"
Alaric shook his head. Slowly. Yet he couldn't look away.
"I don't know… but…" he swallowed. "The name—it's like a shadow I almost recognize. But when I reach for it, it slips away."
Lir floated near the inscription, her wings casting a soft shimmer. "Some names aren't written to be remembered. They're written to wait."
"What do you mean?" Derion asked.
Lir looked at Alaric. "This name is waiting… for someone."
Alaric raised his hand slowly. Before his fingers could touch the stone, a chill swept over his skin—like a breath from another world.
And then, a voice echoed—not in the room, but deep within him.
"…you will know when the time comes…"
He froze. Eyes wide. But the voice did not return.
"They etched her name into stone," Lir whispered. "So the world wouldn't forget, even if the one who must remember… doesn't yet know why."
Suddenly, footsteps echoed from another corridor. A creature of mist and shadow emerged—tall, winged, horned—but did not attack.
Instead, it approached and bowed low before Alaric.
"Again with this…" Derion muttered.
The creature raised its face. From its hollow eyes, a soft blue glow emerged.
"Her name has been touched once more. The hour draws near."
Alaric stepped back slightly, heart thundering.
"What does this mean…?"
Lir's voice was calm, but grave. "You're not ready yet."
A stone door creaked open in the distance, revealing a chamber beyond. No memories. No visions.
Only… a place that waited.
Alaric stood at the threshold, his body trembling lightly, though he did not know why.
And within his chest, the name pulsed again—Vaeloria—not as a memory, but as a question yet unanswered.
The light from the carved name pulsed once—then vanished.
Alaric blinked. The world around him… was silent. Too silent. Derion and Lir were still where they stood, but their faces were frozen, unmoving—like time itself had refused to continue.
"What… is this?"
His voice sounded distant, muffled. He turned, but the stone walls were gone—replaced by something entirely different.
A garden.
A place he didn't recognize.
The sky stretched wide in a golden-red dusk, and white flowers bloomed along a winding path of worn stones. He stood at the center of it, surrounded by the sweet, aching scent of something long forgotten.
His steps felt light as he moved forward, though his heart beat like a war drum.
At the far end of the path stood a figure—a woman silhouetted against the setting sun.
She didn't move.
Didn't speak.
But Alaric knew… she was waiting.
"Who…" His voice barely escaped his throat.
As he stepped closer, the wind stirred her hair—long, silver strands that caught the light like threads of moonlight.
And just as he reached out to her—
The sky cracked.
The garden peeled away like old paint.
And he was back.
Back in the stone chamber, with Derion gripping his shoulder and Lir hovering frantically before his face.
"Alaric! Say something!"
He gasped, breath ragged, sweat clinging to his skin.
"What just happened?" Derion demanded, eyes narrowing.
Alaric didn't answer.
His gaze drifted to the wall.
The carved name no longer glowed.
But now he knew one thing:
He had stood somewhere else before.
And someone had once waited for him.
Alaric remained silent for a while, his breath steadying only slightly. The chamber was still. The name on the wall—Vaeloria—was now nothing more than an ancient mark etched in time.
"Alaric," Lir said softly, her glow dimmer than usual. "What did you see?"
He didn't answer at first. His gaze remained distant, fixed somewhere beyond the room—beyond the stone and the earth.
"I saw… a garden," he murmured. "The sky was dying with light. The flowers were white."
Derion exchanged a glance with Lir. "A memory?"
"No," Alaric said, his voice more certain now. "Not a memory. A feeling. As if my soul knew the place, but my mind refused to follow."
Lir hovered closer. "Was there… someone with you?"
Alaric hesitated.
"Yes."
He didn't say more, but that one word was heavy, carved deep with grief and wonder.
The silence that followed stretched long, broken only by the distant sound of dripping water from the far corridor. The air in the chamber was still, but there was a new weight to it—as if something ancient had been stirred awake.
"Perhaps," Derion said carefully, "this place is meant to awaken something inside you. Not force it, but… invite it."
Alaric looked down at his hands. They trembled faintly, not from fear—but from a longing he couldn't place.
"I don't know who she is," he whispered. "But I know she once mattered."
Lir's glow pulsed gently. "Then perhaps your journey didn't begin at the ruins, or in the forest. Perhaps it began long before you woke up."
Alaric said nothing. But his eyes flicked once more to the name on the wall.
And though the light was gone, the echo of it remained.
They stood there for a while, until Alaric finally took a long breath and turned away from the carved name.
"That's enough," he said, his voice soft but steady. "This place has shown me what it needed to."
Derion gave a slow nod and reignited the flame at the tip of his spear. The small fire flickered along the damp walls, casting long, trembling shadows as it lit the narrow passage stretching westward—the only way out of the chamber.
Lir floated closer to Alaric, her glow pulsing gently. "Are you sure you're ready to move?"
Alaric glanced at her. His gaze wasn't filled with confidence, but neither was it afraid. "I'm not sure. But I know I need to keep walking."
They began down the passage. The stone walls on either side were covered in faint, weathered carvings—scenes of towering trees, cracked skies, and hooded figures holding glowing orbs.
"These carvings… I've never seen this style," Derion murmured, narrowing his eyes. "Not from the old kingdoms. Not even from the deep scrolls of Tareh'vorn."
Lir traced one of the images with a glowing fingertip. "This isn't history. It's a warning."
"A warning of what?" Alaric asked.
But Lir didn't respond. Her expression tightened. She felt something.
Their steps slowed as the passage widened into a rounded chamber, like a natural archway carved by time. The ground was uneven, laced with thin roots crawling from the walls and ceiling. The scent of damp earth and ancient wood filled the air. Somewhere in the distance, they could hear the soft sound of trickling water.
Alaric moved ahead, eyes scanning the space that now felt more like an underground forest than a ruin.
Suddenly, he stopped.
A dry leaf fell from above, drifting slowly toward the floor—then crumbled into a fine, glowing dust the moment it touched the ground.
"What was that?" Derion whispered.
"I think…" Lir said slowly, "…we're walking beneath the roots of the Forgotten Tree."
Alaric looked down. His boots now rested on a mossy stone path—and at its center, a faint symbol was etched: two interlocking circles, one blue, one silver.
The symbol stirred something deep inside him.
He didn't know where he had seen it before.
But his body remembered.
And it knew exactly where to go.
---
The sun dipped lower in the sky as they left the stone ruins behind. The ground beneath them was carpeted with wide leaves and thick roots snaking out from ancient trees. The forest here felt different—quieter, heavier, as though the trees were holding their breath, watching from behind veils of mist.
Alaric walked at the front. His steps were steady, but his gaze was distant, his silver eyes locked forward yet unfocused. The name still echoed in his mind.
Vaeloria.
He didn't know who she was, but something in him had moved. And it unsettled him.
"Stop," Derion said quietly, his tone sharp.
They halted. From somewhere ahead, the faint crunch of leaves. Not one step—many. Derion raised his spear, the tip glowing with soft flame. Lir floated up slightly, her small hands glowing with pale light.
"Something's following us," Derion muttered. "More than one, I think."
A bush to their right trembled, then parted. A creature stepped through—like a wolf, but scaled, with glowing green eyes and dripping jaws. Its breath sizzled against the forest floor.
"Morthir," Derion hissed. "Night hunters. They shouldn't be out during daylight…"
Two more, then three. Soon, they were surrounded.
Alaric drew his blade, its polished steel catching the dim light. His eyes sharpened, but doubt still lingered behind them.
The first Morthir lunged. Alaric struck, clean and fast, slicing the beast down mid-air. Black blood splashed the leaves.
Then the fight erupted.
Derion spun to intercept one of the beasts, his spear a blur of light. Lir released bursts of energy, burning their flanks with magic fire. Alaric fought with grace and strength—but his rhythm faltered.
He was hesitating.
A flicker of light caught his eye—between the trees, distant and cold. A whisper, barely audible, slid through the leaves.
"…Alaric…"
His head turned.
A Morthir came from the blind side.
It struck.
Claws raked across his shoulder, tearing through cloak and armor. Alaric was thrown backward, his sword skidding across the moss-covered ground.
"Alaric!" Lir cried, streaking toward him.
Derion roared, hurling his spear like lightning. It struck the Morthir in the throat. The creature crumpled with a hiss.
Alaric groaned and pushed himself up. His shoulder blazed with pain—blood seeping through the gash. But his eyes had sharpened again.
No more hesitation.
He snatched up his blade and rose, swift as a storm. With each step, he cut down the remaining Morthir with cold, focused precision. There was no rage—just instinct, and something deeper.
When the last beast fell, silence returned to the woods.
Alaric stood at the center of a circle of dead monsters, his chest rising and falling heavily. His breath steamed in the cooling air.
Lir floated close, eyes full of concern. "Are you okay?"
Alaric lowered his gaze, pressing one hand to the bleeding wound. His other hand hung at his side, sword limp.
"…Sorry," he muttered, barely audible. "I wasn't focused."
Derion approached and began wrapping his shoulder with cloth from his satchel, gruff but efficient. "You nearly got yourself killed."
"I know," Alaric replied softly, wincing as the cloth tightened.
Lir watched him quietly. She didn't press further. She could sense his mind wasn't entirely here.
It was still in the ruin.
Still staring at that name.
---
The sky had begun to shift, casting faint amber streaks between the heavy canopy above. The air turned more humid, carrying the scent of damp earth… and the metallic tang of blood that hadn't quite dried.
Their pace had slowed. Alaric walked in the middle now, his shoulder wrapped in cloth, his grip still firm on the sword in his right hand. He remained alert—ready, despite the dull ache in his bones.
"We need to find shelter," Derion said without turning. "If we keep going like this, we'll make a worse mistake than earlier."
"I can keep moving," Alaric muttered.
"You're bleeding," Derion shot back.
"But I'm still thinking clearly," Alaric answered, eyes scanning the trees. "We don't know if those things were alone."
"Exactly," Derion said. "And we won't survive another fight if we don't recharge now."
Lir hovered near the ground beside them, her eyes scanning the forest shadows. "There's a rise ahead… a low hill. The roots there curl inward—like a natural arch. It might be enough to shelter us."
With no better choice, they headed toward it.
It didn't take long to reach the hollow. Thick roots, gnarled and moss-covered, wove around a depression in the earth. Overhead, large leaves drooped low, forming a patchy canopy. The space was just wide enough for three people to sit side by side—hidden, quiet, and for the moment… safe.
Derion immediately scouted the edges, sprinkling a fine powder from a leather pouch. "Masking our scent. Should keep most of the nighttime predators away."
Lir gathered a few dry twigs and lit a small flame between her fingers. It caught slowly, flickering to life with a soft crackle, pushing back the encroaching cold.
Alaric sat down with care, his face tightening as the wound on his shoulder pulled at the bandages. From his satchel, he retrieved a piece of hard bread, some dried meat, and a handful of sweetroots they had collected earlier.
"Let me help," Lir offered, settling beside him. She held the meat over the small fire, letting it warm slowly. Her eyes, though, were watching him more than the food. "You're still thinking about what happened back there, aren't you?"
Alaric didn't answer at first.
The firelight cast sharp shadows across his face—carving his jawline, glinting off his pale eyes. But those eyes were tired. Not from the fight. From something deeper.
"I don't know why it unsettles me," he said at last, voice low. "That place. That writing."
Lir didn't press. She simply handed him the warmed meat.
"Eat first. Think later."
Derion seated himself across from them, laying his spear beside him. "I don't know what exactly you felt in that ruin, but one thing's clear—something is waking inside you, Alaric. And you'd better be ready when it fully opens its eyes."
Alaric took the meat with a slight tremor in his hand. Pain? Or something else?
He didn't refuse it.
That night, beneath the flickering firelight and the hush of leaves overhead, they ate in silence. Each wrapped in their own thoughts.
But Alaric's gaze never left the flame.
As if somewhere in its dancing light… something else was waiting for him.
The fire had dimmed, reduced to glowing embers casting long, soft shadows across the roots. Alaric was asleep, his body leaning against a thick tree root, breath slow but uneven. Behind his closed eyes, his gaze still moved—caught in a dream that offered no rest.
Lir sat nearby, knees drawn to her chest, chin resting on folded arms. Her eyes lingered on Alaric's face.
"You feel it too, don't you?" Derion finally spoke. His voice was low, almost a whisper. He was sharpening his spear with a flat stone.
"Feel what?" Lir replied, though she already knew what he meant.
"The shift inside him," Derion said. "It's not just the ruins. I sensed it even before then—something... off."
Lir bit her lip. She nodded slowly.
"He's like... something that's waking up. But doesn't know who—or what—he really is."
Derion stopped sharpening. His gaze turned toward Alaric—sharp, wary. "And if what's waking inside him isn't just memory, but something older? Something deeper?"
Lir looked back at him. "Then we stay by his side. Until he remembers who he truly is."
Derion didn't answer. He simply sighed and returned to his spear.
Outside, the night wind whispered softly, brushing through the leaves above… though not all of its sounds seemed to belong to the forest alone.