The fire had gone out hours ago.
Kael sat in its fading warmth, back against the rough bark of a cedar tree, a threadbare cloak wrapped around his shoulders. Smoke curled upward, slow and lazy, mingling with the mist that rolled between the trees like ghosts searching for homes. Above, the canopy was dense, hiding all but the thinnest slivers of moonlight. Around him, the forest watched. Quiet. Breathing.
He didn't mind the silence.
It was better than the noise—better than that blinding flash of light, that sky-shattering sound that had hurled him into this world months ago. Better than the panic that had followed, waking in a glade surrounded by colors that didn't belong, with air that hummed like a held breath. Better than the voice—whatever that thing was—that had whispered in his bones before vanishing like smoke.
He hadn't understood it then, and he didn't want to understand it now.
The boy—no, the young man now, he supposed—closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the bark. His features were sharp beneath the grime: pale skin, unkempt dark hair, a jagged scar across his left cheek that hadn't been there before he came to Velhara. He'd been fifteen then. Still was, maybe. Time was hard to track here, where day and night obeyed strange rules and the stars moved like dancers following a tune he couldn't hear.
He'd survived. That was enough.
He lived near a stream that ran through the lower part of the Emberwilds, where the trees grew old and the soil remembered too much. He'd built a crude shelter from stone and woven bark, not far from the glade where he'd first awoken. Every morning, he hunted birds or caught fish with traps he'd made from twine and patience. Every evening, he returned to this small clearing, lit his fire, and listened.
Some nights, he spoke to himself.
Other nights, to the stars.
But most nights, he listened—because sometimes, just sometimes, the forest whispered back.
It wasn't a whisper tonight. It was movement.
Subtle, but wrong.
A crack of twigs, quick and sharp. Then silence.
Kael's body tensed. His hand dropped to the wooden spear lying beside him. It was a crude thing, hardened in fire, but it had saved him more than once from the twisted beasts that roamed the woods after dark.
Another sound. This time, softer. Not the heavy tread of a beast. Something lighter. Hesitant.
He rose slowly, eyes narrowing, fire casting long shadows across the clearing. His breath frosted in the air—colder than it should be. The temperature always dropped when the leylines shifted.
He stepped away from the fire, spear raised.
"Who's there?"
The forest didn't answer.
He moved carefully, bare feet silent on damp earth. The sound had come from the northeast, near the edge where the trees thinned and the underbrush thickened. Moonlight pierced through there in patches, casting uneven silver pools on the ground.
There—a glimmer.
Something small. Moving between the trees.
He advanced, pushing through ferns and low branches. Then stopped.
A body.
Small, curled against the roots of an old ash tree. A child?
Kael's grip on the spear tightened. It could be a trap. There were creatures in the deeper woods that mimicked the living—dead-eyed illusions designed to lure prey. He had no way of knowing. No signs. No magic. Just instinct.
And instinct told him this wasn't bait.
He crouched beside the form, brushing aside dirt and ash.
It was a girl. Maybe five, maybe six. Hard to tell beneath the grime and tangled hair. Her dress was torn, little more than rags. Her skin was pale—too pale—and marred with streaks of something that looked like soot. Her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, as if even unconscious she refused to let go of herself.
She was breathing. Barely.
Kael knelt, checking for injuries. Her hands were raw, fingernails blackened. Her feet were bare, blistered. Across her back, beneath the torn fabric, he saw welts—old and new. Signs of running. Of being chased.
He looked around. No other bodies. No tracks leading in or out.
She was alone.
Why?
He didn't know. He didn't care.
He reached out—hesitated—then gently slid his arms under her small frame. She barely weighed anything. Just bones and stubborn life.
The moment his skin touched hers, the temperature shifted again.
The trees shuddered.
Far above, one of the moons flickered—just for a second.
Then all was still.
Back at the shelter, he wrapped her in the last of his furs and laid her by the fire. He had no medicine, only dried herbs he didn't fully understand, and the calming roots a trader once told him could settle the heart. He crushed them into a brew, cooled it, and trickled a few drops between her lips.
She didn't wake.
He stayed beside her all night, listening to her shallow breaths, watching the fire die to embers. Outside, something howled in the distance. He didn't move. Not even when the cold bit through his skin. Not even when the trees whispered again.
Morning came late.
The sun in Velhara was inconsistent—sometimes golden, sometimes blue. Today it was soft, bleeding gold across the forest floor. The girl stirred, a small sound escaping her throat.
Kael leaned forward, unsure if he should speak.
Her eyes opened.
Amber. Glowing faintly. Not human—not entirely.
She blinked, flinching at the light, then looked at him.
No words.
Just eyes.
He held up a hand slowly, palm open. "It's okay. You're safe."
She didn't answer. Didn't move.
"You're not… with anyone, are you?" he asked gently. "No family? No people nearby?"
Silence.
He exhaled, nodding to himself. "Alright. You don't have to talk. Not yet."
He stood, turning toward the fire to prepare food—roasted root vegetables and a thin soup. When he turned back, she hadn't moved. Just watched. Always watching.
By the third day, she still hadn't spoken, but she ate what he gave her. She followed him silently when he fetched water. She watched him carve traps and repair his roof with trembling hands.
On the fifth day, she pointed at a bird in the trees and tilted her head.
"Chirik," Kael told her. "They sing before rain."
Her lips moved, silently mimicking the word.
He smiled, for the first time in what felt like years.
On the seventh day, she coughed through the night and cried in her sleep. He held her without words.
On the ninth day, she reached for his hand.
And on the tenth, when he asked, "Do you have a name?" she shook her head.
He nodded slowly.
"Then I'll give you one," he said.
She looked at him, waiting.
He hesitated. It had to mean something.
He remembered a flower he'd seen once, blooming alone in the ash after a wildfire. Delicate. Bright. Somehow alive when nothing else had survived.
"Liora," he said.
She blinked, then nodded.
A name for the quiet. A name for something small and alive in a world that wanted nothing but silence.
Liora.
Later that night, as he sat by the fire and watched her sleep beneath the furs, Kael realized something.
He didn't feel lost anymore.
Not completely.
The world was still broken. The stars still strange. The future still uncertain.
But in the middle of it all, there was a girl with ash in her hair and a name on her lips. A name he'd given her.
A reason.
The fire crackled gently, and the stars above blinked like tired eyes.
And far to the north, unseen by either of them, the ruins of a shattered temple stirred with ancient breath.
Velhara had taken notice.