The scent of warm flatbread and herb-simmered stew filled the cottage, a welcome contrast to the cold unease still clinging to Arin's skin from the night before. Morning light spilled across the wooden floor in golden ribbons, cutting through the lingering mist outside. His mother, Lyra, stood by the hearth, stirring a clay pot of creamy grain porridge speckled with crimson fruits and cinnamon bark.
"Come, eat while it's warm," she said, her voice gentle as always.
Arin sat quietly at the table, hands wrapped around a cup of mint-root tea. His eyes weren't fully focused on the bowl in front of him. The events of the previous night—the glowing orb, the hollow pull in his chest, and the faint, impossible whispers—had refused to leave him alone.
Lyra glanced over her shoulder, noting the furrow in his brow. "Bad dreams?"
"No," Arin said slowly, shaking his head. "It wasn't a dream."
He told her everything—how the strange light formed in his room and how it vanished the moment he touched it. How something inside him reacted, as if recognizing it. And most of all, the whisper.
Her stirring slowed. Lyra set the spoon down and joined him at the table, the warmth of her presence offering a small anchor.
"Arin, are you sure it wasn't just your imagination?" she asked, softly. "Sometimes… elemental affinity can cause dreams to feel real, especially during adolescence. Fire-touched children often speak of dancing flames. Water-born feel drowned in dreams."
Arin looked up, his voice firmer now. "It spoke to me. And it didn't feel like fire or water or anything like that. It was like…"
He paused, struggling for the words. "Like something was… waiting. Watching."
A moment of silence passed.
Lyra folded her hands, staring into her tea. Elder Marn's words… They echo more now than ever. She remembered the conversation they'd had only weeks ago, when strange signs began appearing in the forest, and the animals grew restless.
She looked up and smiled, masking the ripple of concern. "Well, it could still be something related to your second affinity. You've always been a bit different, my clever boy. I'll speak to Elder Marn just to be sure, alright?"
Arin nodded, but uncertainty lingered in his gaze.
"To keep your mind busy, why don't you visit the Mistgrove Library today?" she added lightly. "It's been a while since anyone's wandered its shelves. Your father used to spend hours there. Maybe you'll find something interesting. Maybe even… answers."
Arin blinked. "Father's journals?"
"He kept a few records. Notes. He never stopped learning, even after leaving the Academy." Her voice softened. "It might help to see where he once stood."
The mention of his father—Darian Vale—lit something in Arin. That name had always felt both distant and heavy. "Alright," he said. "After school."
Lyra gave a satisfied nod and stood, brushing back a curl of hair. "Good. Now finish that bowl, or I'll assume the whispers told you not to eat."
Arin cracked a smile despite himself.
---
Later that morning, the soft clang of wooden practice staffs filled the Emberrest School yard. Under the morning sun, students paired off to drill their stances. Arin moved through the routine, his body obedient, his mind elsewhere.
Kael swung his staff lazily. "You're awfully quiet for a guy who claimed he'd beat me today."
Arin blinked, snapping back to the moment. "Sorry. Just didn't sleep much."
Kael raised a brow. "Don't tell me the ghosts got you."
"Worse," Arin muttered. "Homework."
The day passed in a blur of sparring, elemental exercises, and lectures on the Laws of Essence. But even as he channeled sparks of minor flame or traced runes into the dirt, Arin's thoughts always returned to the orb… and the whisper.
---
Meanwhile, Lyra stood in the grove beyond the school, the towering willow trees muffling the schoolyard clamor. Elder Marn sat cross-legged on a stone bench, eyes closed in meditation. The moment Lyra approached, he opened them.
"You felt it too, then," he said without turning.
Lyra hesitated. "No. But Arin did. He described… light, pulling, whispers."
Marn's gaze grew sharp. "When?"
"Last night. It disappeared the moment he touched it. He said something spoke to him."
The elder's weathered face grew unreadable. "He's young still. Dreams are strange things."
"He insisted it wasn't a dream."
"Did Darian ever mention anything similar?"
Lyra's brows furrowed. "No. But…" She looked away, remembering the late nights, the frantic notes, the way Darian would stare at nothing for long moments. "He was... distressed. Toward the end. Distant."
Marn nodded, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. "Perhaps the child has inherited more than Darian's looks. For now, let's observe. The boy walks a path we don't yet see."
Lyra nodded, but concern clung to her shoulders like mist.
----
That night, after dinner and a promise to return before midnight, Arin set off with a lantern in hand. The village was quiet, the stars cold above him. Mistgrove's library stood at the far end of the settlement, near the elder stone - just far enough from the homes to seem forgotten.
Unlike most houses in the village, the library was built with stone and dark heartwood, its roof steep, its windows narrow and arched. It bore the marks of old craftsmanship- functional but lasting. The front door creaked as he pushed it open.
Inside, the air was dry, still. Dust curled in the light of his lantern. Shelves lined the walls, some sagging under the weight of forgotten tomes. The floorboards creaked faintly underfoot.
He wandered through aisles, his fingers brushing spines, eyes scanning titles. Herbal Compendium of Western Reaches. Stormcaller Histories. Mistgrove's First Founders.
Nothing unusual. Nothing that whispered.
But something tugged at him. A presence, not malevolent but quiet. Familiar.
He found a desk at the back, stacked with scrolls and notes. A loose sheet bore the initials D.V.
His pulse quickened.
He had no time to search it all tonight, but he would return. Tomorrow, and the day after that, if he had to.
As he stepped outside into the chill night air, lantern swaying, he heard something faint-- no louder than breath.
> "Seek…"
He turned sharply.
Nothing but wind.
But this time, he didn't feel afraid.