Mira stood at the very edge of the ruined basin just as the first thin streaks of dawn filtered into the sky. She clutched her sketchbook tightly against her chest, as if holding onto something fragile, something that could slip away at any moment. The mist still clung heavily to the forest around her, thick and damp, like breath held for too long in cold lungs. It hadn't begun to lift yet, and the trees seemed to disappear into a ghostly shroud of fog that muffled all sounds. She had no memory of waking up; her mind felt cloudy, caught in a haze she couldn't shake. One moment, she was lost in a dream, dreaming of stars bleeding through the jagged branches of ancient trees, shining with unnatural light. The next, she was here—on the muddy ground, with her bare feet numbed by the dew, feeling the cold seep between her toes, and her hand trembling uncontrollably.
The sketchbook lay on a nearby stone, untouched, yet it seemed different now. She hadn't moved it, but it was open—its pages glowing faintly. The ink on the paper shimmered with a golden hue, shifting and flickering like water caught in a sluggish current or the way sunlight plays on a slipstream of oil on water. The symbols drawn within seemed to hum softly, almost alive. They didn't sing in melodies or chant in words, but something more pure. It was a strange, distant sound—an echo of bells ringing underwater, or voices drifting just beyond the edge of understanding. It was music of a sort, but different. It was pure sound—raw, unfiltered, vibrating through her mind with a strange pull.
Feeling compelled, Mira stepped closer, her hand reaching toward the glowing pages. Her fingertips brushed the paper lightly, and in that instant, something changed. A gentle curl of light traced along her skin—neither fire nor pain, but a warm memory flooding through her. It was like touching a shaped fragment of her past she hadn't even known was missing. Flash after flash burst into her thoughts—images of a battlefield filled with chaos, a woman with wings radiant enough to outshine the sun, holding her ground with calm strength. There was a child clutching a torn banner of light, desperately trying to protect something sacred. And she saw the circle of knights, one of them missing or perhaps lost, their faces frozen in silent watchfulness. Through each of these images, she saw herself—standing among them, watching it all unfold. Always watching. Always the observer. She was a part of the scenes, yet separate, caught in an endless loop of vigilance that she couldn't escape.
Behind her, footsteps crept softly through the underbrush. Lina appeared quietly, her approach unnoticed at first, then deliberate. Her voice was gentle yet insistent. "I woke up and you weren't in your tent again," she said softly, almost as if afraid her words might disturb the quiet that had fallen. Mira turned slightly, her eyes still fixed on the glowing pages, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I didn't mean to sleepwalk," she admitted. "Or maybe the book called me. Or… something else. I don't really know anymore." She hesitated, unsure if she should explain further. The mysterious pull of the book had begun to take hold of her, a feeling that grew stronger with each passing day.
Lina stepped closer and looked down at the shimmering script. Her gaze shifted from the open pages to the intricate symbols etched into the paper. "Rylan said the book responds only to him," Lina said quietly, her brow furrowing. "But this… this is different. It feels like it responds to you, too." Mira nodded slowly. Her face carried a hint of concern. "It knows me—somehow. I can't explain it, but I feel it. Like it recognizes parts of me I don't even remember." She paused, then added softly, "I think I used to carry something like this once—something not a book, but a light. A guiding flame of sorts. Something that showed the way when everything was dark." A flash of something ancient flickered behind her eyes.
Lina's expression sharpened at her words. "You remember?" she pressed. Her voice held a mix of surprise and curiosity. Mira shook her head slowly, frustration flickering across her face. "Not clearly. Just brief flashes. Feelings. Like distant memories trying to surface, but I can't quite grasp them." She pointed again at the glowing page. It had changed shape once more, reshaping itself into a new symbol. This time, a large eye centered on a sigil, shining with bright beams that extended outward like rays from a sun. But one of the lines—just one—was faint, almost hidden or fading away. The eighth line was gone, and the ninth was barely visible, trembling as if it might disappear entirely. "The eighth is gone," Mira whispered, her voice almost mournful. "And the ninth… it's hiding. It's waiting for something."
Later, while Mira returned to the camp, Lina stayed behind. She knelt by the oldest tree in the grove—an ancient, sprawling giant that leaned over the stones like a silent guardian. Her hand touched the rough bark, feeling its textured surface. The tree responded immediately—its trunk pulsed gently under her touch. Not in resistance, but with recognition, as if it had been waiting for her all along. Vines stirred from the ground, curling upward and twisting around the roots. The earth beneath her feet seemed to breathe, exhaling slowly. From deep within the roots, subtle whispers echoed—a language older than words, too faint to understand. She couldn't catch the actual words, but she felt the meaning. Something very old was watching her, silent and patient, stored away in the roots and shadows. It was waiting for the right moment. It remembered everything.
When Lina finally stood and turned back toward the camp, she saw her friends scattered around in different directions. Rylan sat near the remains of a ruined arch, lost in thought, his face shadowed and tense. Ash paced nervously, fidgeting with restless energy as if trying to shake off worry. Varyon sat, watching the fire flickering and sputtering, like he feared it might die out or change suddenly. And Mira, standing in the bright sunlight, tilted her head as if listening to a sound only she could hear. Her eyes were half-closed, and her face looked distant—focused inward, attuned to something beyond their sight. In that moment, it was clear: the forest no longer slept, and neither did they. Something had stirred. Something was awakening. And the quiet peace they once knew had shattered, replaced by a growing tension that hinted at deeper truths waiting to surface.