"I see. I'll keep that in mind," I said, trying to absorb all Callis had told me.
She gave me a flat look. "And another thing—don't go around telling people you're from another world. Most folks'll call you mad. Or worse, cursed."
"Noted."
With that, I left her tent and returned to the flickering lights of the camp.
Smoke curled gently from cookfires. A few people sat quietly near the embers, trading whispered stories or passing old wine.
As I passed through, an elderly woman with soft eyes and hands like tree bark waved me over. She held a simple clay bowl.
"Here, dear. Eat up before you sleep," she said kindly, placing the warm soup into my hands. "Vegetables. Grown them myself, I did."
I blinked, taken aback by the softness.
"Thank you…" I murmured.
She just smiled and shuffled off, leaving me alone with the steam and silence.
I sat near the edge of the camp, watching the sky shift into indigo.
The soup wasn't anything special—broth, roots, a few leaves—but it was enough to make the world feel a little less foreign.
For a moment.
After finishing the last of the soup, I stood and stretched, the weight of the day still lingering in my shoulders.
I made my way to the merchant's stall. He was rearranging dried herbs and polished trinkets like always, humming some off-key tune under his breath.
I pulled the book from my satchel and handed it over.
"Here. The book you lent me."
He looked up, then grinned. "Oh? Did the magic wear off?"
"Not exactly," I said. "I don't seem to have any issues anymore. I can understand what people are saying. Even signs make sense now."
He nodded, satisfied. "Good. Means it worked."
"What was it, anyway?"
"Rune-bound vocabulary, sealed with comprehension glyphs. Rare stuff. Expensive, too."
I gave him a look.
"...You're going to ask for payment now, aren't you?"
He grinned wider.
"Of course I am. I'm a merchant. I don't give knowledge away for free."
I sighed. "Right. I'll pay you someday, then."
"That's all I needed to hear."
I paused, then asked, "Is there a water source nearby where I can wash up?"
"Well," he said, scratching his beard, "there's the old stone basin near the Pale March. Cold as regret, but clean enough."
"What about that well near camp?"
His expression flattened.
"That one's cursed—or haunted. Pick your favorite. I'd avoid it unless you want to wake up speaking in tongues or dragging spirits into your dreams."
"Right…" I said slowly. "Thanks."
Without saying more, I grabbed my cloak and turned toward the Pale March.
I didn't know why I was really going.
I told myself it was just to wash my face. To clear my head.
But the truth hung unspoken between every step—
I wanted to see her again.
The path to the Pale March hadn't changed. It still felt like walking through the spine of a memory.
And somewhere ahead, past the leaning stones and wind-bleached arches, the well waited.
The Pale March was still. The kind of still that feels like something is waiting.
As I stepped into the clearing, the familiar basin came into view. The stone was worn, edges rounded by time and weather. The water inside shimmered faintly in the dying light.
I leaned over it.
My reflection stared back—drained, quiet, trying to look like it belonged here.
"I just want to go home…" I whispered to no one. Maybe to the well. Maybe to her.
I scooped the water into my hands and splashed it across my face.
The cold stung, but I kept going.Once. Twice. A third time.
Like maybe if I washed hard enough, I'd wake up under my ceiling back home.
But when I looked up, I was still here.
Still foreign.Still alone.
I sat at the edge of the basin, dripping, staring at the soft ripples.
"If magic exists here…" I muttered aloud, "...how could I learn it?"
As I sat there in silence, the ripples in the water stilled—unnaturally still.
Then they shifted.
Not from wind. Not from my breath.
The reflection changed.
It wasn't just me anymore.
Above my mirrored head, framed by the broken stone of a collapsed pillar, stood a figure.
My heart clenched.
I turned.
And there she was again.
Not a blur this time. Not a flicker.
She was clear.
Pale robes that seemed stitched from moonlight. Hair like smoke drifting through the air. Her face had weight now—no longer a suggestion of beauty, but something ancient. A woman carved from memory.
She stood on the broken pillar as if weightless, watching me.
"Are you in fear of seeing me, child?"
Her voice echoed without echo, a sound both in the clearing and somewhere deeper—beneath skin, beneath thought.
I wanted to run.My instincts screamed it.
But I stayed.
"Yes," I said, barely audible. "Every time I see you… I feel like I shouldn't."
The spirit tilted her head slightly. Her expression softened—not into a smile, but into something resembling… mercy.
"Do not be afraid," she said. "Though our first encounter left a poor impression, I meant no harm."
"You didn't speak then," I muttered.
"Because you could not yet hear."
She stepped down, floating rather than falling, until her feet nearly brushed the earth near the well's edge.
"Now, the veil between us thins."
"Why?"
"Because the land knows you. The memory recognizes the presence that does not belong."
She knelt, as if inspecting the basin with me.
"And now you ask of magic?" she whispered.
"Tell me, child," she said softly, her voice now edged with something deeper—almost maternal.
"Why would you, a foreigner to this world, wish to learn magic?"
Her eyes glowed gently, shifting into a shade of luminous green that pulsed like the light through old leaves.
I hesitated. The truth caught in my throat, sharp and aching.
"If I'm being honest…" I said quietly. "I just want to go home. Back to my world. To where life felt like it truly belonged to me."
At that, her glow dimmed, not in anger—but in sorrow. Her expression, once unreadable, grew somber.
"Do you feel alone?" she asked, stepping closer. Her feet didn't stir the grass.
I looked at her—not at the glow, not at the robe, not at the strange beauty of her presence.
Just her eyes.
"I do," I whispered. "More than I've ever felt before."
She knelt in front of me, and for a moment, the distance between spirit and mortal dissolved.
"Then I pity you," she said, "because that is something even I understand."
"How so?" I asked.
The spirit tilted her head slightly, as if considering how best to answer.
"Each spirit is born with purpose, Ezekiel. We are not like your kind—searching, uncertain, changing. We are bound to function, to memory, to laws deeper than flesh."
Her eyes flickered again, the green pulsing softly.
"Our knowledge surpasses what your world's books can hold. Even knowing your name is effortless. Names carry weight in the places I come from."
She stepped slowly around the well, her voice drifting like wind around ruins.
"I was once tasked with guarding this land. To protect its boundaries and those who called it home. But... as you can see, I failed."
I looked at her—this being made of light and sorrow—and felt something unfamiliar. Not fear. Not awe.
Pity.
"What happened?" I asked.
"A spirit can only do so much without form," she said. "We can whisper. Watch. Influence. But not change. Not without a body."
"You were powerless?"
She turned her gaze downward.
"I am of the Fifth Circle. And that limits what I am permitted to touch."
"Circle?" I repeated.
She looked at me again, this time like a teacher gently guiding a child.
"For your understanding… circles are what you might call tiers. There are seven."
She raised one graceful hand, fingers curled.
"The First Circle holds the Prime—those who shaped the foundations of magic, time, and law."
"The Second and Third are the Keepers—spirits bound to elemental order, divine warfare, or fate."
"The Fourth is rare—intermediaries, negotiators, watchers between planes."
Then she placed her hand over her chest.
"I am Fifth. A guardian. One step above echo, one step below power."
She turned, eyes glowing slightly dimmer.
"Sixth and Seventh... are spirits tied to memory, place, and sorrow. Echoes that may never learn, never rise. Fragments of what once was."
"And you?" I asked again.
"I am still myself," she said, "but weaker than I once was. And unable to protect what I failed to hold."
She looked at me with a gaze heavy enough to silence the wind.
"Perhaps... that is why you were allowed in."
"Then… what does that mean for me being here?" I asked.
The spirit tilted her head slightly, as if even she wasn't entirely sure.
"Who knows," she said. "Even anomalies like you can stir the awareness of First Circle spirits. That alone makes your presence… unpredictable."
"Anomaly," I repeated quietly.
"Yes. But unpredictable does not mean dangerous."
She paused.
"There are other ways we spirits of the Fifth Circle can act—if given the chance to resonate with an Awakener."
"An Awakener?"
"Those born of sacred bloodlines or those who've made oaths great enough to shake the firmament. Awakeners are rare—people with the power to reshape the world."
"And you think I'm one of them?"
She shook her head gently.
"No. You are not an Awakener. But you are something rarer still."
"That sounds... worse."
"Not worse. Just strange. An anomaly like you may not be chosen, but you change the rules by simply existing."
I rubbed the back of my neck, uneased.
"So… am I in danger, then?"
"Not yet," she said calmly. "But eyes will turn toward you."
"Still," I muttered, "you mentioned resonance. Doesn't that require me being an Awakener?"
"Yes and no," she replied. "Resonance is a gift. A bond. When a spirit recognizes a soul that echoes its purpose, it passes its light forward."
"Like a torch?"
"Exactly."
She looked thoughtful for a moment.
"Any spirit can resonate, as long as the other soul is capable of holding it."
"But you said you couldn't protect this place… because there was no one to resonate with?"
"Correct. No Awakeners lived in this land when the bloodshed came. I tried to guide them, to instruct them, but it was not enough. I had no voice loud enough. No form strong enough. I could only watch."
Slowly, she raised her hand toward me.
Her pale fingers hovered just inches from my face, shimmering faintly in the air.
"And as you can see," she said softly, "I cannot even touch you."
Her hand trembled slightly—whether from effort or regret, I couldn't tell.
"Not unless I were of the Fourth Circle or higher. Without form, I am memory. Light. I exist, but I do not move."
Her hand withdrew, and she looked down at the ground near the well.
"So you see, Ezekiel… I am bound. And yet… you've changed something. I can feel it. The well stirs. The veil thins."
She lifted her eyes to mine again.
"You are not an Awakener. Not yet. But something in you resonates… and that alone may be enough."