By the third day, Luma stopped asking how far they were.
Time had melted into movement—footsteps, breath, sweat, silence. There were no roads anymore, only instincts and old paths whispered to the earth. The forest grew thicker, and the air felt heavier, soaked with dew and something stranger—something watching.
Kera moved differently now. Tighter. Her hand never left the blade on her hip, and her eyes scanned more than just for threats. She was searching for memories. For ghosts.
"You know the path now, don't you?" Luma asked as they stopped beside a fallen tree covered in moss like velvet.
Kera gave a stiff nod. "My boots wore it once. Years back. Solmere isn't mapped, not even in the old logs—but the land remembers. You just gotta listen."
They kept going. Down a narrow slope of wet stone, over a gnarled bridge that creaked with every step, and finally through a clearing where the trees parted like pulled curtains.
Luma stopped cold.
Before them stood a wall.
It wasn't made of concrete or steel, but woven wood—branches interlocked with vines, bark burned with symbols too old to translate. It stretched from one end of the clearing to the other, tall as a house and covered in moss that breathed slowly in the wind.
And in the center?
A door.
Not a modern door. No locks. No hinges. Just a shape cut perfectly from the weave, outlined in soft white paint, as if it had been drawn in moonlight.
Kera's breath hitched. "They rebuilt it."
Luma stepped closer, heart pounding in her ears. The door felt alive—like it was listening. Like it could smell her intentions.
"This is it?" she asked.
"This is the gate," Kera confirmed. "But Solmere is behind it. They don't open it for just anyone."
Luma ran her hand along the wood. It was warm. "How do they know who's ready?"
"They watch."
Luma turned. "From where?"
"Everywhere."
Kera crouched beside a stone marked with the Quiet Flame symbol—two hands cradling a spark. Beneath it, a word was carved in the old tongue: Kienara.
"What does that mean?" Luma asked.
Kera stood. "It means: only those with silence in their blood may pass."
Luma frowned. "That sounds… spiritual."
"It is," Kera said. "Because this isn't just about surviving the wild. It's about shedding the noise inside."
Luma looked back at the door. "So what do I do?"
"You wait."
That night, they camped near the gate but not too close—Kera warned the trees would notice. Luma stared at the door for hours, the fire at her back, heart thumping like the world was about to split.
No one came. No one spoke.
But something felt different.
Not fear. Not peace either. Something between. Like standing at the edge of a dream you've had since birth, but never thought you'd actually touch.
In the morning, fog blanketed the woods. Luma woke first.
Kera still slept, face soft for the first time since they met.
Luma walked to the gate barefoot, carrying nothing but the medallion.
She stood in front of it.
"I'm not just here for survival," she said aloud, voice shaky. "I'm here because I believe in something better. Something slower. Something sacred."
She took a deep breath.
"I carry the Flame. And I won't let it die."
A long silence followed.
Then—a click.
The painted outline began to glow faintly. The vines quivered. And the door slowly, silently, opened inward.
Not wide. Just enough.
Luma turned, heart pounding, and ran to wake Kera.
But when she got back to camp…
Kera was gone.
No footprints. No gear. No sign she'd ever been there.
Only the stone remained, and the word Kienara, etched deeper than before.