The village of Aerilon rested in a valley cradled by ancient hills, where the wind always carried a whisper—of old songs, forgotten promises, and sometimes, just the scent of freshly baked barley bread from the west-end ovens. The buildings were crooked in the way only time could bless them, with cobbled roofs and windows like sleepy eyes. Carts creaked along mud-lined roads, and laughter bounced from tavern doors with the same familiarity as the tolling of the bell tower at dawn.
In the heart of it all, a boy named Siro darted between market stalls, a half-eaten pear in one hand and a mischievous smile on his lips.
"You're stealing again?" hissed a voice behind him.
Siro turned, biting into the fruit like it owed him money. "Not stealing. Liberating. The fruit was bored. I'm giving it a purpose."
Renan, tall and composed despite his age, groaned as he caught up. Clad in a clean tunic a bit too fine for the dusty streets, he looked every bit the noble's son he was, except for the smudge of soot across his cheek and the slightly loosened cravat. He always ended up like this after spending time with Siro.
"You're going to end up in the stocks one day."
"And you're going to talk me out of it. Again." Siro winked, tossing the pear core into a passing goat cart like he'd done it a hundred times before.
Despite the constant scolding, Renan didn't leave. He never did. There was something about Siro—some strange mixture of recklessness and compassion—that made it hard to stay mad at him.
They walked along the path leading out of the square, toward the edge of the village where the stones gave way to tall grasses and the distant scent of the river. Children ran past them waving wooden swords, and old Bertha, seated under her favorite tree, raised a hand at them.
"Don't suppose you brought me my tea today, boy?" she croaked.
Siro immediately spun on his heel and rummaged through the satchel he carried over one shoulder. "Of course I did. Would I forget my favorite lady in all of Aerilon?"
Renan muttered something under his breath, probably about how Siro had forgotten and just happened to swipe it from the bakery minutes ago.
He handed Bertha a small tin of chamomile and mint. She accepted it with shaking fingers and eyes full of unshed stories. "You'll go far, boy," she murmured. "Too far, maybe."
Siro smiled, but didn't answer. He only tugged his hood up a bit higher as they walked away.
"You could just ask my house staff for bread, you know," Renan said. "They wouldn't turn you away."
Siro gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Yeah, but where's the fun in that? You gotta earn your carbs."
They stopped at the riverbank, where the grass was tallest and the sky opened wide. It was their place, a little clearing where they could lie back, stare at clouds, and pretend the world wasn't as small as it felt.
Renan sat first, legs crossed neatly, pulling out a book with a ribboned bookmark. "Still reading A History of the Elemental Realms?" Siro asked, peering over his shoulder.
"Still hoping it'll make sense someday," Renan replied dryly. "Besides, I like the maps."
Siro lay back, arms folded beneath his head, eyes chasing a hawk that spiraled far above them. "Do you ever feel like… the wind knows something?"
Renan didn't look up. "You say that every week."
"Because I feel it every week. Like there's a secret it's trying to tell us, but it doesn't speak our language. Yet."
"You're impossible."
Siro grinned. "And you're boring."
They both chuckled, letting the lull of the river and breeze settle between them.
Then Renan's tone softened. "You ever think about leaving, Siro? Like… actually leaving? Past the mountains?"
"All the time," Siro said, eyes still skyward. "There's something out there. I don't know what it is, but I feel it in my bones. It's like I was meant for something else. Something more."
Renan looked at him, brows furrowing just a little. "That's what scares me."
Siro turned his head. "Why?"
"Because if you go... I don't think I'll be able to stop you."
Siro paused, and the grin faded just slightly. He reached over and flicked Renan's forehead. "Then you'd better start packing."
They stayed like that for a while, letting the wind pass through them like a promise. Neither of them said it aloud, but both knew: something was coming.
Something was shifting.
And Aerilon, for all its charm and simplicity, wouldn't be able to hold onto them forever.
The late afternoon sun melted like honey over Aerilon's rooftops, casting golden rays across mossy shingles and rusted weather vanes. Somewhere in the distance, the old bell tower groaned out the hour—a wheezy clang that echoed across the valley like a snoring giant.
Renan and Siro had long since abandoned the riverbank and now wandered the narrow winding paths behind the mill, the ones villagers pretended weren't shortcuts but always used anyway.
"So you're telling me," Renan said with careful skepticism, "you actually climbed the baker's fence to steal a single tart."
"It wasn't just a tart," Siro corrected. "It was plum. And it was still warm. That makes it divine."
"You have a very flexible moral compass."
"I prefer the term 'morally agile.'"
Renan sighed dramatically, but a smirk tugged at his lips.
They paused as they passed a wooden arch draped with flowering vines. The scent of jasmine filled the air, masking the faintest trace of burnt wood—a scent only Siro seemed to catch.
"Do you smell that?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.
Renan sniffed. "Smell what?"
"Burnt… something. Like old firewood and chalk."
Renan raised a brow. "Maybe you're just thinking too hard again. Or maybe the baker cursed the tart you stole."
Siro gave a huff. "I'm serious. It's like… it was here for a second. Then gone."
Before Renan could tease him again, a sharp voice called out from ahead.
"You two boys better not be messing with the statues again!"
It was old Marlin, the self-declared "Guardian of the Square," glaring at them with narrowed eyes and a broom clenched like a weapon. His white beard curled like smoke, and his robe was covered in mysterious stains that may or may not have been soup.
Renan raised his hands innocently. "Wouldn't dream of it, Master Marlin."
Siro, with a too-innocent smile, asked, "Do they still whisper when the moon's full?"
Marlin froze for half a heartbeat. "Statues don't whisper," he muttered, too quickly.
He shuffled off, but not before muttering something about "winds carrying nonsense" and "boys poking things they shouldn't."
Siro and Renan exchanged a glance.
"I know he's crazy," Renan whispered, "but sometimes it feels like he knows something."
"Yeah," Siro murmured. "But what?"
---
That evening, the village was caught in that soft lull between sunset and candlelight, when everything turned a shade of burnt gold and shadows stretched long like yawns. The inn's windows flickered with firelight. Laughter spilled into the street like spilled mead.
Renan walked Siro to the edge of the woods, just past the barley fields where Siro had his little makeshift hut nestled against an old oak tree.
"You sure you don't want to come to the manor tonight?" Renan offered. "We're having pheasant. I could sneak you a leg before my father even notices."
Siro grinned. "And risk your mother declaring war on commoners again? No thanks."
Renan chuckled. "She likes you."
"She tolerates me. Big difference."
There was a pause. The wind rustled the trees, and somewhere distant—just barely—there came a soft, almost melodic hum. Like the echo of bells dipped in mist. Siro looked up.
"You heard that one, right?" he asked quietly.
Renan nodded slowly. "Yeah."
They stood in silence. Not afraid. Not yet. But alert—like something old had just blinked, somewhere beneath the earth.
Renan stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You think your wind's trying to say something again?"
"I think it always is," Siro whispered. "But maybe now… someone's listening."
Renan reached into his satchel and pulled out a scroll. "I was gonna show you this earlier. Found it in the archive wing yesterday. It was tucked behind the fire logs, like someone didn't want it seen."
Siro unrolled it gently.
It was faded, ink curling at the edges. Symbols neither of them recognized sprawled across the parchment, though some looked vaguely like wind spirals and ancient runes. The only readable part was a single phrase at the bottom, scrawled in an elegant, unfamiliar hand:
"When the wind forgets, the Spire shall rise again."
The words shimmered faintly, like heat rising off stone. Siro ran a thumb over them, and for a split second, the air around him pulsed.
A soft swirl of wind lifted the page, then stilled.
Neither spoke.
Not yet.
They didn't know it, but the first thread had been tugged.
And somewhere far away, beneath stone halls and silent towers, an old headmistress stirred from her reverie, her gaze tilting toward the sky.