The midday sun hung low over the dusty road, painting the world in a haze of gold. Hari had been sitting on the fence just outside their small farm, idly tossing pebbles into the shallow ditch by the path. Ever since the festival, a restless hum had filled his mind, as though the world outside the village was whispering to him, daring him to step beyond the horizon. The books his father had given him spoke of elves, dwarves, and orcs — but those words were dry ink on paper. Hari wanted voices, stories, smells of strange markets, and the wind from unknown lands.
It was then that he noticed a figure approaching from the far bend of the road. The man's pace was unhurried, but his presence drew the eye like a spark in darkness. He wore a long, patched cloak the color of deep forest moss, its hem frayed from years of travel. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face, but Hari could see that his skin was darkened by sun and wind, and his beard carried threads of silver. Strapped to his back was a bundle, wrapped in leather, and at his hip hung a curved dagger with a bone handle.
The traveler stopped by the fence, leaning slightly on his walking stick. His eyes — sharp, almost hawk-like — studied Hari for a moment before his lips curved into a faint smile.
"Is this the road to Bramhapuri?" the man asked, his voice deep but warm, like embers on a quiet night.
"It is," Hari said, hopping down from the fence. "You'll need to go straight until the banyan tree splits the road, then take the left path."
The man nodded, then glanced toward the farmhouse where Ravi was repairing a broken tool. "Your father?"
Hari hesitated, then nodded. "Yes."
Ravi, noticing them, wiped his hands on his dhoti and approached. His face lit with polite curiosity. "Traveler, you've come far, I think. The road to Bramhapuri is long and empty."
The man chuckled. "Empty roads are kinder than crowded ones. I am Arven, from the west. I've been walking for three moons now, and I would not refuse a jug of water if you'd offer it."
Ravi invited him inside without hesitation. Mrudhula, however, paused in the kitchen doorway when she saw the stranger. Her gaze flickered from the worn boots to the dagger at his belt. She did not speak her doubts aloud, but the stiffness in her movements betrayed them.
"Strangers bring strange troubles," she whispered to Ravi when the traveler's back was turned.
Ravi placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "He's just passing through. Let the man drink and rest. Hospitality costs us nothing, and suspicion may cost us more."
She didn't argue further, but her eyes never fully relaxed.
Arven drank slowly, savoring the cool water, before settling cross-legged on the mat. Hari sat opposite him, unable to hide the way his curiosity burned through every glance.
"You've been far," Hari blurted. "Farther than this village, farther than the hills, right?"
Arven's smile deepened. "Farther than the hills, the rivers, and the plains beyond them. I've seen the glass towers of the elves, their spires so tall they pierce the clouds. I've walked the forges of the dwarves, where the air rings with the song of hammers. I've crossed lands where the orcs hunt in great packs, swift and fierce as storm winds."
Hari leaned forward, eyes wide. The words from his father's books now had a voice, a smell, a pulse.
Arven continued, lowering his tone as though sharing a secret meant only for the boy. "And I've seen more than what the books tell you. Have you heard of mages?"
Hari's heart skipped. "Mages? You mean… people who use magic?"
"Yes," Arven said. "Magic is not just tricks or tales for fireside nights. It is the bending of the world's threads, the shaping of its breath. Mages can weave storms, call fire from empty air, heal with a touch — or tear the ground itself asunder. But they pay a price, for magic is a hungry thing. It takes from the body, the mind, and sometimes… the soul."
Ravi's brows rose slightly, but he said nothing. He had heard whispers of magic in his youth, though in these lands it had long since faded to myth.
Hari's voice trembled with both awe and longing. "Have you met one?"
"I have," Arven said, his eyes distant as though replaying an old memory. "Once, in the city of Naramun, I met a mage who wore a robe woven from threads of light. She could see the shape of a man's death as easily as I can see your face. She told me my path would end far from home, under a red sky."
Hari's skin prickled. "Did it scare you?"
The traveler chuckled softly. "Not as much as it should have. Some truths are burdens, some are weapons. A mage learns to tell which is which. And you, boy — do you fear the unknown?"
Hari hesitated. "No… I think I want to see it."
Arven studied him for a long moment, and the silence stretched until it felt heavy. "Then the unknown will see you too. Remember that."
Mrudhula reappeared, setting a small plate of millet bread between them. She avoided the traveler's gaze, but her voice was polite. "You should eat before you leave. The road ahead is long."
Arven took a piece, nodding in thanks. As he ate, he spoke of markets where the coins were square and stamped with runes, of forests where the trees whispered in a language older than men, of mountains that glowed blue in the moonlight because of the crystal veins within them.
Hari drank in every word, his mind painting worlds that felt impossibly real. He could almost smell the spice-scented air of distant ports, feel the sting of icy winds from the northern peaks, and hear the hum of magic in places where the earth itself seemed alive.
Before long, Arven rose, tightening the straps of his pack. "I must reach Bramhapuri by nightfall," he said. "The road waits for no man."
Ravi offered him a handshake, firm and sincere. "May your path be safe."
Mrudhula stood beside Ravi, still cautious but unwilling to be rude. "May the gods watch over you."
When Arven turned to Hari, his voice softened. "If you ever leave this village, boy, remember that stories are not just told — they are lived. And living them will change you in ways you cannot yet imagine."
Hari wanted to ask a thousand questions more, but the traveler was already walking away, his cloak swaying with the rhythm of his steps.
The boy stood by the fence long after Arven had vanished beyond the bend, his thoughts a storm of wonder and longing. The hills no longer seemed like boundaries — they were invitations. Somewhere beyond them were mages who shaped the world, cities of shining spires, and roads that led to places even the books could not name.
That night, as he lay in bed, Hari replayed every word the traveler had said. He imagined holding fire in his palm, calling the wind with a gesture, or standing on a cliff overlooking a city that shimmered like a jewel under the moon. Sleep came slowly, but when it did, his dreams were bright and strange.
And somewhere deep in his heart, something shifted — a quiet certainty that his life would not always be bound to the fields and fences of the village.
The road would call him too, one day.