The wind carried dust across the high ridge, whispering through the broken stones that overlooked the valley. Far below, Orathis stirred—the city of pale walls and tiled roofs, a hearth of life pressed against the weight of time. From this distance, its gates were no more than a dark line upon the wall, its towers softened by haze, its streets unseen yet restless.
Kaelthar stood upon the ridge, his cloak drawn close against the wind. He had watched the city from afar for some time, as one might study a face not seen for generations. Smoke drifted upward from its chimneys, rising into the noon-bright sky. The sound of bells, faint as memory, carried up the slope and broke the stillness.
For many years he had wandered roads that bent away from here, roads that led through ruined fields, forgotten shrines, forests where roots coiled like sleeping beasts. But always, in the silence between journeys, the city had lingered in his mind like an echo left unfinished.
Now he returned.
A single crow wheeled overhead, its cry sharp against the wind. The bird turned once above the ridge, then cut away toward the city, vanishing into the haze. Kaelthar's gaze followed it, unreadable.
The walls of Orathis stood scarred yet steady, patched with stone where battles had once clawed at them. From within came the signs of life: carts moving toward the gate, banners shifting in the breeze, the faint stir of voices carried upward. Yet beneath that hum of life, there was something else—an absence, a stillness that lingered too long before yielding to sound again.
The corner of Kaelthar's mouth bent almost imperceptibly, not in a smile but something quieter, harder to name.
The wind pressed against him one last time, tugging at the hem of his cloak. Then he began the descent. Step by step, he left the ridge behind, following the road downward until the noise of the valley rose to meet him.
By the time he reached the gate of Orathis, the city was no longer a memory. It was before him once more.