The afternoon sun peeked through the canopy of trees as Ceng-tae and Kiyoshi set out for the village. As they wound through the dense forest, Ceng-tae took the lead while Kiyoshi's gaze shifted, taking in everything he saw. His heart raced with anticipation, though he tried to keep his calm, curious about the world beyond the forest, which had been his home for the past few weeks.
"So, what's the village like?" Kiyoshi asked quietly, his voice breaking the silence. His gaze darted from tree to tree. His eyes lingered a little too long on shadows between the trunks, half-expecting something to lunge from the underbrush.
Ceng-tae smiled, glancing at him. "It's small, nothing like what you're probably imagining. But the people are kind. You'll get to meet the villagers today."
"The villagers?" Kiyoshi repeated, unsure of how he felt about that.
"They're a close-knit group," Ceng-tae continued. "Farmers, hunters, traders... honest people. You'll fit in soon enough." He paused, then added, "Though... they might ask a few questions about you."
Kiyoshi frowned. "What if I don't know what to say?"
"Tell them what you know, and don't worry about the rest," Ceng-tae said calmly. "Your story is still unfolding, and there's no rush to remember everything."
The trees began to thin, and soon, Kiyoshi caught his first glimpse of Faelinor—a modest village nestled in the valley's cradle, with weather-worn wooden homes capped in moss-covered roofs and laundry lines stretching between chimneys like soft flags of domestic life. Laughter mixed with the creak of wagon wheels, the distant bark of a dog, and the rhythmic thud of a blacksmith's hammer.
As they drew closer, a group of children playing near the village gates noticed Ceng-tae and waved excitedly.
"It's Ceng-tae!" one of the boys shouted.
A little girl ran up and wrapped her arms around Ceng-tae's waist. "You've been gone forever!" she cried.
Kiyoshi hesitated as they approached; the children's eyes widened as they took in the unfamiliar figure beside their elder.
"Who's that?" another boy asked, stepping forward cautiously.
Kiyoshi's fingers twitched slightly. Their eyes—wide and unafraid—reminded him of something just beyond memory.
"This is Kiyoshi, and he'll stay with me for a while."
The children exchanged glances, their curiosity palpable.
"Where did you come from?" one of them asked. "Can you fight?"
Kiyoshi took a step back, overwhelmed by the sudden attention. But before he could say anything, Ceng-tae placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"Easy, now," Ceng-tae said with a chuckle. "Let's not bombard him with questions all at once."
They nodded, though their curiosity was far from satisfied.
As Kiyoshi and Ceng-tae walked further into the village, the weight of everyone's stares settled heavily on Kiyoshi's shoulders. He kept his head down—not out of fear, but because he didn't know how to carry himself among these strangers. Not when he had no past to stand on, no name to give but the one he had borrowed.
Ceng-tae moved through the streets like someone returning home. Villagers offered him polite nods and warm greetings, which he returned with easy familiarity. But with Kiyoshi, their eyes lingered a second too long.
"Who is he?"
"Doesn't look like one of us."
"No markings... no crest?"
A woman with silver-threaded hair paused near the market stalls, clutching her basket tighter as Kiyoshi passed. A pair of children stopped playing to watch him, their laughter fading into silence. He felt like an echo walking through the living—visible, but not truly seen.
Ceng-tae finally led him to a modest house near the village's heart. Ivy clung to the wood like old memories, and a narrow garden bloomed with herbs and delicate wildflowers. The scent of lavender and sage hung in the air like an embrace.
"This is where we'll be staying for now," Ceng-tae said, pushing open the door.
Kiyoshi hesitated a moment before stepping inside. As he crossed the threshold, the village noise softened, and a subtle warmth greeted him—not from the hearth, but from the space itself. The tension began to slip from his shoulders, if only a little.
Yet something still tugged at him.
A small pot of violet aconite sat on the windowsill, petals swaying gently even without breeze. As Kiyoshi neared, one of the flowers curled inward—retreating as if in quiet warning. He blinked, unsure if it was real... or imagined.
The house was humble, but comforting. Wooden floors, soft light through paper-screen windows, and shelves lined with jars of dried leaves and faded scrolls. It felt lived in. Safe. Still, the whisper in his chest remained:
You don't belong here.
He said nothing, simply lowering his bag to the floor. He wouldn't let Ceng-tae see the doubt stirring beneath his quiet.
Outside, a crow cried once and flew off into the mountain mist.
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"The Forgotten Myth."
The fire crackled at the heart of the village square, its light dancing across the faces of those gathered. Children clung to their mothers, while the hunters and farmers leaned forward on their stools, drawn in by the voice of the elder.
The night air carried the smell of woodsmoke and stew, but beneath it lay something heavier—an unease that settled over the crowd as his words began.
"Zarathor," the elder rasped, eyes reflecting off the flames. "The Demon of Calamity. They say he still walks among us."
The square fell into silence. The name, though old, still carried weight. Even here, far from the burned lands, it was enough to still the breath in the villagers' throats.
"Did he not fall with the war?" a young man asked, his voice unsteady. Saying the name aloud felt like tempting fate.
The elder's lips curled into a humorless smile. His gnarled hand brushed a faint scar that sat across his cheek—tokens of the past. "The war claimed many, yes... but some were not so easily broken."
A ripple of whispers stirred through the circle. The young man shifted in his seat, looking as though he wished he had held his tongue.
"Zarathor was no ordinary demon," the elder went on, his voice dropping until even the children hushed. "Born of gods, cursed with power the divine themselves feared. A storm. A calamity none could control. And when the world shattered, when the gods turned their faces from us, he vanished—lost to legend."
"Vanished?" the youth scoffed, trying to mask his unease. But the elder's hard stare silenced him instantly.
"Vanished," he repeated coldly. "Yet the myth endures. Some say he waits. Others... that he is closer than we dare believe."
The flames guttered as a breeze swept the square, carrying the scent of ash from the hearth. For a heartbeat, the shadows cast by the fire stretched unnaturally long, as though the night itself had leaned in to listen.
"Why trouble us with ghost stories?" a woman called from the edge of the circle. Tall, stern, her presence alone quieted the murmurs. "The war is ended. The demons are gone."
The elder turned his gaze on her, sharp as a knife.
"Gone? Then you have not walked the lands beyond our borders. You have not seen the ruins that still smolder, nor the creatures that linger where the light fades. Their hands are never truly gone. It lingers... like a storm on the horizon."
The woman faltered, her jaw tightening. She had heard the rumors, of course—the vanishing travelers, the fires in the distance, the whispers carried by merchants. But she had dismissed them as fear. Superstition. Yet as she met the elder's eyes, doubt flickered in her own.
At the edge of the circle, Kiyoshi shifted uncomfortably.
The name hung in his head like an echo that would not fade. A dull ache pressed against his temples, growing sharper with every word, as if something inside him long buried stirred awake.
He lowered his eyes to the fire, but the flames seemed to twist and warp, showing shapes that made no sense—black wings stretching across a blood-red sky, a blade dripping with light, cities collapsing under a storm that roared with his own heartbeat.
His breath caught, and for a moment he thought he heard voices inside the crackle of the fire.
Zarathor.
It wasn't the elder's voice this time. It was deeper, rawer—like it came from within him.
His hands trembled against his knees, nails digging into the fabric of his trousers. He wanted to stand, to walk away, but his body felt heavy, pinned down by something unseen. Every syllable the elder spoke made the pressure worse, like chains tightening around his chest.
"Some say he waits..." the old man muttered, "closer than we dare believe."
Kiyoshi squeezed his eyes shut. Behind the darkness, the visions came sharper now: a throne of obsidian, the sky weeping fire, his own reflection staring back at him with eyes not his own—grey washed out by gold, cold and merciless.
"No..." he whispered under his breath, though no one heard him over the fire's hiss.
He forced his eyes open again, blinking until the village square returned, until the murmurs of the crowd washed away the phantom echoes.
A hand touched his shoulder.
Ceng-tae.
The old man's presence was steady, grounding, pulling him back to himself.
"You alright, boy?"
Kiyoshi forced a thin smile. "Yeah," he lied, though his pulse still raced and sweat dampened his brow.
But even as he tried to steady his breathing, the name Zarathor lingered in his mind, beating against his skull like a drum he couldn't silence.
It felt less like a story—and more like a memory he wasn't ready to claim.
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"Celosia's Return."
A week had passed, and Kiyoshi was slowly adjusting to life in the quiet village, though the feeling of being an outsider still clung to him like a shadow. He had taken to helping Ceng-tae with daily chores—gardening, fixing fences, hauling water—and occasionally exchanged brief conversations with the villagers.
They were kind, but unfamiliar. Despite their warmth, a sense of detachment lingered. Kiyoshi felt like a stone resting in the stream—present, but never quite part of the flow.
On a still, breezy afternoon, Kiyoshi was helping Ceng-tae mend a broken fence near the edge of the pasture. The wood was sun-bleached and splintering beneath his grip. Just as he hammered a nail into place, a ripple of raised voices drifted across the fields, carried by the wind.
Kiyoshi straightened and wiped sweat from his brow.
"What's going on?"
Ceng-tae paused, shading his eyes with a calloused hand as he looked toward the square.
"Someone's returned," he murmured.
Curious, Kiyoshi followed him through the winding path that led back to the village entrance. A small crowd had already gathered near the gate, buzzing with excitement.
At the center stood a tall woman dismounting from a sleek black horse. She wore a dark travel cloak dusted with sand and ash, and her boots were caked with mud from the distant wilds. Even so, she held herself with confidence and poise—her presence like a blade drawn silently in a room full of whispers.
The villagers greeted her with wide smiles, some even clasping her forearms in the old warrior's greeting.
Ceng-tae leaned in, voice low.
"That's Celosia. She's been gone for a while—out beyond the village walls. No one really knows where."
Kiyoshi's gaze lingered on her. There was something magnetic about her—something more than just the way she moved or the subtle power in her step. It felt like recognition... but from where?
Celosia was a slim young woman, her white hair cascading down her back like silk thread, bangs falling just below her emerald eyes. Her ears were slightly pointed—subrace, Kiyoshi noted. Elven, perhaps? Fey-touched? He wasn't sure, but the air around her shimmered faintly with something otherworldly.
Eventually, her gaze shifted toward Kiyoshi. Her eyes narrowed in curiosity as she studied him. With a soft smile, she excused herself from the villagers and approached him and Ceng-tae.
"Ceng-tae," she said softly, her voice calm and gentle. "It's good to see you again."
Ceng-tae smiled back. "Likewise, Celosia. Your travels went well, I hope."
She nodded. "It was enlightening." Her gaze then moved to Kiyoshi, lingering on him for a moment before she spoke again. "And this is...?"
"Kiyoshi," Ceng-tae answered, resting a hand on Kiyoshi's shoulder. "He's staying with me for now."
Celosia's eyes softened as she looked at Kiyoshi, a quiet understanding passing between them. "It's nice to meet you, Kiyoshi. I'm Celosia. Don't feel overwhelmed by the village—they're kind-hearted people, even if they're a bit curious."
Kiyoshi hesitated. "Nice to meet you too," he mumbled, unsure what else to say.
Celosia offered him a gentle smile. "Ah, don't worry about words; you'll find your words soon enough."
As Celosia turned to rejoin the villagers, Kiyoshi felt an unexpected calm settle over him. There was something peaceful about her presence—something that made time feel slower, gentler. He didn't know why. He just knew it felt right.
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