They broke camp at first light. The sky was pale and clean, as if the world had washed itself and was ready to begin again. Elira tightened the strap of her pack and felt the pocket watch against her chest. The locator on her pendant blinked once, steady and small. It pointed the way, and they followed.
The road for that day was kinder than the last. It stayed low, winding through fields and small hills. Birds called low and the sun warmed their faces. For the first time in many days, their pace did not feel like running from something. It felt like moving toward something, however faint.
By mid-morning they reached a market that sat between the road and a shallow river. The market was not large—just a row of stalls with cloth awnings, a baker with a hot tray of flat loaves, and an old woman who sold dried herbs. Children chased one another between the stalls with bare feet and loud voices. Elira stood at the edge and watched them for a long moment. The sound of laughter loosened something tight inside her chest.
Mira bought bread and dried fruit, and Kael bartered for a small roll of cheese. They sat under a broad apple tree and ate. Kael tucked a bit of bread into Elira's hand and forced a small, unexpected joke. Mira laughed, and the sound bounced across their small meal like sunlight.
Elira let herself taste the food. It was simple, but she had not slept well in nights, and today the bread was warm enough to seem like a small mercy. She told herself that she would not cry here, not in front of the market, but a single tear slid warm down her cheek as she rested her head against the tree trunk. Mira caught her hand and squeezed, and Kael watched the road with steady eyes. They did not press her to speak. That gesture—small, plain—felt like a hand on the back of her neck steadying her when she might fall.
They walked the afternoon along a narrow track through the woods. The path smelled of damp leaves and flowers. Mira pointed out plants she could use later for cures and hot tea. She plucked a few bright blooms and taught Elira how to press them between pages of a notebook. "Herbs remember the sun," Mira said, smiling. "We keep them to remember good days."
At a shallow stream they stopped to wash. The water rushed cold over their hands. Elira pulled Lumeveil into her lap and set the sword beside her. For a while she just watched the water. It ran on like the world did not owe her answers. When she spoke into the quiet, the sword's voice was not loud but it was there, a low comfort. "Slow breath. Small steps." It was not a lesson to conquer the world. It was a single instruction she could follow.
That night they camped in a small hollow. Mira started a modest fire, careful to keep the flame low. They sat close enough to feel the heat and far enough to rest their eyes on the stars. Mira told a thin, silly story about a wizard who lost his hat in a pool and claimed he had discovered a new spell. Kael rolled his eyes, and his dry laugh made them all softer. Elira laughed too, but it came out in a tiny, choked sound. The laugh became real, then stilled. She thought of Darius and of Selene, and the edges of the laughter trembled.
Elira practiced wind that night. She had been avoiding big spells, but she tried small things: a thin shield to keep ash from the fire from falling on their food, a gentle gust to close the tent flap, the faint push of air that turned the page of Mira's notebook without touching it. Each exercise was simple, but her control was cleaner than before. The wind listened. Lumeveil hummed, pleased but quiet. "Fine work," it said. Not praise that insisted on triumph, only the kind that noted a single step forward.
On the second day there was a small tension by the road. Two ragged men tried to take their food. Kael moved without a word and Draga shifted on him like a wall. Mira's rings flashed; a slice of steam burst and froze beneath the thief's boots. Elira did not need to strike. She used a narrow cut of wind to pry a bag loose and push it away—a blade of air that left a bruise but no blood. The thieves fled, cursing. Elira felt the muscle memory of fear and the new memory of something else: that she could act without breaking.
The quiet work of the trip gave her time to think. She walked with the pocket watch closed in her palm and let the tiny tick under the lid count out steady beats. At night she sat alone beneath the trees and tried to name what she felt. Sadness for what Darius and Selene had been; anger at what Vaelis had done and what the world had allowed; a stubborn, small care for the friends who walked beside her. She did not have answers. She had a promise; that was something to hold.
By sunrise on the third day she felt a small, clear change inside. Not a full unburdening, not a bright healing—just a narrowing of the ache so she could see where to step next. She rose and placed Darius's pocket watch on a flat stone. The lid shone faintly. "I will go to Dust Ruin," she said aloud, and the words seemed to make the watch tick a little truer. "I will learn. I will not let them be forgotten by cowardice or by lies."
Mira and Kael listened and nodded. They did not say a lot; they did not have to. Their quiet showed agreement. The locator blinked, pointing onward. Ahead, the forest opened and a long ridge showed the dark shape of old walls beyond it—the silhouette of Dust Ruin catching the light.
Elira tightened her pack, pulling Lumeveil's scabbard closer to her back. She felt a kind of calm settle in her. It was not peace—not yet—but it was a steadying, a readiness. The road could still be hard. There were nights she would break and mornings she would mend. For now, she had friends, a promise, and a small watch that kept the time of what had been given.
They moved forward together. The wind fell along the path as if to clear a way.