Dawn never arrived gently on the Vaelorian coast.
It crept instead—thin and gray—over jagged cliffs and pale sand, as though reluctant to touch a place that had forgotten how to greet the morning. Salt winds dragged mist across the shoreline, blurring the boundary between sea and land until both looked equally ancient… equally tired.
Arden Vaelorian stood alone at the cliff's edge, watching the horizon where the world once burned.
Sixty winters had carved deep lines into his face. None were from age. Each was the echo of a year spent surviving—surviving greed, loss, and the slow decay of a family the world no longer remembered.
Below him, the ocean rolled in slow, deliberate breaths. Its surface lay unnaturally calm, as if the water feared to move too loudly.
That silence unsettled him more than any roar.
He shifted his weight, joints protesting the cold. The leather satchel at his hip clinked faintly with glass vials—tonics, restoratives, and salves brewed through sleepless nights. Habits he kept even when there was no one left to tend but the occasional orphan who wandered too deep into the woods.
Behind him, the village stirred.
Faint morning clatter rose up the hill—children arguing, fishermen dragging half-mended nets, an old couple bickering in the way only the long-married could. These fragile, earthly sounds grounded him. They made it easy to believe the coast was simply quiet today, that nothing stirred beneath the waves.
But Arden knew better.
He always had.
He exhaled through his nose, watching the mist scatter like breath on glass.
Today was the Festival of Lights—a day meant to celebrate victory over a war the empire could no longer even describe in coherent terms. A day of lanterns, music, and hollow stories told by men who had never lost anything worth grieving.
A day when the villagers insisted on dragging Arden out of solitude.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
He would go. Not for the festival. Not for the empire's myths. But because she would come to fetch him.
As if summoned by the thought, footsteps approached from the slope behind him.
"You're up early," a warm voice said.
Arden didn't turn immediately. He knew the voice too well—steady, gentle, worn by a lifetime that had somehow avoided bitterness. Sera had aged, but not in the same way he had. Her back was still straight. Her eyes still held more hope than the world deserved.
"You shouldn't climb this hill alone," Arden murmured. "Your knees—"
"—are fine," she cut in. "It's the rest of me that's getting old."
Her laughter brushed away a bit of the morning chill. Arden's lips twitched—not quite a smile.
Sera joined him at the cliff's edge, wrapping a wool shawl around her shoulders. For a long while they stood together, watching the dawn take shape. She remained one of the last ties he had to the world before it emptied itself of his family.
"You feel it too, don't you?" she asked softly.
Arden's jaw tightened. "Feel what?"
"The air. The quiet. The wrongness." She hesitated. "It grows thicker every day."
He finally looked at her.
Most villagers dismissed such intuitions as superstition—the foolish murmurs of fishermen and woodsmen. But Sera had always sensed things others did not. One of the reasons Vaelorian elders once favored her as an ally… long before she chose a simpler life.
They shared another silence, heavier than the last.
Sera drew a steady breath. "Still, the festival is today. The children look forward to it… they always have. It would help them to see you there."
Arden huffed quietly. "I'm not good company."
"You don't need to be," she said gently. "Just present."
He opened his mouth to argue, but she continued:
"It's the one day of the year they forget the mines, the forest beasts, the winters. Let them see the last Vaelorian still stands. It gives them courage."
He looked away. Courage was a luxury. One he no longer pretended to possess.
Sera turned toward him, expression soft but firm.
"Come," she said. "We both know you'll give in eventually. Save us the hour of arguing."
Arden snorted. "You were more patient in your youth."
"My youth was wasted on patience," she said dryly. "Now I prefer efficiency."
He almost smiled again… almost.
Sera offered her hand—not as a plea, but as a reminder that he wasn't entirely alone. Arden stared at it for a moment before taking it. Her grip was steady, warm, familiar.
Together they descended toward the village.
The sun climbed higher. Lanterns swayed in the wind. Children ran between houses, shouting about fireworks and pastries.
It could have been any peaceful morning.
But Arden felt the whisper again.
A faint tremor in the air.
A subtle shift in the tide.
A quiet pulse beneath the world's surface.
And as he reached the village gate, he looked once more toward the horizon.
Nothing moved. Nothing flickered. Nothing broke the endless blue line.
Yet something far beyond **was** restless.
The festival square overflowed with color by the time they arrived.
Lanterns of red and gold dangled between rooftops. Smoke curled from food stalls grilling spiced fish and sweetroot. Children tugged at Sera's sleeves, pulling her into their games, and though she offered token protests, her laughter betrayed her.
Arden stood at the edge of it all—aware of eyes turning toward him, then politely away.
People respected him. They did not understand him.
Sera returned with two cups of warm berry wine.
"You always stand like a guard," she said, handing him one. "Relax your shoulders."
He didn't. But he accepted the drink.
For a while they simply watched the celebration—music rising, dancers weaving between torches, elders retelling myths with exaggerated flourish. A peace that felt like a borrowed dream.
"You remember," Sera said quietly, "the festival when you were nine?"
Arden's brow lifted. "The lantern mishap?"
She laughed. "You nearly got beaten."
"I shouldn't have poured that much."
"They were so mad. You stole the powder."
Arden grunted. "I returned it."
"After you used all of it," she corrected.
He took a slow sip. "A little bit."
Sera smiled, softening. "Your brother… he loved the festival."
Arden closed his eyes. The memory stirred like dust in sunlight—two boys racing through lantern glow, his twin's laughter echoing against the cliffs, their mother watching from the steps with a smile she never wore again.
He swallowed.
"Some memories," he said, "should have belonged to a longer life."
Sera laid a hand on his arm. Not to comfort—only to stand beside him.
"We keep them," she whispered, "because no one else will."
Arden nodded once.
Fireworks hissed upward, blooming into pale gold stars above the village. Lantern light rippled across the square. Children spun with paper lights, shrieking with joy.
For a fleeting moment, Arden allowed himself to
breathe as though the world were not shifting beneath his feet.
As the lights glittered overhead, old memories rose—quiet, unbidden, and painful.