For two days, Rey wandered through the wilderness, guided only by instinct and the subtle pull of the horizon. He trekked through ancient paths that wound between towering pines and golden plains that danced beneath the wind. Birds sang in the treetops, and the rustle of small animals in the underbrush kept him company during the long, silent hours.
He hunted rabbits and gathered berries, drank from cold, glistening streams, and slept beneath the open sky, where stars shimmered like distant memories. Though the war was behind him, his thoughts were far from peaceful. A quiet tension grew in his chest with each step, as if something unseen watched him, urging him forward—not with dread, but with purpose.
And on the third day, that purpose revealed itself.
A city rose on the horizon, its towers catching the light of the setting sun. Even from afar, Rey could hear the distant hum of life, see the flags fluttering in the wind.
The City of Campbell.
Rey passed through its open gates just as dusk bathed the streets in golden orange. The air was alive with the voices of merchants hawking wares, the clang of hammers from distant forges, and the aroma of roasted meats and sweet spices. Laughter echoed from open taverns, and children darted between carts and horses, their joy unburdened by fear.
For the first time in what felt like ages, Rey stepped into a place untouched by the darkness he had fought against. It was almost surreal.
As he wandered the marketplace, admiring painted pottery and warm loaves of bread fresh from the oven, a voice called out behind him.
"Rey?"
He spun, hand flying instinctively to his sword hilt.
A man stood a few paces away. Broad-shouldered, weathered, with streaks of silver in his thick hair and lines carved deep by time. But his eyes—kind and piercing—held something familiar.
"I thought it might be you," the man said, stepping closer. "You… you have your father's eyes."
Rey frowned. "Who are you?"
The man's expression softened. He placed a steady hand on Rey's shoulder. "I'm your uncle. Lamal."
Lamal's home was modest but warm, tucked between a blacksmith's workshop and a flowering garden that smelled of rosemary and mint. The interior was simple—wooden beams, stone floors, a hearth still glowing from the day's fire—but it felt lived in. Safe.
They sat together at a small round table as Lamal poured two cups of a dark, earthy drink. He studied Rey for a moment before speaking.
"You don't know how long I've waited for this day," he said quietly. "Your parents… they passed through Campbell many years ago."
Rey's heart pounded. "They're alive?"
Lamal hesitated, eyes dropping. "They were. But I don't know where they are now."
Rey's jaw tightened. "Then tell me everything you do know."
The old man leaned back in his chair, his voice thick with memory. "When they arrived, they were in a hurry. Your mother… she carried a baby. A newborn. Your brother. They were being hunted—someone was after them, and they couldn't keep the baby safe on the road. So they left him with me."
Rey's world tilted. "I have a brother?"
Lamal nodded solemnly. "His name is Arinn. And he's been waiting to meet you his whole life."
Lamal stood and walked down a hallway, his steps soft. A moment later, he returned, and with him came a boy—slender, with unkempt dark hair and curious, bright eyes.
The boy froze when he saw Rey, his gaze filled with confusion, wonder, and something like hope.
"Arinn," Lamal said gently, "this is your brother."
The boy took a tentative step forward. "You're… Rey?"
Rey knelt down, eyes brimming. "Yeah. And I swear, we'll never be apart again."
Without another word, Arinn rushed into his arms.
And for the first time in years, Rey felt the ache of loneliness begin to fade.
He had found a piece of home.
The months that followed passed in quiet rhythm.
Rey stayed in Campbell, helping where he could. He trained Arinn in swordplay and survival, taking him into the woods outside the city. He taught him how to track, how to listen to the wind, how to read the stars. Arinn took to it quickly—his spirit was bright, his will unbreakable.
In him, Rey saw the fire of his own youth. A mirror, not just in blood, but in purpose.
But despite the peace, Rey felt the restlessness growing inside him. There were still too many questions, too many shadows left unexplored.
One night, the two brothers sat under the stars, the same stars Rey had walked beneath so many nights before.
Arinn glanced over. "Do you think they're still out there? Our parents?"
Rey stared up at the constellations, his voice low. "I have to believe they are."
There was a long pause. Then Arinn said, "Then we should go find them."
Rey turned to him, surprised. "You want to come with me?"
Arinn grinned, his eyes alight. "Of course. You're my brother."
Rey looked at him for a long moment—then nodded. "Alright. We leave at dawn."
And so, the next chapter of their journey began—
Two brothers, bound by blood and fate, walking forward into a world still full of secrets and stars.
Together.