Twilight clung to the canopy as Orien Vale stepped out from the hidden stairway, the whispering of the Calling Stone still echoing in his chest. His skin ached where the third mark had seared into his arm—a silver-blue crest of fire, feather, and eye. He stared at it in the dying light, flexing his fingers. There was no wound, only a memory that would not fade.
He had thought the stone's words might disappear with the dawn, but they hadn't. Even now, they hummed faintly in his mind:
"You have answered. The world watches. The Trials remember."
And so did he.
---
He camped that night under a hollowed tree, the stars flickering through the leaves like lanterns drifting far above. As he lay staring at the sky, Orien found his thoughts turning homeward—back to Elowen, back to the forge, and to his father.
He remembered the weight of the hammer in his young hands, the heat of the coals, and his father's quiet pride when Orien forged his first dagger. He remembered Lira, laughing by the river, daring him to leap farther, climb higher, reach farther. Memories tangled together, forming a net that tried to hold him in place.
But the stone had shattered that net. The third shard burned in his satchel, humming gently against the others.
He could not go back. He had known that the moment he stepped beyond the Vale.
But that didn't make it easier.
---
Morning came gray and wet. Rain fell in a steady mist, wrapping the woods in fog. Orien walked until his legs ached, moving southward through thickening trees. His goal was no longer a direction, but a feeling—an itch beneath the skin, the pulse of the shard drawing him forward.
It took a day to reach the forest's edge.
Beyond the woods, the hills rolled gentle and green, dotted with patches of stone and the rare ruin swallowed by grass. And farther still—barely visible—was the tower of Elowen's watchlight.
Home.
He didn't realize he had stopped until he felt the coolness of the rain settle into his shoulders.
What was he doing?
He couldn't go back. He wouldn't.
And yet…
A shape moved behind him.
He turned, hand on his blade.
A stag stood just beyond the treeline, antlers wide and gleaming with rain. It watched him—not with fear, but understanding. Then it bowed its head once, turned, and vanished into the mist.
Orien's breath caught.
He whispered, "Guide me, then."
And followed.
---
The stag led him through winding trails and old hunter's paths that only the forest remembered. Every turn drew him farther from Elowen, deeper into the unknown. Trees thinned. The earth hardened. And eventually, the forest ended.
In its place stretched a field of tall, whispering grass that sang in the breeze. At its heart stood a single figure beside a smoking campfire.
The stag was gone.
The figure turned as Orien approached. A woman. Cloaked in travel-worn robes, her face lined but strong. Her hair was pulled back, streaked with silver and red.
"You came sooner than I expected," she said.
"Do I know you?"
"No," she said. "But I know you. And you carry the mark. Three, now."
His hand twitched near his blade.
She held up a hand, peaceful. "If I meant harm, you'd already feel it."
He studied her. "Who are you?"
"An observer. A servant of the Trials. I've watched many take the path. Few return."
"I don't plan on returning."
"Then you are already further than most."
She gestured to the fire. "Sit. Warm yourself. There's something you should see."
He hesitated, then obeyed. The heat seeped into his damp clothes, welcome and calming.
She reached into her pack and pulled a scroll bound in green twine.
"This was left by one who bore the mark before you. His name was Caelrin Vale."
Orien's eyes widened. "Caelrin? My uncle?"
She nodded. "He passed this way nearly twenty years ago. I was younger then. But he was not unlike you. Determined. Quiet. Burdened."
She handed the scroll to Orien. With trembling hands, he unrolled it.
Inside, in clear, precise script, were words addressed to him.
Orien,
If you've found this, then you walk where I once walked. I hope you chose it, as I did. And I hope you are not alone, as I was.
The Trials will test everything. Your body, your heart, your truth. You will lose more than you know. And gain more than you wish.
You may think this path is glory. Or vengeance. It is neither. It is memory. For us. For the world. We walk so others may rest.
And if you find the Calling Stone again, tell it I remember.
Caelrin Vale.
Orien stared at the words long after the fire had burned low.
---
When he rose to leave, the woman handed him a small wooden box. Inside lay a strip of red cloth and a curved dagger, etched with the Vale crest.
"Caelrin left it behind. Said it belonged to the one who'd follow."
Orien took them with reverence. The dagger's weight felt familiar, as though it had waited for him.
"Thank you," he said.
"Keep walking, Orien Vale. And remember: farewell is only for the familiar. What comes next has no name yet."
He turned once more to the south. The shard pulsed faintly at his side.
He did not look back again.
The fourth trial waited.
And he was ready to leave the past behind.